The Indian fell dead, but the horse shied away and Augustus didn't feel he could afford to chase him.
The remaining Indians were discouraged. Five Indians were dead, and the battle not five minutes old. Augustus replaced his cartridges and killed a sixth as the Indians were retreating.
He might have got one or two more, but decided against risking long shots when his situation was so chancy. There might be more Indians available nearby, though he considered it unlikely.
Probably they had charged with all they had--in which case he had killed half of them.
With no shooting to do for a little while, Augustus took stock of the situation and decided the worst part of it was that he had no one to talk to. He had been within a minute or two of death, which could not be said to be boring, exactly--but even desperate battle was lacking in something if there was no one to discuss it with. What had made battle interesting over the years was not his opponents but his colleagues. It was fascinating, at least to him, to see how the men he had fought with most often reacted to the stimulus of attack.
Pea Eye, for example, was mostly concerned with not running out of bullets. He was extremely conservative in his choice of targets, so conservative that he often spent a whole engagement sighting at people but never pulling the trigger.
"Could have wasted a shell," he said, if someone pointed this out to him. It was true that when he did shoot he rarely missed, but that was because he rarely shot at anything over thirty yards away.
Call was interesting to observe in a battle too. It took a fight to bring out the fighter in him, and a fighter was mostly what he was. Call was a great attacker. Once the enemy was sighted, he liked to go after them, and would often do so in defiance of the odds. He might plan elaborately before a battle, but once it was joined his one desire was to close with the enemy and destroy him. Call had destruction in him and would go on killing when there was no need. Once his blood heated, it was slow to cool.
Call himself had never been beaten for good--only death could accomplish that--and he reasoned that if an enemy was alive he wasn't beaten either--not for good.
Augustus knew that reasoning wasn't accurate--men could get enough of fighting and turn from it. Some would do almost anything to avoid the fear it produced.
Deets understood that. He would never fire on a fleeing man, whereas Call would pursue a man fifty miles and kill him if the man had attacked him. Deets fought carefully and shrewdly--he would have known the trick about fresh blood. But Deets's great ability was in preventing ambushes. He would seem to feel them coming, often a day or two early, when he could have had no particular clues. "How'd you know?" they would ask him and Deets would have no answer. "Just knew," he said.
The six remaining Indians had retreated well beyond rifle range, but they weren't gone.
He could see them holding council, but they were three hundred yards away and the heat waves created a wavery mirage between him and them.
Unless there were more Indians, Augustus didn't consider that he was in a particularly serious situation. It was hot and the blowflies were already buzzing over the horse blood, but those were trivial discomforts. He had filled his canteen that morning, and the Canadian was no more than ten miles to the north. More than likely the Indians would decide they had missed their big chance and go away. They might try to get him at night, but he didn't plan to be there. Come dark he would head for the river.
All afternoon the six Indians stayed where they were. Occasionally they would fire a shot his way, hoping to get lucky. Finally one rode off to the east, returning about an hour later with a white man who set up a tripod and began to shoot at him with a fifty-caliber buffalo gun.
That was an inconvenient development.
Augustus had to hastily dig himself a shallow hole on the other side of the horse, where the blood and the blowflies were worse. They were not worse, though, than the impact of a fifty-caliber bullet, several of which hit the horse in the next hour. Augustus kept digging. Fortunately the man was not a particularly good shot--many of the bullets sang overhead, though one or two hit his saddle and ricocheted.
Once when the buffalo hunter was reloading, Gus took a quick shot at him, raising his barrel to compensate for the range. The shot missed the white man but wounded one of the Indian horses.
The horse's scream unnerved the shooter, who moved his tripod back another fifty yards.
Augustus kept low and waited for darkness, which was only another hour away.
The shooter kept him pinned until full dark --but as soon as it was too dark to shoot, Augustus yanked his saddle loose from the dead mount and walked west, stopping to take what bullets he could salvage from the men he had killed. None had many, but one had a fairly good rifle, and Augustus took it as insurance. He hated carrying the saddle, but it was a shield of sorts; if he got caught in open country it might be the only cover he would have.
While he was going from corpse to corpse collecting ammunition, he was startled to hear the sudden rattle of shots from the east. That was puzzling. Either the Indians had fallen to fighting among themselves or someone else had come on the scene. Then the shots ceased and he heard the sound of running horses--the Indians leaving, most probably.
This new development put him in a quandary.
He was prepared for a good hard walk to the river, carrying a heavy saddle, but if there were strangers around they might be friendly, and he might not have to carry the saddle. Possibly the scout for a cattle herd had stumbled into the little group of hostiles, though the main trail routes lay to the east.
