Lonesome Dove (45 page)

Though the old man spoke cheerfully, the words made Newt sad. He remembered Sean O’Brien. He wondered if the grass had covered Sean yet. He hoped it had—he had not been able to rid himself of the memory of the muddy grave they had put Sean in, back by the Nueces.

“How many men in this outfit?” Po Campo asked.

Newt tried to count in his head, but his brain was tired and he knew he was missing a few hands.

“There’s a bunch of us,” he said. “More than ten.”

“Have you got molasses?” Po Campo asked.

“There’s a barrel in the wagon but we ain’t used it yet,” Newt said. “Might be saving it for Christmas.”

“Maybe I’ll fry up some grasshoppers tonight,” Po Campo said. “Grasshoppers make good eating if you fry them crisp and dip them in a little molasses.”

Newt burst out laughing at the thought of anyone eating a grasshopper. Po Campo was evidently a joker.

“What’s your donkey’s name?” he asked, feeling a little fresher for having had his laugh.

“I call her Maria after my sister,” Po Campo said. “My sister was slow too.”

“Do you really cook grasshoppers?” Newt asked.

“When I can get them,” Po Campo said. “The old ones taste better than the young ones. It isn’t that way with animals, but it is with grasshoppers. The old ones are brittle, like old men. They are easy to get crisp.”

“I doubt you’ll get anybody to eat one,” Newt said, beginning to believe Po Campo was serious. After all the trouble there had been over snakes in the stew, it was hard to imagine what would happen if Po Campo fried up some grasshoppers.

Newt liked the old man and didn’t want him to get off on the wrong foot with the crew, which, after all, was a touchy crew.

“Maybe you oughta just cook some beef,” he suggested. “That’s what we’re mostly used to.”

Po Campo chuckled again. “Worms make good butter, you know,” he said. “Slugs particularly.”

Newt didn’t know what to say to that. It occurred to him that the Captain might have been a little hasty when he hired the cook. Po Campo was even friendlier than Bol, but still, a man who thought you could dip grasshoppers in molasses and use worms for butter was not likely to become popular with a finicky eater like Jasper Fant, who liked his beef straight.

“Mr. Gus used to make the biscuits, but he had to leave his ovens behind,” Newt said. He was hungry, and the memory of how good Mr. Gus’s biscuits had tasted when they lived in Lonesome Dove came over him so strongly that for a second he felt faint.

Po Campo looked at Newt quickly and hitched up his pants. “I’ll make you something better than biscuits,” he said, but he didn’t mention what it might be.

“I hope it ain’t worms,” Newt said.

48

“YOU THINK that Indian’s around here somewhere?” Call asked.

“How would I know?” Augustus said. “He didn’t inform me of his business. He just said he’d cut our balls off if we come north of the Canadian.”

“I’d like to know why these cattle ran,” Call said. “It was a still night and we had ’em bedded down.”

“Cattle don’t just run in the rain,” Augustus said. “They can run on still nights too.”

“I don’t like it that Deets lost the man’s track,” Call said. “A man that Deets can’t track is a slippery man.”

“Hell,” Augustus said. “Deets is just rusty. You’re rusty too. The two of you have lost your skills. Running a livery stable don’t prepare you for tracking Comancheros.”

“I suppose you ain’t rusty, though,” Call said.

“My main skills are talking and cooking biscuits,” Augustus said. “And getting drunk on the porch. I’ve probably slipped a little on the biscuits in the last few days, and I’ve lost the porch, but I can still talk with the best of them.”

“Or the worst,” Call said.

They were standing by the wagon, hoping the new cook would come in time to cook breakfast. Pea Eye loped up and unfolded himself in the direction of the ground.

“Your getting off a horse reminds me of an old crane landing in a mud puddle,” Augustus said.

Pea ignored the remark—it was necessary to ignore most of those Gus made or else you got bogged down in useless conversation.

“Well, Newt’s alive,” he said. “He got throwed off, is all.”

