“The coffee’s hot, I suggest you rouse yourself up, Captain,” a voice said. Recognizing that his visitor was none other than Charlie Goodnight, Augustus immediately did as the man suggested.
“Howdy—I’m glad it was you and not Buffalo Hump, Charlie,” Gus said. “I may have taken ill. Otherwise I fail to understand why I would sleep this late.”
“You don’t look ill to me, just idle,” Goodnight observed. He was a stout man, a little past Gus’s age, fully as forceful in speech as he was in body. He had been at times a superlative scout and ranger, but lately his interest had shifted to ranching; he now only rode with the rangers when the need was urgent. He was known for being as tireless as he was gruff. Conversations with Charlie Goodnight were apt to be short ones, and not infrequently left those he was conversing with slightly bruised in their feelings.
“Heard about the war?” Augustus asked.
“Heard,” Goodnight said. “I’d appreciate a bite of bacon if you have any. I left in a hurry and took no provisions.”
“It’s in my saddlebag, with the frying pan,” Gus said. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t offer to cook it. I prefer to contemplate the scriptures in the morning, at least until the sun’s up.”
Goodnight got the bacon and the pan. He didn’t comment on the war, or the scriptures. Gus saw that a fine sorrel gelding was nibbling mesquite leaves, alongside his mare. Not only had he not heard the man approach, he had not heard the horse, either. It was fine to be relaxed, as he had been last night, but in wild country there was such a thing as being too relaxed.
Goodnight’s silence irked him a little: what good was a guest who consumed bacon but didn’t contribute conversation?
“Do you fear God, Charlie?” Augustus asked, thinking he might pursue the religious theme for a moment.
“Nope, too busy,” Goodnight said. “Are you a God-fearing man? I would not have supposed it.”
“I expect I ought to be,” Gus said. “He keeps taking my wives, I suppose he could take me at any time.”
“He might as well, if you’re going to sleep till sunup,” Goodnight said. He had already cooked and eaten fully half of Gus’s bacon. He stood up and returned the rest to the saddlebag.
“Are you going somewhere?” Goodnight asked.
“Why yes, west,” Augustus said. “How about yourself?”
“Colorado,” Goodnight replied. “There’s a lively market for Texas beef in Denver, and an abundance of beef on the hoof down here in Texas.”
Augustus considered the two remarks, but in his groggy state failed to see how they connected.
“Have you got a herd of cattle with you, Charlie?” he asked. “If so, I guess I’m blind as well as deaf.”
“Not presently,” Goodnight said. “But I could soon acquire one if I could find a good route to Denver.”
“Charlie, I don’t think this is the way to Colorado,” Augustus said. “Not unless your cattle can drink air. There’s no water between here and Colorado, that I know of.”
“There’s the Pecos River—that’s a wet river,” Goodnight said. “If I could just get a herd as far as the Pecos, I expect the moisture would increase, from there to Denver.”
Mention of Denver reminded Gus of Matilda Roberts, one of his oldest and best friends. In the old days everyone had known Matty, even Goodnight, though as one of the soberer citizens of the frontier he had no reputation as a whorer.
“You remember Matty Roberts, don’t you, Charlie?” Gus inquired.
“Yes, she’s a fine woman,” Goodnight said. “She’s in the love business but love ain’t been kind to her. I’ve not visited her establishment in Denver but they say it’s lavish.”
“What do you mean, love ain’t been kind?” Gus asked. He realized that he had no recent information about his old friend.
“Matilda’s dying, that’s what I mean,” Goodnight said. He had unsaddled his horse, so the sorrel could have a good roll in the dust; but the sorrel had had his roll and in a few minutes Goodnight was ready to depart.
“What—Matty’s dying—what of?” Augustus asked, shocked. Now another woman of his close acquaintance was about to be carried off. The news struck him almost as hard as if he had been told that Clara was dying. Even Woodrow Call would admit a fondness for Matty Roberts; he would be shocked when he heard the news.
“I don’t know what of,” Goodnight informed him. “I suppose she’s just dying of living—that’s the one infection that strikes us all down, sooner or later.”
