The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  “Why, thank you,” Lorena said. “I like stories.”

  Then she stretched out on the low bed.

  “Do you have any children?” Teresa asked, as Lorena stretched her stiff limbs.

  “Five . . . I have five,” Lorena said. Then, in a blink, she went to sleep.

  Teresa sat on the bed beside her for a few minutes. She had ladled up some posole, but she knew the woman hadn’t eaten any.

  “You didn’t eat your posole . . . wake up,” she said, touching the woman. But the woman didn’t wake up.

  Teresa sat on the bed listening to the woman breathe. She was thinking about the story she would tell her when she woke up. It would be a story about the big spider that lived by their well. Sometimes she would put her hand on the ground and let the spider crawl over it. The spider never bit her, though a scorpion had bitten her once. She could hardly wait for the woman to wake up so she could tell her the story about the spider.

  9.

  WHEN HE ROBBED the train outside San Angelo, Joey made a discovery. What he discovered was that it was more interesting to him to frighten people than to kill them. He had made the passengers stand outside for an hour after he robbed them. He told them he would be watching through his spyglass, and he assured them he would kill the first one who moved before the hour was up. The people stood in terror for a long time. He had taken their watches, and he told them to look at the sun and mark the hour by its movements. But the people stood in the cold for almost three hours before any of them dared to move. They were afraid of being shot. In the end, Joey didn’t shoot any of them. Through the spyglass he could see that the people were shivering—from fear, not from cold. Two of the men wet themselves. They were too afraid of his bullets even to move behind a bush.

  Watching the passengers tremble was more satisfying than killing them. None of them were people of importance, and there was no distinction to be gained from killing people of no importance. Making people dead was easy, but it was no longer interesting to him.

  Wounding Captain Call so badly and so easily was a triumph Joey knew he would never be likely to equal. But he would never need to equal it, so potent was the reputation of the man he had wounded. Even if he never shot another person or robbed another train, his reputation would grow and grow along the border and all through the West. He had ended the career of the most famous manhunter of all. People would still be talking about Joey Garza when he was an old man, even if he never killed or robbed again.

  He planned to kill again, though, and quickly. He wanted to shoot Captain Call’s three deputies. They were probably too inept to be a nuisance, but Joey wanted it known that he had wiped out Captain Call’s whole party. That would build his reputation even higher.

  Joey followed the blond woman all the way to Ojinaga. From time to time, he took out his spyglass and trained it on the horse carrying Captain Call. He expected to see that the old man had died. But every time he looked, he saw movement. Somehow the old man still lived.

  When he saw the woman lead the horse upriver toward the village, he let her go and rode off a few miles into Mexico, where he made camp. He meant to travel up the Rio Concho and locate the deputies.

  The next morning, a little before midday, he found their camp. They were almost a day’s ride inside Mexico, and they seemed simply to be waiting. They were probably waiting for Captain Call. They didn’t know what had befallen him.

  Joey was surprised to see that there were now only two deputies and old Famous Shoes. He saw no reason to kill the old man. Probably the third deputy had met with an accident of some sort.

  Joey studied the camp for a while with his spyglass, trying to decide on a method of attack that would provoke the utmost fear. After giving it some thought, he decided to shoot the horses and the two pack animals first. Maybe he could scare the men out into the desert. If he frightened them badly enough, he might not even have to shoot them. He could simply chase them into the desert, shooting now and then to scare them farther away from the river. When he had them exposed and lost, he could simply go away and leave them to freeze or starve to death.

  Joey decided to wait until the next morning. Captain Call would not be coming to their rescue. Unless Famous Shoes happened to be wandering around tracking some animal, no one would know he was there. His shots would come as a complete surprise.

  The next morning, Joey’s first shot killed a pack mule just as Brookshire was trying to extract some coffee from one of the saddlebags. The mule fell in Brookshire’s direction, knocking him back several feet and causing him to spill the coffee. Before he could scramble to his feet, a second shot killed the other pack mule.

