The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  If Joey stole from the old German, he would steal and go. When Doniphan arrived, with his rough deputies and their quirts, it would not be Joey who would suffer their vengeance. It would be Roberto Sanchez, or some man on the street that they just happened to notice—the shoemaker, perhaps. They were not coming to do justice; they were coming to hurt Mexicans.

  There would be less danger if the old German would just go, before Roberto lost his temper or Joey stole from him. But if Maria hoped for something, it seemed that that fact alone, the fact of her hope, made the something not occur. The old German didn’t go. He drank tequila all day, smoked cigars, made water frequently, and wiped the sweat off his face with a fine silk handkerchief.

  When he was not drinking or wiping sweat off his forehead, he looked at Maria, or talked to Joey.

  “Are there many rifles like this in your country?” Joey asked him.

  “Oh yes, many,” Lichtenberg replied.

  “Would I find some in the City of Mexico, if I went there?” Joey asked.

  “You would find beautiful guns, but what would you buy them with? You are just a poor boy!” Lichtenberg said, startled that this youth, living in a filthy village, would aspire to travel to the City of Mexico, in search of a rifle.

  “I would buy them with money,” Joey said.

  There was something a little frightening about the boy, Lichtenberg thought. A chill in his look, or in his tone. He reminded Lichtenberg of someone he had once known, long ago, an Austrian named Blier, a young count and assassin whose task it was to murder Hungarian rebels. There were many Hungarian rebels, and the Emperor wanted to avoid the expense of many trials. Young Blier killed forty rebels before they caught him and impaled him on a pole. Count Blier died hard, but he had done his job, saving the Emperor the expense of forty trials.

  Lichtenberg had not known Count Blier well, but he had been with him a few times and remembered the look in his eyes. This boy, Joey, had the same eyes. Such eyes could look on a hundred deaths, or a thousand, without pity. Lichtenberg had seen men executed, both in Mexico and in Europe. He had seen them shaking in front of firing squads, or crying and begging as the noose was put around their necks. Some lost their water, as they awaited death; some emptied their bowels as well. He could not, without pity, look upon men staining themselves as their deaths came near.

  But Count Blier could see it without pity; and so, probably, could this boy Joey, a boy who could outshoot him with his own gun. Joey was very good-looking. He was a güero, as they said in Mexico; güero, almost white. In certain moods, Lichtenberg might have offered him a coin. Boys were usually easier than women, but not this boy, this güero with eyes like the famous Count Blier’s.

  Maria saw Joey looking at the old German’s things. His eyes turned again and again to the rifle case. She also saw that the old German looked at Joey as he looked at her. She wished the man would go; too much trouble would come, of his visit. But when you wished men to go they never did, and the old German was no exception. He stayed for four nights. Four times she had to persuade Roberto to sleep on the ground. He didn’t like it. He cursed her and he cursed the German, but he only hit her once, and he didn’t bother the German.

  On the fifth morning, as Lichtenberg was leaving, Joey stole six coins from his valise. Lichtenberg was drunk when he left, and didn’t notice. Joey went down the river and bought a horse, a black gelding, three years old. When he rode home with it, Maria knew he had robbed the German. Her best hope was that the old German wouldn’t notice. Otherwise, Doniphan and his deputies would come.

  “I didn’t know you owned a horse,” Maria said to Joey. “Yesterday you didn’t own a horse.”

  “I only stole six coins, Mother,” Joey said. “If the old man comes back, I’ll just kill him.”

  “What if Doniphan comes?” Maria asked.

  “Tell him to find me in the City of Mexico,” Joey said.

  That night, he left. After four or five days, Maria relaxed a little. Lichtenberg was many miles away. Even if he missed the coins, he wouldn’t come back. A year later, she learned that the old man had drowned in Sonora. He had attempted to cross a wash, when the wash was running, and the water had swept him away. The vaquero who found his body took some silver ore from his saddlebags, but Lichtenberg was dead and could not tell where he had found the silver.

