Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“I was setting a deadfall and let it fall on me,” Old Hugh explained cheerfully. “Some Blood warriors found me. They thought it was funny, but my back never did straighten out.” “We all have misfortunes,” Augustus said. “Could I borrow your horse?” “Take it, only don’t kick him,” Old Hugh said. “If you kick him he’ll buck. I’ll follow along as best I can in case you fall off.” He led the spotted horse over and helped Augustus mount. Augustus thought he might pass out, but managed not to. He looked at Old Hugh.

“You sure you get along with these Indians?” he asked. “I’d be embarrassed if you came to any trouble on my account.” “I won’t,” Old Hugh said. “They’re off stuffing themselves with fresh buffalo meat. I was invited to join ’em but I think I’ll poke along after you, even though I don’t know where you come from.” “A little fart of a town called Lonesome Dove,” Augustus said. “It’s in south Texas, on the Rio Grande.” “Dern,” the old man said, clearly impressed by the information. “You’re a traveling son of a bitch, ain’t you?” “Does this horse have a name?” Augustus asked. “I might need to speak to him.” “I been calling him Custer,” Old Hugh said. “I done a little scouting for the General once.” Augustus paused a minute, looking down at the old trapper. “I got one more favor to ask you,” he said. “Tie me on. I ain’t got strength enough to mount again if I should fall.” The old man was surprised. “I guess you’ve learned some tricks, with all your traveling,” he said. He fixed a rawhide loop around Augustus’s waist and made it tight to the cantle.

“Let’s go, Custer,” Augustus said, giving the horse rein and remembering not to kick him.

Five hours later, as the sun was setting, he nudged the exhausted horse over a slope north of the Yellowstone and saw the little town of Miles City four or five miles to the east.

When he got to town it was nearly dark. He stopped in front of what appeared to be a saloon but found he could not dismount. Then he remembered that he was tied on. He couldn’t untie the knots in the rawhide, but managed to draw his pistol and fire in the air. The first shot seemed to go unnoticed, but when he fired twice more several men came to thedoor of the saloon and looked at him.

“That’s Old Hugh’s horse,” one said in a sullen voice, as if he suspected Augustus of horse theft.

“Yes, Mr. Auld was kind enough to loan him to me,” Augustus said, staring the man down. “I’ve a ruined leg and would appreciate it if someone would locate me a medical man quick.” The men walked out and came around the horse. When they saw the leg, one whistled.

“What done that?” he asked.

“An arrow,” Augustus said.

“Who are you, sir?” the oldest of the men asked, more respectfully.

“Augustus McCrae, Captain in the Texas Rangers,” Augustus said. “One of you gentlemen will need to help me with these knots.” They hurried to help, but before they could get him off the horse the red water washed over his eyes again. The spotted horse named Custer didn’t like so many men around him. He tried to bite one of them, then bucked twice, throwing Augustus, who had just been untied, into the street. Two of the men tried to catch the horse but he easily outran them and raced back out of town.

AUGUSTUS FLOATED in the red water. Sometimes he saw faces, heard voices, saw more faces. He saw Bolivar and Lippy, his two wives, his three sisters. He saw men long dead whom he had rangered with, saw Pedro Flores and Pea Eye and a redheaded whore he had taken up with for a month in his riverboating days. He sloshed helplessly back and forth, as if something were churning the water.

When the redness receded and he opened his eyes again, he heard a piano playing in the distance. He was in bed in a small hot room. Through the open window he could see the great Montana prairie. Looking around, he noticed a small fat man dozing in a chair nearby. The man wore a black frock coat sprinkled with dandruff. A bottle of whiskey and an old bowler hat nearly as disreputable as Lippy’s sat on a small bureau. The fat man was snoring peacefully.

Feeling considerable pain, Augustus looked down and saw that his left leg was gone. The stump had been bandaged, but the bandage was leaking. Blood seeped through it, though it was a thick bandage.

“If you’re the sawbones, wake up and stop this drip,” Augustus said. He felt irritable and sad, and wished the whiskey bottle were in reach.

