The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  Augustus noticed the young man’s discomfort and did not press his enquiry. He wished he had a book, some whiskey, or anything to distract him from the fact that he was camped in a cold, dusty place with a bunch of military men, while on an errand that he considered foolish. Lately he had begun to delve into the Bible a little, mainly because Austin was so thick with preachers—there were at least seven of them, by his count—that he couldn’t walk down the street without bumping into one or two of them. One, an aggressive Baptist, had the temerity to tax him one day about his whoring; in response Augustus had bought a small Bible and began to leaf through it in idle moments, looking for notable instances of whoring or, at least, of carnal appetite among the more distinguished patriarchs of old. He soon found what he was looking for, too, and meant to use his findings to confound the preachers, if they dared challenge him again.

  The print in his Bible was small, however, and the circumstance of a dim evening on the plains, with only a flicker of campfire, did not encourage biblical studies just then. He wished he had something to do besides tease nice boys such as Lieutenant Dikuss, but offhand he couldn’t think what it might be. It was a pity, in his view, that Charlie Goodnight had insisted on going with Call on the advance scout; he could always raise a debate with Charlie Goodnight, a man disposed to think that he knew everything. Of course, one of the things Charlie Goodnight did know was where the principal bands of Comanches hunted; Goodnight was now in the cattle business and needed to keep track of the Comanches in order to keep them from running off his saddle horses.

  It was obvious to Augustus that little in the way of conversation was likely to be coming from Major Featherstonhaugh, the Vermonter who would not be fighting with General Lee. Major Featherstonhaugh had been in Texas only a few months; this expedition was his first into the Texas wilds and, so far, he had yet to lay eyes on a wild Comanche. It annoyed Augustus extremely that the military kept its personnel rolling over and over, like clothes wringers—each commander who came out of the East seemed to be less experienced and less knowledgeable about the geography and the terrain than the one before him. He and Call were constantly vexed by the ignorance of the military, though there had been one intelligent captain, named Marcy, who had conducted an excellent survey of the Red River country; Captain Marcy knew the country and the ways of the native tribes as well as anyone, but at the present time he was elsewhere and they were stuck with Major Featherstonhaugh, a man so ill informed that he seemed surprised when told there might be problems finding water on their trip across the llano.

  “But gentlemen, I was assured there was an abundance of fine springs in Texas,” the Major stated, when Call brought up the matter of water, the day before they departed.

  “Oh, there’s plenty of healthy springs in Texas,” Augustus assured him. “I could find you a hundred easily, if we was in the right part of the state.”

  “Isn’t it Texas we’re going to be journeying in?” the Major asked.

  “Yes, but it’s a big place, Major,” Call said. “We’re going to be crossing the Staked Plain. There may be springs there, but if there are, nobody but the Comanche know where to find them.”

  That comment was greeted by an expression of polite disbelief on the face of Major Featherstonhaugh, whose only response was to instruct his men to be sure to fill their canteens.

  Neither Augustus nor Call chose to press the matter—they had yet to meet a military man, other than the smart Captain Marcy, who was willing to take advice from Texas Rangers, or, for that matter, from Indian scouts either.

  “It’s a waste of energy to argue with a man like that,” Call said, as they left Fort Phantom Hill.

  “Agreed,” Augustus said. “Let the plains do the arguing.”

  They were only four days out, but already the point had been made—Major Featherstonhaugh had begun to absorb some hard lessons about west Texas aridity. The Major was neat to a fault—he could not abide soiled linen, or dust on his face, and had carelessly drained his own canteen by the end of the second day, wetting his kerchief often in order to swab the dust off his face. Though Augustus didn’t comment, he was amused—the Major would no sooner wash his face than a dust devil or small whirlwind would sweep over the troop and get him dusty again. Now, impatient for the coffee to boil, he seemed indisposed to conversation of any kind; Augustus suspected that an offer to play a hand of cards would not be well received.

  “How far ahead do you suppose Captain Call’s party is?” the Major asked the next morning, as he was sipping coffee.

  “I can’t really say, Major,” Augustus said. “We’re the slow wing of this procession.”

  “We’ve come quite a distance from that fort, sir,” the Major said. “Why do you think we’re slow?”

  “Because we still stop and sleep at night,” Augustus said. “Sleep does slow a troop down, unless you sleep in your saddle, and Mr. Goodnight is the only one of us who’s skilled at saddle snoozing. Call don’t sleep at night, neither does Goodnight, and neither does Famous Shoes. I imagine some of the men with them are so tired they’d be willing to get scalped if only they could have a good nap afterwards.”

  Major Featherstonhaugh seemed unconvinced by the remark—or, if not unconvinced, uninterested.

  “It’s time to give out the prunes now,” he said. “We mustn’t forget the prunes, Captain.”

  Major Hiram Featherstonhaugh was a firm believer in the efficacy of prunes, as an aid to regularity for men on the march. One of the pack mules carried two large sacks of prunes; leaving nothing to chance, the Major had Deets open one of the sacks each morning, so that he himself could dispense the prunes. He personally handed each man in the company six prunes, which, after some experimentation, he had concluded was the number of prunes most likely to ensure clear movements in a troop of men on the march.