He mounted and started to leave, but turned back and looked down at Augustus, who still sat idly at the campfire.
“Are you poorly today?” Goodnight asked.
“No, I’m well—why would you ask, Charlie?” Gus said.
“You don’t seem to be in an active frame of mind today, that’s why,” Goodnight said. “You ain’t ready to die, are you?”
“Why, no,” Augustus said, startled by the question. “I’m just a little sleepy. I was sitting up with Nellie quite a few nights before she passed away.”
Goodnight did not seem to be satisfied by that answer. The sorrel was nervous, ready to leave, but Goodnight held him back, which was unusual. When Charlie Goodnight was ready to go he usually left without ceremony, seldom giving whomever he was talking to even the leisure to finish a sentence. He had never been one to linger—yet, now, he was lingering, looking at Augustus hard.
“If you were under my orders I’d order you home,” he said bluntly. “A man who can’t get himself in an active frame of mind by this hour has no business traveling in this direction.”
“Well, I ain’t under your orders and I never will be,” Augustus retorted, a little annoyed by the man’s tone. “I ain’t a child and nobody appointed you to watch over me.”
Goodnight smiled—also a rare thing.
“I was concerned that you might have lost your snap, but I guess you ain’t,” he said, turning his horse again.
“Wait, Charlie . . . if you’re bound for Denver I’ve got something for you to take to Matty,” Gus said. The news that she was dying struck him hard—he was beginning to remember all the fine times he had had with the woman. He went to his saddlebag and pulled out the sock where he kept his loose money. The sock contained about sixty dollars, which he promptly handed to Goodnight. As he did his face reddened, and he choked up. Why were all the good women dying?
“I was always behind a few pokes with Matilda,” he said. “I expect I owe her at least this much. I’d be obliged if you’d take it to her, Charlie.”
Goodnight looked at the money for a moment and then put it in his pocket.
“How long have you owed this debt?” he asked.
“About fifteen years,” Augustus said.
“If you were going toward the Pecos I’d accompany you until your mind gets a little more active,” Goodnight offered.
“I ain’t, though,” Gus said. He did not want company, particularly not company as prickly as Charles Goodnight.
“I’m bound for the good old Rio Grande,” he said, although he wasn’t.
“All right, goodbye,” Goodnight said. “If I plan to find a way to get my cattle to Colorado, I better start looking.”
“Charlie, if you do see Matty, tell her she’s got a friend in Texas,” Augustus said—he was still choked up.
“Done, if I get there in time,” Goodnight said.
9.
WHEN FIVE DAYS PASSED with no word from Augustus McCrae or the two men who had been sent to find him, Governor Clark waxed so indignant that he was hot to the touch. Call, impatient himself, thought the Governor’s indignation unwarranted. The rangers had no urgent mission at the moment, in light of which Augustus’s absence did not seem exceptional. Governor Clark himself was a hunter, often gone from Austin for a week at a time killing deer, antelope, or wild pig. Call began to find the Governor’s complaints irksome, and said so to Maggie one evening over a beefsteak which she had been kind enough to cook him. The boy, Newt, ha
d scampered downstairs on his arrival and was blowing his whistle at some chickens who belonged to the lady next door.
“I expect Gus is just grieving,” Maggie said. “If I ever had a husband and he died, I’d want to go off someplace to do my grieving. It wouldn’t be fair to Newt to do too much moping at home.”
“Being a ranger’s getting to be like being a policeman,” Call said. “Nowadays they want you on call all the time.”
He noticed that Maggie’s arms were freckled to the elbows. Probably she had spent a little too much time in the sun, working the little garden plot she had planted with Jake Spoon’s help. In the warm months Maggie was never without vegetables.
It was a fine thing, in Call’s view, that Maggie had gained respectable employment at last. He had been in the store one day while Maggie was writing up an inventory and was surprised to see that her penmanship was excellent.
“Why, you write a hand as fine as Jake’s,” he said. “They’ll be asking you to teach school next. I doubt there’s a teacher in town who writes that pretty.”