“Why didn’t you bring him?” Call asked, relieved.

“We met the cook and he wanted company,” Pea said. “The cook claims he don’t ride on animals, so they’re walking. There they come now.”

Sure enough, they could see the boy and the old man a couple of hundred yards away. They were moving in the general direction of the camp, but not rapidly.

“If the cook’s as slow as Newt, they won’t be here till next week,” Gus said.

“What are they doing?” Call asked. They were certainly doing something. Instead of simply coming to camp they were walking around in circles, as if looking for lost objects.

“The cook’s got a donkey, only he don’t ride it,” Pea Eye remarked. “He says it ain’t civilized to ride animals.”

“Why, the man’s a philosopher,” Augustus said.

“That’s right—I just hired him to talk to you,” Call said. “It would free the rest of us so maybe we could work.”

A few minutes later Newt and Po Campo walked up to the wagon, trailed at a good distance by the donkey. It turned out they had been gathering bird’s eggs. They were carrying them in the old man’s serape, which they had stretched between them, like a hammock.

“
Buenos dias
,” Po Campo said to the group at large. “If that donkey ever gets here we’ll have breakfast.”

“Why can’t we have it now?” Augustus asked. “You’re here and I see you brought the eggs.”

“Yes, but I need my skillet,” Po Campo said. “I’m glad I spotted those plovers. It’s not every day I find this many plover’s eggs.”

“It’s not every day I eat them,” Augustus said. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Po Campo,” the old man said. “I like this boy here. He helped me gather these eggs, although he’s bunged up from gettin’ throwed.”

“Well, I’m Augustus McCrae,” Augustus said. “You’ll have to do the best you can with this rough old crew.”

Po Campo whistled at his donkey. “Plover’s eggs are better than quail’s eggs,” he said. “More taste, although quail’s eggs aren’t bad if you boil them and let them cool.”

He went around the camp shaking hands with each man in turn. By the time he had finished meeting the crew the donkey had arrived, and in a remarkably short time Po Campo had unpacked a huge skillet, made himself a little grill with a couple of branding irons laid across two chunks of firewood, and had scrambled up sixty or seventy plover’s eggs. He sprinkled in a few spices from his pack and cooked the eggs until they could be cut in slices, like an egg pie. After sampling his own wares and grunting cryptically, he gave each man a slice. Some, like Jasper, were reluctant to sample such exotic fare, but once they had eaten a bite or two their reluctance disappeared.

“Dern, this is the best bird-egg pie I ever tasted,” Jasper admitted. “It’s better than hen’s eggs.”

“Don’t you even know an omelet when you see one, Jasper?” Augustus said. He was miffed to see the new cook become a hero in five minutes, whereas he had cooked excellent biscuits for years and drawn little praise.

“It’s just a plain omelet, made from plover’s eggs,” he added, for emphasis. “I could have scrambled one up if I’d known you boys had a taste for such things.”

“Tonight I intend to fry some grasshoppers,” Po Campo remarked. He was watching the two blue pigs—they in their turn were watching him. They had come out from under the wagon in order to eat the eggshells.

“If you’re thinking of them pigs, don’t bother,” Augustus said. “If they want grasshoppers, let them catch their own. They’re quick as rabbits.”

“No, I am going to fry some for Newt,” Po Campo said. “He claims he has never eaten a good fried grasshopper dipped in molasses. It makes a good dessert if you fry them crisp.”

The crew burst out laughing at the thought of eating grasshoppers. Po Campo chuckled too. He had already dismantled his little grill and was scouring the frying pan with a handful of weeds.

Call felt relieved. It was easy to see Po Campo had a way with men. Everyone looked happy except Gus, who was in a sulk because he had been outcooked. Gus always liked to be the best at whatever there was to do.

“I liked that bird’s-egg pie but I draw the line at eating insects,” Jasper said.

“I wish I had some sweet potatoes,” Augustus said. “I’d show you girls how to make a pie.”

