The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  He was just about to take the shield to Deets and ask him to carry it in one of his saddlebags when the first shot came.

  40.

  “WE WERE TOO FAR AWAY—I didn’t get no chance to sight this gun,” Blue Duck said, in annoyance, when he saw that his first shot from the big buffalo rifle had only hit Captain Call in the foot. At least that was how it appeared. The man held up one leg and hopped behind the horses.

  Ermoke was annoyed too. He had wanted to be the one to shoot the big gun. He considered himself a far better shot than Blue Duck, particularly at long distances, and in this case the distance was long. They had made sure to ride well beyond the range of the Texans’ Winchesters before they pulled up and unstrapped the big buffalo gun. There was a little growth of yucca where they stopped, the only cover in sight, but all they needed. With the big gun they could relax and pick off the Texans one by one—only now Blue Duck had spoiled the whole plan by shooting low.

  Blue Duck quickly drew a bead on Ranger McCrae but missed again, though the bullet did knock one of the four horses down. He was aware that Ermoke was looking at him critically—Ermoke was vain about his marksmanship, particularly if the distances were long. He had once killed an antelope with a Winchester at a distance of almost a thousand yards, and had never ceased to brag about the exploit.

  Even though he had now missed twice, Blue Duck didn’t yield the gun. It was his gun, for one thing. He had run the frightened buffalo hunter to earth, and it had been no easy chase. The hunter had three guns and had emptied them all at him during the long pursuit. He might even have escaped had his horse not stepped in a prairie-dog hole. In the fall the buffalo hunter broke his neck. He was paralyzed when Blue Duck walked up and cut his throat. The pursuit had taken all day, and the hunter had no money, only a worthless tin watch and his guns.

  Blue Duck had meant to practice a little with the big rifle, but Last Horse had arrived unexpectedly, before he got around to it. He had never shot such a powerful rifle before; now, with the rangers in easy killing distance, he was vexed to find that the weapon shot low. He had missed a clean shot at Call and an even better one at McCrae. Now the rangers were on their bellies in the grass, hard to see. Ermoke clearly wanted a chance to shoot, but Blue Duck didn’t give it to him. Instead he shot another of the rangers’ horses, even as the black man was trying to hurry them out of range.

  “I guess that will stop them,” he said. “Two of their horses are down and Call’s shot in the leg. They’ll starve anyway. Let’s go. We won’t have to be in such a damn hurry now.”

  “Monkey’s sick—he’s shitting white shit,” Ermoke observed. He saw that Blue Duck was angry, so he did not ask if he could shoot the buffalo gun. If he asked, Blue Duck might turn the gun on him, as he had on the Comanche who came to tell him about Buffalo Hump.

  “What about Monkey?” Ermoke asked, when he saw Blue Duck mount up.

  Blue Duck glanced at the stumpy man, who was a few yards away, squatting with his pants down, looking miserable.

  “Monkey? He can come or he can stay,” Blue Duck said. “I guess our fine waters don’t agree with him. You can wait for him, if you like. I doubt I ought to be associating with a man who shits white shit, anyway.”

  41.

  THE FIRST BULLET knocked Call a foot in the air. Immediately, he lost all feeling in his left leg, but he pulled himself around behind his horse; then the second bullet knocked the horse down on top of him, or almost. Pea and Augustus pulled him out from under the horse, which was kicking wildly. A third shot hit Pea’s horse and killed it.

  “Run with the other horses!” Call yelled to Deets. “If you don’t he’s going to put us all afoot.”

  Deets needed no urging. He was already running south, with his brown mule and the other, uninjured, horse. There were four more booms from the big rifle, but Deets was soon out of range and the other men had their faces flat in the dirt. The bullets merely kicked up dirt. The rifleman stopped firing, since he had stopped hitting, but the three rangers kept their heads down, fearing that the rifleman would soon find the range.

  Call glanced at his leg and saw no blood, but he assumed he was probably crippled anyway. The leg was numb from the hip down—his horse, by then, had stopped kicking but lay with its eyes open, panting.

  “He’s shooting a buffalo gun,” Augustus said. “If I’d known he had one I’d have been more careful.”