  Pea Eye had been frying bacon. A third shot kicked the frying pan into the air, causing sizzling grease to burn his hands and wrists. He got to his feet and began to run to his horse, only to have a fourth shot kill the horse before he could even grasp the bridle reins. Brookshire’s big horse was the only mount left, but before Pea Eye could step over his own horse, which was down but still kicking, Brookshire’s mount was knocked to its knees. It scrambled up and was shot again. Pea Eye was in agony from the pain of the sizzling bacon grease, but he knew he had to run for cover or he would be dead and past worrying about a little thing like burned hands.

  “Run!” he yelled to Brookshire, who sat amid the spilled coffee, looking dazed. “Get a gun and run to cover!”

  As he said it, Pea Eye realized he didn’t have a gun himself. He had taken his pistol off because the scabbard was rubbing his hip raw, and his rifle was propped against his saddle. The pistol was closer, so he turned and grabbed it. Brookshire had picked up the big shotgun and was stuffing shells into his pocket.

  “No, get a rifle, we need rifles,” Pea Eye yelled.

  Brookshire just looked addled. Pea Eye decided to try for his own rifle, so he ran back and grabbed it. Then he turned and headed down into the riverbed. Soon he heard Brookshire stumbling after him. Pea Eye ran for a hundred yards or more, then stopped and waited for Brookshire to catch up. He listened, but he could hear nothing other than Brookshire, as he stumbled on the rocky ground.

  “Reckon it’s him?” Pea Eye asked, when Brookshire caught up. “Reckon it’s the Garza boy?”

  “I don’t know who it is,” Brookshire said. The dying mule had slammed into him, knocking the breath out of him. He had somehow grabbed the shotgun and made it into the riverbed without having quite regained his breath. He stopped by Pea Eye and gasped for air. He realized he had not made a good choice in taking the shotgun. Carrying it was like carrying a small cannon. But he couldn’t immediately spot his rifle or his pistols, and he didn’t want to just stand there with a killer shooting mules and horses to death on either side of him.

  A little creek cut into the Rio Concho not far from where they stood. It, too, was dry, but its steep walls were pocked, offering better cover than they had in the riverbed. As Pea Eye led Brookshire into the narrow creek, a memory flashed back to him of the time long ago in Montana, when he and the wounded Gus McCrae had hidden in a creek while they attempted to fight off the Blood Indians. Of course, this creek was dry and that creek had water in it, and he’d had to eventually swim out at night past the Indians and walk a long way naked to find the herd and bring the Captain back to where Gus was. Without the deep-walled creek, the Indians would have had them. A creek had saved him once, and perhaps the dry little Mexican creek would save him this time.

  Pea Eye took off his hat and crawled up the creek bank to a spot that allowed him to look over the plain. He saw nothing. The only movement on the whole vast plain was a hawk, dipping to strike a quail.

  Then Pea Eye remembered Famous Shoes. The old man hadn’t been around when the shooting started. There was nothing unusual about that, though. Famous Shoes was rarely there in the mornings. He went off in the darkness to take a walk or track bobcats or badgers or anything else whose track he struck. He would just show up again later on in the morning. If they were traveling, Famous Shoes would
just step out from behind a bush or appear out of a gully and fall in with them. Sometimes he would mention interesting tracks he had seen; other times he wouldn’t say a word all day.

  Now, though, they needed him. Pea Eye himself had never been in that part of Mexico before, and though Brookshire had come down the Rio Concho with Captain Call, he had no eye for landmarks and would be lost without expert help.

  “All I know is that if we follow this river to the Rio Grande, we’ll come to the village where Joey Garza’s mother lives,” Brookshire said. He had caught his breath, and his big shotgun was loaded. He had only managed to collect four shells. He had no idea what he and Pea Eye were going to do.

  “I wish the Captain would show up,” Pea Eye said. Often in the past, when he and some of the men found themselves in a predicament, the Captain had showed up and had taken matters in hand.

  Now, though, it was just himself and Brookshire, and an Indian who might appear again or might not. Their horses were dead and likewise their pack animals. If they survived, they would have to walk out. On foot, the Rio Grande was at least three days away, probably more. They could go back to camp when it grew too dark for the killer to shoot, and provision themselves from the packs. They possessed adequate food and lots of ammunition. Also, they were right in the Rio Concho. Unless the killer forced them out of the river, there was not much danger that they would get lost and starve.