  “Here now, have your prunes, gentlemen,” the Major said, as he went briskly around the troop. “Clear movements now, clear movements.”

  Augustus, the last man to receive his morning allotment, waited until the Major’s back was turned and dropped his back in the sack. He did not insist that the rangers eat prunes, but he urged them not to throw them away, either.

  “We might get to a place out here on the baldies where a prune would taste mighty good,” he said. “Just wait till the Major ain’t looking and put them back in the sack.”

  Pea Eye particularly hated prunes; he had carelessly eaten one the first morning and had been unable to rid himself of the pruny taste all day.

  “What kind of a tree would grow a prune?” he asked.

  “A Vermont kind of tree, I reckon,” Augustus said. “The Major says he grew up eating them.”

  “Maybe that’s why he don’t never smile,” Pea Eye said. “They probably shrunk up his mouth till he can’t get a smile out.”

  “Or it might be that he’s got nothing to smile about, particularly,” Augustus said. “Here he is in Texas, which he don’t like, trying to count Indians he can’t find and couldn’t whip if he did find.”

  Within an hour of breaking camp the rangers found themselves riding into a brisk north wind. The long horizons quickly blurred until there was no horizon, just blowing yellowish dust. The rangers tied their bandanas over their noses and their mouths, but the soldiers lacked bandanas and took the stinging dust full in the face. The wind that whirled across the long spaces sang in their ears, unnerving some of the soldiers, recent arrivals who had never experienced a full norther on the plains. The howling wind convinced some of the young recruits that they were surrounded by wolves or other beasts. The rangers had told them many stories of Comanche torture, but had said nothing about winds that sounded like the howling of beasts.

  “On a day like this it’s good that the Major don’t smile,” Pea Eye said to Jake. “If he did it would just let in the grit.”

  In the afternoon the wind, which had been high to begin with, increased to gale force. Increasingly, it was difficult to get the horses to face it
; also, the temperature was dropping. Augustus tried to persuade Major Featherstonhaugh of the wisdom of stopping until the norther blew itself out.

  “It won’t blow like this long, Major,” he said. “We could take shelter in one of these gullies and wait it out. Out here it’s risky to travel when you can’t see where you’re going. We might ride off a cliff.”

  Major Featherstonhaugh was unmoved by the advice. Once started, he preferred not to stop until a day’s march had been completed, however adverse the weather conditions.

  “I don’t need to see where I’m going, Captain,” he said. “I have a compass. I consult it frequently. I can assure you that we’re going north, due north.”

  An hour later the half-blinded troop stumbled into and out of a steep gully; in the rock terrain, half peppered by blowing sand, the Major dropped his compass, but didn’t immediately register the loss. When, at the half hour, he reached for it, meaning to take his bearings, as he always did twice hourly, he discovered that he no longer had his compass, a circumstance which vexed him greatly.

  “I must ask you to stop the troop and wait, Captain,” he said. “I must have dropped my compass when we were crossing that declivity—what do you call it?”

  “A gully, Major,” Gus said.

  “Yes, that’s probably where it is,” the Major said. “It’s back in that gully. I’ll just hurry back and find it.”

  “Major, I doubt you’ll find it,” Augustus said. “The sand’s blowing so thick you can barely see your horse’s ears. That compass will be covered up by now, most likely.”

  “Nonsense, I’m sure I can find it,” the Major said. “I’ll just retrace my steps. You give the men a few prunes, while you’re waiting. Important to avoid constipation, Captain—an army can’t fight if it’s constipated.”

  “Major, I’ve got a compass, take it,” Augustus said, horrified by what the man planned to do. He was convinced that if the Major rode off in such a storm they would probably never see him again.

  “I know mine probably ain’t as good as yours, but it will point you north, at least,” he assured the Major, holding out his own compass.

  “I don’t want your compass, Captain—I want my own,” Major Featherstonhaugh said firmly. “It was my father’s compass—it was made in Reading, England—it’s our family compass. It’s made the trip around the Cape. I’m not going to leave it in some declivity in west Texas. I’d never be able to face Pa. He expects me to have this compass when I come home, I can assure you of that, Captain McCrae. Prunes, men, prunes.”

  With that, the Major turned and was gone.

  Augustus was nonplussed. He knew he ought to send someone with the Major, to help him find his way back, but he had no one to send except himself and he did not feel it wise to leave the troop, in such a situation. The men were huddled around him—in the blowing sand they seemed spectral, like gray ghosts. His rangers, veterans of many severe northers, were stoical, but the army boys were nervous, stunned by the abrupt departure of their commander.

  “I guess I should have roped him, but it’s too late now,” Augustus observed. The sandstorm had promptly swallowed up the Major.

  “Now he’s rode off and left me in command,” Lieutenant Dikuss said, appalled at being thrust into a position of responsibility under such conditions, at such a time and in such a place.

