Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“I know that, but when I spot a town I remember what a fine companion he was around supper time,” Augustus said.

He loped the five or six miles to Ogallala, feeling rather strange, for it had just hit him how much he did miss Jake Spoon.

Many a time, returning from a scout on the Brazos, they had raced into Austin together and divided the night between whiskey, cards and women. Clara and Call would both be stiff with them for a week after such a carouse; Clara, ifanything, softened slower than Call.

Now Jake was gone and Clara near. It seemed to him he might be wise not to go see her—just trail on into Montana and let the past be past. No woman had affected his heart in the way she had. The memory was so sweet he was almost afraid to threaten it by seeing what Clara had become. She might have become a tyrant—she had that potential, even as a girl.

Or she might have become merely a worked-out, worn-down pioneer woman, her beauty gone and her spirit tamed. He might look at her and not feel a thing—in which case he would lose something he treasured. On the other hand, he might look at her and feel all that he had felt in their younger days—in which case riding off and leaving her wouldn’t be very easy.

Then there was Lorena. In the last weeks she had proved sweeter than any woman he had known—more responsive than his wives, kinder than Clara. Her beauty had flowered again—the cowboys were always thinking of excuses to ride within twenty or thirty yards of them, so they could get a glimpse of it. He ought to consider himself lucky, he knew—everyone in the outfit, with the possible exception of Call, considered him lucky. He ought to let the past keep its glow and not try to mix it with what he had in the present.

But then he knew he could not simply ride by Clara, whatever the threat of turmoil or disappointment. Of all the women he knew, she had meant the most; and was the one person in his life he felt he had missed, in some ways.

He remembered what she had said when she told him she was going to marry Bob—that she would want his friendship for her daughters. He would at least go and offer it; besides, it would be interesting to see if the girls were like their mother.

To his surprise, he didn’t enjoy the visit to Ogallala very much. He hit the dry-goods store just as the owner was closing and persuaded him to reopen long enough for him to buy Lorie a mass of clothes. He bought everything from petticoats to dresses, a hat, and also a warm coat, for they were sure to strike cool weather in Montana. He even bought himself a black frock coat worthy of a preacher, and a silk string tie. The merchant soon was in no mood to close; he offered Augustus muffs and gloves and felt-lined boots and other oddities. In the end he had such a purchase that he couldn’t even consider carrying it—they would have to come in tomorrow and pick it up in the wagon, though he did wrap up a few things in case Lorie wanted to wear them to Clara’s. He bought her combs and brushes and a mirror—women liked to see themselves, he knew, and Lorena hadn’t had the opportunity since Fort Worth.

The one hotel was easy to find, but the restaurant in it was a smoky little room with no charm and only one diner, a somber man with mutton-chop whiskers. Augustus decided he would prefer a cheerful bar, but that proved not easy to find.

He went into one that had a huge rack of elk horns over the door and a clientele consisting mostly of mule skinners who hauled freight for the Army. None of the Hat Creek outfit was there, though he had seen a couple of their horses tied outside. They had probably gone straight to the whorehouse next door, he concluded. He ordered a bottle and a glass, but the boisterous mule skinners made so much racket he couldn’t enjoy his drinking. A middle-aged gambler with a thin mustache and a greasy cravat soon spotted him and came over.

“You look like a man who could tolerate a game of cards,” the gambler said. “My name is Shaw.” “Two-handed gambling don’t interest me,” Augustus said. “Anyway, it’s too rackety in here. It’s hard work just getting drunk when things are this loud.” “This ain’t the only whiskey joint in town,” Mr. Shaw said. “Maybe we could find one that’s quiet enough for you.” Just then a girl walked in, painted and powdered. Several of the mule skinners whooped at her, but she came over to where Augustus sat. She was skinny and could hardly have been more than seventeen.

“Now, Nellie, leave us be,” the gambler said. “We were about to go have a game.” Before the girl could answer, one of the mule skinners at the next table toppled backwards in his chair. He had gone to sleep with the chair tilted back, and he fell to the floor, to the amusement of his peers. The fall did not wake him—he sprawled on the saloon floor, dead drunk.

“Oh, go along, Shaw,” the girl said. “There ain’t but two of you. What kind of game would that be?” “I made that point myself,” Augustus said.

A bartender came over, got the drunk man by the collar and drug him out the door.

“Wanta go next door, Mister?” Nellie asked.

The gambler, to Augustus’s surprise, suddenly cuffed the girl—it was not a hard blow, but it surprised and embarrassed her.

“Now, here,” Augustus said. “There’s no excuse for that. The young lady was talking perfectly polite.” “She ain’t a lady, she’s a tart, and I won’t have her interfering with our pleasure,” the gambler said.Augustus stood up and pulled out a chair for Nellie.

“Sit down, miss,” he said. Then he turned to the gambler. “You scoot,” he said. “I don’t gamble with men who mistreat women.” The gambler had a ferretlike expression. He ignored Augustus and glared at the girl. “What have I told you?” he said.

“You’ll get a beating you won’t forget if you interfere with me again.” The girl trembled and seemed on the verge of tears.

“I won’t have a slut interrupting my play,” the gambler said.

Augustus hit the man in the chest so hard that he was knocked back onto the next table, amid three or four mule skinners. The mule skinners looked up in surprise—the gambler had the wind knocked out of him so thoroughly that he waved his arms in the air, his mouth open, afraid he would die before he could draw another breath.

Augustus paid him no more attention. The girl, after a moment, sat down, though she kept glancing nervously toward the gambler. A big mule skinner shoved him unceremoniously off the table, and he was now on his hands and knees, still trying to get his breath.

“He ain’t hurt,” Augustus assured the girl. “Would you like a sip of whiskey?” “Yeah,” the girl said, and when the bartender brought a glass, quaffed the whiskey Augustus poured her. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the gambler, though. He had managed to breathe again, and was standing by the bar, holding his chest.

“Have you had trouble with that fellow before?” Augustus asked.