Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“Got a rabbit and a frog,” she said. “You want ’em fried up?” “I never et no frog,” Roscoe said. “Who eats frogs?” “You just eat the legs,” the girl said. “Gimme your knife.” Roscoe handed it over. The girl rapidly skinned the cottontail, which was indeed plump. Then she whacked the knife into the frog, threw the top half into the creek and peeled the skin off the legs with her teeth. Roscoe had a few simple utensils in his saddlebag, which she got without a word from him. Roscoe assumed the stings must be affecting him because he felt like he was in a dream. He wasn’t asleep, but he felt no inclination to move. The top half of the frog, its dangling guts pale in the water, drifted over to shore. Two gray turtles surfaced and began to nibble at the guts. Roscoe mainly watched the turtles while the girl made a little fire and cooked the rabbit and the frog legs. To his surprise, the frog legs kept hopping out of the pan as if the frog was still alive.

However, when she got them cooked, he ate one and was very pleased with the taste. Then he and the girl divided the rabbit and ate it to the last bite, throwing the bones into the creek. The combination of rabbit and frog innards had caused quite a congregation of turtles to collect.

“Niggers eat turtles,” the girl said, cracking a rabbit bone between her teeth.

“They eat most anything,” Roscoe said. “I guess they can’t be choosy.” After the meal, Roscoe felt less lightheaded. The girl sat a few feet away, staring into the waters of the creek. She seemed just a child. Her legs were muddy from wading in the creek, her arms still bruised from her troubles with old Sam. Some of the bruises were blue, others had faded to yellow. The cotton-sack dress was torn in several places.

The problem of what to do about her began to weigh on Roscoe’s mind. It had been nice of her to feed him, but that didn’t answer the question of what was to be done with her. Old Sam had not looked like a man who would take kindly to losing something he regarded as his property. He might be trailing them at that very moment, and since they weren’t far from the cabin he might be about to catch up.

“I guess that old man will be coming after you,” Roscoe said, feeling nervous.

“Nope,” the girl said.“Well, he said you was his,” Roscoe said. “Why wouldn’t he come after you?” “He’s got rheumatism in his knees,” the girl said.

“Don’t he have a horse?” “No, it foundered,” she said. “Besides, I took the big pan and whacked him across the knees to keep him still a few days.” “My goodness,” Roscoe said. “You’re a rough customer, I guess.” The girl shook her head. “I ain’t rough,” she said. “Old Sam was rough.” She took the utensils to the creek and washed them before putting them back in the packs.

Roscoe was painfully aware that he had to make a decision. It was near midday and he had only covered a few miles. The girl was a handy person to have along on a trip, he had to admit. On the other hand, she was a runaway, and it would all be hard to explain to July.

“Don’t you have no folks?” he asked, hoping there was a relative somewhere ahead whom he could leave the girl with.

She shook her head. “They died,” she said. “I had a brother but the Indians run off with him. Ma died and Pa went crazy and shot himself. I lived with a Dutchman till Bill got me.” “My lord,” Roscoe said. “Who was this Bill?” A look of unhappiness crossed the girl’s face. “Bill was taking me to Fort Worth,” she said. “Then he run across old Sam up there by Waco and they got drunk and Sam traded for me.

She never explained who Bill was, but Roscoe let it go. He decided to put off deciding what to do about her for at least a day. His wasp stings were paining him and he didn’t feel he could make a competent decision when he could only see out of one eye. Maybe they would hit a settlement and he could find some nice family who needed help. They might take her off his hands.

The only problem was the one horse. It didn’t seem right for him to ride and her to walk. Of course, she weighed next to nothing. It wouldn’t hurt Memphis to carry them both.

“You best come for a day or two,” he said. “Maybe we can find you someplace better than where you left. I’d hate for you to have to go back.” “I ain’t going back,” the girl said. “Old Sam would kill me.” When Roscoe offered her a stirrup up, she looked at him strangely.

“I don’t mind the walk,” she said.

“Well, we got to hurry,” he said. “July’s way ahead. Jump up here.” The girl did. Memphis looked annoyed, but he was too lazy to put up a fuss. The girl hooked her toes in the girth and held onto the saddle strings.

NORTH OF SAN ANTONIO the country finally began to open up, to the relief of everyone. Two weeks of mesquite had tried everyone’s patience. Gradually the mesquite thinned and the country became less heavily wooded. The grass was better and the cattle easier to handle. They grazed their way north so slowly most days that Newt felt it would take forever just to get out of Texas, much less make it to Montana.

He still worked the drags; as the grass improved the work was a little less dusty. He mainly rode along with the Rainey boys, discussing things they might see up the trail. A major topic of speculation was whether the Indians had actually been whipped or not.

At night around the campfire there were always Indian stories being told, mostly by Mr. Gus. Once the crew had settled into the rhythm of night work, the Captain took to doing what he always done: he removed himself from the company a little distance. Almost every night he would catch the Hell Bitch and ride away. It puzzled some of the men.

“Reckon he don’t like the way we smell?” Bert Borum asked.

“If that’s what it is, I don’t blame him,” Jasper said. “Pea needs to wash his underwear more than twice a year.” “The Captain likes to go off,” Pea said, ignoring the remark about his underwear.

Augustus was in a card game with the Irishman and Lippy. The stakes were theoretical, since he had already won six months of their wages.

“Woodrow likes to be out where he can sniff the wind,” he said. “It makes him feel smart. Of course he would be the first one massacred if there was any smart Indians left.” “I hope there ain’t none,” Lippy remarked.

“They wouldn’t want you,” Augustus said. “They don’t bother with crazies.” “I wisht we’d get a cook,” Jasper said. “I’m dern tired of eating slop.” It was a common complaint. Since Bolivar’s departure the food had been uneven, various men trying their hand at cooking. Call had ridden into several settlements, hoping to find someone they could hire as cook, but he had had no luck.

Augustus usually cooked breakfast, catering to his own interest entirely and drawing many complaints because he favored scrambling eggs—a style several hands, Dish Boggett in particular, found revolting.