Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“Let’s save one for Montana,” Newt said. “There might not be no more towns.” But his cautions fell on deaf ears. Pete Spettle and the others consumed their share of the candy with dispatch.

While they were finishing it they saw Dish Boggett come walking around the side of a saloon across the street.

“Let’s ask him where the whores are,” Ben suggested. “I doubt we can find any by ourselves.” They caught up with Dish by the livery stable. He didn’t look to be in high spirits, but at least he was walking straight, which was more than could be said for the men who had returned to camp.

“What are you sprouts doing in town?” he asked.

“We want a whore,” Ben said.

“Go around to the back of that saloon, then,” Dish said. “You’ll find plenty.” Dish now rode a fine little mare he called Sugar. In disposition, she was the opposite of the Hell Bitch. She was almost like a pet. Dish would take tidbits from his plate and feed them to her by hand. He claimed she had the best night vision ofany horse he had ever seen—in all their stampedes she had never stepped in a hole.

He delighted in her so much that he always gave her a brushing before he saddled her, keeping a little horse brush in his saddlebag just for that purpose.

“How much do they cost?” Jimmy Rainey asked, referring to the whores. The thought that some were only a few steps away made them all a little nervous.

“It depends on how long you intend to stay upstairs,” Dish said. “I met a nice one named Mary, but they ain’t all like her.

There’s one they call the Buffalo Heifer—somebody would have to offer me a month’s wages before I’d get near her, but I expect she’d do for you sprouts. You can’t expect top quality your first time off.” As they were talking, a party of some half-dozen soldiers came riding up the street, led by the big scout, Dixon.

“There come them soldiers again,” Newt said.

Dish hardly glanced at the soldiers. “I guess the rest of them got lost.” He had brushed Sugar and was just preparing to saddle her when the scout and the soldiers suddenly trotted over their way.

Newt felt nervous—he knew there had almost been serious trouble with the soldiers. He glanced at the Captain and Mr.

Gus, who were loading a water barrel into the wagon. Evidently they had decided to take Po Campo’s advice.

Dixon, who looked ungodly big to Newt, rode his black gelding practically on top of Dish Boggett before he stopped. Dish, cool as ice, put the saddle blanket on the mare and paid him no mind.

“How much for the filly?” Dixon asked. “She’s got a stylish look.” “Not for sale,” Dish said, reaching down for his saddle.

As he stooped, Dixon leaned over him and spat a stream of tobacco juice on the back of Dish’s neck. The brown juice hit Dish at the hairline and dripped down under the collar of his loose shirt.

Dish straightened up and put his hand to his neck. When he saw the tobacco juice his face flushed.

“You dern cowboys are too fond of your horses,” Dixon said. “I’m fair tired of being told your ponies ain’t for sale.” “This one ain’t, for damn sure, and anyway you won’t be in no shape to ride when I get through with you,” Dish said, barely controlling his voice. “I’d hate to think I’d let a man spit on me and then ride off.” Dixon spat again. This time, since Dish was facing him, the juice hit him square in the breast. Dixon and the soldiers all laughed.

“Are you going to dismount or will you require me to come and drag you off that pile of soap bones you’re riding?” Dish asked, meeting the big man’s eye.

“Well, ain’t you a tomcat,” Dixon said, grinning. He spat at Dish again, but Dish ducked the stream of tobacco juice and leaped for the man. He meant to knock the scout off the other side of the horse, but Dixon was too strong and too quick.

Though no one had seen it, he held a long-barreled pistol in his off hand, and when Dish grappled with him he used it like a club, hitting Dish twice in the head with the butt.

To Newt’s horror, Dish crumpled without a sound—he slid down the side of Dixon’s horse and flopped on his back on the ground. Blood poured from a gash over his ear, staining his dark hair. His hat fell off and Newt picked it up, not knowing what else to do.

Dixon stuffed his pistol back in its holster. He spat once more at Dish and reached to take the filly’s reins. He reached down, undid the girth, and dumped Dish’s saddle on the ground.

“That’ll teach you to sass me, cowboy,” he said. Then he glanced at the boys. “He can send the bill for this mare to the U.S. Army,” Dixon said. “That is if he ever remembers there was a mare, when he wakes up.” Newt was all but paralyzed with worry. He had seen the pistol butt strike Dish twice, and for all he knew Dish was dead. It had happened so quickly that Ben Rainey still had his hands in the sack of candy.