  The news of his death made Maria feel light. That night, she danced in the cantina, and several vaqueros fell in love with her. When she danced, she often became happy, became welcoming, and men fell in love with her. It was the death of the German that allowed her to feel light. If he was dead, she was safe from his vengeance. Only when men were dead could she feel really safe from their vengeance. If he were alive, old Lichtenberg might ride in someday, with Doniphan to back him up, and beat her half to death, because Joey had stolen those coins.

  In the City of Mexico, Joey Garza felt at home for the first time. He felt that he had come to the place where he belonged. All night there were people in the streets. The air was soft, the ringing of the church bells beautiful. Young priests went barefoot in the street, particularly around the great cathedral. Joey was not a worshiper, but he loved the great cathedral. Several times he came back to stand inside, happy just to look at the high ceiling and the great space it contained. In Ojinaga all the ceilings were low. As he walked in the night, whores followed him, because of his horse. They thought he was rich, for in the City of Mexico not many boys his age had fine black geldings.

  Joey ignored the whores, and didn’t frequent the cantinas. He had come for a gun—if possible, one with a little spyglass on it. It took him three days to find the gun he wanted. An old trader had it, a Frenchman, a man with a vast belly and empty eyes. Joey had the urge to stick a knife in the man’s belly, to see if he could cause the emptiness to leave his eyes. Perhaps as he died, the man would look alive for a few moments. When Joey showed him the five coins—he had spent one on the gelding—the man didn’t say a word. He just put the rifle away and nodded for Joey to get out of his shop.

  That night, Joey walked the cantinas, looking for cardplayers who were winning. In a cantina not far from the great cathedral, he saw a small man with quick hands who had many gold coins. When the man had enough of the card game, he put the coins in a little sack and had a whore carry it. When a second whore wanted to go with him, he shoved her away. Joey followed the man for a while, as he lurched along. He kept sticking his hand under the dress of the young whore. It reminded Joey of the way Benito had behaved with his mother; of how all men behaved with his mother. All her husbands put their hands on her, in the house. They didn’t care who saw them.

  Joey followed the man and the whore until they were well away from the cantina. As he was walking along a cobbled street, he saw a cobblestone that had come loose. Joey believed in omens. The loose cobblestone meant that it was time for him to act. He picked up the cobblestone, came quickly up behind the small man, and smashed his head with it. He grabbed the whore and took the sack of money from her. The whore became frightened, and fled.

  Joey did not check to see whether the small man was dead. He took the sack of coins, got his horse, and rode to the edge of the City of Mexico, where he slept. The next day, he walked into the fat Frenchman’s shop, jingling the coins. The fat man didn’t change expressions, but he sold Joey the rifle. Later, Joey bought some bullets, two pistols, and a fine saddle. He went to stand in the great cathedral once more, and then rode north, out of Mexico.

  Ten days later, on the Texas border west of Laredo, Joey robbed his first train. The robbery was an accident, in a sense. The train was stopped at a water tank. It was a train carrying sheep. Two sheepherders and the four men who ran the train were standing around the water tank, smoking. Joey was three hundred yards away. The heat was so great that it cast a haze. No one from the train crew had seen him. Joey decided it was an excellent chance to practice with his new rifle, so he tied his horse and crept a little closer to the men. He shot the two
sheepherders first; it was easy to tell they were sheepherders because they wore huge sombreros and looked shaggy, like the animals they cared for. Joey then shot two of the railroad men, the two fat ones. He didn’t like fat people, there were too many of them in the world. Juan Castro and Roberto Sanchez, two of the husbands his mother whored with, had been fat. As a child, he had often wakened to see a fat body on his mother’s. Her husbands grunted like pigs, when they were on her. Shooting the fat railroad men was only a small revenge, for the pain his whoring mother had caused him.

  The two other railroad men began to run, not into the train, but down the river, toward Laredo. Joey watched them run. He was trying to judge what would be a fair distance to shoot, a distance that would allow his rifle to perform at its best.

