Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“I have to take Gus back,” he said. “I guess I’ll be gone a year. You’ll have to be the range boss. Pea will help you, and the rest are mostly reliable, though I think that Irishman is homesick and might go home.” Newt didn’t know what to say. He looked at the Captain.

“That woman gets half the money when you sell stock,” Call said. “It was Gus’s request. You can bank it for her in Miles City. I’ll tell her it’s there when I see her.” Newt could hardly believe he would be made boss over the men. He expected more orders, but the Captain turned away.

Later in the morning, he and Pea Eye and Needle were riding the banks of the Milk, seeing if any cattle were bogged. They were always bogging. Getting them out was hard, muddy work, but it had to be done; if it rained, the river might rise in the night and drown the bogged animals.The day was cold and blowy. Newt had to wade out into the mud three times to lift the hind ends of the bogged yearlings, while Needle roped the animals by the head and drug them out. Newt scraped the mud off his legs as best he could, put his pants back on, and was getting ready to turn back toward headquarters when he saw the Captain riding toward them.

He was riding the Hell Bitch and leading Greasy, the big mule that had come with them all the way from Texas, and a rangy dun named Jerry, the mount he preferred after the Hell Bitch. Augustus’s old sign was tied to the pack mule.

“I guess the Captain’s going,” Pea Eye said. “He’s taking old Greasy and an extra horse.” Newt felt his spirits sink. He knew the Captain had to leave, and yet he hoped he wouldn’t—not for another few days anyway.

Call rode up to the three men, dismounted and, to everyone’s surprise unsaddled the Hell Bitch and put the saddle on Jerry. Then he led the Hell Bitch over to where Newt stood.

“See how your saddle fits her,” Call said.

Newt was so surprised he could only look at the Captain in silence. He thought he must have misunderstood. No one but the Captain had ridden the mare since the Hat Creek outfit had acquired her.

“Do what?” he asked finally.

“Put your saddle on her,” Call said. He felt tired and was finding it difficult to speak. He felt at any moment he might choke.

“I doubt she’d like it,” Newt said, looking at the mare, who pointed her ears at him as if she knew what had been said. But the Captain didn’t take back the order, so he unsaddled the little sorrel he had been riding, the one Clara had given him, and carried his saddle over to the mare. Call held the bridle while Newt saddled her. Then he handed Newt the reins and went over and took his big Henry out of its scabbard. He removed the Winchester from the boy’s saddle and stuck the Henry in his saddle scabbard. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do.

“You’ll need it for them big bears,” he said.

When he turned back to look at the boy the choking feeling almost overcame him. He decided he would tell the boy he was his son, as Gus had wanted him to. He thought they would ride away a little distance, so they could speak in private.

And yet, when he looked at Newt, standing there in the cold wind, with Canada behind him, Call found he couldn’t speak at all. It was as if his whole life had suddenly lodged in his throat, a raw bite he could neither spit out nor swallow. He had once seen a Ranger choke to death on a tough bite of buffalo meat, and he felt that he was choking, too—choking on himself. He felt he had failed in all he had tried to be: the good boy standing there was evidence of it. The shame he felt was so strong it stopped the words in his throat. Night after night, sitting in front of Wilbarger’s tent, he had struggled with thoughts so bitter that he had not even felt the Montana cold. All his life he had preached honesty to his men and had summarily discharged those who were not capable of it, though they had mostly only lied about duties neglected or orders sloppily executed. He himself was far worse, for he had been dishonest about his own son, who stood not ten feet away, holding the reins of the Hell Bitch.

Call thought he might yet say it, even if the men were there to hear. He trembled from the effort, and his trembling and the look on his face caused great consternation in Pea Eye, who had never known the Captain to be at a loss for words.

The Captain would ride up and give an order, and that was that—but now he merely stood looking at Newt, a jerking in his throat.

Looking at the Captain, Newt began to feel sadder than he had ever felt in his life. Just go on, he wanted to say. Go on, if it’s that hard. He didn’t want the Captain to go on, of course. He felt too young; he didn’t want to be left with it all. He felt he couldn’t bear what was happening, it was so surprising. Five minutes before, he had been pulling a yearling out of a bog. Now the Captain had given him his horse and his gun, and stood with a look of suffering on his face. Even Sean O’Brien, dying of a dozen snakebites, had not shown so much pain. Go on, then, Newt thought. Just let it be. It’s been this way always. Let it be, Captain.

Call walked the few steps to the boy and squeezed his arm so hard Newt thought his fingers had pinched the bone. Then he turned and tried to mount the dun. He had to try for the stirrup three times before he could mount. He wished he had died on the Musselshell with Gus. It would have been easier than knowing he could not be honest. His own son stood there—surely, it was true; after doubting it for years, his own mind told him over and over that it was true—yet he couldn’t call him a son. His honesty was lost, had long been lost, and he only wanted to leave.

When he mounted, the feeling loosened a bit and he fell back into the habit he had vowed to discard—the habit of leading.

“There’s two heifers bogged yet,” he said. “They’re half a mile downstream. You better go get them.” Then he rode over and shook Pea Eye’s hand. Pea Eye was so astonished he couldn’t close his mouth. Gus had nevershaken his hand until the last minute, and now the Captain was shaking it too.

“Help Newt,” Call said. “He’ll need a steady man, and you qualify if anybody ever did.” He raised his hand to Needle Nelson and turned his horse.

“So long, boys,” he said.

But he looked again at Newt. The boy looked so lonesome that he was reminded of his own father, who had never been comfortable with people. His father had fallen drunk out of a barn loft in Mississippi and broken his neck. Call remembered the watch that had been passed on to him, an old pocket watch with a thin gold case. He had carried it since he was a boy. He raised up in his stirrups, took it out of his pocket and handed it to Newt.

“It was my pa’s,” he said, and turned and left.

“Dern, Newt,” Pea Eye said, more astonished than he had ever been in his life. “He gave you his horse and his gun and that watch. He acts like you’re his kin.” “No, I ain’t kin to nobody in this world,” Newt said bitterly. “I don’t want to be. I won’t be.” Despair in his heart, he mounted the Hell Bitch as if he had ridden her for years, and turned downstream. He felt he never wanted to hope for anything again, and yet no more than a minute later the strange hope struck him that the Captain might have turned back. He might have forgotten something—perhaps an order he had meant to give. Even that he would have welcomed. It felt so lonely to think of the Captain being gone. But when he turned to look, the Captain was merely a speck on the long plain. He was gone, and things would never be as Newt had hoped—never. Somehow it had been too hard for the Captain, and he had left.