The cattle, spooked by the seven riders, were already running away.
By this time the stars were bright, and the Milky Way like a long speckled cloud. Without a word the Captain got off. Stepping to the end of his rein, he began to relieve himself. One by one the other men dismounted and did the same, turning slightly so as not to be pointed at one another. Newt thought he had better do what the others were doing, but to his embarrassment could not make water. All he could do was button up again and hope nobody had noticed.
In the silence that followed the pissing they could still hear the sound of running cattle, the only sound to be heard other than the breath of the horses or the occasional jingling spur. The Captain seemed to feel the horses deserved a short rest; he stayed on the ground, looking in the direction of the fleeing cattle.
"Them cattle could be had for the taking," he said.
"Anybody get a count?" "No, I never," Augustus said, as if he would be the only one who could possibly have made a count.
"Oh, was them cattle?" Jake said. "I thought they was dern antelope. They went over the ridge so fast I never got a look." "It's lucky they run west," Call said.
"Lucky for who?" Augustus asked.
"For us," Call said. "We can come back and pick them up tomorrow night. I bet it was four hundred or more." "Them of us that wants to can, I guess," Augustus said. "I ain't worked two nights running since I can remember." "You never worked two nights running," Jake said as he swung back up on his horse. "Not unless you was working at a lady, anyhow." "How far have we come, Deets?" Call asked. Deets had one amazing skill--he could judge distances traveled better than any man Call had ever known. And he could do it in the daytime, at night, in all weathers, and in brush.
"It's five miles yet to the out camp," Deets said. "It's a little ways north, too." "Let's bear around it," Call said.
Augustus considered that an absurd precaution. "'I god," he said. "The dern camp's five miles away. We can likely slip past it without going clear around by Mexico City." "It don't hurt to give it room," Call said. "We might scare some more cattle.
I've known men who could hear the sound of running cattle a long way off." "I couldn't hear Jehovah's trumpet from no five miles off," Augustus said.
"Anyway, we ain't the only thing in this country that can spook cattle. A lobo wolf can spook them, or a lion." "I didn't ask for a speech," Call said.
"It's foolish to take chances." "Some might think it foolish to try and steal horses from the best-armed ranch in northern Mexico," Augustus said. "Pedro must work about a hundred vaqueros." "Yes, but they're spread around, and most of them can't shoot," Call said.
"Most of us can't, either," Augustus said.
"Dish and Newt ain't never spilt blood, and one of 'em's drunk anyway." "Gus, you'd talk to a possum," Jake said.
"I wisht we had one along," Augustus said. "I've seen possums that could outthink this crowd." After that, the talk died and they all slipped back into the rhythm of the ride. Newt tried hard to stay alert, but their pace was so steady that after a while he stopped thinking and just rode, Deets in front of him, Dish beside him, Pea behind. If he had been sleepy he could almost have gone to sleep at a high trot, it was all so regular.
Dish Boggett had ridden off the worst of his drunk, though there were moments when he still felt queasy. Dish had spent most of his life on a horse and could ride in any condition short of paralysis; he had no trouble keeping his place in the group. In time his head quit throbbing and he felt well enough to take an interest in the proceedings at hand. He was not troubled by any sense of being lost, or any apprehension about Mexican bandits. He was confident of his mount and prepared to outrun any trouble that couldn't be otherwise handled. His main trouble was that he was riding just behind Jake Spoon and thus was reminded of what had happened in the saloon every time he looked up. He knew he had become a poor second in Lorena's affections to the man just in front of him, and the knowledge rankled. The one consoling thought was that there might be gunplay before the night was over--Dish had never been in a gun battle but he reasoned that if bullets flew thick and fast Jake might stop one of them, which could change the whole situation. It wasn't exactly that Dish hoped he'd be killed outright --maybe just wounded enough that they'd have to leave him someplace downriver where there might be a doctor.
More than once they spotted bunches of longhorn cattle, all of whom ran like deer at the approach of the horsemen.
"Why, hell, if we was to start to Montana with cattle like these, we'd be there in a week," Augustus said. "A horse couldn't keep up with them, nor a steam locomotive neither." "The big camp, Captain," Deets said, "it's over the ridge." "We don't want the camp, we want the horse herd," Augustus said in his full voice.
"Talk up, Gus," Jake said. "If you talk a little louder they'll probably bring the horse herd to us, only they'll be riding it." "Well, they're just a bunch of bean eaters," Augustus said. "As long as they don't fart in my direction I ain't worried." Call turned south. The closer they were to action, the more jocularity bothered him. It seemed to him that men who had been in bad fights and seen death and injury ought to develop a little respect for the dangers of their trade. The last thing he wanted to do at such times was talk--a man who was talking couldn't listen to the country, and might miss hearing something that would make the crucial difference.
Gus's disregard of common sense in such matters was legendary. Jake appeared to have the same disregard, but Call knew his was mostly bluff. Gus started the joking, and Jake felt like he had to keep up his end of it, because he wanted to be thought a cool customer.