  “We ought to have been more careful anyway,” Call said. “Anyone can get their hands on a buffalo gun.”

  Augustus had not yet looked at his friend’s wound. In their time as partners it was the first time he could remember seeing Woodrow Call knocked off his feet; the sight made a bad impression on him. If Woodrow was still down it probably meant the wound was mortal. Everyone who worked with Call knew that he had to be killed to be stopped. The thought that Woodrow might die sobered Augustus so much that he put off examining the wound.

  “Where’d he hit you, Captain?” Pea Eye asked finally. He too was afraid that the captain was mortally hit, else he would be up fighting.

  “In the leg,” Call said. He too assumed that his wound was serious, perhaps fatal. He didn’t try to rise because he knew his leg wouldn’t hold him. Standing up would have been unwise in any case. The man with the buffalo gun had them well marked. He was not a very highly skilled marksman or he would have killed all four of the horses and probably at least two of the men; but he was good enough, and he might improve, once he found the range. Call noticed that his horse had only been hit in the hip, but the minute after he noticed it the horse died.

  “Those buffalo guns are powerful,” Call said. “That one killed my horse, and the shot wasn’t even well placed.”

  “Don’t be getting pessimistic now—so far he ain’t killed you,” Augustus said. “You’re going to have to let us drag you farther away, Woodrow, so we can look at your wound.”

  “Keep as low as you can,” Call said. “I expect it’s Blue Duck shooting.”

  “Yes, that’s why we are alive,” Famous Shoes said. “Ermoke is a better shot. If he had let Ermoke shoot he would have killed us all.”

  “I don’t know Mr. Ermoke,” Augustus said, “but if he’s their marksman I’m glad he took the day off. He might have put a bullet in me, and I’m intolerant of bullets.”

  “Pull me back,” Call said. “We better look at this wound.”

  Augustus and Pea Eye, keeping low, grabbed Call under the armpits and dragged him away, expecting at any moment to hear the boom of the great gun. But no shots came. Deets, looking scared, was waiting with the horse, well out of range of even a buffalo gun.

  “You examine him, Deets—you’re the best doc we got,” Augustus said.

  Call noticed that Augustus, always a cool man under fire, looked a little pale.

  “What’s the matter, are you hit too?” he asked.

  “No, but I’m vomity,” Augustus said. “It’s seeing these horses die. I’ve never been able to tolerate seeing horses die.”

  Call felt the same way. For some reason injuries to horses affected him worse than injuries to men. Eating one of his own horses, if it was a case of necessity, didn’t trouble him so long as he didn’t have to see the animals suffer and die. It was a curious thing.

  Augustus crawled off a little distance, to empty his stomach; while he was gone Call surrendered himself to Deets and waited for the black man to tell him he was dying—or, at the very least, crippled or lamed. He felt no pain, just a numbness, which he knew was common enough when a wound was fresh. The pain would come later, and in abundance, usually.

  When Deets began to examine the Captain he had the darkest apprehensions. He expected to see a gaping wound, a splintered bone, or both; but he saw immediately, there was no blood on the captain’s leg, or on his body anywhere. The horse that had just died bled profusely, but Captain Call wasn’t bleeding at all, not that he could see.

  “What’s the matter?” Call asked, seeing Deets’s look of puzzle
ment.

  “You ain’t got no blood on you,” Deets said. “No blood, Captain.”

  “I must have, somewhere,” Call said. “I can’t feel my leg.”

  But when he looked again himself he saw that Deets was right. There was no blood on him anywhere. Pea Eye came over to help with the examination, and Augustus, once finished with his vomiting, came too. Deets, Call, and Pea Eye were all dead serious; they were puzzled and almost offended by their inability to spot the blood that would surely issue from such a large wound.

  Call took his pants down, fearing that the wound must be higher on his body than he had supposed, but Augustus, after a careful look, smiled and pointed at Call’s boot.

  “Keep your pants on, Woodrow,” he said. “You ain’t shot in the leg, you’re just shot in the boot heel.”

  Call looked again at his foot and saw that Augustus was right—the boot heel was entirely missing. He had not been hit at all, and yet the shock of the big bullet hitting his boot heel had thrown him in the air and left his leg as numb as if all its nerves had been removed.

