Somehow he hobbled south all night.
The snow soon stopped, but his feet were very cold and every time he stepped on a rock in the dark they hurt so he could hardly keep from crying out. He felt very weak and empty and knew he wasn't making very good time. He bitterly regretted not having hung on to some of the jerky, or his rifle, or something. Gus would think him a fine fool if he found out he had lost everything before he even got clear of the creek.
In his weariness, he even forgot for a time that Gus had been left in the little cave. Several times he spoke to Gus as he stumbled along-- mainly asking directions. For a time he felt Gus was just ahead, leading the way. Or was it Deets? Pea Eye felt confused. Whoever it was wouldn't speak to him, and yet he continued to ask questions. He took comfort in thinking Gus or Deets was there. They were the best scouts. They would lead him in.
When the second day dawned, Pea Eye stopped to rest. He realized no one was with him, unless it was ghosts. But then, it might .be ghosts.
Gus might be dead by then, and Deets was, for sure. Maybe one of them, having nothing to do, had decided to float along ahead of him, guiding him to the Yellowstone.
When he looked at his feet, it seemed to him that he might make almost as good time crawling or walking on his hands. His feet were swollen to twice their size, besides being cut here and there.
Yet they were the only feet he had, and after dozing for an hour in the sun, he got up and hobbled on. He was very hungry and wished he had paid more attention to Po Campo, who could find things to eat just by walking along looking. Pea tried to look, but he saw nothing but grass and weeds.
Fortunately he struck several small creeks and had plenty of water. Once he even managed to sluice some minnows up on dry land. They wiggled and flopped and were hard to catch, and of course they only made a few bites, but they were better than nothing.
His biggest piece of luck came late that day when he was able to knock over a big prairie chicken with a rock. He only broke the bird's wing and had to chase it through the grass a long way, but the bird tired before he did, and he finally caught it, skinned it and ate it raw. He rested three hours and then hobbled on through another night.
The third morning he could barely make himself move. His feet were worse than ever, the plains ahead still endless and empty. His eyes ached from looking so hard for the line of the Yellowstone, but he still couldn't see it.
It was the emptiness that discouraged him most. He had almost stopped worrying about Indians and bears.
What he worried about was being lost. He knew by the stars he was still going south, but south where?
Maybe he had veered east of the herd, or west of it, so that no one would spot him. Maybe he had already passed them, in which case there was little hope.
The snows would just come and freeze him, or else he would starve.
He lay until midmorning, unable to decide what to do. For a time he thought the best plan might be just to sit. There were supposed to be soldiers in Montana, somewhere. If he sat long enough, maybe some would find him.
Finally, though, he got up and stumbled on. The soldiers would only find his bones, if they found anything. It was a blazing day, so hot it made him feel annoyed at Montana weather. What kind of country was it where you could get frostbite one night and sunburn two days later? He saw a couple of prairie dogs and wasted an hour trying to get one with a rock. But the prairie dogs were smarter than prairie chickens, and he never came close.
He stumbled on, feeling that the sun would burn off what skin he had left. Several times during the afternoon he fell. He grew light-headed and felt as if he were floating. Then his swollen feet would refuse to work, and instead of floating he would fall. Once he came to lying flat on his back in the grass, the sun burning into his eyes. He scrambled up and looked around, feeling that the herd might have walked right past him when he slept. He tried very hard to walk a straight line south, but his legs were so weak that he kept wobbling off course.
"Dern you, walk straight," he said. The sound of his own cracked voice startled him out of his fury.
Then he felt embarrassed. A man who would cuss his own legs just because they were weak was peculiar, he knew. He got the floating feeling again, so strong that he felt frightened. He felt he might be going to float right out of his own body. He wondered if he was dying, if that was how it felt. He had never heard of anyone dying while they were just walking along, but then dying was something he knew little about. He would take a few steps and then feel himself begin to rise out of his own body, which frightened him so that he stumbled and fell. He didn't want to stand up again, and he began to crawl, looking up now and then to see if the herd was in sight. He felt he couldn't live another night so alone and hungry. He would die in the grass like some beaten animal.
Then it grew dark, and he wanted to cry with disappointment. He had walked long enough-- surely it was time the boys showed up. Once it was full dark, he stopped and listened. He felt the herd might be close, and if he listened maybe he would hear the Irishman singing. He heard no singing, but when he got up and tried to stumble on, he felt the presence of his guide again. This time he knew it was Deets. He couldn't see him because it was dark, and of course Deets was dark, but he lost the floating feeling and walked easier, though he was a little scared. He didn't know what the rules were with people who were dead. He would have liked to say something but felt he shouldn't. Deets might go away and leave him to stumble along in the dark if he said anything. Maybe travel was no trouble for the dead--Pea didn't know. It was a considerable trouble for him. He walked slow, for he didn't like to fall, but he walked on all night.
Two hours after sunup the next day, Dish Boggett, who had been sent off to do a little scout, thought he saw a figure, far to the north.
