Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

Newt saw that the new cook was old. His brown face was nothing but wrinkles. When they rode up he stopped and courteously took off his sombrero, and his short hair was white. But his eyes were friendly.

“Howdy,” Pea said. “We’re with the Hat Creek outfit. Are you the new cook?” “I am Po Campo,” the man said.

“If you was to spur up that donkey you’d get there a lot quicker,” Pea said. “We’re all practically starved.” Po Campo smiled at Newt.

“If I tried to ride that donkey it would stop and I’d never get there at all,” Po said. “Besides, I don’t ride animals.” “Why not?” Pea asked, amazed.

“It’s not civilized,” the old man said. “We’re animals too. How would you like it if somebody rode you?” Such a question was too much for Pea. He didn’t consider himself an animal, and in his whole life had never given one minute’s thought to the possibility of being ridden.

“You mean you just walk everywhere?” Newt asked. The notion of a man who didn’t ride horses was almost too strange to be believed. It was particularly strange that such a man was coming to cook for a crew of cowboys, some of whom hated to dismount even to eat.

Po Campo smiled. “It’s a good country to walk in,” he said.

“We got to hurry,” Pea said, a little alarmed to be having such a conversation.

“Get down and walk with me, young man,” Po Campo said. “We might see some interesting things if we keep our eyes open. You can help me gather breakfast.” “You’ll likely see the Captain, if you don’t speed along a little faster,” Pea said. “The Captain don’t like to wait on breakfast.” Newt slid off the horse. It was a surprise to Pea and even a little bit of a surprise to himself, but he did it anyway. The wagon was only two or three hundred yards away. It wouldn’t take long to walk it, but it would postpone for a few minutes having to explain why he had lost his horse.

“I’ll just walk on in with him,” he said to Pea.

“By God, if this keeps up I guess we’ll all be afoot before long,” Pea said. “I’ll just lope on over and tell the Captain neither one of you is dead.” He started to leave and then looked down at Po Campo.

“Do you use a lot of pepper in your cooking?” he asked.

“As much as I can find,” Po Campo said.

“Well, that’s all right, we’re used to it,” Pea said.

To Newt’s surprise, Po Campo put a friendly hand on his shoulder. He almost flinched, for it was rare for anyone to touch him in friendship. If he got touched it was usually in a wrestling match with one of the Raineys.

“I like to walk slow,” Po Campo said. “If I walk too fast I might miss something.” “There ain’t much to miss around here,” Newt said. “Just grass.” “But grass is interesting,” the old man said. “It’s like my serape, only it’s the earth it covers. It covers everything and oneday it will cover me.” 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.