Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

Soon she began to talk to the mules as they plodded along. She didn’t say much, and the mules didn’t answer, but it made the long hot days pass a little faster.

AUGUSTUS SPENT HALF THE FIRST DAY finding the tracks, for Blue Duck had been cool enough to lead Lorena through the stampeding cattle, so that their tracks would be blotted out by the thousands of cattle tracks. It was a fine trick, and one not many men would dare to try.

Years had passed since Augustus had done any serious tracking. He rode around all morning, trying to remember the last man he had tracked, just to give himself perspective. It seemed to him that the last man had been an incompetent horsethief named Webster Witter, who had rustled horses in the Blanco country at one time. He and Call had gone after him one day by themselves and caught him and hung him before sundown. But the tracking had been elemental, due to the fact that the man had been driving forty stolen horses.

The thing he remembered best about Webster Witter was that he had been a tall man and they caught him out in the scrub and had to hang him to a short tree. It was that or take him back, and Call was against taking him back. Call believed summary justice was often the only justice, and in those days he was right, since they had to depend on circuit judges who often as not didn’t show up.

“If we take him back he’ll bribe the jailer, or dig out or something, and we’ll have to catch him at it again,” Call said. It never occurred to Call just to shoot someone he could hang, and in this instance Augustus didn’t suggest it, for they had rushed out without much ammunition and were traveling in rough country.

Fortunately, Webster’s neck broke when they whipped the horse out from under him, otherwise he could have stood there and laughed at them, for the limb of the mesquite sagged badly and both his feet drug the ground.

That had been at least twelve years ago, and Augustus soon concluded that his tracking skills had rusted to the point of being unusable. The only horse tracks he found for the first three hours belonged to Hat Creek horses. He almost decided to go back and get Deets, though he knew Call would be reluctant to surrender him.

Finally, by circling wide to the northwest, Augustus crossed the three horses’ tracks. Blue Duck had tried the one trick—crossing the stampede—but that was all. After that the tracks bore straight for the northwest, so unerringly that Augustus soon found he didn’t need to pay much attention to them. If he lost them he could usually pick them up within half a mile.

He rode as hard as he dared, but he had only one horse and couldn’t afford to ruin him. At each watering he let him have a few minutes of rest. He rode all night, and the next day the tracks were still bearing northwest. He felt unhappy with himself for he wasn’t catching up. Lorena was getting a taste of hard travel the like of which she had never imagined.

Probably she would have worse to deal with than hard travel unless she was very lucky, and Augustus knew it was his fault. He should have packed her into camp the minute he discovered who Blue Duck was; in retrospect he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t. It was the kind of lapse he had been subject to all his life: things that were clearly dangerous didn’t worry him enough.

He tried to swallow his regrets and concentrate on finding her: after all, it had happened, and why he had let it no longer particularly mattered. Blue Duck was a name from their past. Having him show up in their midst fifteen years later had thrown his reasoning off.

The second day he stopped tracking altogether, since it was plain Blue Duck was heading for the Staked Plains. That took in a lot of territory, of course, but Augustus thought he knew where Blue Duck would go: to an area north and west of the Palo Duro Canyon—it was there he had always retreated to when pursued.

Once Call and he had sat on the western edge of the great canyon, looking across the brown waterless distances to the west. They had finally decided to end their pursuit there while they had a fair chance of getting back alive. It wasn’t Indians they feared so much as lack of water. It had been midsummer and the plains looked seared, what grass there was, brown and brittle. Call was frustrated; he hated to turn back before he caught his man.

“There’s got to be water out there,” Call said. “They cross it, and they can’t drink dirt.” “Yes, but they know where it is and we don’t,” Augustus pointed out. “They can kill their horses getting to it—they got more horses. But if we kill ours it’s a dern long walk back to San Antonio.” That afternoon he crossed the Clear Fork of the Brazos and passed a half-built cabin, abandoned and empty. It was a vivid enough reminder of the power of the Comanches—their massacres caused plenty of settlers to retreat while they still had legs to retreat on. Call and he had watched through the Fifties as the line of the frontier advanced only to collapse soon after. The men and women who came up the Trinity and the Brazos were no strangers to hardship—but hardship was one thing, terror another. The land was spacious and theirs for the taking, but land couldn’t cancel out fear—a fact that Call never understood. It annoyed him that the whites gave up and retreated.

