Those were the days before order came to Lonesome Dove, when Captain Call and Augustus were still Rangers, with responsibilities that took them up and down the border. Jake Spoon was a Ranger too, and in Newt’s eyes the most dashing of them all. He always carried a pearl-handled pistol and rode a pacing horse—easier on the seat, Jake claimed. The dangers of his profession seemed to sit lightly on him.
But then the fighting gradually died down along the border and the Captain and Mr. Gus and Jake and Pea Eye and Deets all quit rangering and formed the Hat Creek outfit. But the settled life seemed not to suit Jake, and one day he was just gone. No one was surprised, though Newt’s mother was so upset by it that for a time he got a whipping every time he asked when Jake was coming back. The whippings didn’t seem to have much to do with him, just with his mother’s disappointment that Jake had left.
Newt stopped asking about Jake, but he didn’t stop remembering him. It was barely a year later that his mother died of fever; the Captain and Augustus took him in, although at first they argued about him. At first Newt missed his mother so much that he didn’t care about the arguments. His mother and Jake were both gone and arguments were not going to bring them back.
But when the worst pain passed and he began to earn his keep around the Hat Creek outfit by doing the numerous chores that the Captain set him, he often drifted back in his mind to the days when Jake Spoon had come to see his mother. It seemed to him that Jake might even be his father, though everyone told him his name was Newt Dobbs, not Newt Spoon. Why it was Dobbs, and why everyone was so sure, was a puzzle to him, since no one in Lonesome Dove seemed to know anything about a Mr. Dobbs. It had not occurred to him to ask his mother while she was alive—last names weren’t used much around Lonesome Dove, and he didn’t realize that the last name was supposed to come from the father. Even Mr. Gus, who would talk about anything, seemed to have no information about Mr. Dobbs. “He went west when he shouldn’t have” was his only comment on the man.
Newt had never asked Captain Call to amplify that information—the Captain preferred to volunteer what he wanted you to know. In his heart, though, Newt didn’t believe in Mr. Dobbs. He had a little pile of stuff his mother had left, just a few beads and combs and a little scrapbook and some cutout pictures from magazines that Mr. Gus had been kind enough to save for him, and there was nothing about a Mr. Dobbs in the scrapbook and no picture of him amid the pictures, though there was a scratchy picture of his grandfather, Maggie’s father, who had lived in Alabama.
If, as he suspected, there had been no Mr. Dobbs, or if he had just been a gentleman who stopped at the rooming house a day or two—they had lived in the rooming house when Maggie was alive—then it might be that Jake Spoon was really his father. Perhaps no one had informed him of it because they thought it more polite to let Jake do so himself when he came back.
Newt had always assumed Jake would come back, too. Scraps of news about him had blown back down the cow trails—word that he was a peace officer in Ogallala, or that he was prospecting for gold in the Black Hills. Newt had no idea where the Black Hills were, or how you went about finding gold in them, but one of the reasons he was eager to head north with a cow herd was the hope of running into Jake somewhere along the way. Of course he wanted to wear a gun and become a top hand and have the adventure of the drive—maybe they would even see buffalo, though he knew there weren’t many left. But underneath all his other hopes was the oldest yearning he had, one that could lie covered over for months and years and still be fresh as a toothache: the need to see Jake Spoon.
Now the very man was riding toward them, right there beside Deets, on a pacing horse as pretty as the one he had ridden away ten years before. Newt forgot Dish Boggett, whose every move he had been planning to study. Before the two riders even got very close Newt could see Deets’s big white teeth shining in his black face, for he had gone away on a routine job and was coming back proud of more than having done it. He didn’t race his horse up to the porch or do anything silly, but it was plain even at a distance that Deets was a happy man.
Then the horses were kicking up little puffs of dust in the wagon yard and the two were almost there. Jake wore a brown vest and a brown hat, and he still had his pearl-handled pistol. Deets was still grinning. They rode right up to the back porch before they drew rein. It was obvious that Jake had come a long way, for the pacing bay had no flesh on him.