  Still, Pea Eye felt nervous; but more than that, he felt scared. When the shooting had started, he’d done what he always did when shooting started: he had taken cover. Being shot at was always a shock, and it was not something he had ever gotten used to. It took a while for the shock to subside sufficiently to allow him to think. Sometimes it took a week or more for the shock to subside, but in this instance he wasn’t with a troop of Rangers, and he didn’t have a week in which to calm his nerves and take stock of the situation.

  “Why did he shoot the horses and mules?” he asked Brookshire. That was a question that had nagged him even as he was running up the riverbed.

  “Why didn’t he just shoot us?” he asked. “We was standing in plain sight. Except for that big nag of yours, he killed all the animals with one bullet apiece. He could have shot us just as easy as he could shoot a mule. It don’t make sense.”

  “Nothing makes any sense,” Brookshire said. “This whole trip hasn’t made any sense. The Captain ought to have caught this boy by now. He’s taking much too much time. If it’s the Garza boy shooting at us, then the Captain ought to be here.

  “Maybe it ain’t the Garza boy, though,” he added. “Maybe it’s the vaqueros who killed Ted Plunkert. Maybe they came back to get more plunder.”

  “No,” Pea Eye said. “It was just one gun and one shooter, and I never caught a glimpse of him. If it was vaqueros, there would have been three or four of them, and they would just have rode in, blazing away. They wouldn’t have shot the horses, either. They would have tried to shoot us. Then they’d have been two horses and two mules richer.”

  “Maybe he was trying to shoot us,” Brookshire suggested. “Maybe he just missed and hit the horses.”

  “Nope, he hit what he aimed at,” Pea Eye said. “He wanted to put us afoot, and he done it. What I don’t know is why.”

  Brookshire felt dull. He had felt dreadfully frightened when the bullets started hitting the horses, and while he was running he had felt scared. He had expected a bullet to strike him at every step.

  But no bullet had struck him down, and now he just felt dull. Over the course of the trip, he had gradually stopped being interested in his own fate. He knew he had made a great error in coming to Texas. He understood little enough of life as it was lived in Brooklyn, but he could make nothing at all of life as it was lived in Texas; or at least as it was lived by Captain Call and those associated with him. They had gone from somewhere to nowhere, accomplishing nothing along the way except the loss of Deputy Plunkert. All he had expected of the morning was a piece of bacon and a big cup of coffee. Why some maniac would suddenly shoot the very mule that carried the coffee, and the other mule and the two horses as well, was beyond him. It made no sense at all, but it was in keeping with everything else that had happened since his arrival in Texas. Captain Call, who seemed the most rational and most methodical of men and who was the most experienced manhunter in the West, had done nothing that made clear sense from the time they had left Amarillo together. The Garza boy was still free to do whatever he chose to do, including shooting mules and horses, if indeed he was the shooter. The only exceptional thing Call had done on the whole trip was beat a sheriff nearly to death. Admittedly, catching one quick boy in a vast country was a difficult task—but then, that was the Captain’s work; his life’s work, really. If he couldn’t accomplish it in this instance, then he should have resigned.

  Brookshire no longer believed, as Pea Eye seemed to, that the Captain was still in control of events. He didn’t believe that he would simply show up in the right place at the right time and end the career of Joey Garza. While the Captain had been looking for him in Mexico, Joey had robbed a train in Texas. Now that the Captain was in Texas somewhere, Joey was in Mexico, shooting the mule that carried the coffee. It was a botch. When Colonel Terry heard about it he would be angry, and in this instance justifiably so.

