Lonesome Dove (43 page)

“He didn’t even look at me,” Lorena said. “I don’t think he’ll come back.”

“I imagine he took you in long before he got to camp,” Augustus said. “I ain’t the only one in the world with good eyesight.”

“I want to wait for Jake,” Lorena said. “I told him I’d wait.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Augustus said. “You didn’t know Blue Duck was around when you told him. The man might decide he wants to use you for fish bait.”

Lorena felt it was a test of Jake. She was frightened of the man, and part of her wanted to go with Gus. But she had trusted herself to Jake and she still hoped that he would make good.

“I don’t want to go to that cow camp,” she said. “They all look at me.”

Augustus was watching the ridge where Blue Duck had disappeared. “I should have just shot him,” he said. “Or he should have shot me. He was the last person I was expecting to see. We had heard that he was dead. I been hearing for years that he was dead, but that was him.”

Lorena didn’t believe the man was interested in her. Even if men avoided looking at her she could feel their interest, if they had any. The man called Blue Duck had been more interested in the horses.

“I don’t know that Jake can protect you, even if he comes back,” Augustus said.

It made her a little sad for Jake that all his friends doubted his abilities. He was not respected. Probably Gus was right: she should quit Jake. Gus himself was a more able man, she had no doubt. He might take her to California. He had made it clear he had no great interest in the cattle drive. He talked a lot of foolishness, but he had never been mean. He was still sitting on the big rock, idly scratching himself through a hole in the wet underwear.

“Gus, we could go to California,” she said. “I’d go with you and let Jake take his chances.”

Augustus looked at her and smiled. “Why, I’m complimented, Lorie,” he said. “Mighty complimented.”

“Let’s go then,” she said, impatient suddenly.

“No, I’m bound for Ogallala, honey,” he said.

“Where’s that?”

“In Nebraska,” he said.

“What’s there?” Lorena asked, for she had never heard anyone mention such a place.

“A woman named Clara,” Augustus said.

Lorena waited, but he said no more than that. She didn’t want to ask. It was always something, she thought—something to keep her from getting to the one place she wanted to be. It made her bitter—she remembered some of the things Gus had blabbed to her since she had known him.

“I guess you ain’t so practical, then,” she said.

Augustus was amused. “Do I claim to be practical?” he asked.

“You claim it but you ain’t,” Lorena said. “You’re going all the way to Nebraska for a woman. I’m a woman, and I’m right here. You could have the pokes, if that’s all it is.”

“By God, I got you talking anyway,” Augustus said. “I never thought I’d be that lucky.”

Lorena felt her little anger die, the old discouragement take its place. Once again she found herself alone in a hot place, dependent on men who had other things on their mind. It seemed life would never change. The discouragement went so deep in her that she began to cry. It softened Gus. He put an arm around her and wiped the tears off her cheeks with his finger.

“Well, I guess you do want to get to California,” he said. “I’ll strike a deal. If we both make it to Denver I’ll buy you a train ticket.”

“I’ll never make no Denver,” Lorena said. “I’ll never make it out of this Texas.”

“Why, we’re half out already,” Augustus said. “Texas don’t last much north of Fort Worth. You’re young, besides. That’s the big difference in us. You’re young and I ain’t.” He got up and put on his clothes.

“Dern, I wonder where that greasy bandit was going,” he said. “I’ve heard of him killing in Galveston; maybe that’s where he’s going. I wish now I’d have shot him while he was drinking.”

He tried again to get Lorena to come over to the cow camp, but Lorena just shook her head. She wasn’t going anywhere, and what’s more, she was through talking. It did no good, never had.

“This is a worrisome situation,” Augustus said. “I probably ought to track that man or send Deets to do it. Deets is a better tracker than me. Jake ain’t back and I ain’t got your faith in him. I best send one of the hands to guard you until we know where that bandit’s headed.”

“Don’t send Dish,” Lorena said. “I don’t want Dish coming around.”

Augustus chuckled. “You gals are sure hard on the boys that love you,” he said. “Dish Boggett’s got a truer heart than Jake Spoon, although neither one of them has much sense.”

“Send me the black man,” she said. “I don’t want none of them others.”

“I might,” Augustus said. “Or I might come back myself. How would that suit you?”

