Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

While he was going from corpse to corpse collecting ammunition, he was startled to hear the sudden rattle of shots from the east. That was puzzling. Either the Indians had fallen to fighting among themselves or someone else had come on the scene. Then the shots ceased and he heard the sound of running horses—the Indians leaving, most probably.

This new development put him in a quandary. He was prepared for a good hard walk to the river, carrying a heavy saddle, but if there were strangers around they might be friendly, and he might not have to carry the saddle. Possibly the scout for a cattle herd had stumbled into the little group of hostiles, though the main trail routes lay to the east.

At any rate, he didn’t feel he should ignore the possibility, so he turned back toward the shooting. There was still a little light in the sky, though it was dark on the ground. From time to time Augustus stopped to listen and at first heard

nothing:

the plains were still.

The third time he stopped, he thought he heard voices. They were faint, but they were white, an encouraging sign. Hewent cautiously toward them, trying to make as little noise as possible. It was hard to carry a saddle without it creaking some, but he was afraid to put it down for fear he could not find his way back to it in the dark. Then he heard a horse snort and another horse jingle his bit. He was getting close. He stopped to wait for the moon to rise. When it did, he moved a little closer, hoping to see something. Instead he heard what sounded like a subdued argument.

“We don’t know how many there is,” one voice said. “There could be five hundred Indians around here, for all we know.” “I can go find them,” another voice said. It was a girlish voice, which surprised him.

“You hush,” the first voice said. “Just because you can catch varmints don’t mean you can sneak up on Indians.” “I could find ’em,” the girlish voice insisted.

“They’ll find you and make soup of you if you ain’t lucky,” was the reply.

“I don’t think there’s no five hundred,” a third voice said. “I don’t think there’s five hundred Indians left in this part of the country.” “Well, if there was even a hundred, we’d have all we could do,” the first voice pointed out.

“I’d like to know who they were shooting at when we rode up,” the other man said. “I don’t believe it was buffalo, though I know it was a buffalo gun.” Augustus decided he wouldn’t get a better opportunity than that, so he cleared his throat and spoke in the loudest tones he could muster without actually shouting.

“They were shooting at me,” he said. “I’m Captain McCrae, and I’m coming in.” He took a few steps to the side when he said it, for he had known men to shoot from reflex when they were frightened.

Nothing was more dangerous than walking into the camp of a bunch of men who had their nerves on edge.

“Don’t get nervous and shoot, I’m friendly,” he said, just as he saw the outline of their horses against the sky.

“I hate this walking around in the dark,” he added loudly—not that it was much of an observation. It was designed to keep the strangers from getting jumpy.

Then he saw four people standing by the horses. It was too dark to tell much about any of them, but he dumped the saddle on the ground and went over to shake hands.

“Howdy,” he said, and the men shook hands, though none of them had yet said anything. The surprise of his appearance had evidently left them speechless.

“Well, here we are,” Augustus said. “I’m Augustus McCrae and I’m after an outlaw named Blue Duck. Have you seen any sign of the man?” “No, we just got here,” one of the men said.

“I know about him, though,” July said. “My name is July Johnson. I’m sheriff from Fort Smith, Arkansas, and this is my deputy, Roscoe Brown.” “July Johnson?” Augustus asked.

“Yes,” July said.

“By God, that’s a good one,” Augustus said. “We were expecting you down in Lonesome Dove, and here you are practically in Kansas. If you’re still after Jake Spoon, you’ve missed him by about three hundred miles.” “I have more urgent business,” July said rather solemnly.

To Augustus he seemed young, although it was hard to tell in the dark. Mainly it was his voice that seemed young.

“I see you brought family,” Augustus said. “Most lawmen don’t travel with their children. Or did you pick up these two sprats along the way?” Nobody answered. They simply stood, as if the question was too complicated for an answer.

“Did the Indians kill your horse?” July asked.

“No, I killed him,” Augustus said. “Used him for a fort. There ain’t much to hide behind on these plains. I heard shooting.

Did you kill any more of them bucks?” “Don’t think so,” July said. “I might have hit the buffalo hunter. We never expected to find Indians.” “I killed six this afternoon,” Augustus said. “I think there was twelve to begin with, not counting the buffalo hunter. I expect they work for Blue Duck. He stole a woman and I’m after him. I think he sent them bucks to slow me down.” “I hope there ain’t too much of a bunch,” Roscoe said. “I never kilt one before.” In fact he had never killed anyone before, or even given the possibility much thought. Sudden death was not unknown in Fort Smith, but it was not common, either. It had been a big shock when the Indians turned their guns on them and beganto shoot at them. Not until he saw July draw his rifle and start firing did it dawn on him that they were under attack. He had hastily drawn his pistol and shot several times—it had not affected the Indians but it angered July.