“I hear you cook good biscuits,” Po Campo said, smiling at him.

“That’s right,” Augustus said. “There’s an art to biscuit making, and I learned it.”

“My wife was good at it too,” Po Campo remarked. “I liked her biscuits. She never burned them on the bottom.”

“Where’s she live, Mexico?” Augustus asked, curious as to where the short old man had come from.

“No, she lives in hell, where I sent her,” Po Campo said quietly, startling everyone within hearing. “Her behavior was terrible, but she made good biscuits.”

There was a moment of silence, the men trying to decide if they were supposed to believe what they had just heard.

“Well, if that’s where she is, I expect we’ll all get to eat her biscuits, one of these days,” Augustus said. Even he was a little startled. He had known men who had killed their wives, but none so cool about admitting it as Po Campo.

“That’s why I hope I go to heaven,” Po Campo said. “I don’t want nothing more to do with that woman.”

“This here ain’t Montana,” Call said. “Let’s start the cattle.”

That night, true to his word, Po Campo fried some grasshoppers. Before he got around to it he fed the crew a normal meal of beefsteak and beans and even conjured up a stew whose ingredients were mysterious but which all agreed was excellent. Allen O’Brien thought it was better than excellent—it changed his whole outlook on life, and he pressed Po Campo to tell him what was in it.

“You saw me gathering it,” Po Campo said. “You should have watched better.”

True to his principles, he had refused to ride the donkey or climb up on the wagon seat beside Lippy. “I better walk,” he said. “I might miss something.”

“Might miss getting snakebit,” Lippy said. Since the incident on the Nueces he had developed such a terror of snakes that he slept in the wagon and even stood on the wagon seat to urinate.

Po Campo had walked all day, a hundred yards or so west of the herd, trailing two sacks he had tucked in his belt. Now and then he would put something in one of them, but nobody saw what unless it was the pigs, who trailed the old man closely. All that could be said was that his stew was wonderfully flavorsome. Deets ate so many helpings that he grew embarrassed about his appetite.

It was Deets who first got up his nerve to sample the fried grasshoppers. Since the new cook had the crew in such a good mood, Call allowed him to use a little of the molasses they were saving for special occasions. Just having someone who could cook decently was a special occasion, though, like the men, he put no stock in eating grasshoppers.

But Po Campo had caught a big sackful, and when his grease was hot he sprinkled them into it five or six at a time. When he judged they were done he used the tip of a big knife to flick them out onto a piece of cheesecloth. Soon he had forty or fifty fried, and no one rushing to eat them.

“Eat them,” he said. “They’re better than potatoes.”

“May be, but they don’t look like potatoes,” Allen O’Brien said. “They look like bugs.”

“Dish, you’re a top hand, you ought to take the first helping,” Augustus said. “None of us would want to cut you out of your turn.”

“You’re welcome to my dang turn,” Dish said. “I pass on eatin’ bugs.”

“What’s holding you back, Gus?” Needle Nelson asked.

“Wisdom,” Augustus said.

Finally Deets walked over and picked up one of the grasshoppers. He was inclined to trust a man who could cook such flavorsome stew. He grinned, but didn’t eat it right away.

“Put a little molasses on it,” Po Campo urged.

Deets dipped the grasshopper in the little dish of molasses.

“I don’t guess it will kill him but I bet it makes him vomit,” Lippy said, watching the proceedings from the safety of the wagon seat.

“I wish you’d fry up some of these mosquitoes,” Augustus said. “I doubt they’d make good eating, but at least we’d be rid of them.”

Then Deets ate the grasshopper. He crunched it, chewed, and then reached for another, grinning his big grin. “Tastes just like candy,” he said.

After he had eaten three or four he offered one to Newt, who covered it liberally with molasses. To his surprise, it tasted fine, though mostly what tasted was the molasses. The grasshopper itself just tasted crunchy, like the tailbones of a catfish.