  “Well, I swear,” he said. “See if you can find the boot heel, Deets. I’d like to tack it back on if I can. Otherwise I’ve got a long way to hobble.”

  A diligent search failed to turn up even a trace of the boot heel.

  “It’s a waste of time looking,” Augustus said. “That was a fifty-caliber bullet that hit that boot heel. You won’t find it because it’s been blown to smithereens.”

  Call found it hard to adjust to the fact that he was unhurt. His mind had accepted the thought that he was wounded easier than it would accept the fact that he wasn’t. Once the notion that he was crippled or dying left his mind it was succeeded by vexation at the thought that the man they had chased so far was undoubtedly getting away. For a moment he was tempted to take one of the surviving horses and go after him, but Augustus would not hear of that plan.

  “We’re in a bad enough fix as it is, Woodrow,” he said. “It’s a long way back to where we need to be, and most of it is dry traveling. We’ve only got one horse and one mule for four men—we’ll have to walk a good part of the way and save the horses for when we have to have them. We may have to eat both animals before we get home. We need to think about saving ourselves now. Blue Duck can wait.

  “Besides that, there’s Quanah and his warriors out there somewhere,” he added, pointing to the west, into the empty llano. “I don’t know what their mood is and you don’t neither. We may have to fight our way back, for all you know.”

  Call knew he was right. They were a small force, stranded in a desert. They would be easy prey for any strong band of fighters, whether native or outlaw. They would have to stay together to have any chance. But the fact was, he still wanted to go after Blue Duck—he had a hard time mastering himself, and Augustus knew it.

  “He’s a damn killer—I hate to let him go,” Call said.

  “You’re as bad as Inish Scull,” Augustus commented. “He was so determined to catch Kicking Wolf that he walked off on foot.”

  “Yes, I was with him,” Famous Shoes said. “He walked fast, that man. He did not stop until we were in the land of the Black Vaquero.”

  “I wonder what became of the old Black Vaquero?” Augustus said. “There’s been no news of him in years.”

  “He went back to where Jaguar lives,” Famous Shoes said.

  Augustus saw that Woodrow Call was still not settled in his mind about Blue Duck. He had never known a man so unwilling to leave a pursuit once he had begun one. It would not be unlike him to go after Blue Duck on foot, even with one boot heel shot off.

  “He ain’t gone forever, Woodrow,” Augustus pointed out. “He’ll just go back to the Red River and start raiding again. We can go get him in the fall.”

  “If they let us,” Call said. “They may disband us before the fall.”

  “All the better if they do,” Gus said. “Then we can just go get him for the fun of it—that way we won’t have to keep track of the damn expenses.”

  Famous Shoes was annoyed by the rangers’ habit of debating meaningless things while the sun moved and time was lost. Whether they were to be rangers in the fall did not interest him. There was the llano to cross, and talking would not propel them across it.

  “We had better go drink some of that water back at the spring,” he said.

  His words reminded the rangers of what they faced. They had barely survived the trek out, when they had horses. Now they would have to cover the same distance walking—or, at best, riding double a few hours a day.

  “That’s right,” Augustus said. “It’s apt to be a long dry walk.”

  “I aim to drink all I can hold,” Pea Eye said, turning toward the dry lake. “All I can hold and then some. I sure hate to be dry in my mouth.”

  42.

  IN THE NIGHT Newt knew that his mother must have died because he couldn’t hear her breathing anymore. The room felt different—it had become a room in which he was alone. But he didn’t know what he was supposed to do, so he lay on his pallet doing nothing until the gray light came into the windows by the street. Then he carefully got up, dressed, and put a few things of his into a shoe box—his top, his ball, his book full of pictures of animals, and a deck of cards the rangers had let him keep. Then he put on his hat—Captain Gus had given it to him—looked just once at his mother, dead in her bed, and hurried down the stairs and over to Mrs. Coleman, who began to sob the minute she saw him—Mrs. Coleman continued to cry all day. Newt was sad about the fact that Deets and Pea Eye and the other rangers were gone; he knew they would have wanted to say goodbye to his mother, but now they would have no chance. The grave was dug; that same afternoon they put his mother in it—there was a little singing and then they covered her up.