In fact, though, Gus McCrae was a cool customer, perhaps the coolest Call had ever known--and he had known many men who didn't scare easy. His disregard of danger was so complete that Call initially thought he must want to die. He had known men who did want to die--who for some reason had ended up with a dislike of life--and most of them had got the death they wanted. In Texas, in his time, getting killed was easy.
But Gus loved to live and had no intention of letting anyone do him out of any of his pleasures.
Call finally decided his coolness was just a byproduct of his general vanity and overconfidence. Call himself spent plenty of time on self-appraisal. He knew what he could certainly do, and what he might do if he was lucky, and what he couldn't do barring a miracle. The problem with Gus was that he regarded himself as the miracle, in such situations. He treated danger with light contempt or open scorn, and scorn was about all he seemed to have for Pedro Flores, although Pedro had held on to his stony empire through forty violent years.
Of course, when trouble came Gus was reliable, but the only man in the outfit who was really much help as a planner was Deets.
Nobody expected Deets to talk, which left him free to pay attention, and he paid careful attention, often noticing things that Call had overlooked, or confirming judgments that Call felt uncertain about. Even Gus was quick to admit that Deets had the best hearing in the outfit, although Deets himself claimed to rely just as much on his sense of smell--a claim Augustus poked fun at.
"What does trouble smell like then?" he asked. "I never noticed it had an odor. You right sure you ain't just smelling yourself?" But Deets would never explain himself or allow Gus to draw him very deeply into argument. "How do the coyote know?" he sometimes replied.
When they had ridden south two or three more miles, Call drew rein. "There's another out camp off this way," he said. "His wranglers stay in it. I doubt there's more than one or two of them, but we don't want one to get loose to warn the big house. We best sneak in and catch them. Me and Deets can do it." "Them vaqueros are probably drunk by now," Augustus said. "Drunk and asleep both." "We'll split," Call said. "You and Jake and Pea and Dish go get the horses.
We'll catch the wranglers." Only after he said it did he remember the boy. He had forgotten he was along. Of course it would have been safer for the boy to go after the horse herd, but the order had been given and he never liked to ch
ange his plan once one was struck.
Augustus dismounted and tightened his cinch a notch. "I hope we don't strike too many gullies," he said. "I dislike jumping gullies in the dark." Newt's heart gave a little jump when he realized the Captain meant to keep him with him.
It must mean the Captain thought he was worth something, after all, though he had no idea how to catch a wrangler, Mexican or otherwise.
Once the group split up, Call slowed his pace. He was inwardly annoyed with himself for not sending the boy with Gus. He and Deets had worked together so long that very little talk was needed between them.
Deets just did what needed to be done, silently. But the boy wouldn't know what needed to be done and might blunder into the way.
"You reckon they keep a dog?" Call asked--a dog was likely to bark at anything, and a smart vaquero would heed it and take immediate precautions.
Deets shook his head. "A dog would already be barking," he said. "Maybe the dog got snakebit." Newt gripped his reins tightly and mashed his hat down on his head every few minutes--he didn't want to lose his hat. Two worries seesawed in his mind: that he might get killed or that he might make a stupid blunder and displease the Captain. Neither was pleasant to contemplate.
Call stopped and dismounted when it seemed to him they were about a quarter of a mile from the camp. The boy did the same, but Deets, for some reason, still sat his horse. Call looked at him and was about to speak, but Deets lifted his big hand. He apparently heard something they didn't hear.
"What is it?" Call whispered.
Deets got down, still listening. "Don't know," he said. "Sounded like singin'." "Why would the vaqueros be singing this time of night?" Call asked.
"Nope, white folks singin'," Deets said.
That was even more puzzling. "Maybe you hear Gus," Call said. "Surely he wouldn't be crazy enough to sing now." "I'm going a little closer," Deets said, handing Newt his reins.
Newt felt awkward, once Deets left.
He was afraid to speak, so he simply stood, holding the two horses.
It embarrassed Call that his own hearing had never been as good as it should be. He listened but could hear nothing at all. Then he noticed the boy, who looked tense as a wire.
"Do you hear it?" he asked.
At any other time the question would have struck Newt as simple. Either he heard something or he didn't. But under the press of action and responsibilities, the old certainties dissolved. He did think he heard something, but he couldn't say what. The sound was so distant and indistinct that he couldn't even be sure it was a sound. The harder he strained to hear, the more uncertain he felt about what he heard. He would never have suspected that a simple thing like sound could produce such confusion.
"I might hear it," Newt said, feeling keenly that the remark was inadequate. "It's a real thin sound," he added. "Haven't they got birds down here? It could be a bird." Call drew his rifle from his saddle scabbard.
Newt started to get his, but Call stopped him.
"You won't need it, and you might just drop it," he said. "I dropped one of mine once, and had to go off and leave it." Deets was suddenly back with them, stepping quietly to the Captain's side.
"They're singing, all right," he said.