“I wish they’d stick,” he said many times. “If they would, there’d soon be enough of them to beat back the Indians.” “You ain’t never laid in bed all night with a scared woman,” Augustus said. “You can’t start a farm if you’ve got to live in afort. Them that starts the farms have got to settle off by themselves, which means they’re easy to cut off and carve up.” “Well, they could leave the women for a while,” Call said. “Send for them when it’s safe.” “Yes, but a man that goes to the trouble to take a wife don’t generally want to go off and leave her,” Augustus pointed out. “It means doing the chores all by yourself. Besides, without a wife handy you won’t be getting no kids, and kids are a wonderful source of free labor. They’re cheaper than slaves by a damn sight.” They had argued the point for years, but fruitlessly, for Call had no sympathy for human weakness. Augustus put it down to a lack of imagination. Call could never imagine what it was like to be scared. They had been in tight spots, but usually that meant action, and in battles things happened too fast for fear to paralyze the mind of a man like Call. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to go to bed every night scared that you and your family would feel the knives of the Comanches before sunrise.

That night Augustus stopped to rest his horse, making a cold camp on a little bluff and eating some jerky he had brought along. He was in the scrubby post-oak country near the Brazos and from his bluff could see far across the moonlit valleys.

It struck him that he had forgotten emptiness such as existed in the country that stretched around him. After all, for years he had lived within the sound of the piano from the Dry Bean, the sound of the church bell in the little Lonesome Dove church, the sound of Bol whacking the dinner bell. He even slept within the sound of Pea Eye’s snoring, which was as regular as the ticking of a clock.

But here there was no sound, not any. The coyotes were silent, the crickets, the locusts, the owls. There was only the sound of his own horse grazing. From him to the stars, in all directions, there was only silence and emptiness. Not the talk of men over their cards, nothing. Though he had ridden hard he felt strangely rested, just from the silence.

The next day he found the carcass of Lorie’s mare. By the end of the day he was out of the scrub. When he crossed the Wichita he angled west. He had not seen Blue Duck’s tracks in two days but he didn’t care. He had always had confidence in his instincts and felt he knew where the man would stop. Possibly he was bound for Adobe Walls, one of the Bents’ old forts. This one, on the Canadian, had never been much of a success. The Bents had abandoned it, and it became a well- known gathering place for buffalo hunters, as well as for anyone crossing the plains.

It was spring—what few buffalo were left would be moving north, and what buffalo hunters were left would be gathered at the old fort, getting ready for a last hide harvest. Buffalo hunters were not known to be too particular about their company; though Blue Duck and his men had picked off plenty of them over the years, the new crop would probably overlook that fact if he turned up with a prize like Lorena.

Also, there were still renegade bands of Kiowas and Comanches loose on the plains. The bands were supposedly scattered—at least that was the talk in south Texas—and the trade in captives virtually dead.

But Augustus wasn’t in south Texas anymore, and as he rode through the empty country he had plenty of time to consider that maybe the talk hadn’t been all that accurate—talk often wasn’t. The bands were doomed, but they might last another year or two, whereas he was advancing into their country in the here and now. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but he was afraid for Lorena. Blue Duck might be dealing with some renegade chief with a taste for white women. Lorena would put a nice cap on a career largely devoted to stealing children.

If Blue Duck intended to trade her to an Indian, he would probably take her farther west, through the region known as the Quitaque, and then north to a crossing on the Canadian where the Comanches had traded captives for decades. Nearby was the famous Valley of Tears, spoken of with anguish by such captives as had been recovered. There the Comancheros divided captives, mothers being separated from their children and sold to different bands, the theory being that if they were isolated they would be less likely to organize escapes.

As he moved into the Quitaque, a parched country where shallow red canyons stretched west toward the Palo Duro, Augustus would see little spiraling dust devils rising from the exposed earth far ahead of him. During the heat of the day mirages in the form of flat lakes appeared, so vivid that a time or two he almost convinced himself there was water ahead, although he knew there wasn’t.

He decided to head first for the big crossing on the Canadian. If there was no sign of Blue Duck there he could always follow the river over to the Walls. He crossed the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River—plenty of prairie dogs were in evidence, too—and rode west to the edge of the Palo Duro. Several times he saw small herds of buffalo, and twice rode through valleys of bleached bones, places where hunters had slaughtered several hundred animals at a time. By good luck he found a spring and spent the night by it, resting his horse for the final push.