Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

Needle was in favor of shooting him but Call wouldn’t allow it.

“I can rope the son of a bitch fast enough,” Bert said. “Getting the rope off would be the problem.” “Getting you buried would be the problem if you was to rope that bull,” Dish said. The fact that he chose to restrain himself and not get drunk in Fort Worth increased his sense of superiority somewhat, and many of the crew had had about all of Dish’s sense of superiority as they could take, particularly since he was restraining himself for love of a young woman who clearly didn’t give a hoot about him.

“If you’re so in love, why didn’t you go bring her back and leave Gus here?” Jasper asked. “Gus is a damn sight more entertaining than you are, Dish.” At that Dish turned and jumped him but Call soon broke it up. “If you want to fight, collect your wages first,” he said.

The Rainey boys were feeling grownup and wanted Newt to talk the Captain into letting them go to town. “I wanta try a whore,” Ben Rainey said.

Newt declined to make the request.

“Just ask him,” Ben said.

“I’ll ask him when we get to Nebraska,” Newt said.

“Yeah, and if I drown in the Red River I won’t ever get to try no whore,” Ben said.

Call began to be very worried about Gus. It was unusual for him to be gone so long with only one man to chase. Of course, Blue Duck might have had a gang waiting, and Gus might have ridden into an ambush. He had not done any serious fighting in years. Even Pea Eye had begun to worry about him.

“Here we are all the way to Fort Worth and Gus still ain’t back,” Pea Eye said.

Po Campo didn’t go to Fort Worth either. He sat with his back to one of the wheels of the wagon, whittling one of the little female figures he liked to carve. As he walked along during the day he kept his eye out for promising chunks of wood and, if he saw one, would pitch it in the wagon. Then at night he whittled. He would start with a fairly big chunk, and after a week or so would have it whittled into a little wooden woman about two inches high.“I hope he comes back,” Po Campo said. “I enjoy his acquaintance, although he doesn’t like my cooking.” “Well, we wasn’t used to eating bugs and such when you first came,” Pea Eye said. “I expect he’ll work up a taste for it when he comes back. It never used to take him so long to catch a bandit.” “He won’t catch Blue Duck,” Po Campo said.

“Why, do you know the man?” Call asked, surprised.

“I know him,” Po Campo said. “There is no worse man. Only the devil is worse and the devil won’t bother us on this trip.” That was surprising talk. Call looked at the old man closely, but Po Campo was just sitting by the wagon wheel, wood shavings all over his short legs. He noticed Call’s look and smiled.

“I lived on the llano once,” he said. “I wanted to raise sheep but I was foolish. The wolves killed them and the Comanches killed them and the weather killed them. Then Blue Duck killed my three sons. After that I left the llano.” “Why don’t you think Gus will catch him?” Call asked.

Po Campo considered the question. Deets was sitting near him. He loved to watch the old man whittle. It seemed miraculous to Deets that Po could take a plain chunk of wood and make it into a little woman figure. He watched to see if he could figure out how it happened, but so far he had not been able to. Po Campo kept turning the wood in his hand, the shavings dropping in his lap, and then finally it would be done.

“I didn’t like the horse Captain Gus took,” Po Campo said. “He won’t catch Blue Duck on that horse. Blue Duck always has the best horse in the country—that’s why he always gets away.” “He don’t have the best horse in this country,” Call said. “I do.” “Yes, that’s true, she is a fine mare,” Po said. “You might catch up with him but Captain Gus won’t. Blue Duck will sell the woman. Captain Gus might get her back if the Indians don’t finish him. I wouldn’t make a bet.” “I’d make one, if I had money,” Deets said. “Mister Gus be fine.” “I didn’t think there was much left in the way of Indians,” Call said.

“There are young renegades,” Po said. “Blue Duck always finds them. Some are left. The llano is a big place.” That was certainly true. Call remembered the few times they had ventured on it. After a day or two the men would grow anxious because of the emptiness. “There’s too much of this nothing,” Pea said. He would say it two or three times a day, like a refrain, as the mirages shimmered in the endless distances. Even a man with a good sense of direction could get lost with so few surface features to guide him. Water was always chancy.

“I miss Gus,” Pea Eye said. “I get to expecting to hear him talk and he ain’t here. My ears sort of get empty.” Call had to admit that he missed him too, and that he was worried. He had had at least one disagreement a day with Gus for as many years as he could remember. Gus never answered any question directly, but it was possible to test an opinion against him, if you went about it right. More and more Call felt his absence, though fortunately they were having uneventful times—the cattle were fairly well trail-broken and weren’t giving any trouble. The crew for the most part had been well behaved, no more irritable or contrary than any other group of men. The weather had been ideal, water plentiful, and the spring grass excellent for grazing.

A thought that nagged Call was that he had let Gus go off alone to do a job that was too big for him—a job they ought to have done together. Often, during the day, as he rode ahead of the herd, he would look to the northwest, hoping to see Gus returning. More and more the thought came to him that Gus was probably dead. Men simply vanished into the llano to die somewhere and lie without graves, their bones eventually scattered by varmints. Of course, Gus was a famous man, in his way. If Blue Duck had killed him he might brag, and word would eventually get back. But what if some young renegade who didn’t know he was famous killed him? Then he would simply be gone.

The thought that Gus was dead began to weigh on Call. It came to him several times a day, at moments, and made him feel empty and strange. They had not had much of a talk before Gus left. Nothing much had been said. He began to wish that somehow things could have been rounded off a little better. Of course he knew death was no respecter. People just dropped when they dropped, whether they had rounded things off or not. Still, it haunted him that Gus had just ridden off and might not ride back. He would look over the cattle herd strung out across the prairie and feel it was all worthless, and a little absurd. Some days he almost felt like turning the cattle loose and paying off the crew. He could take Pea and Deets and maybe the boy, and they would look for Gus until they found him.

The crew came back from Fort Worth hung over and subdued. Jasper Fant’s head was splitting to such an extent that he couldn’t bear to ride—he got off his horse and walked the last two miles, stopping from time to time to vomit. He tried to get the other boys to wait on him—in his state he could have been easily robbed and beaten, as he pointed out—but his companions were indifferent to his fate. Their own headaches were severe enough.“You can walk to China for all I care,” Needle said, expressing the sentiments of the group. They rode on and left Jasper to creep along as best he could.

Po Campo had anticipated their condition and had a surprise waiting for them—a sugary cobbler made with dewberries he had picked.

“Sugar is the thing for getting over liquor,” he said. “Eat a lot and then lie down for a few minutes.” “Did Jasper quit?” Call asked.

“No, he’s enjoying the dry heaves somewhere between here and town,” Soupy Jones allowed. “Last I heard of him he sounded like he was about to vomit up his socks.” “What’s the news of Jake?” Call inquired.

The question produced a remarkable collection of black looks.