Lorena didn’t answer. She felt the anger coming back. Because of some woman named Clara she wasn’t getting to San Francisco, when otherwise Gus would have taken her. She sat silently on the rock.

“Lorie, you’re a sight,” he said. “I guess I bungled this opportunity. You’d think I’d get smoother, experienced as I am.”

She kept silent. Gus was nearly out of sight before she looked up. She still felt the anger.

46

“NEWT, YOU LOOK like you just wiggled out of a flour sack,” Pea Eye said. He had taken to making the remark almost every evening. It seemed to surprise him that Newt and the Rainey boys came riding in from the drags white with dust, and he always had the same thing to say about it. It was beginning to annoy Newt, but before he could get too annoyed, Mr. Gus surprised him out of his wits by telling him to lope over to Jake’s camp and keep watch for Lorena until Jake got back.

“I wish I could clean up first,” Newt said, acutely conscious of how dirty he was.

“He ain’t sending you to marry her,” Dish Boggett said, very annoyed that Gus had chosen Newt for the assignment. The thought that Jake Spoon had gone off and left Lorena unattended was irritation enough.

“I doubt Newt can even find her,” he added to Gus, after the boy left.

“She’s barely a mile from here,” Augustus said. “He can find her.”

“I would have been glad to take on the chore,” Dish pointed out.

“I’ve no doubt you would,” Augustus said. “Then Jake would have showed up and you two would have a gunfight. I doubt you could hit one another, but you might hit a horse or something. Anyway, we can’t spare a top hand like you,” he added, thinking the compliment might soothe Dish’s feelings. It didn’t. He immediately walked off in a sulk.

Captain Call rode in just as Newt was leaving.

“So where’s the new cook?” Augustus asked.

“He’ll be along tomorrow,” Call said. “Why are you sending the boy off?”

Newt heard the question and felt unhappy for a moment. Almost everybody called him Newt, but the Captain still called him “the boy.”

“Lorie can’t be left by herself tonight,” Augustus said. “I don’t reckon you seen Jake.”

“I never hit the right saloon,” Call said. “I was after a cook. He’s there, though. I heard his name mentioned several times.”

“Hear anyone mention Blue Duck?” Augustus asked.

Call was unsaddling the mare. At the mention of the Comanchero he stopped.

“No, why would I?” he asked.

“He stopped and introduced himself,” Augustus said. “Over at Jake’s camp.”

Call could hardly credit the information. He looked at Gus closely to see if it was some kind of joke. Blue Duck stole white children and gave them to the Comanches for presents. He took scalps, abused women, cut up men. What he didn’t steal he burned, always fleeing west onto the waterless reaches of the
llano estacado
, to unscouted country where neither Rangers nor soldiers were eager to follow. When he and Call quit the Rangers, Blue Duck had been a job left undone. Stories of his crimes trickled as far down as Lonesome Dove.

“You seen him?” Call asked. In all these years he himself had never actually seen Blue Duck.

“Yep,” Augustus said.

“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Call said. “Maybe it was somebody claiming to be him. This ain’t his country.”

“It was him,” Augustus said.

“Then why didn’t you kill him?” Call asked. “Why didn’t you bring the woman into camp? He’ll butcher her and the boy too if he comes back.”

“That’s two questions,” Augustus said. “He didn’t introduce himself at first, and once he did, he was ready. It would have been touch and go who got kilt. I might have got him or at least wounded him, but I’d have probably got wounded in the process and I don’t feel like traveling with no wound.”

“Why’d you leave the woman?”

“She didn’t want to come and I don’t think he’s after her,” Augustus said. “I think he’s after horses. I sent Deets to track him—he won’t get Lorie with Deets on his trail, and if he’s circling and means to make a play for our horses, Deets will figure it out.”

“Maybe,” Call said. “Maybe that killer will figure it out first and lay for Deets. I’d hate to lose Deets.”

Pea Eye, who had been standing around waiting for the Irishman to cook the evening’s meat, suddenly felt his appetite going. Blue Duck sounded just like the big Indian of his dreams, the one who was always in the process of knifing him when he woke up.

Call turned the Hell Bitch loose in the remuda and came back to the cook wagon. Augustus was eating a beefsteak and a big plate of beans.

“Is this cook you hired a Mexican?” Augustus asked.