Jake’s eyes were the color of coffee, and he wore a little mustache. He looked them all over for a moment, and then broke out a slow grin.
“Howdy, boys,” he said. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Why, biscuits and fatback, Jake,” Augustus said. “The usual fare. Only we won’t be serving it up for about twenty-four hours. I hope you’ve got a buffalo liver or a haunch of venison on you to tide you over.”
“Gus, don’t tell me you’ve et,” Jake said, swinging off the bay. “We rode all night, and Deets couldn’t think of nothing to talk about except the taste of them biscuits you make.”
“While you was talking, Gus was eating them,” Call said. He and Jake shook hands, looking one another over.
Jake looked at Deets a minute. “I knowed we should have telegraphed from Pickles Gap,” he said, then turned with a grin and shook Gus’s hand.
“You always was a hog, Gus,” Jake said.
“And you were usually late for meals,” Augustus reminded him.
Then Pea Eye insisted on shaking hands, though Jake had never been very partial to him. “By gosh, Jake, you stayed gone a while,” Pea Eye said.
While they were shaking Jake noticed the boy, standing there by some lank cowhand with a heavy mustache. “My lord,” he said. “Are you little Newt? Why you’re plumb growed. Who let that happen?”
Newt felt so full of feeling that he could hardly speak. “It’s me, Jake,” he said. “I’m still here.”
“What do you think, Captain?” Deets asked, handing Call the receipt from the bank. “Didn’t I find the prodigal?”
“You found him,” Call said. “I bet he wasn’t in church, either.”
Deets had a laugh at that. “No, sir,” he said. “Not in church.”
Jake was introduced to Dish Boggett, but once he shook hands he turned and had another look at Newt as if the fact that he was nearly grown surprised him more than anything else in Lonesome Dove.
“I swear, Jake,” Augustus said, looking at the bay horse, “you’ve rode that horse right down to the bone.”
“Give him a good feed, Deets,” Call said. “I judge it’s been a while since he’s had one.”
Deets led the horses off toward the roofless barn. It was true that he made his pants out of old quilts, for reasons that no one could get him to explain. Colorful as they were, quilts weren’t the best material for riding through mesquite and chaparral. Thorns had snagged the pants in several places, and cotton ticking was sticking out. For headgear Deets wore an old cavalry cap he had found somewhere—it was in nearly as bad shape as Lippy’s bowler.
“Didn’t he have that cap when I left?” Jake asked. He took his own hat off and slapped the dust off his pants leg with it. He had curly black hair, but Newt saw to his surprise that there was a sizable bald spot on the top of his head.
“He found that cap in the fifties, to the best of my recollection,” Augustus said. “You know Deets is like me—he’s not one to quit on a garment just because it’s got a little age. We can’t all be fine dressers like you, Jake.”
Jake turned his coffee eyes on Augustus and broke out another slow grin. “What’d it take to get you to whip up another batch of them biscuits?” he said. “I’ve come all the way from Arkansas without tasting a good bite of bread.”
“From the looks of that pony it’s been fast traveling,” Call said, which was as close to prying as he intended to get. He had run with Jake Spoon off and on for twenty years, and liked him well; but the man had always worried him a little, underneath. There was no more likable man in the west,
and no better rider, either; but riding wasn’t everything, and neither was likableness. Something in Jake didn’t quite stick. Something wasn’t quite consistent. He could be the coolest man in the company in one fight, and in the next be practically worthless.
Augustus knew it too. He was a great sponsor of Jake’s and had stayed fond of him although for years they were rivals for Clara Allen, who eventually showed them both the door. But Augustus felt, with Call, that Jake wasn’t long on backbone. When he left the Rangers Augustus said more than once that he would probably end up hung. So far that hadn’t happened, but riding up at breakfast time on a gant horse was an indication of trouble. Jake prided himself on pretty horses, and would never ride a horse as hard as the bay had been ridden if trouble wasn’t somewhere behind him.