The little fat man jerked as if poked with a fork, and opened his eyes. His cheeks were red-streaked—from excessive drinking, Augustus supposed. He put both hands on his head as if surprised that it was still there.

“And pass the whiskey, if you can spare any,” Augustus added. “I hope you ain’t thrown my leg away.” The doctor jerked again, as if every statement pricked him.

“You’ve got a mighty healthy voice for a sick man,” the doctor said. “In this room, such a voice is a tight fit.” “Well, it’s the only voice I got,” Augustus said.

The doctor put his hands to his temple again. “It strikes my temples like a ten-pound hammer,” he said. “Though I’m sorry to complain. The truth is I don’t feel well myself.” “You probably drink too much,” Augustus said. “If you’ll hand me the bottle I’ll reduce your temptations.” The doctor did, but not before taking a swig. Augustus took several while the doctor shuffled around and stood looking out the window. Across the street the piano was still playing.

“That girl plays beautifully,” the doctor said. “They say she studied music in Philadelphia when she was younger.” “How old is she now?” Augustus asked. “Maybe I’ll send her a bouquet.” The doctor smiled. “It’s plain you’re a man of spirit,” he said. “That’s good. I’m afraid you’ve a few fractuosities yet to endure.” “A few what?” Augustus asked. “You better introduce yourself before you start talking Latin.” “Dr. Mobley,” the man said. “Joseph C. Mobley, to be precise. The C stands for Cincinnatus.” “More Latin, I guess,” Augustus said. “Explain that first bunch of Latin you talked.” “I mean we’ve got to take off that other leg,” Dr. Mobley said. “I should have done it while you were out, but frankly, getting the left leg off exhausted me.” “It’s a good thing,” Augustus said. “If you’d hacked off my right leg, you’d be the one who was out. I need that right leg.” His gun belt was hanging over a chair nearby, and he reached out and took his pistol from the holster.

The doctor looked around, reaching out his hand for the whiskey bottle. Augustus gave it to him and he took a long drink and handed it back.

“I understand your attachment to your own appendages,” he said, opening the bandage. He winced when he looked at the wound, but kept working. “I don’t want to cut your other leg off bad enough to get shot in the process. However, you’ll die if you don’t reconsider. That’s a plain fact.” “Go buy me some more whiskey,” Augustus said. “There’s money in my pants. Is that girl playing the piano a whore?” “Yes, her name is Dora,” the doctor said. “Consumptive, I’m afraid. She’ll never see Philadelphia again.” He began to wrap the leg in a clean bandage.

Augustus suddenly grew faint. “Give her twenty dollars out of my pants and tell her to keep playing,” he said. “And shove this bed a little closer to the window—it’s stuffy in here.” The doctor managed to shove the bed over near the window, but the effort tired him so that he sat back down in the chair where he had been dozing.

Augustus recovered a little. He watched the doctor a moment. “Physician, heal thyself, ain’t that what they say?” he remarked.

Dr. Mobley chuckled unhappily. “That’s what they say,” he said. He breathed heavily for a time, and then stood up.“I’ll go get the whiskey,” he said. “While I’m about it, I’d advise you to take a sober look at your prospects. If you persist in your attachment to your right leg it’ll be the last opportunity you have to take a sober look at anything.” “Don’t forget to tip that girl,” Augustus said. “Hurry back with my whiskey and bring a glass.” Dr. Mobley turned at the door. “We should operate today,” he said. “Within the hour, in fact, although we could wait long enough for you to get thoroughly drunk, if that would help. There’s men enough around here to hold you down, and I think I could have that leg off in fifteen minutes.” “You ain’t getting that leg,” Augustus said. “I might could get by without the one, but I can’t without both.” “I assure you the alternative is gloomy,” Dr. Mobley said. “Why close your own case? You’ve a taste for music and you seem to have funds. Why not spend the next few years listening to whores play the piano?” “You said the girl was dying,” Augustus said. “Just go get the whiskey.” Dr. Mobley returned a little later with two bottles of whiskey and a glass. A young giant of a man, so tall he had to stoop to get in the room, followed him.