Call nodded. “I don’t like sending that boy off to sit up with a whore,” he said.

“He’s young and innocent,” Augustus said. “That’s why I picked him. He’ll just moon over her a little. If I’d sent one of the full-grown rowdies, Jake might have come back and shot him. I doubt he’d shoot Newt.”

“I doubt he’ll even come back, myself,” Call said. “That girl ought to have stayed in Lonesome Dove.”

“If you was a young girl, with life before you, would you want to settle in Lonesome Dove?” Augustus asked. “Maggie done it, and look how long she lasted.”

“She might have died anyplace,” Call said. “I’ll die someplace, and so will you—it might not be no better place than Lonesome Dove.”

“It ain’t dying I’m talking about, it’s living,” Augustus said. “I doubt it matters where you die, but it matters where you live.”

Call got up and went to catch his night horse. Without thinking, he caught the Hell Bitch again, though he had just turned her loose. One of the Spettle boys looked at him curiously and said nothing. Call saddled the Hell Bitch anyway and rode around the herd to see that all was in place. The cattle were calm, most of them already bedded down. Needle Nelson, perennially sleepy, dozed in his saddle.

In the fading light, Call saw a horseman coming. It was Deets, which made him feel better. More and more it seemed Deets was the one man in the outfit he could have a comfortable word with from time to time. Gus turned every word into an argument. The other men were easy to talk to, but they didn’t know anything. If one stopped to think about it, it was depressing how little most men learned in their lifetimes. Pea Eye was a prime example. Though loyal and able and brave, Pea had never displayed the slightest ability to learn from his experience, though his experience was considerable. Time and again he would walk up on the wrong side of a horse that was known to kick, and then look surprised when he got kicked.

Deets was different. Deets observed, he remembered; rarely would he volunteer advice, but when asked, his advice was always to the point. His sense of weather was almost as good as an Indian’s, and he was a superlative tracker.

Call waited, anxious to know where Blue Duck had gone, or whether it had really been him. “What’s the news?” he asked.

Deets looked solemn. “I lost him,” he said. “He went southeast about ten miles. Then I lost him. He went into a creek and never came out.”

“That’s odd,” Call said. “You think it was Blue Duck?”

“Don’t know, Captain,” Deets said.

“Do you think he’s gone, then?” Call asked.

Deets shook his head. “Don’t think so, Captain,” he said. “We better watch the horses.”

“Dern,” Call said. “I thought we might have a peaceful night for once.”

“Full moon coming,” Deets said. “We can spot him if he bothers us tonight.”

They sat together and watched the moon rise. Soon it shed a pale, cool light over the bed-grounds. The Texas bull began to low. He was across the herd, in the shadows, but in the still air his lowing carried far across the little valley, echoing off the limestone bluffs to the west.

“Well, go get some grub,” Call said to Deets. “I’m going over to them bluffs. He might have a gang or he might not. You get between our camp and Jake’s camp so you can help if he comes for the girl. Be watchful.”

He loped over to the bluffs, nearly a mile away, picked his way to the top and spread his bedroll on the bluff’s edge. In the clear night, with the huge moon, he could see far across the bedded herd, see the bright wick of the campfire, blocked occasionally when someone led a horse across in front of it.

Behind him the mare kicked restlessly at the earth for a moment as if annoyed, and then began to graze.

Call got his rifle, out of the scabbard and cleaned it, though it was in perfect order. Sometimes the mere act of cleaning a gun, an act he had performed thousands of times, would empty his mind of jarring thoughts and memories—but this time it didn’t work. Gus had jarred him with mention of Maggie, the bitterest memory of his life. She had died in Lonesome Dove some twelve years before, but the memory had lost none of its salt and sting, for what had happened with her had been unnecessary and was now uncorrectable. He had made mistakes in battle and led men to their deaths, but his mind didn’t linger on those mistakes; at least the battles had been necessary, and the men soldiers. He could feel that he had done as well as any man could have, given the raw conditions of the frontier.

