Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“There’s more than a million species of insect and only one species of human being,” the man said. “When we finish up with this planet the insects will take over. You may not think it, seeing all this fair land, but the days of the human race are numbered. The insects are waiting their turn.” July decided the man was mildly touched, but probably no danger to himself or anyone. “I’d watch these crossings, if I were you. Cross where the deer cross and you’ll be all right,” he said.

The man turned his blue eyes on July for a moment. “Why, son, I’m fine,” he said. “You’re the one in trouble. I can see you carry a weight on your heart. You’re hurrying along to do something you may not want to do. I see by your badge that you’re a lawman. But the crimes the law can understand are not the worst crimes. I have often sinned worse than the murderer, and yet I try to live in virtue.” July was so taken aback he hardly knew what to say. This Mr. Sedgwick was one of the queerest men he had ever met.

“This boy looks a little peaked,” Mr. Sedgwick said. “You can leave him with me, if you like. I’ll bring him along slow, fatten him up and teach him about the insect kingdom as we travel. I doubt he’s had much chance to get an education.” July was half tempted. The stranger seemed kindly. On the other hand he wore a sidearm under his coat, so perhaps he wasn’t as kindly as he looked.

“It may be we’ll meet down the road,” July said, ignoring the offer.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Sedgwick said. “I see you’re in a hurry to get someplace. It’s a great mistake to hurry.” “Why?” Joe asked, puzzled by almost everything the traveler said.

“Because the grave’s our destination,” Mr. Sedgwick said. “Those who hurry usually get to it quicker than those who take their time. Now, me, I travel, and when I’ll get anywhere is anybody’s guess. If you two hadn’t come along I’d have likely stood there in the river for another hour or two. The moving waters are ever a beautiful sight.” Mr. Sedgwick turned and walked down the riverbank without another word. From time to time he squatted to peer closely at the ground.“I reckon he’s spotted a bug,” Joe said.

July didn’t answer. Crazy or not, the tall traveler had been smart enough to figure out that the sheriff of Fort Smith was traveling with a heavy heart.

THE DEATH OF the young Irishman cast a heavy gloom over the cow camp. Call could do nothing about it. For the next week it seemed no one talked of anything but the death.

At night while they were having their grub, or just waiting for their turn at night herding to start, the cowboys talked endlessly about deaths they had witnessed, deaths they had heard about. Most of them had lived through rough times and had seen men die, but no one of their acquaintance had ridden into a nest of snakes in a river, and they could not keep the subject off their tongues.

The worst, by far, was Jasper Fant, who was so unnerved by what he had seen that for a time Call felt he might be losing his mind. Jasper had never been reticent, but now it seemed he had to be talking every waking minute as a means of holding his own fears in balance.

Allen O’Brien had the opposite response. He rode all day in silence, as nervous and withdrawn as the Spettle brothers. He would sit by the fire crying while the others talked of memorable deaths.

The cattle, still fresh to the trail, were not easily controlled. The brush was bad, the weather no better. It rained for three days and the mosquitoes were terrible. The men were not used to the night work and were irritable as hens. Bert Borum and Soupy Jones had an argument over how to hobble a horse and almost came to blows. Lippy had been put in charge of firewood, and the wood he cut didn’t suit Bolivar, who was affronted by Lippy’s very presence. Deets had fallen into one of his rare glooms, probably because he felt partly to blame for the boy’s death.

Dish Boggett was proving a treasure as a point man. He kept the point all day, true as a rule, and little happened with the cattle that he didn’t see.

By contrast the Rainey boys were disappointing. Both had taken homesick, missing their jolly mother and her well-stocked table. They drug around listlessly, not actually shirking their work but taking a long time to do it.

Augustus roamed freely about the outfit. Sometimes he rode ahead of the herd, which put Dish Boggett in a bad mood—nobody was supposed to be ahead of him except the scout. Other days Augustus would idle along with his pigs, who frequently stopped to wallow in puddles or root rats out of their holes.

Everyone had been dreading the next river, which was the San Antonio. There was much controversy about how far north moccasins could live—were they in the Cimarron, the Arkansas, the Platte? No one knew for sure, but everyone knew there were plenty in the San Antonio river.

One morning after breakfast Deets came back to say he had found a shallow crossing only a mile or two from the camp.

“What’s the snake population?” Augustus asked. It was another gray wet day and he was wearing his big yellow slicker.

“Seen a few turtles, that’s all,” Deets said. “If they’re there, they’re hid.” “I hope they ain’t there,” Augustus said. “If a mouse snake was to show itself now, half these waddies would climb a tree.” “I’m more worried about Indians,” Pea Eye said.

It was true. The minute they left Lonesome Dove he had begun to have his big Indian dreams. The same big Indian he had dreamed about for years had come back to haunt his sleep. Sometimes just dozing on his horse he would dream about the Indian. He slept poorly, as a result, and felt he would be tired and good for nothing by the time they reached Montana.

“It’s curious how things get in your head,” he said. “I’ve got an Indian in mine.” “I expect your ma told you you’d be stolt, when you was young,” Augustus said.

He and Call rode over to the crossing and looked carefully for snakes, but saw none.

“I wish you’d stop talking about that boy’s death,” Call said. “If you would maybe they’d get over it.” “Wrong theory,” Augustus said. “Talk’s the way to kill it. Anything gets boring if you talk about it enough, even death.” They sat on the bank of the river, waiting for the herd to come in sight. When it did, the Texas bull was walking along beside Old Dog. Some days the bull liked to lead, other days he did nothing but fight or worry the heifers.

“This ain’t a well-thought-out journey,” Augustus remarked. “Even if we get these cattle to Montana, who are we gonna sell ’em to?” “The point ain’t to sell ’em next week,” Call said. “The point is to get the land. The people will be coming.” “Why are we taking that ugly bull?” Augustus asked. “If the land’s all that pretty, it don’t need a lot of ugly cattle on it.” To their relief the crossing went off well. The only commotion was caused by Jasper, who charged the river at a gallop and caused his horse to stumble and nearly fall.

“That might have worked if there’d been a bridge,” Soupy Jones said, laughing.Jasper was embarrassed. He knew he couldn’t run a horse across a river, but at the last minute a fear of snakes had overcome him and blocked out his common sense.