  Mrs. Coleman gave him supper. There was a lot of food, but he wasn’t very hungry. Mrs. Coleman had mainly got control of herself by then, though tears still dripped out of her eyes from time to time.

  “Newt, I know you’ll be wanting to stay with the rangers when they all get back,” she told him after supper. “But would you like to just stay here for a night or two? There’s nobody much in the bunkhouse.”

  Newt shook his head. Though he didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Coleman’s feelings—he knew she had been his mother’s best friend—he didn’t want to stay with her, either.

  “I better just bunk with the boys,” he said, although he knew that the only ranger in the bunkhouse at the time was Ikey Ripple, who was far too old to be called a boy. But he wanted badly to stay in the bunkhouse, and Mrs. Coleman didn’t argue with him. It was dark by the time the meal was finished, so she went with him the few blocks to where the rangers stayed. Ikey was already asleep, and was snoring loudly.

  “I hope you can sleep with that snoring, Newt,” Mrs. Coleman said—then, suddenly, she hugged him tight for a moment and left the bunkhouse.

  Newt put his shoe box under the bunk where he usually slept when he stayed with the rangers. Then he took his rope and went outside. He could hear Mrs. Coleman sobbing as she walked home, a thing which made him feel a little bad. Mrs. Coleman had no one to live with—he supposed she was lonely. Probably he should have stayed with her a night or two. He climbed up on the fence, holding his rope, and watched the moon for a while. He could hear Ikey snoring, all the way out in the lots. In the morning he planned to go down to the graveyard and tell his mother the news, even though there wasn’t much—just that he had decided to move into the bunkhouse right away, so he would be there to help water the horses and do the chores. That way he would be ready to help the boys, when they came home.

  43.

  WHEN KICKING WOLF HEARD that four rangers were walking across the llano with only one horse and a mule, he didn’t know what to make of the news. A lot of strange news had come lately, some of it distressing and some of it merely puzzling. He had not left the camp in two weeks because one of his legs had a bad cramp in it. Of course now and then a man’s leg would cramp, but ne
ver in his life had he experienced so debilitating a cramp as the one which afflicted his right leg. Sometimes even when he was moving his bowels a cramp would seize him, playing havoc with even that simple operation.

  Kicking Wolf thought it was his old wife, Broken Foot, who was sending the cramp into his leg. The fact was, Broken Foot had been angry with him for several months—he didn’t know why. When he asked her she smiled and denied that she was angry, but Kicking Wolf didn’t believe her denials. Even though he was aging, Kicking Wolf was still a good hunter; he owned more horses than anyone in the tribe and supplied Broken Foot with everything she needed. Their lodge was the warmest in the camp. Kicking Wolf knew, though, that having many reasons to be content didn’t necessarily mean that a person was content, particularly not if the person in question was a woman. Broken Foot, despite her denials, was angry with him—either she had put a bad herb in his food, causing his leg to cramp, or else she had conspired with a medicine man and had had the medicine man work a bad spell. Broken Foot was not much younger than he was, and had grown very fat in her old age. Kicking Wolf gave up trying to get her to stop being angry with him and concentrated on avoiding her. But it was hard to avoid a woman as large as Broken Foot in a tent at night, which was why, as the weather grew warmer, Kicking Wolf started spending more and more nights outside, by himself. It didn’t stop the cramps but at least he didn’t have Broken Foot there gloating while he tried to get the painful cramps to leave his leg.

  It was during the period when Kicking Wolf was sleeping outside that the strange news began to arrive, most of it brought by Dancing Rabbit, a young warrior who had wanderlust badly and just plain lust as well. Dancing Rabbit was constantly visiting the various bands of Comanches, hoping to find a woman who would marry him, but he was poor and also rather ugly. So far no woman had agreed to be his wife.

  It was Dancing Rabbit who dashed up to Kicking Wolf one morning while Kicking Wolf was sitting by a pile of white cattle bones, rubbing his leg to lessen the cramp. Dancing Rabbit was very upset with the news he had, which was that Blue Duck had followed Buffalo Hump to his death place and killed him with his own lance.