Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“Lucky for who?” Augustus asked.

“For us,” Call said. “We can come back and pick them up tomorrow night. I bet it was four hundred or more.” “Them of us that wants to can, I guess,” Augustus said. “I ain’t worked two nights running since I can remember.” “You never worked two nights running,” Jake said as he swung back up on his horse. “Not unless you was working at a lady, anyhow.” “How far have we come, Deets?” Call asked. Deets had one amazing skill—he could judge distances traveled better than any man Call had ever known. And he could do it in the daytime, at night, in all weathers, and in brush.

“It’s five miles yet to the out camp,” Deets said. “It’s a little ways north, too.” “Let’s bear around it,” Call said.

Augustus considered that an absurd precaution. “’I god,” he said. “The dern camp’s five miles away. We can likely slip past it without going clear around by Mexico City.” “It don’t hurt to give it room,” Call said. “We might scare some more cattle. I’ve known men who could hear the sound of running cattle a long way off.” “I couldn’t hear Jehovah’s trumpet from no five miles off,” Augustus said. “Anyway, we ain’t the only thing in this country that can spook cattle. A lobo wolf can spook them, or a lion.” “I didn’t ask for a speech,” Call said. “It’s foolish to take chances.” “Some might think it foolish to try and steal horses from the best-armed ranch in northern Mexico,” Augustus said.

“Pedro must work about a hundred vaqueros.” “Yes, but they’re spread around, and most of them can’t shoot,” Call said.

“Most of us can’t, either,” Augustus said. “Dish and Newt ain’t never spilt blood, and one of ’em’s drunk anyway.” “Gus, you’d talk to a possum,” Jake said.“I wisht we had one along,” Augustus said. “I’ve seen possums that could outthink this crowd.” After that, the talk died and they all slipped back into the rhythm of the ride. Newt tried hard to stay alert, but their pace was so steady that after a while he stopped thinking and just rode, Deets in front of him, Dish beside him, Pea behind. If he had been sleepy he could almost have gone to sleep at a high trot, it was all so regular.

Dish Boggett had ridden off the worst of his drunk, though there were moments when he still felt queasy. Dish had spent most of his life on a horse and could ride in any condition short of paralysis; he had no trouble keeping his place in the group. In time his head quit throbbing and he felt well enough to take an interest in the proceedings at hand. He was not troubled by any sense of being lost, or any apprehension about Mexican bandits. He was confident of his mount and prepared to outrun any trouble that couldn’t be otherwise handled. His main trouble was that he was riding just behind Jake Spoon and thus was reminded of what had happened in the saloon every time he looked up. He knew he had become a poor second in Lorena’s affections to the man just in front of him, and the knowledge rankled. The one consoling thought was that there might be gunplay before the night was over—Dish had never been in a gun battle but he reasoned that if bullets flew thick and fast Jake might stop one of them, which could change the whole situation. It wasn’t exactly that Dish hoped he’d be killed outright—maybe just wounded enough that they’d have to leave him someplace downriver where there might be a doctor.

More than once they spotted bunches of longhorn cattle, all of whom ran like deer at the approach of the horsemen.

“Why, hell, if we was to start to Montana with cattle like these, we’d be there in a week,” Augustus said. “A horse couldn’t keep up with them, nor a steam locomotive neither.” “The big camp, Captain,” Deets said, “it’s over the ridge.” “We don’t want the camp, we want the horse herd,” Augustus said in his full voice.

“Talk up, Gus,” Jake said. “If you talk a little louder they’ll probably bring the horse herd to us, only they’ll be riding it.” “Well, they’re just a bunch of bean eaters,” Augustus said. “As long as they don’t fart in my direction I ain’t worried.” Call turned south. The closer they were to action, the more jocularity bothered him. It seemed to him that men who had been in bad fights and seen death and injury ought to develop a little respect for the dangers of their trade. The last thing he wanted to do at such times was talk—a man who was talking couldn’t listen to the country, and might miss hearing something that would make the crucial difference.

Gus’s disregard of common sense in such matters was legendary. Jake appeared to have the same disregard, but Call knew his was mostly bluff. Gus started the joking, and Jake felt like he had to keep up his end of it, because he wanted to be thought a cool customer.

In fact, though, Gus McCrae was a cool customer, perhaps the coolest Call had ever known—and he had known many men who didn’t scare easy. His disregard of danger was so complete that Call initially thought he must want to die. He had known men who did want to die—who for some reason had ended up with a dislike of life—and most of them had got the death they wanted. In Texas, in his time, getting killed was easy.

But Gus loved to live and had no intention of letting anyone do him out of any of his pleasures. Call finally decided his coolness was just a by-product of his general vanity and overconfidence. Call himself spent plenty of time on self- appraisal. He knew what he could certainly do, and what he might do if he was lucky, and what he couldn’t do barring a miracle. The problem with Gus was that he regarded himself as the miracle, in such situations. He treated danger with light contempt or open scorn, and scorn was about all he seemed to have for Pedro Flores, although Pedro had held onto his stony empire through forty violent years.

Of course, when trouble came Gus was reliable, but the only man in the outfit who was really much help as a planner .

was Deets. Nobody expected Deets to talk, which left him free to pay attention, and he paid careful attention, often noticing things that Call had overlooked, or confirming judgments that Call felt uncertain about. Even Gus was quick to admit that Deets had the best hearing in the outfit, although Deets himself claimed to rely just as much on his sense of smell—a claim Augustus poked fun at.

“What does trouble smell like then?” he asked. “I never noticed it had an odor. You right sure you ain’t just smelling yourself?” But Deets would never explain himself or allow Gus to draw him very deeply into argument. “How do the coyote know?” he sometimes replied.

When they had ridden south two or three more miles, Call drew rein. “There’s another out camp off this way,” he said.

“His wranglers stay in it. I doubt there’s more than one or two of them, but we don’t want one to get loose to warn the big house. We best sneak in and catch them. Me and Deets can do it.” “Them vaqueros are probably drunk by now,” Augustus said. “Drunk and asleep both.”“We’ll split,” Call said. “You and Jake and Pea and Dish go get the horses. We’ll catch the wranglers.” Only after he said it did he remember the boy. He had forgotten he was along. Of course it would have been safer for the boy to go after the horse herd, but the order had been given and he never liked to change his plan once one was struck.

Augustus dismounted and tightened his cinch a notch. “I hope we don’t strike too many gullies,” he said. “I dislike jumping gullies in the dark.” Newt’s heart gave a little jump when he realized the Captain meant to keep him with him. It must mean the Captain thought he was worth something, after all, though he had no idea how to catch a wrangler, Mexican or otherwise.

Once the group split up, Call slowed his pace. He was inwardly annoyed with himself for not sending the boy with Gus. He and Deets had worked together so long that very little talk was needed between them. Deets just did what needed to be done, silently. But the boy wouldn’t know what needed to be done and might blunder into the way.

“You reckon they keep a dog?” Call asked—a dog was likely to bark at anything, and a smart vaquero would heed it and take immediate precautions.

Deets shook his head. “A dog would already be barking,” he said. “Maybe the dog got snakebit.” Newt gripped his reins tightly and mashed his hat down on his head every few minutes—he didn’t want to lose his hat.

Two worries see-sawed in his mind: that he might get killed or that he might make a stupid blunder and displease the Captain. Neither was pleasant to contemplate.

Call stopped and dismounted when it seemed to him they were about a quarter of a mile from the camp. The boy did the same, but Deets, for some reason, still sat his horse. Call looked at him and was about to speak, but Deets lifted his big hand. He apparently heard something they didn’t hear.

“What is it?” Call whispered.