  When the man in the lead was about four hundred yards away, Joey looked through the spyglass and shot. He aimed for the neck, but the man was running downhill and his aim was a little high. The bullet blew the man’s face off. Joey rode over later to inspect the body, and most of the man’s face was gone.

  The sixth man ran for his life. He sped along the river so fast that it annoyed Joey. Joey loped away, on the black gelding, letting the man see him, letting him think that he had abandoned the hunt. The man slowed to a trot, and then to a walk. Joey loped down the river, until he was well in front of the man. He was satisfied with his rifle; now he wanted to try his new pistols, and at close range.

  The man from the train finally stumbled out of a gully, not thirty yards from where Joey sat on the black horse. The man was terrified. He began to plead, and name the saints.

  Hearing the saints named only angered Joey. A priest in the village had the habit of twisting his ear cruelly, while talking to him about the saints. Joey began to shoot at the weeping, pleading man, but, to his annoyance, shooting a pistol proved far more difficult than shooting his fine rifle. He emptied the two pistols, twelve shots, and did no more than nick the man’s arm. Joey threw the pistols away, disgusted. They were poor weapons. He was not ready to admit that his aim was bad.

  Joey rode to a little rise, overlooking the river. When the man was about seventy yards away, Joey took out the great rifle and shot the man twice, aiming for his knees. He did not mean to cut the man’s arms and legs off, as he had Benito’s, but he did mean to cripple him. The man’s knees were shattered, and he writhed on the ground, screaming. When he passed out, Joey rode close to look at him. His legs were leaking a pool of blood. Probably the man would bleed to death, as Benito had. Benito had made his mother whore like a beast, on all fours. Joey had seen them in the bed, many times, in the early morning. Benito would be behind his mother, prodding her as bulls prodded, or dogs. That was why Joey followed him, roped him, and cut off his hands and feet with the machete, so that he would not prod his mother on all fours again.

  The railroad man was not so guilty, but he looked a little like Benito, which was his misfortune. His mother didn’t even know that Joey had seen her, in her shame, or that he had followed Benito and killed him.

  Later, in a cooler mood, Joey went back and got his pistols. He shot the bleeding railroad man at close range, ten yards away. Then he rode back to the train. He had never been on a train, and was curious about it. The men he had killed must have some possessions. There might be things he would want, among their baggage.

  What he found far exceeded his expectations. Three of the men had Winchesters, fairly new. Winchesters he could sell.

  Besides the rifles he found two watches, a nice knife, a razor with ivory sides, a little shaving brush, and some soap that smelled like the soap a woman might use. The soap surprised Joey. The men were just men, not clean, not neat. He wondered which one had used the fancy soap.

  He also found three hundred Yankee dollars, in gold. Finding the money stunned him. Three hundred dollars was more than all the people in the village of Ojinaga had, put together. It was more money than he had ever expected to see. And yet this was just a poor train, carrying a few hundred sheep.

  If such a train yielded several guns, the knife, the razor, the watches, the nice-smelling soap, and the three hundred dollars, what would he find if he robbed a train with many people on it? What if he robbed a train with rich gringos on it? What would they have?

  Joey had only killed the men to try out his new rifle. He had not been particularly interested in robbing the train. But now that he had robbed it, he began to think it might be interesting to rob a better train, a train with wealthy people on it, people who would own interesting things.

  Once Joey had combed through the men’s effects again—he had missed two coins and a nice pocketknife—he prepared to ride away, into Texas. When they discovered the bodies they would expect him to go into Mexico, but they did not think very well, the Texans. He thought he might go to San Antonio and buy things with his new money.

  As he prepared to ride away, he paused for a moment to consider the sheep. There were several hundred of them stuffed into the hot boxcars. The day was very hot, and the sheep had no water, no food. If he didn’t let them out, or if someone didn’t find the train, all the sheep would be dead.