Jake saw Bolivar coming from the old cistern with a bucketful of water. Bolivar was a new face, and one that had no interest in his homecoming. A little cool water sloshed over the edges of the bucket, looking very good to a man with a mouth as dusty as Jake’s.
“Boys, I’d like a drink and maybe even a wash, if you can spare one,” he said. “My luck’s been running kinda muddy lately, but I’d like to get water enough in me that I can at least spit before I tell you about it.”
“Why, sure,” Augustus said. “Go fill the dipper. You want us to stay out here and hold off the posse?”
“There ain’t no posse,” Jake said, going in the house.
Dish Boggett felt somewhat at a loss. He had been all ready to hire on, and then this new man rode up and everyone had sort of forgotten him. Captain Call, a man known for being all business, seemed a little distracted. He and Gus just stood there as if they expected a posse despite what Jake Spoon had said.
Newt noticed it too. Mr. Gus ought to go in and cook Jake some biscuits, but he just stood there, thinking about something, evidently. Deets was on his way back from the lots.
Dish finally spoke up. “Captain, like I said, I’d be glad to wait if you have some plans to make up a herd,” he said.
The Captain looked at him strangely, as if he might have forgotten his name, much less what he was doing there. But it wasn’t the case.
“Why, yes, Dish,” he said. “We might be needing some hands, if you don’t mind doing some well-digging while you wait. Pea, you best get these boys started.”
Dish was almost ready to back out then and there. He had drawn top wages for the last two years without being asked to do anything that couldn’t be done from a horse. It was insensitive of the Captain to think that he could just order him off, with a boy and an old idiot like Pea Eye, to wrestle a spade and crowbar all day. It scratched his pride, and he had a notion to go get his horse and let them keep their well-digging. But the Captain was looking at him hard, and when Dish looked up to say he had changed his mind, their eyes met and Dish didn’t say it. There had been no real promises made, much less talk of wages, but somehow Dish had taken one step too far. The Captain was looking at him eye to eye, as if to see if he was going to stand by his own words or if he meant to wiggle like a fish and change his mind. Dish had only offered to stay because of Lorie, but suddenly it had all gotten beyond her. Pea and Newt were already walking toward the barn. It was clear from the Captain’s attitude that unless he wanted to lose all reputation, he had trapped himself into at least one day’s well-digging.
It seemed to him he ought to at least say something to salvage a little pride, but before he could think of anything Gus came over and clapped him on the shoulder.
“You should have rode on last night, Dish,” he said with an irritating grin. “You may never see the last of this outfit now.”
“Well, you was the one that invited me,” Dish said, highly annoyed. Since there was no help for it short of disgrace, he started for the lots.
“If you come to Chiny you can stop digging,” Augustus called after him. “That’s the place where the men wear pigtails.”
“I wouldn’t ride him if I were you,” Call said. “We may need him.”
“I didn’t send him off to dig no well,” Augustus said. “Don’t you know that’s an insult to his dignity? I’m surprised he went. I thought Dish had more grit.”
“He said he’d stay,” Call said. “I ain’t feeding him three times a day to sit around and play cards with you.”
“No need to now,” Augustus said. “I got Jake for that. I bet you don’t get Jake down in your well.”
At that moment Jake stepped out on the back porch, his sleeves rolled up and his face red from the scrubbing he had given it with the old piece of sacking they used for a towel.
“That old pistolero’s been cleaning his gun on this towel,” Jake said. “It’s filthy dirty.”
“If it’s just his six-shooter he’s cleaning on it you oughtn’t to complain,” Augustus said. “There’s worse things he could wipe on it.”
“Hell, don’t you men ever wash?” Jake asked. “That old Mex didn’t even want to give me a pan of water.”
It was the kind of remark Call had no patience with, but that was Jake, more interested in fancy arrangements than in the more important matters.
“Once you left, our standards slipped,” Augustus said. “The majority of this outfit ain’t interested in refinements.”
“That’s plain,” Jake said. “There’s a damn pig on the back porch. What about them biscuits?”
