Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“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.“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.