Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“Who asked that old man to make such a racket?” he asked. “Why don’t somebody shoot him?” “If we shoot him we’ll have Gus for a cook,” Call said. “In that case we’ll have to eat talk, or else starve to death listening.” “You could do worse than to listen to me,” Augustus said.

Dish Boggett had risen again. His eyes had a wide, glassy look, and he held himself carefully, as if afraid that another fall would break him like glass.

“What happened to you?” Call asked.

“Why, Captain,” Dish said, “I wish I could say.” “Why can’t you say?” “Because I can’t remember,” Dish said.

“Aw, he’s all right,” Augustus said. “He just wanted to see how fast he could drink two bottles of whiskey.” “Who put him up to that?” Call asked.

“Not me,” Augustus said.

“Not me, neither,” Jake said, grinning. “All I done was offer to hunt a funnel. I believe he could have got it down a little faster if he’d had a funnel.” “I can ride, Captain,” Dish said. “Once I get on a horse it’ll all wear off.” “I hope you’re right,” Call said. “I’ll not keep a man in my crew who can’t do his job.” Bolivar was still clanging the bell, which caused Jake to look more out of temper.

“Hell, if this is the Fourth of July I’ll set off my own firecrackers,” he said, taking out his pistol. Before anybody could say a word, he shot three times in the general direction of the house. The clanging continued as if the shots hadn’t happened, but Newt, at least, was shocked. It seemed a reckless way to act, even if Bol was making too much noise.

“If you’re that trigger-happy, no wonder you’re on the run,” Augustus said. “If you want to stop the noise, go hit him in the head with a brick.” “Why walk when you can shoot?” Jake asked with another grin.

Call said nothing. He had noticed that Jake actually raised his barrel enough to eliminate any danger to their cook. It was typical—Jake always liked to act meaner than he was.

“If you men want grub, you better go get it,” he said. “Sundown would be the time to leave.” After supper Jake and Augustus went outside to smoke and spit. Dish sat on the Dutch oven, sipping black coffee and squeezing his temples with one hand—each temple felt like someone had given it a sharp rap with a small ax. Deets and Newt started for the lots to catch the horses, Newt very conscious of the fact that he was the only one in the group without a sidearm. Deets had an old Walker Colt the size of a ham, which he only wore when he went on trips, since even he wouldn’t have been stout enough to carry it all day without wearing down.

The Captain had gone to the lots ahead of them, since it took a little time to get the Hell Bitch saddled. He had her snubbed to the post when Deets and Newt arrived. When Newt walked in the barn to get a rope, the Captain turned and handed him a holstered pistol and a gun belt.

“Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it,” he added, a little solemnly.

Newt took the gun and slipped it out of its holster. It smelted faintly of oil—the Captain must have oiled it that day. It was not the first time he had held a pistol, of course. Mr. Gus had given him thorough training in pistol shooting and had even complimented him on his skill. But holding one and actually having one of your own were two different things. He turned the cylinder of the Colt and listened to the small, clear clicks it made. The grip was wood, the barrel cool and blue; the holster had kept a faint smell of saddle soap. He slipped the gun back in its holster, put the gun belt around his waist and felt the gun’s solid weight against his hip. When he walked out into the lots to catch his horse, he felt grown and complete for the first time in his life. The sun was just easing down toward the Western horizon, the bullbats weredipping toward the stone stock tank that Deets and the Captain had built long ago. Deets had already caught Mr. Gus’s horse, a big solid sorrel they called Mud Pie, and was catching his own mount. Newt shook out a loop, and on the first throw caught his own favorite, a dun gelding he called Mouse. He felt he could even rope better with the gun on his hip.

“Oh, my, they done put a gun on you, ain’t they,” Deets said with a big grin. “I guess next thing you’ll be boss of us all.” No thought that ambitious had ever crossed Newt’s mind. The summit of his hopes had been to be one of the crew—to be allowed to go along and do whatever there was to do. But Deets had said it as a joke, and Newt was in the perfect mood to take a joke.

“That’s right,” he said. “I ’spect they’ll make me boss any day. And the first thing I’ll do is raise your wages.” Deets slapped his leg and laughed, the thought was so funny. When the rest of the outfit finally wandered down from the house they found the two of them grinning back and forth at one another.

“Look at ’em,” Augustus said. “You’d think they just discovered teeth.” As the day died and the afterglow stretched upward in the soft, empty sky, the Hat Creek outfit, seven strong, crossed the river and rode southeast, toward the Hacienda Flores.

THE FIRST DIFFERENCE Newt noticed about being grown up was that time didn’t pass as slow. The minute they crossed the river the Captain struck southeast in a long trot, and in no time the land darkened and they were riding by moonlight, still in a long trot. Since he had never been allowed in Mexico, except once in a while in one of the small villages down the river when they were buying stock legitimately, he didn’t really know what to expect, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so dark and empty. Pea Eye and Mr. Gus were always talking about how thick the bandits were, and yet the seven of them rode for two hours into country that seemed to contain nothing except itself. They saw no lights, heard no sounds—they just rode, across shallow gullies, through thinning chaparral, farther and farther from the river. Once in a while the Captain stepped up the pace and they traveled in a short lope, but mostly he stuck with the trot. Since Mouse had an easy trot and a hard lope, Newt was happy with the gait.

He was in the middle of the company. It was Pea Eye’s traditional job to watch the rear. Newt rode beside Dish Boggett, who had not said one word since leaving and whose state Newt couldn’t judge, though at least he hadn’t fallen off his horse. The thin moon lit the sky but not the ground. The only landmarks were shadows, low shadows, mostly made by chaparral and mesquite. Of course, it was not Newt’s place to worry about the route, but it occurred to him that he had better try to keep some sense of where he was in case he got separated from the outfit and had to find his own way back.

But the farther they rode, the more lost he felt; about all he knew for sure was that the river was on his left. He tried to watch the Captain and Mr. Gus and to recognize the landmarks they were guiding the outfit by. But he could detect nothing. They did not seem to be paying much attention to the terrain. It was only when they loped over a ridge and surprised a sizable herd of longhorns that the Captain drew rein. The cattle, spooked by the seven riders, were already running away.

By this time the stars were bright, and the Milky Way like a long speckled cloud. Without a word the Captain got off.

Stepping to the end of his rein, he began to relieve himself. One by one the other men dismounted and did the same, turning slightly so as not to be pointed at one another. Newt thought he had better do what the others were doing, but to his embarrassment could not make water. All he could do was button up again and hope nobody had noticed.

In the silence that followed the pissing they could still hear the sound of running cattle, the only sound to be heard other than the breath of the horses or the occasional jingling spur. The Captain seemed to feel the horses deserved a short rest; he stayed on the ground, looking in the direction of the fleeing cattle.

“Them cattle could be had for the taking,” he said. “Anybody get a count?” “No, I never,” Augustus said, as if he would be the only one who could possibly have made a count.

“Oh, was them cattle?” Jake said. “I thought they was dern antelope. They went over the ridge so fast I never got a look.” “It’s lucky they run west,” Call said.