“Much as I’ve missed you, I ain’t overworking my sourdough just because you and Deets couldn’t manage to get here in time,” Augustus said. “What I will do is fry some meat.”
He fried it, and Jake and Deets ate it, while Bolivar sat in the corner and sulked at the thought of two more breakfasts to wash up after. It amused Augustus to watch Jake eat—he was so fastidious about it—but the sight put Call into a black fidget. Jake could spend twenty minutes picking at some eggs and a bit of bacon. It was obvious to Augustus that Call was trying to be polite and let Jake get some food in his belly before he told his story, but Call was not a patient man and had already controlled his urge to get to work longer than was usual. He stood in the door, watching the whitening sky and looking restless enough to bite himself.
“So where have you been, Jake?” Augustus asked, to speed things up.
Jake looked thoughtful, as he almost always did. His coffee-colored eyes always seemed to be traveling leisurely over scenes from his own past, and they gave the impression that he was a man of sorrows—an impression very appealing to the ladies. It disgusted Augustus a little that ladies were so taken in by Jake’s big eyes. In fact, Jake Spoon had had a perfectly easy life, doing mostly just what he pleased and keeping his boots clean; what his big eyes concealed was a slow-working brain. Basically Jake just dreamed his way through life and somehow got by with it.
“Oh, I’ve been seeing the country,” he said. “I was up to Montana two years ago. I guess that’s what made me decide to come back, although I’ve been meaning to get back down this way and see you boys for some years.”
Call came back in the room and straddled a chair, figuring he might as well hear it.
“What’s Montana got to do with us?” he asked.
“Why, Call, you ought to see it,” Jake said. “A prettier country never was.”
“How far’d you go?” Augustus asked.
“Way up, past the Yellowstone,” Jake said. “I was near to the Milk River. You can smell Canady from there.”
“I bet you can smell Indians too,” Call said. “How’d you get past the Cheyenne?”
“They shipped most of them out,” Jake said. “Some of the Blackfeet are still troublesome. But I was with the Army, doing a little scouting.”
That hardly made sense. Jake Spoon might scout his way across a card table, but Montana was something else.
“When’d you take to scouting?” Call asked dryly.
“Oh, I was just with a feller taking some beef to the Blackfeet,” Jake said. “The Army came along to help.”
“A lot of damn help the Army wo
uld be, driving beef,” Gus said.
“They helped us keep our hair,” Jake said, laying his knife and fork across his plate as neatly as if he were eating at a fancy table.
“My main job was to skeer the buffalo out of the way,” he said.
“Buffalo,” Augustus said. “I thought they was about gone.”
“Pshaw,” Jake said. “I must have seen fifty thousand up above the Yellowstone. The damn buffalo hunters ain’t got the guts to take on them Indians. Oh, they’ll finish them, once the Cheyenne and the Sioux finally cave in, and they may have even since I left. The damn Indians have the grass of Montana all to themselves. And has it got grass. Call, you ought to see it.”
“I’d go today if I could fly,” Call said.
“Be safer to walk,” Augustus said. “By the time we walked up there maybe they would have licked the Indians.”
“That’s just it, boys,” Jake said. “The minute they’re licked there’s going to be fortunes made in Montana. Why, it’s cattle land like you’ve never seen, Call. High grass and plenty of water.”
“Chilly, though, ain’t it?” Augustus asked.
“Oh, it’s got weather,” Jake said. “Hell, a man can wear a coat.”
“Better yet, a man can stay inside,” Augustus said.
“I’ve yet to see a fortune made inside,” Call said. “Except by a banker, and we ain’t bankers. What did you have in mind, Jake?”
“Getting to it first,” Jake said. “Round up some of these free cattle and take ’em on up. Beat all the other sons of bitches, and we’d soon be rich.”
Augustus and Call exchanged looks. It was odd talk to be hearing from Jake Spoon, who had never been known for his ambition—much less for a fondness for cows. Pretty whores, pacing horses and lots of clean shirts had been his main requirements in life.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 132