“Oh, it just takes practice,” Maggie said. “Jake lent me his penmanship book and showed me how to do some of the curls.”
As Call was finishing his beefsteak he noticed Jake’s penmanship book on a table by Maggie’s bed; then he noticed a bandana that he thought was Jake’s hanging over the bedpost at the foot of Maggie’s bed.
He had known, of course, that Jake and Maggie had a friendship; the two of them were often seen working in the garden. Jake’s skills as a gardener were such that a number of local women pestered him for his secrets or showed up to watch when he was working in the garden. Jake basked in the attention of all the local ladies—Call had no doubt that many of them would have envied Maggie her penmanship lessons.
“Why, Jake’s left his bandana on the bedpost,” Call said, as Maggie was taking his plate to the wash bucket.
“Yes, he left it,” Maggie said. At that point young Newt burst in, crying and holding up an injured hand; in his pursuit of the chickens he had wandered too close to old Dan, the turkey, and had been soundly pecked.
“That ain’t the first time Dan’s pecked you—why won’t you avoid that turkey?” Maggie said. “Go down to the mud puddle and daub a little mud on that peck—it’ll soothe it.”
When Newt went down Maggie excused herself for a moment and went with him—she wanted to run the old turkey off before it did damage to her garden.
While Maggie was gone Call looked around the room. A pair of Jake’s spurs were on the floor by the little sofa and his shaving brush and razor were by the washbasin.
Call knew it was none of his business where Jake kept his razor, or his spurs, or his bandana, and yet the sight of so many of Jake’s things in Maggie’s room disturbed him in a way he had not expected. When she came back he thanked her for the beefsteak, gave Newt a penny for some sassafras candy—Newt was a well-behaved little boy who deserved an occasional treat—and left.
Call got his rifle and started to take a short walk down by the river. He had been twice to the Governor that day and had spent the afternoon going over the company accounts with Jake, a task that always tired him. He didn’t intend to walk long.
As he came out of the bunkhouse he saw Jake Spoon leave a saloon across the street and angle off toward Maggie’s rooms. Ordinarily he would have thought nothing of it, but that night he did think of it. He didn’t wait to see if Jake went up the stairs to the room he himself had just left; he felt that would be unseemly. Instead, he walked out of town, disquieted without quite knowing why. He realized he had no right to boss Maggie Tilton at all. She had her employment and could do as she pleased.
The thought that disturbed him—right or no right—was that Jake and Maggie were now living together. That notion startled him greatly. Maggie was a respectable woman now, with a child who was well liked. She needed to be thinking of her work and her child and not risk her respectability for any reason—certainly not for the irresponsible Jake Spoon.
Call walked out of Austin on the wagon road that led to San Antonio. He wished Gus were back, not because the Governor wanted him back but so he could ask his opinion about the matter of Maggie and Jake. Of course, he knew nothing definite—all he knew was that what he was feeling left him too agitated for sleep.
In what seemed like a matter of minutes Call was surprised to see, at a curve in the wagon road, a big live oak tree that had been split by lightning some years before. The reason for his surprise was that the live oak was ten miles from town. In his confusion he had walked much farther than he had meant to—usually he only strolled two or three miles and went to bed. But he had walked ten miles without noticing, and would have to walk another ten to get back to the bunkhouse.
The walk back went slower—it was almost dawn when he got back to the bunkhouse. Across the way, Maggie’s window was dark. Was Jake sleeping there? And what if he was? He had long since put the whole question of Maggie and men out of his mind. Now, suddenly, it was very much in his mind, and yet he had no one to discuss the matter with and was far from knowing even what he felt himself.
Old Ikey Ripple, retired now except for ceremonial appearances, was sitting on a nail keg rubbing his white hair when Call walked up, in the first light.
“Hello, you’re up early,” Call said to the old man. Ikey, of course, was always up early.
“Yep, I don’t like to miss none of the day,” Ikey said.
Ikey was a snuff dipper; he had already worked his lip over a good wad of snuff.
“Where have you been, Captain?” he asked. “It’s too early for patrol.”