  Brookshire had almost stopped caring whether he lived or died. The cold had frozen the will to live right out of him. Katie, his excellent wife, was dead. In the past weeks, he’d had time to remember all the ways in which Katie had been an excellent wife. He was losing his ability to imagine Brooklyn and the office, and the good chops Katie had cooked him, and the cat, and the cozy house. What he had feared that first morning on the windy station platform in Amarillo had actually happened. He had blown away, into a dry creek in Mexico—cold every night, cold every day, wind all the time, sand in the food, sand in the coffee, no houses and no coziness of any kind. He had blown away; now he was so tired that the long struggle upwind, back to where he had once been, back to who he had once been, no longer seemed worth it. Let the young killer walk up and finish him. Maybe he would get off a shot with his eight-gauge, but he didn’t expect to eliminate Joey Garza as easily as old Bolivar had eliminated their unfortunate mule.

  “What do we do next?” he asked Pea Eye, though he didn’t really expect Pea Eye to know. But they had to do something next. Or were they just going to stand in a drafty creek bed all day?

  “We’ll wait for dark and go back and get our supplies,” Pea Eye said.

  So they did—they stood in the dry, drafty creek bed all day. When they weren’t standing, they squatted. Pea Eye wanted to wait until full dark to go back to camp and secure food and ammunition. It was the longest, dullest, coldest wait of Brookshire’s entire life. It was cloudy, and he did not even have the distraction of watching the sun move across the sky. There was no distraction at all, and Famous Shoes hadn’t come back from wherever he had gone.

  “That’s a little worrisome,” Pea Eye said. “I’d hate to be out here in Mexico without our tracker, even if we have the river to show us the way.”

  “Well, ain’t the river enough?” Brookshire asked.

  “It’s enough unless he flushes us out of it,” Pea Eye said. “I just got the feeling that he wants us to run. I don’t know why, though.”

  When full dark came they went to the camp, where they found nothing—only the four dead animals. Everything had been removed: the extra guns, the frying pan and coffeepot, the saddles, the packs, the blankets, everything. There were no matches, no knives, nothing. Brookshire stepped on a spoon that had been dropped in the ashes of the fire. The horse killer apparently hadn’t noticed it, but it was the only thing he hadn’t noticed. Brookshire gave it to Pea Eye, who stuck it in his shirt pocket, though they had no food that could be eaten with a spoon; no food that could be eaten, period, with or without utensils.

  When Pea Eye saw that the camp had been cleaned out, his fear came back more strongly. Any bandit woul
d loot a camp and take what appealed to him. Some would take guns and some would take provisions, and some might take a saddle or a nice blanket. But in his experience, bandits rarely took everything. Bandits had to keep on the move. They didn’t want to be burdened with things they didn’t need or want.

  This bandit had taken everything, though, and not because he wanted it. Their gear was unexceptional. He had taken it because he didn’t want them to have it. He wanted to be sure that they were cold and hungry.

  “Don’t you even have a match?” Pea Eye asked. Brookshire occasionally smoked a pipe. Brookshire thought he might have a match or two in his shirt pocket, but in fact, he didn’t.

  “I guess I used the last one this morning,” he said. “I had already smoked a pipe before the man shot the mule.”

  “It’s going to be cold,” Pea Eye said. “All we can do is get out of the wind and hunker down.”

  “We could walk,” Brookshire suggested. “We’re going to have to walk anyway. Why not start tonight? At least, it’ll keep us warm.”

  “Well, we could,” Pea Eye said. “I never liked traveling at night, but I guess it would warm us up.”

  They had scarcely left the edge of the camp before a shot rang out. It hit a rock not far from Brookshire’s foot and whined away into the darkness. Another shot followed; Pea Eye heard it clip a bush near his elbow. He stopped, as did Brookshire. They were too startled and frightened to say a word. Their assailant was watching them, or listening, or both. The slaps of the shots had been fairly close. The horse killer was probably within fifty yards of them.

  “We’d best go back to the riverbed,” Pea Eye said.

  “No, let him come and kill us,” Brookshire said. “He’s going to anyway. He knows right where we are. I guess he’s listening. He’s got our ammunition and food. He’s just playing with us now. We don’t have a chance, and he knows it. I’ve spent nothing but cold nights since I got to Texas. I’ll be damned if I want to spend another cold night, squatting on my heels, just to get shot in the morning. He can shoot me now and spare me the shivering.”