At first he couldn't tell if it was a man or an antelope. If it was a man, it was an Indian, he imagined, and he raced back to the herd and got the Captain, who had been shoeing the mare--always an arduous task. She hated anyone to handle her feet and had to be securely snubbed before she would submit to it.
Fortunately Call was finished, and he rode back with Dish, to look for the man. There was no sign of him at first, but Dish had a good eye for country and knew where he had seen him. Call privately supposed it had only been an antelope, but he wanted to check. They had crossed the Yellowstone the day before--the men and all the stock had got across safely. Jasper Fant was in his best mood of the trip, having survived all the rivers after all.
"There he is," Dish said suddenly. "If it ain't Pea." Dish was almost stunned with surprise. Pea was no longer walking. He was sitting down in the grass, naked, nodding his head as if in conversation with somebody. When he heard them he looked around, as if not particularly surprised, but when they dismounted there were tears in his eyes.
"Howdy, Captain," Pea Eye said, embarrassed by his own emotion. "You just missed Deets, I guess." Call saw that Pea Eye was wounded and out of his head. There was blood on his chest from a shoulder wound, the sun had blotched his body, and his feet were swollen the size of a cow's bladder and cut to shreds.
"Is Gus dead?" Call asked, afraid to hear the answer. Though he knew Gus's penchant for trouble, it was a shock to see Pea Eye in such a state.
Pea Eye had been thinking of Deets, who had kindly walked him through the night. He was embarrassed to be naked, and he found it hard to turn his mind back to where he could deal with the question the Captain had asked him.
"The creek's up, it's why I lost my clothes," he said.
Call untied his slicker from his saddle and covered Pea Eye with it. Pea Eye immediately felt better. He tried to button the slicker so his dingus wouldn't show, but his fingers shook and Dish Boggett finally did it for him.
"Is Gus dead?" Call asked again.
Pea Eye let his mind turn slowly. Then he remembered that Gus had been sitting with two guns in his hands, not saying a word, when he waded into the river. He had had that bad wound in his leg.
&nbs
p; "The creek was up when I left him," Pea Eye said. "I had to swim down past the Indians and I lost all my gear. Gus kept my pistol." "Where was this?" Call asked.
"Up north, Captain," Pea Eye said.
"We dug a cave in a riverbank. That's all I know." "But he wasn't dead when you left him?" "No, he sent me off," Pea said. "He said he wanted you to lope on there and help him with those Indians." Dish Boggett could not adjust to the fact that Pea Eye was naked and all scarred up. They had had such a peaceful time of it that he had lost the sense that they were in dangerous country.
"What was that about Deets?" he asked.
"Helped me," Pea said simply. "Are we going after Gus, Captain? We had a hard time getting one of them arrows out and his leg was giving him pain." "You're going to the wagon," Call said. "You need some grub. How many Indians were there?" Pea tried to think. "A bunch jumped us," he said. "About twenty, I guess. Gus shot a few." Call and Dish had to lift him; all strength seemed to have left him, now that he knew he was safe. Dish had to hold him on his horse as they rode back, for Pea Eye had so little strength he could not even grip the saddle horn.
The crew, which had been in high spirits and drunk on their own celebrity--for weren't they the first men to bring a Texas herd across the Yellowstone?-- sobered up immediately when they saw the condition Pea Eye was in.
"Why, hello, boys," Pea said, when he was helped off the horse. They all gathered around to greet him, and Bert and Needle Nelson helped him down. Po Campo had some coffee ready. Pea reached out for a cup, once they had him propped against the wagon, but his hands were too shaky to hold it. Po fed him a little with a spoon, and between one sip and the next, Pea slid from his position and passed out. He collapsed so quickly that no one even caught him.
"Is he dead?" Newt asked, anxious.
"No, just tuckered out," Call said.
He was filling his saddlebags with ammunition, glad that he had got new shoes on the mare.
"He said Deets helped him," Dish Boggett said. The way Pea said it had unnerved him. Deets was dead and buried, back on the Powder River.
Call didn't answer. He was pondering the question of whether to take a man with him.
"I guess he was out of his head," Dish said.
"I guess that explains it." Po Campo smiled. "The dead can help us if we let them, and if they want to," he said.
Jasper Fant, delighted not to be among the dead, looked at Po severely. "Ain't none ever helped me except my own pa," he said.
"How'd he help you?" Needle asked.
"Left me twenty dollars in his will. I bought this saddle with it and I been a cowboy ever since." "You call yourself one, you mean," Soupy Jones said. He had poor relations with Jasper as a result of a dispute over cards.
"I'm here, ain't I?" Jasper said. "Just because you lost that hand don't mean I can't cow." "Oh, shut your trap, Jasper," Dish said.
He had had enough of Jasper and Soupy and felt that the whole question of Pea and Deets had been treated too brusquely. After all, the first words Pea had said was that they had just missed Deets. Dish didn't want to admit it, but he had been scared of ghosts all his life, and didn't like to think that any were wandering around. It would just make night herding more nerve-racking, even if the ghost in question was one that might be friendly to him.
