Ermoke marched up to Blue Duck in a fury, which was the safest way to approach him in the event of a dispute. Blue Duck showed the timid no mercy, but he was sometimes indulgent of angry men.
“Why did you let the Comanche go?” Ermoke asked. “Now he can tell the white men where we are and how many of us there are.”
“Idahi does not like white men,” Blue Duck said.
“People are not supposed to come and go from our camp,” Ermoke insisted. “You said so yourself. If people can come and go someone will betray us and we will all be dead.”
“You should go help those women skin that bear—I don’t think they know how to skin bears,” Blue Duck said. It was an insult and he knew it. If Ermoke helped the women do their work he would soon be laughed out of camp. He thought the insult would make Ermoke mad enough that he would kill one or two of the filthy, cowardly white men—they were men who would betray anyone if they could do so profitably. There were always too many people in the camp. Men drifted in, hoping for quick riches, and were too lazy to leave. There was never enough food in the camp, or enough women. Several times Blue Duck had killed some of the white men himself; he would merely prop a rifle across his knees and start shooting. Sometimes the men would sit, stupefied and stunned, like buffalo in a herd, while he shot such victims as caught his eye.
“I wish I could follow that man and kill him,” Ermoke said. “I don’t like it that he knows where our camp is.”
Blue Duck looked at Ermoke in surprise. He saw that the man was angry, so angry that he didn’t care what he did. Usually when Ermoke was angry he took his anger out on captive women. He was very lustful. But the one woman captive in the camp had already been abused so badly that she offered no sport—so now Ermoke had decided to be angry at Idahi. Blue Duck thought Ermoke was a fool. Idahi was a Comanche warrior, Ermoke just a renegade. If the two men fought, Idahi would not be the one who lost his scalp.
But Blue Duck had another reason for letting Idahi leave the camp without challenge, a reason he did not intend to share with Ermoke. He had asked Idahi to help him kill Buffalo Hump. Of course, Idahi had refused, but Idahi was a gossip. Soon all the Comanches would know that Blue Duck intended to kill Buffalo Hump. Blue Duck knew that when a chief was old and had lost his power he could expect little help from the young warriors. Old chiefs were just old men—they could expect no protection as they waited to die.
Blue Duck wanted Idahi to spread the word that he intended to kill his father—that was why he had let Idahi go. The nice thing was that Idahi had even given him back the shotgun. He had lost nothing from Idahi’s visit except the bear, and the bear had become more trouble than it was worth.
Ermoke still faced him, still hot.
“If you want to kill somebody, go kill that other old man,” Blue Duck said. “I’m tired of looking at him—go club him out. But don’t bother my friend Idahi. If you bother him I’ll club you out.”
Ermoke didn’t like what he was told—he didn’t like it that a Comanche was allowed to come and go, just because he was a Comanche. There was little food in the camp. Tomorrow he meant to take a few of the better warriors and try to find game. He thought he might follow the Comanche while he was at it. He didn’t know. He was angry, but not angry enough to start a fight with Blue Duck, not then. To relieve his anger he got a club and beat the old white man until he had broken most of his ribs. Several of the renegades watched the beating, idly. One of them, a short whiskey trader with a bent leg named Monkey John, began to upbraid the women for doing such a crude job of skinning the bear. They had got the skin off but it was cut in several places. The bear lay on its back, a naked pile of meat. When Monkey John got tired of yelling at the cowering women he took his knife and cut off the bear’s paws, meaning to extract all the claws. Some of the half-breeds put great store in bear claws—Monkey John meant to use them as money and gamble with them.
In the night the old man who had been so severely beaten coughed up blood and died. One of the half-breeds dragged him into the river, but the river was shallow. The old man didn’t float far. He grounded on a mud bank, a few hundred yards from camp. In the morning the mud bank was thick with carrion birds.
“Buzzard breakfast, serves him right,” Monkey John said. He rattled his bear claws, hoping to entice some of the renegades into a game of cards.
23.