At any rate, he didn't feel he should ignore the possibility, so he turned back toward the shooting. There was still a little light in the sky, though it was dark on the ground. From time to time Augustus stopped to listen and at first heard nothing: the plains were still.
The third time he stopped, he thought he heard voices. They were faint, but they were white, an encouraging sign. He went cautiously toward them, trying to make as little noise as possible. It was hard to carry a saddle without it creaking some, but he was afraid to put it down for fear he could not find his way back to it in the dark. Then he heard a horse snort and another horse jingle his bit. He was getting close. He stopped to wait for the moon to rise. When it did, he moved a little closer, hoping to see something.
Instead he heard what sounded like a subdued argument.
"We don't know how many there is," one voice said. "There could be five hundred Indians around here, for all we know." "I can go find them," another voice said. It was a girlish voice, which surprised him.
"You hush," the first voice said. "Just because you can catch varmints don't mean you can sneak up on Indians." "I could find 'em," the girlish voice insisted.
"They'll find you and make soup of you if you ain't lucky" was the reply.
"I don't think there's no five hundred," a third voice said. "I don't think there's five hundred Indians left in this part of the country." "Well, if there was even a hundred, we'd have all we could do," the first voice pointed out.
"I'd like to know who they were shooting at when we rode up," the other man said. "I don't believe it was buffalo, though I know it was a buffalo gun." Augustus decided he wouldn't get a better opportunity than that, so he cleared his throat and spoke in the loudest tones he could muster without actually shouting.
"They were shooting at me," he said. "I'm Captain McCrae, and I'm coming in." He took a few steps to the side when he said it, for he had known men to shoot from reflex when they were frightened. Nothing was more dangerous than walking into the camp of a bunch of men who had their nerves on edge.
"Don't get nervous and shoot, I'm friendly," he said, just as he saw the outline of their horses against the sky.
"I hate this walking around in the dark," he added loudly--not that it was much of an observation. It was designed to keep the strangers from getting jumpy.
Then he saw four people standing by the horses. It was too dark to tell much ab
out any of them, but he dumped the saddle on the ground and went over to shake hands.
"Howdy," he said, and the men shook hands, though none of them had yet said anything. The surprise of his appearance had evidently left them speechless.
"Well, here we are," Augustus said.
"I'm Augustus McCrae and I'm after an outlaw named Blue Duck. Have you seen any sign of the man?" "No, we just got here," one of the men said.
"I know about him, though," July said. "My name is July Johnson. I'm sheriff from Fort Smith, Arkansas, and this is my deputy, Roscoe Brown." "July Johnson?" Augustus asked.
"Yes," July said.
"By God, that's a good one," Augustus said.
"We were expecting you down in Lonesome Dove, and here you are practically in Kansas. If you're still after Jake Spoon, you've missed him by about three hundred miles." "I have more urgent business," July said rather solemnly.
To Augustus he seemed young, although it was hard to tell in the dark. Mainly it was his voice that seemed young.
"I see you brought family," Augustus said.
"Most lawmen don't travel with their children. Or did you pick up these two sprats along the way?" Nobody answered. They simply stood, as if the question was too complicated for an answer.
"Did the Indians kill your horse?" July asked.
"No, I killed him," Augustus said.
"Used him for a fort. There ain't much to hide behind on these plains. I heard shooting. Did you kill any more of them bucks?" "Don't think so," July said. "I might have hit the buffalo hunter. We never expected to find Indians." "I killed six this afternoon," Augustus said.
"I think there was twelve to begin with, not counting the buffalo hunter. I expect they work for Blue Duck. He stole a woman and I'm after him.
I think he sent them bucks to slow me down." "I hope there ain't too much of a bunch," Roscoe said. "I never kilt one before." In fact he had never killed anyone before, or even given the possibility much thought. Sudden death was not unknown in Fort Smith, but it was not common, either. It had been a big shock when the Indians turned their guns on them and began to shoot at them. Not until he saw July draw his rifle and start firing did it dawn on him that they were under attack. He had hastily drawn his pistol and shot several times-- it had not affected the Indians but it angered July.
"You're just wasting bullets, they're way out of pistol range," he said. But then the Indians ran, so it didn't matter so much.
"What's your plan, Mr. Johnson?" Augustus asked politely. "If your business is urgent you might not want to slow down long enough to help me catch this Blue Duck." That was true. July didn't want to slow down at all until he found Elmira. If he had been alone, he would have traveled twenty hours a day and rested four. But he was hardly alone. Roscoe was nervous as a cat and spent all day talking about his worries. Joe didn't complain, but the hard traveling had worn him out and he rode along in a doze most of the time and slept like a dead thing when they stopped.