"Who?" "Some white folks," Deets said. "Two of 'em. Got 'em a mule and a donkey." "That don't make no sense at all," Call said. "What would two white men be doing in one of Pedro Flores's camps?" "We can go look," Deets said.
They followed Deets in single file over a low ridge, where they stopped. A flickering light was visible some hundred yards away. When they stopped, Deets's judgment was immediately borne out. The singing could be plainly heard. The song even sounded familiar.
"Why, it's "Mary McCrae,"" Newt said. "Lippy plays it." Call hardly knew what to think. They slipped a little closer, to the corner of what had once been a large rail corral. It was obvious that the camp was no longer much used, because the corral was in poor repair, rails scattered everywhere. The hut that once belonged to the wranglers was roofless--smoke from the singers' fire drifted upward, whiter than the moonlight.
"This camp's been burnt out," Call whispered.
He could hear the singing plainly, which only increased his puzzlement. The voices weren't Mexican, nor were they Texan. They sounded Irish--but why were Irishmen having a singing party in one of Pedro Flores's old cow camps? It was an odd situation to have stumbled onto. He had never heard of an Irish vaquero. The whole business was perplexing, but he couldn't just stand around and wonder about it. The horse herd would soon be on the move.
"I guess we better catch 'em," he said.
"We'll just walk in from three sides. If you see one of them make a break for it try to shoot his horse." "No horses," Deets reminded him. "Just a mule and a donkey." "Shoot it anyway," Call said.
"What if I hit the man?" Newt said.
"That's his worry," Call said. "Not letting him ride away is your worry." They secured their horses to a little stunted tree and turned toward the hut. The singing had stopped but the voices could still be heard, raised in argument.
At that point the Captain and Deets walked off, leaving Newt alone with his nervousness and a vast weight of responsibility. It occurred to him that he was closest to their own horses. If the men were well-trained bandits, they might like nothing better than to steal three such horses. The singing might be a trick, a way of throwing the Captain off guard. Perhaps there were more than two men. The others could be hidden in the darkness.
No sooner had it occurred to him that there might be more bandits than he began to wish it hadn't occurred to him. The thought was downright scary. There were lots of low bushes, mostly chaparral, between him and the hut, and there could be a bandit with a bowie knife behind any one of them. Pea had often explained to him how effective a good bowie knife was in the hands of someone who knew where to stick it--descriptions of stickings came back to his mind as he eased forward. Before he had gone ten steps he had become almost certain that his end was at hand. It was clear to him that he would be an easy victim for a bandit with the least experience. He had never shot anyone, and he couldn't see well at night. His own helplessness was so obvious to him that he quickly came to feel numb--not too numb to dread what might happen, but too dull-feeling to be able to think of a plan of resistance.
He even felt a flash of irritation with the Captain for being so careless as to leave him on the side of the house where their horses were. Captain Call's trust, which he had never really expected to earn, had immediately become excessive, leaving him with responsibilities he didn't feel capable of meeting.
But time was moving forward, and he himself was walking slowly toward the house, his pistol in one hand. The hut had seemed close when the Captain and Deets were standing with him, but once they left it had somehow gotten farther away, leaving him many dangerous shadows to negotiate. The one reassuring aspect was that the men in the shadows were talking loudly and probably wouldn't hear him coming unless he lost control completely and shot off his gun.
When he got within thirty yards of the house, he stopped and squatted behind a bush. The hut had never been more than a lean-to with a few piles of adobe bricks stacked up around it; its walls were so broken and full of holes that it was easy to look in. Newt saw that both the men arguing were short and rather stout. Also, they were unarmed, or appeared to be. Both had on dirty shirts, and the older of the two men was almost bald. The other one looked young, perhaps no older than himself. They had a bottle, but it evidently didn't have much left in it, because the older one wouldn't pass it to the young one.
It was not hard to make out the drift of their conversation either. The subject of the debate was their next meal.
"I say we eat the mule," the younger man said.
"Nothing of the sort," the other said.
"Then give me a drink," the younger said.
"Go away," the older man said. "You don't deserve my liquor and you won't eat my mule. I'm beholden to this mule, and
so are you.
Didn't it bring you all this way with no complaint?" "To the desert to die, you mean?" the young one said.
"I'm to thank a mule for that?" Newt could just make out a thin mule and a small donkey, tethered at the entrance of the hut, beyond the fire.
"If it comes to it we'll eat the donkey," the bald man said. "What can you do with a donkey anyway?" "Train it to sit on its ass and eat sugar cubes," the young one said. Then he giggled at his own wit.
Newt edged a little closer, his fear rapidly diminishing. Men who could engage in such conversation didn't seem very dangerous. Just as he was relaxing a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder and for a second he nearly fainted with fright, thinking the bowie knife would hit him next. Then he realized it was Deets. Motioning for him to follow, Deets walked right up to the hut. He did not appear to be worried in the least. When they were a few feet from the broken adobe wall, Newt saw Captain Call step into the circle of firelight from the other side.
Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove Page 14