Then someone noticed that Captain Call was leaving. He took an extra rifle from the wagon and got the slicker that he had lent Pea, covering Pea with a blanket.
"Just move the stock on north," he said.
"Be alert. I'm going to get Gus." The thought of him leaving sent a ripple of apprehension through the camp. Though independent to a man in some respects, the outfit was happier in all respects when Captain Call was around.
Or if not the Captain, then Gus. Only a few hours earlier, they had felt cocky enough to take on an army. After all, they were the conquerors of the Yellowstone. But now, watching the Captain catch a horse for Gus to ride back on, they all felt daunted. The vast plain was beautiful, but it had reduced Pea Eye to a scarred wreck. And the Indians had Gus holed up somewhere. They might kill him and the Captain too. All men were mortal, and they felt particularly so. A thousand Indians might come by nightfall. The Indians might fall on them as they had fallen on Custer.
Call had no time to soothe the men with elaborate instructions. If Gus was badly wounded, he would weaken rapidly, and every hour counted. Arriving ten minutes too late would be as bad as ten days, or a year, for that matter.
Besides, the almost beseeching way the men looked at him was irritating. Sometimes they acted as if they would forget how to breathe if he or Gus wasn't there to show them. They were all resourceful men--he knew that, if they didn't--and yet at certain times they became like children, wanting to be led.
All his adult life, he had consented to lead, and yet occasionally, when the men seemed particularly dumbstruck, he wondered why he had done it.
He and Augustus had discussed the question of leadership many times.
"It ain't complicated," Augustus maintained. "Most men doubt their own abilities. You don't. It's no wonder they want to keep you around. It keeps them from having to worry about failure all the time." "They ain't failures, most of them," Call pointed out. "They can do perfectly well for themselves." Augustus chuckled. "You work too hard," he said. "It puts most men to shame. They figure out they can't keep up, and it's just a step or two from that to feeling that they can't do nothing much unless you're around to get them started.
"It don't take on me, which is lucky," he added. "I don't care how hard you work, or where you go." "I'd like to see something that could put you to shame," Call said.
"My pecker's done it a few times," Augustus said.
Call wondered what he meant by that, but didn't ask.
When he was packed, he mounted at once, and rode over to Dish Boggett. "You're in charge," he said. "Trail on north. I'll be back when I can." Dish paled at the thought of so much responsibility. He had enough worries as it was, what with Pea Eye talking of ghosts.
The Captain looked angry, which made the men better reconciled to the fact that he was leaving.
All of them feared his angers. But once he left, before he and the mare were even out of sight, their mood of relief changed back to one of apprehension.
Jasper Fant, so cheerful only an hour before, sank the fastest. "Good lord," he said.
"Here we are in Montana and there's Indians and bears and it's winter coming on and the Captain and Gus both off somewhere. I'll be surprised if we don't get massacred." For once Soupy Jones didn't have a word to say.
Augustus kept his pistol cocked all night, once Pea Eye left. He watched the surface of the river closely, for the trick he hoped might work for Pea could also work for the Indians. They might put a log in the water and float down on him, using the log for cover. He tried to look and listen closely, a task not helped by the fact that he was shaking and feverish.
He expected the Indians to come sliding out of the water like big snakes, right in front of him, but none came, and as his fever mounted he began to mumble. From time to time he was half aware that he was delirious, but there was nothing he could do about it, and anyway he preferred the delirium to the tedium of waiting for the Indians to attack. One minute he would be trying to watch the black water, the next he would be back at Clara's. At times he saw her face vividly.
The dawn broke sunny. Bad as he felt, Augustus still enjoyed seeing the sun. It helped clear his head and stirred him to thoughts of escape.
He was sick of the little cold cave under the riverbank. He had thought to wait there for Call, but the more he considered, the more he felt it to be a bad plan. Call's arrival was days away, and dependent on Pea getting through. If Pea didn't get through--and the chances were good that he wouldn't --then Call might not even start to look for him for another week.
As a student of wounds, he knew just by looking at his leg that he was in trouble. The leg was yellowish, with black streaks striping the yello
w.
Blood poisoning was a possibility. He knew that if he didn't get medical attention within the next few days his chances were slim. Even waiting for nightfall might be folly.
If the Indians caught him in the open, his chances would be equally slim, of course, but it took no deliberation to know that if he had to choose, and he did, he would prefer the active to the passive course.
As soon as the sun was well up he eased out of the cave and stood up. The bad leg throbbed.
Even to touch his toes to the ground hurt. The waters were rapidly receding. Fifty yards to the east, a game trail led up the creek bank.
Augustus decided to use the carbine he had taken off the Indian boy as a crutch. He cut the stirrups off the saddle and lashed one over each end of the rifle, then padded one end of his rude crutch with a piece of saddle leather. He stuffed one pistol under his belt, holstered the other, took his rifle and a pocketful of jerky, and hobbled across along the bank to the animal trail.
Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove Page 100