  Joey thought about letting the sheep out; he could use them for target practice. He could let them graze a few hundred yards away and pick them off with his great gun, pretending they were gringos. But his ammunition was limited. He did not have cartridges to waste on sheep. His brother, Rafael, lived with sheep and goats. He would have brought them into the house, if his mother had permitted it. Rafael, with his curly, dirty hair, looked like a sheep. He sang like a sheep, too. His little songs were like bleats. Teresa defended Rafael fiercely. Once, when Joey was teasing him, she had managed to grab a knife and stick him in the shoulder, through his shirt. Because Teresa was blind, he had underestimated her. When he laughed at Rafael, Teresa grabbed the knife and struck at the sound. Joey knocked her down and kicked her, but the damage was done. She had made a hole in his shirt. It was a new shirt, too, one that he had bargained for in Presidio. It was a shock, to discover that a blind girl could be so quick.

  Remembering Rafael and Teresa and his ruined shirt hardened Joey’s mind toward the sheep. He did not let them out. He merely whistled at them a few times, as he loped beside the cars that held them prisoner.

  Seven hundred and twelve sheep died in the boxcars. The cars were covered with buzzards when the railroad men found the train. The sky was so black with buzzards that they could be seen for fifty miles. The men from the railroad had to wrap wet blankets around their heads in order to be able to run in and disconnect the cars that held the hundreds of dead and melting sheep. The buzzards were so thick around the sides of the cars that the men had to beat them away with clubs. The couplings of the cars were fouled so badly that some men fainted and some ran away. They could not breathe long enough to work the couplings loose. Finally, they had to be content with taking the engine, and even that was covered with buzzards.

  “You know how flies will swarm on meat,” Goodnight told Call. Goodnight had been in south Texas at the time and took an interest in the incident.

  “Yes, they swarm,” Call said.

  “I’m told the buzzards swarmed on that train like big flies,” Goodnight said. “The Garza boy wasn’t known at the time, but it sounds like him, to me. Not too many people would ride off and leave seven hundred sheep to die.”

  “Seven hundred and twelve,” Call said.

  “Well, I wasn’t there to count, so I don’t know why they think they know that,” Goodnight said. He was often annoyed by Woodrow Call’s pedantry, when it came to matters of that sort.

  “I expect the railroad knew beforehand—that’s probably how they got the figure,” Call said.

  “Then I doubt it was accurate,” Goodnight said. “I never met a railroad man who could count animals on the hoof, particularly sheep.”

  “Sheep all look alike,” Call said.

  “That ain’t my point,” Goodnight said. “An animal’s an animal. The problem is, most
people can’t count accurately. I never met a railroad man who could count the legs of a three-legged cat.”

  The more Goodnight thought about human incapacity, of which he had witnessed a great deal, the more he warmed to his subject.

  “I can’t say that it’s just railroad men,” he said. “People can’t count animals. I am one of the few that can.”

  “What’s the most you ever counted in one count?” Call asked. The man’s irascibility had always put him off slightly, though he knew that he himself had a reputation for being a fair rival to Goodnight, in that area.

  “Eleven thousand eight hundred and fourteen cattle,” Goodnight said, without hesitation. “That was four herds. I counted them into a holding pasture in Pueblo, Colorado, the last time I made the trip. It should have been eleven thousand eight hundred and forty-eight. We lost thirty-four head, or rather, Bill Starr did. I entrusted him with the second herd, which was a mistake. I like Bill, but he was deficient in a sense, and he still is.”

  “Those sheep would have been hell to count, once they burst,” Call said.

  Goodnight had driven a wagon into Clarendon, to bring back some groceries and a few posthole diggers, and Call, riding a horse that in Goodnight’s opinion, was beneath his standards, fell in with him on the return trip. Joey Garza had just robbed his third train, killing five people, all of them white. But Goodnight was not thinking of the young killer on the border. He was still thinking about human incapacity.