Newt ate another of his own accord and Deets ate four or five more. Then Deets persuaded Pea Eye to try one and Pea ate two or three. To everyone’s surprise, Call strolled over and ate a couple; in fact, he had a sweet tooth and couldn’t resist the molasses. Dish decided he had to eat one to keep up his reputation, and then the Rainey boys each ate a couple to imitate Newt. Pete Spettle walked over and ate two and then Soupy, Needle and Bert each tried one. The remaining grasshoppers went quick, and before Jasper could make up his mind to try one they were all gone.

“Dern you all for a bunch of greedy pigs,” he said, wishing someone had thought to save him at least one.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” Augustus said. “Cowboys eating bugs.” His pride had not allowed him to sample them—it would only mean another triumph for Po Campo.

“Did I tell you worms make good butter?” Po Campo said.

“Anybody who tries to butter my biscuit with a worm had better have a long stride,” Soupy Jones remarked. “This outfit is getting crazier all the time.”

While the crew was standing around discussing the merits of grasshoppers they heard a galloping horse approaching camp.

“I hope it’s the mail,” Augustus said.

“It’s Mr. Jake,” Deets said, long before the horse came in sight.

Jake Spoon rode right up to the campfire and jumped off his horse, which was lathered with sweat. He looked around wildly, as if expecting to see someone.

“Ain’t Lorie here?” he asked.

“No,” Augustus said, feeling sick suddenly. The night’s stampede had caused him to forget Lorena completely. He had even forgotten that Jake had been out of pocket. He had drowsed all day, relieved that Newt was safe and supposing that Lorie had been fine or Newt wouldn’t have left her.

“Gus, you better not be hiding her,” Jake said in a shaky voice. He had whiskey on his breath.

“We’re not hiding her,” Call said quietly. “She ain’t been here.”

Newt was about to go on night guard. He was just repairing a cinch that had begun to fray. At the sight of Jake he felt a deep apprehension. All day he had believed that he had gotten away with his stupidity in leaving his horse. Now a new and worse fear struck him. Something had happened to the woman he had been sent to guard.

“Well, by God, she’s gone, and I’d like to know where she went,” Jake said.

“Maybe she moved camp,” Augustus said, not wanting to face what he knew. “Or maybe you missed it—you look like you’ve had a few.”

“I’ve had a whole bottle,” Jake said. “But I ain’t drunk, and even if I was I could find my own dern camp. Anyway, the camping stuff is there. It’s just Lorie and the two horses that are gone.”

Call sighed. “What about tracks?” he asked.

Jake looked disgusted. “I didn’t look for no tracks,” he said. “I figured she come over here and married Gus. They’re such sweethearts they have to have breakfast together every morning. Anyhow, where else would she go? She ain’t got a map.”

Jake looked tired and shaky; he also looked worried.

“Where in tarnation could she go?” he asked the crowd at large. “I guess I can find her tomorrow. She can’t be far off.”

Augustus’s saddle lay a few feet away. He had been meaning to spread a tarp by it and use the saddle for a pillow. Instead he picked it up, went over and untied his rope. Without another word he headed for the remuda.

“Where’s he going?” Jake asked. “I can’t figure him out.”

The sight of Jake, half drunk and useless, filled Call with disgust. Incompetents invariably made trouble for people other than themselves. Jake had refused to take part in the work, had brought his whore along and then let her get stolen.

“She was there last night,” Newt said, very worried. “Mr. Gus sent me to watch. I watched till the cattle got to running.”

Augustus came back, leading a big sorrel he called Jerry. The horse had an erratic disposition but was noted for his speed and wind.

“You ought to wait and look at the tracks,” Call said. “You don’t know what happened. She could have ridden into town. Jake might have missed her.”

“No, Blue Duck stole her,” Augustus said. “It’s my fault for not shooting the son of a bitch while he was drinking. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but I should have shot him on suspicion. And then I plumb forgot about it all day. I’m getting too foolish to live.”