The only one who didn't suffer from the pace was Janey, who mainly walked. July had to admit that she was unusually helpful. When they stopped, she did whatever chores there were to do without being asked. And she was always up and ready to leave when he was, whereas Joe and Roscoe were so sluggish in the morning that it took them half an hour just to get their horses saddled.
Now, out of the blue, a Texas Ranger had showed up--one of the very ones who had partnered with Jake Spoon. He was afoot and a long way from help, and they couldn't just ride off and leave him.
Besides, there were hostile Indians around, which made the whole situation more worrisome.
"I haven't planned, very much," July said honestly. "Seems like every time I make a plan something happens to change it." "Well, life's a twisting stream," Augustus said. "Speaking of which, the Canadian River ain't but a short way to the north. Them bucks are probably camped somewhere on it." "What would you advise?" July asked. "You know the country." "It's a steep-banked river," Augustus said. "If we have to fight Indians we'd be in a lot better position there than out on this plain." "You say the man stole a woman?" July asked.
"Yes," Augustus said. "A girl who was traveling with us." "We best go on to the river, I guess," July said. "You can ride with me and Roscoe can tote your saddle." "If this boy ain't armed, maybe he'd like a rifle," Augustus said. "One of them bucks I shot had a pretty good Winchester, and this boy looks old enough to shoot." He handed the rifle to Joe, who was so stunned by the gift that he could barely say thank you. "Is it loaded already?" he asked, rubbing the smooth stock with one hand.
"You dern right it's loaded," Augustus said.
"Just make sure you shoot one of them, and not one of us." He climbed up behind July and they all rode north. Joe felt intensely proud, now that he was armed. He kept one hand on the stock of the rifle, expecting that any minute the Indians might attack.
But the ride to the river was uneventful. It seemed they had not been riding long before they saw the silver band of the river in the moonlight. July stopped so abruptly that Joe almost bumped into his horse. He and Mr. McCrae were looking at something downriver. At first Joe couldn't see anything to look at, but then he noticed a tiny flame of light, far downriver.
"That'd be them," Augustus said. "I guess they ain't worried about us, or they wouldn't be so bold with their campfire. They don't know it, but the wrath of the Lord is about to descend upon them. I dislike bold criminals of whatever race, and I believe I'll go see that they pay their debts." "I'd best go with you," July said. "You don't know how many there are." "Let's go make camp," Augustus said.
"Then we'll think it out." They rode upriver a mile, stopping where the mouth of a canyon sloped down to the riverbed.
"This is as good as we'll get," Augustus said. "What I'd like is the loan of a horse for the night. I'll have him back by breakfast, and maybe a few others to boot." "You want to go at them alone?" July asked.
"It's my job," Augustus said. "I doubt there's many of them. I just hope Blue Duck is there." Roscoe could not believe what he was hearing.
He felt very scared as it was, and yet this stranger was preparing to ride off by himself.
"Why, there could be ten of them," he said. "Do you think you could kill ten men?" "They're easier to scare at night," Augustus said. "I expect I'll just run most of them off. But I do intend to kill Mr.
Duck if I see him. He's stole his last woman." "I think I ought to go," July said. "I could be of some help. Roscoe can stay here with the young ones." "No, I'd rather you stay with your party, Mr.
Johnson," Augustus said. "I'd feel better about it in my mind. You've got an inexperienced deputy and two young people to think about.
Besides, you said you had urgent business. These things are chancy. You might stop a bullet and never get your business finished." "I think I ought to go," July said. It was in his mind that Ellie could even be in the camp.
Somebody could have stolen her as easily as the Texas woman. The whiskey traders wouldn't have put up much fight. Of course, it wasn't likely she was there, but then what was likely anymore? He felt he ought to have a look, at least.
In any case, the man could use help, and it should be no great risk to leave Roscoe and the young ones in camp for a few hours. They all needed the rest.
Augustus realized he could probably use help, since he didn't know how many men he was facing. However, he didn't have a high opinion of the average man's ability as a fighter. The majority of men couldn't fight at all and even most outlaws were the merest amateurs when it came to battle. Few could shoot well, and even fewer had any mind for strategy.
The problem was that Blue Duck was evidently one of the few who could think. He had planned the theft of Lorena perfectly. Also, he had survived twenty years or more in a rough country, at a rough game, and could be expected to be formidable, if he was around.
Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove Page 57