JAKE SPOON’S decision to leave the rangers and go north caught everyone by surprise except Augustus McCrae, who, as he grew older, laid more and more frequent claims to omniscience. Gus had stopped allowing himself to be surprised; when something unexpected happened, such as Jake abruptly quitting the troop, Augustus immediately claimed that he had known it was going to happen.
Augustus’s habit of appearing all-knowing weighed on everybody, but it weighed heaviest on Woodrow Call.
“How did you know it?” Call asked. “Jake said himself he only made up his mind last night.”
“Well, but that’s a lie,” Augustus said. “Jake’s been planning to leave for years, ever since you took against him. It’s just that he’s a lazy cuss and was slow to get around to it.”
“I didn’t take against the man,” Call said, “although I agree that he’s lazy.”
“Would you at least agree that you don’t like the man?” Gus asked. “You ain’t liked him a bit since he started bunking with Maggie—and that was back about the time the war started.”
Call ignored the comment. It had been some years since he had been up the steps to Maggie’s room. If he met her on the street he said a polite hello, but had no other contact with her. The boy, Newt, was always around where the rangers were, of course; Pea Eye, Deets, and Jake had made a kind of pet of the boy. But what went on between Jake Spoon and Maggie Tilton had long ceased to be any concern of his.
“I don’t regard him highly, will that satisfy you?” Call said.
“No, but I have passed the point in life where I expect to be satisfied,” Augustus said. “At least I don’t expect to be satisfied with much. When it comes right down to it, Woodrow, I guess my own cooking beats anything I’ve come across in this life.”
Lately, due to a dissatisfaction with a succession of company cooks—Deets no longer had the time to cook, due to his duties with the horses—Augustus had mastered the art of making sourdough biscuits, a skill of which he was inordinately proud.
“I will allow that Jake has done a fair job with the bookkeeping,” Call said. “That will be your job, once he leaves, and you need to be strict about it.”
They were sitting in front of a little two-room shack they had purchased together, at the start of the war, to be their living quarters. Augustus, after the death of his Nell, vowed never to marry again; Call gave marriage no thought. The house cost them forty-five dollars. It consisted of two rooms with a dirt floor. It beat sleeping outdoors, but not by much, particularly not in the season when the fleas were active.
“Bookkeep yourself,” Gus said. “I will leave too before I’ll waste my time scribbling in a ledger.”
Across the way, at the lots, they could see Jake Spoon, standing around with Deets and Pea Eye and several other rangers. His horse was saddled but he seemed in no hurry to leave. He sat on the top rail of the corral, with Newt, dangling his feet.
“He said he was leaving this morning, but it’s nearly dark and he’s still here,” Call said.
“Maybe he just wants to spend one more night in safe company,” Augustus suggested. “With the war ending I expect he’ll have to put up with a lot of thieving riffraff on the roads.”
“I expect so,” Call said, wishing Jake would go on and leave. Some of the rangers were using his departure as an occasion for getting thoroughly drunk.
“The question ain’t why Jake’s leaving, it’s why we’re staying,” Augustus said. “We ought to up and quit, ourselves.”
Call had been thinking along the same lines, but had not pushed his thoughts hard enough to reach a conclusion. The distant war had
ended but the Comanche war hadn’t; there was still plenty of rangering to do—yet the thought of quitting had occurred to him more than once.
“If we don’t quit pretty soon we’ll be doing this when we’re ninety years old,” Augustus said. “Some young governor will be sending us out to catch rascals that any decent sheriff ought to be able to catch.”
“And that will have been life,” he added. “A lot of whoring and the rest of the time spent catching rascals.”
“I would like to see the Indian business through,” Call replied.
“Woodrow, it’s through,” Augustus said.
“The settlers up in Jack County don’t think so,” Call said. There had been a small massacre only the week before—a party of teamsters had been ambushed and killed.
“I have no doubt a few more firecrackers will go off,” Augustus said. “But not many. The Yankee military boys will soon come down and finish off the Comanche.”