“Just looking around,” Call said. “Someone saw three Indians west of town yesterday. I don’t want them slipping in and running off any stock.”
“Will you be going off to the war, Captain?” Ikey asked.
Call shook his head, which seemed to reassure the old man.
“If you was to go off to that war I expect the Indians would slip in and get all the stock,” Ikey said.
Ikey looked around and saw only the morning mist. The mention of Indians to the west was unwelcome. Those same Indians could be hidden by the mist—they might be lurking anywhere in which case he was more than glad to have Captain Call with him.
“I’ve been skeert of Indians all my life,” Ikey said, feeling the sudden need to unburden himself in the matter. “I expect I’ve woke up a thousand times, expecting to see an Indian standing over me ready to yank off my scalp. But here I am eighty and they ain’t got me yet, so I expect it was wasted worry.”
“I imagine you’ll be safe, if you just stay in town,” Call told him. “You need to be careful, though, if you’re off fishing.”
“Oh, I don’t fish no more—give it up,” Ikey said.
“Why, Ikey?” Call asked. “Fishing is a harmless pursuit,”
“It’s because of the bones,” Ikey said. “Remember Jacob Low? He was that tailor who choked on a fish bone. Got it stuck in his gullet and was dead before anybody knew what to do. Here I’ve survived the Comanches near eighty years—I’m damned if I want to take the risk of choking on a bone from one of them bony little perch.”
“I don’t recall that you’ve been married, since I’ve known you,” Call said.
But he left the remark hanging—just a remark, not quite a question. He felt absurd suddenly. Maggie Tilton had wanted, for years, to marry him, but he had declined, preferring bachelorhood—why was he talking about marriage to an eighty-year-old bachelor who had little to do but gossip? Though fond of Maggie, he had never wanted to marry and didn’t know why he was so disturbed to discover that she was keeping closer company with Jake than he had supposed.
“Illinois,” Ikey Ripple said. “I sparked a girl once—it was in Illinois.”
Though Captain Call didn’t question him further, Ikey thought back, across sixty years, to the girl he had sparked in Illinois, whose name was Sally. They had danced once in a hoedown; she had blue eyes. But Sally h
ad fallen out of a boat on a foggy morning, while crossing the Mississippi River on a trip to St. Louis with her father. Her body, so far as he could recall, had never been found. Had her name been Sally? Or had it been Mary? Had her eyes been blue? Or had they been brown? He had danced with her once at a hoedown. Was it her father she had been with on the boat trip? Or was it her mother?
Captain Call, who had seemed interested, for a moment, in Ikey’s past with women, walked off to seek breakfast, leaving Ikey to sit alone, on his nail keg. As the morning sun burned away the mist in the streets of Austin, the mist in Ikey’s memory deepened, as he tried to think about that girl—was it Mary or Sally, were her eyes blue or brown, was it her mother or her father she was in the boat with?—he had danced with at a hoedown long ago.
10.
BY THE TENTH DAY of travel Pea Eye had given himself up for lost. There was so little vegetation that he had let his horse go at night, in hopes that he would find enough grazing to survive. Often, when he awoke in the gray dawn, neither the horse nor Famous Shoes would be anywhere in sight. All he would see, as the sun rose, was an empty, arid plain, almost desert. There was seldom a cloud, just a great ring of horizon, with nothing moving within it. The freezing plains to the north had been just as empty, but he had only ventured onto the llano with a troop of men; now, for most of the day, he was alone. He had long since stopped believing that they would find Gus McCrae—why would Gus leave the cozy saloons of Austin to come to such a place?
After the first week, Pea Eye’s days were spent struggling against his own sense of desperation. Sometimes he would not see Famous Shoes until the evening. He rode west, west, west, feeling hopeless. It was true that Famous Shoes always returned, as promised, when the evening star shone; but, every day, Pea Eye became more anxious that the man would abandon him. When Famous Shoes did appear, Pea Eye’s relief was intense but short lived; soon it would be morning again, and Famous Shoes nowhere to be seen.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 106