But Maggie had not been a fighting man—just a needful young whore, who had for some reason fixed on him as the man who could save her from her own mistakes. Gus had known her first, and Jake, and many other men, whereas he had only visited her out of curiosity to find out what it was that he had heard men talk and scheme about for so long. It turned out not to be much, in his view—a brief, awkward experience, where the pleasure was soon drowned in embarrassment and a feeling of sadness. He ought not to have gone back twice, let alone a third time, yet something drew him back—not so much the need of his own flesh as the helplessness and need of the woman. She had such frightened eyes. He never met her in the saloon but came up the back stairs, usually after dark; she would be standing just inside the door waiting, her face anxious. Some weakness in him brought him back every few nights, for two months or more. He had never said much to her, but she said a lot to him. She had a small, quick voice, almost like a child’s. She would talk constantly, as if to cover his embarrassment at what they had met to do. Some nights he would sit for half an hour, for he came to like her talk, though he had long since forgotten what she had said. But when she talked, her face would relax for a while, her eyes lose their fright. She would clasp his hand while she talked—one night she buttoned his shirt. And when he was ready to leave—always a need to leave, to be away, would come over him—she would look at him with fright in her face again, as if she had one more thing to say but couldn’t say it.

“What is it?” he asked one night, turning at the top of the stairs. It was as if her need had pulled the question out of him.

“Can’t you just say my name?” she asked. “Can’t you just say it once?”

The question so took him by surprise that it was the one thing of all those she had said that stayed with him through the years. Why was it important that he say her name?

“Why, yes,” he said, puzzled. “Your name’s Maggie.”

“But you don’t never say it,” she said. “You don’t never call me nothin’, I just wish you’d say it once when you come.”

“I don’t know what that would amount to,” he said honestly.

Maggie sighed. “I’d just feel happy if you did,” she said. “I’d just feel so happy.”

Something in the way she said it had disturbed him terribly. She looked as if she would cry or run down the stairs after him. He had seen despair in men and women, but had not expected to see it in Maggie on that occasion. Yet despair was what he saw.

Two nights later he had started to go to her again, but stopped himself. He had taken his gun and walked out of Lonesome Dove to the Comanche crossing and sat the night. He never went to see Maggie again, though once in a while he might see her on the street. She had had the boy, lived four years, and died. According to Gus she had stayed drunk most of her last year. She had gotten thick with Jake for a spell, but then Jake left.

Over all those years, he could still remember how her eyes fixed on him hopefully when he entered, or when he was ready to leave. It was the most painful part of the memory—he had not asked her to care for him that much, yet she had. He had only asked to buy what other men had bought, but she had singled him out in a way he had never understood.

He felt a heavy guilt, though, for he
had
gone back time after time, and had let the need grow without even thinking about it or recognizing it. And then he left.

“Broke her heart,” Gus said, many times.

“What are you talking about?” Call said. “She was a whore.”

“Whores got hearts,” Augustus said.

The bitter truth was that Gus was right. Maggie hadn’t even seemed like a whore. There was nothing hard about her—in fact, it was obvious to everyone that she was far too soft for the life she was living. She had tender expressions—more tender than any he had ever seen. He could still remember her movements—those more than her words. She could never quite get her hair to stay fixed, and was always touching it nervously with one hand. “It won’t behave,” she said, as if her hair were a child.

“You take care of her, if you’re so worried,” he said to Gus, but Gus shrugged that off. “She ain’t in love with me, she’s in love with you,” he pointed out.

It was the point in all his years with Gus when they came closest to splitting the company, for Gus would not let up. He wanted Call to go back and see Maggie.

“Go back and do what?” Call asked. He felt a little desperate about it. “I ain’t a marrying man.”

“She ain’t proposed, has she?” Gus asked sarcastically.

“Well, go back and do what?” Call asked.

“Sit with her—just sit with her,” Gus said. “She likes your company. I don’t know why.”

Instead, Call sat by the river, night after night. There was a period when he wanted to go back, when it would have been nice to sit with Maggie a few minutes and watch her fiddle with her hair. But he chose the river, and his solitude, thinking that in time the feeling would pass, and best so: he would stop thinking about Maggie, she would stop thinking about him. After all, there were more talkative men than him—Gus and Jake, for two.

But it didn’t pass—all that passed were years. Every time he heard of her being drunk, or having some trouble, he would feel uneasy and guilty, as if he were to blame. It didn’t help that Gus piled on the criticism, so much so that twice Call was on the point of fighting him. “You like to have everyone needing you, but you’re right picky as to who you satisfy,” Gus had said in the bitterest of the fights.