Call knew there was truth in what Gus said. Most of the Comanche bands had already come in—only a few hundred warriors were still free and inclined to fight. Still, it was too soon to say it was over; besides that, there was the border, as chaotic from the standpoint of law and order as it had been before the Mexican War.
Augustus, though, was not through with his discourse on the Indian question.
“In six months’ time we’ll have the Yankees here, giving us orders,” he said. “We’re just Rebs to them. They won’t want our help. We’ll be lucky if they even let us keep our firearms. They’ll probably have to issue us a pass before we’re even allowed on the plains.”
“I don’t think it will be that bad,” Call said, but he spoke without conviction. The Confederacy had been defeated, and Texas had been part of the Confederacy. There was little telling what the future of the rangers would be. What Augustus had proposed on the spur of the moment—quitting the rangers—might not merely be something they ought to consider; it might be something they would have to consider.
“We’ve done this since we were boys,” he said to Gus. “What would we do, if we quit?”
“I don’t care, as long as we go someplace that ain’t dull,” Augustus said. “Remember that town that wasn’t quite there yet, by the river? I expect that Frenchwoman has got the roof on that saloon by now. Not only could she cook, she could barber. Lonesome Dove—wasn’t that what they called it? It might be booming now. It wouldn’t hurt us to ride down that way and take a look.”
Call didn’t reply. He saw that Jake Spoon was shaking hands with all concerned. Probably he had decided to leave that night, after all. Augustus noticed and stood up, meaning to saunter over and say goodbye.
“Coming, Woodrow?” he asked.
“No—he’s got half the town to say goodbye to as it is,” Call said—but Augustus, to his surprise, insisted that he come.
“You’ve been his captain since he was a boy,” Gus said. “You mustn’t let him go off without a goodbye.”
Call knew Augustus was right—it would puzzle the boys who were staying if he held aloof from Jake’s goodbye. He walked over with Augustus and shook Jake’s hand.
“Take care on the roads, Jake, and good luck,” he said.
Jake Spoon was so surprised that Call had come to see him off that he flushed with gratitude. It had been four years or more since Call had spoken to him, other than to issue the briefest and simplest commands—mostly, for the whole term of the civil war, Captain Call had treated him as if he were not there. It was such a surprise to receive a handshake from him that Jake was speechless, for a time.
“Thanks, Captain,” he managed to mumble. “I aim to go prospecting for silver.”
Call saw no need to extend the courtesies further. Even though Jake was mounted, Augustus produced a bottle and passed it around; soon the whole troop would be too drunk to notice whether he was polite to Jake Spoon or not. He noticed to his surprise that several of the rangers had been crying—to Pea Eye and Deets and several of the younger men, Jake was a pard, a friend who had rangered with them and shared the anxieties of youth. Jake had ever been a merry companion, except when he was scared; why wouldn’t they mist up a little, now that he was going?
Call walked away, back across the street, past the house where Maggie Tilton still boarded. He wondered, for a moment, what she was thinking, now that the man who had carried her groceries and tended her garden was going. He seldom thought much of Maggie now, though, sometimes, from habit, crossing beneath her window at night, he would look up to see if her lamp was lit.
In the dusk, by the lots, the men were urging Jake to stay at least until morning. Newt could not control his emotions—tears kept leaking out of his eyes. He kept turning his back to wipe them away, so that Pea Eye and Deets and the others would not see him crying. Jake was his best pard and his mother’s best friend. With his mother sickly and Jake leaving, Newt hardly knew what he would do; he would have to try and do all the things that Jake did, when it came to helping his mother. He didn’t know much about gardening, but thought he could manage the firewood, at least.
Pea Eye, too, was disturbed. Jake had been talking about leaving the rangers the whole of the time Pea Eye had known him; he supposed it was just the kind of dreamy talk men indulged in when they were restless or blue; but now his horse was saddled and all his goods packed on a mule he had bought with some saved-up wages. Pea Eye considered the move a dreadful mistake—but no one could argue Jake out of it.
Deets said only a brief goodbye. The comings and goings of white men were beyond his understanding and concern. Now and then, though, he saw things in the stars he didn’t like, things that suggested Mr. Jake might be having some trouble, someday. No doubt his leaving would make Miss Maggie sad.