  Augustus smiled. He could not help being amused by the large lieutenant from Wisconsin. At that moment Lieutenant Dikuss was staring hopelessly at the wall of sand into which his commanding officer had just disappeared.

  “It must have been a mighty good compass,” Jake Spoon said. “It would have to be made of emeralds for me to go looking for it in a wind like this.”

  “I doubt you’d know an emerald if you swallowed one, Jake,” Augustus said, dismounting. “That compass was made in Reading, England, and besides, the Major’s got his pa to think about.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Captain,” Lieutenant Dikuss admitted, looking at his gray, cold, gritty men.

  “Well, one thing we can do is let the prunes be,” Augustus said. “Myself, I’d vote for a cup of coffee over a goddamned prune.”

  17.

  THE SANDSTORM raged until sunset; the whirling sand seemed to magnify the sun as it sank—for a time the sand and dust even made it seem that the sun had paused in its descent. It seemed to hang just above the horizon, a great malign orb, orange at the edges but almost bluish in the center. Some of the young army men, newcomers, like their Major, to the country of sand and wind, thought something had gone wrong with nature. One private, a thin boy from Illinois, almost frozen from a day in the biting wind, thought the bluish sun meant that the world was coming to an end. He had a memory of a church in Paducah, Illinois, where he had lived as a boy, saying that the world would end with the setting of a blue sun.

  The boy’s name was Briarley Crisp; he was the youngest man in the troop. His mother and all his sisters wept when he left home; they all expected Briarley to be killed. Briarley had been eager, at the time, to get gone into the army, mainly to escape the plowing, which he detested. Now, looking at the ominous blue sun, its edges tinged with the orange hues of hellfire, and with the sand piling up on his eyelids so heavy he could hardly focus his eyes, Briarley knew he had made a terrible, fatal mistake. He had come all the way to Texas to be a soldier, and now the world was ending. He began to shiver so violently that his shaking caught the eye of Lieutenant Dikuss, who, though nervous himself, felt it was now his responsibility to see that morale did not falter within the troop.

  “Stop that shaking, Private Crisp,” he said. “If you’re chilly get a soogan off the pack mule and wrap up in it.”

  “I ain’t shivering from the chill, Lieutenant,” Briarley Crisp said. “I see that old blue sun there—a preacher told me once the world would end the night the sun set blue, like that one’s setting.”

  “I doubt that that preacher who upset you had spent much time along the Pecos River,” Augustus said. “I’ve seen the sun set blue many a time in these sand showers, but the world hasn’t ended. What I do doubt is that we’ll see any more of Major Featherstonhaugh this evening—him or his compass either.”

  They didn’t. To Briarley Crisp’s relief the sun finally did set; the night that followed saw the temperatures drop so far that the men slept beneath white clouds of frozen breath. Toward midnight the sandstorm finally blew out—by four the stars were visible again. Augustus debated with himself whether to take advantage of the faint starlight to conduct a quick search for Major Featherstonhaugh; but, in the end, he didn’t. The morning promised to be clear—they could easily find the Major then, assuming he had survived the chilly night.

  They were not long in doubt on that issue. There was still so much sand in the air that the sun rose in haze, with a fine nimbus around it. To Private Crisp’s joy, the world was still there and still dry. Augustus had just picked up his coffee cup when he saw a moving dot to the south, a dot that soon became Major Featherstonhaugh, cantering briskly toward them on his heavy white mare. Augustus had advised against the mare, not because of her heft but because she was white. The Comanches they were supposed to be scouting particularly loved a white horse.

  “If Kicking Wolf gets sight of her that’s one more horse the army won’t have to feed, Major,” Augustus had informed him, but the Major had only returned a chilly stare.

  Now, though, he was simply relieved that Major was alive—it would have been a task to locate him, if he had lost himself on the llano.

  “Good morning, Major—I hope you found that compass,” Augustus said when Featherstonhaugh trotted up, his uniform caked with dust.

  “Of course I found it—that was why I went back,” Major Featherstonhaugh said. Dusty as he was he still seemed startled by the suggestion that he might not have found the compass.

  “It was made in Reading, England,” he added. “My father took it around the Cape.”

  “I wish I had a bath to offer you, Major,
” Augustus said. “You look like you’ve been buried and dug up.”

  “Oh, it was weathery,” the Major admitted. “I thought I might find one of those springs and have a wash, but I couldn’t find one—of course I had to wait for daylight before I could locate my compass.”

  The Major dismounted and took a little coffee, carefully inspecting his compass while he breakfasted.

  “I wish it would snow,” he remarked, to Lieutenant Dikuss. “I’m accustomed to snow when it’s this weathery.”

  Lieutenant Dikuss regarded it as a miracle that the Major had reappeared at all; the absence of snow, of which there was an abundance in Wisconsin, did not disturb him.

  “You can melt snow, and once it’s melted you can heat the water and have a wash,” the Major said. “Does it ever snow here, Captain?”

  “It snows, but not too many people care to wash in it, Major,” Augustus said. “I doubt that washing’s as popular in this country as it is in Vermont.”