When Augustus learned that Jake had purchased a mule to carry his tack, he was indignant.
“Why, Jake, you scamp—you’ve been hoarding up money,” he said. “Your job was to bring out your money and lose it to me in a fair game of poker. Now that I know you’re a hoarder I ain’t so sorry you’re leaving.”
Jake had taken a good amount of liquor in the course of his goodbyes. In fact, he had been drunk for the last three days, attempting to work himself up to departing. No one could understand why he wanted to leave at such a time, with the war just ended. Jake hadn’t wanted to be a soldier in that war, but he did want to get rich. He had seen a little booklet about the silver prospects in Colorado and the thought of discovering silver had given him a bad case of wanderlust. Besides, Texas was poor, impoverished by the war; the Indians were still bad, and Woodrow Call didn’t like him—all reasons for leaving. Even if Call had liked him there would have been no way to get rich in Texas—Jake had a longing for fine clothes that would never be satisfied if he stayed in Texas.
Of course, there was Maggie and Newt—they’d been a family to him for a few years, although Maggie had refused him the one time he suggested marriage. Later, Jake was relieved by the refusal. Maggie was not well, and, even if she had been, it was too hard to earn a living in a poor place such as Texas.
Besides, he had heard a rumor that the Yankee military meant to come in and hang all the Texas Rangers, as being sympathizers with the Rebs. He didn’t want to hang, so now he was leaving, but it wasn’t an easy thing. He had bidden goodbye to Maggie three times now, and to Newt; he had said several goodbyes to Pea Eye and the boys. It was time to go, and yet he lingered.
“Go on now, Jake, if you’re going,” Augustus said, finally. “I can’t afford no more goodbye toasts.”
With no further ado, Augustus walked away, and the rangers, after a final farewell handshake, wandered off to the part of town where the whores plied their trade. Jake felt lonely, suddenly—lonely and confused. Part of him had hoped, until the end, that someone would come out with an argument that would cause him to change his mind and stay. But now the street was empty; the boys had blandly accepted his decision to leave and it seemed he must go. If he waited until morning and announced that he had c
hanged his mind the boys would only scorn him and take him for an irresolute fool.
Sad and unsteadied, Jake managed to secure the lead rope attached to the pack mule. Now that he actually had to leave, the fact of the mule irritated him. It had already proven itself to be an annoying beast, but if he waited until morning and tried to sell it back to the horse traders they would only offer him a pittance. He decided to sell the mule in Fort Worth, instead. Perhaps there was a shortage of good mules up there—he would see.
In leaving he passed beneath Maggie’s window. If the lamp had been lit he would have hitched his animals and rushed up for one more farewell, perhaps even one more embrace; but the window was dark. Tears rushed out at the thought that he was leaving his Mag, but Jake didn’t stop. He knew Newt wanted him to stay, but he wasn’t so sure about Maggie. She didn’t chatter much with him anymore; perhaps it was her illness. In any case there were said to be merry women in Colorado, and Colorado was where he was bound.
Above him in the dark room, Maggie watched him leave. Newt had come in sobbing and cried himself to sleep. Maggie watched out the darkened window as Jake made his extended farewells. She left the light off deliberately, so that Jake would not rush at her again, confused, sad, importunate; one minute he wanted her to bless his departure, the next he wanted her to marry him and keep him in Austin. In either mood he sought her welcome, wanted her to lie with him. It had been months since Maggie had felt well. She had a cough that wouldn’t leave her. She did her job and tended her child, but she rarely had the energy now to deal with Jake Spoon’s confusions, or his needs.
Though Maggie knew she would miss Jake—she felt a certain sadness as he passed beneath her window—she also felt relieved that he was going. Though he was as helpful as he knew how to be, having him with her was like having two children, and she no longer had the energy for it. She had never been able to be quite what Jake wanted, though she had tried; though she would now have no one to carry her groceries or help her with her garden, she would also be free of the strain involved in never being quite what a man wanted.
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