Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“If Joe was to get kilt I might court her again,” Augustus speculated.

“I hope you will,” Call said. “Them twelve young ones ought to have a good father. What are the horses doing back here so soon?” “Why, grazing, most likely,” Augustus said.

“Didn’t Pedro make a try?” “No, he didn’t, and for a very good reason,” Augustus said.

“What reason would that be?” “Because he died,” Augustus said.

“Well, I swear,” Call said, stunned. “Is that the truth?” “I ain’t seen the corpse,” Augustus said, “but I imagine it’s true. Jasper Fant rode in looking for work and had the news, though the scamp didn’t give it to me until I had wasted most of the night.” “I wonder what killed him,” Call said. Pedro Flores had been a factor in their lives off and on for thirty years, though probably they had not actually seen him more than six or seven times. It was surprising, hearing he was gone, and though it should have been a relief, it wasn’t, exactly. It was too much of a surprise.

“Jasper wasn’t up on the details,” Augustus said. “He just heard it from a vaquero. But I allow it’s true, because it explains why you could lope in with a boy and an idiot and saunter off with his remuda.” “Well, I swear,” Call said again. “I never expected that.” “Oh, well,” Augustus said, “I never either, but then I don’t know why not. Mexicans don’t have no special dispensation.

They die like the rest of us. I expect Bol will die one of these days, and then we won’t have nobody to whack the dinner bell with the crowbar.” “Pedro was tough, though,” Call said.

After all, the man had more or less held nearly a hundred-mile stretch of the border, and for nearly thirty years. Call had known many men who died, but somehow had not expected it of Pedro, though he himself had fired several bullets at him.

“I’d like to know what took him,” Call said.

“He might have choked on a pepper,” Augustus said. “Them that can’t be killed by knives or bullets usually break their necks falling off the porch or something. Remember Johnny Norvel, dying of that bee sting? I guess Johnny had been shot twenty times, but a dern bee killed him.” It was true. The man had rangered with them, and yet the bee sting had given him a seizure of some kind, and no one could bring him out of it.

“Well, it will about finish the Flores operation,” Augustus said. “He just had three boys, and we hung the only one of ’em with any get-up-and-go.” To Augustus’s surprise, Call sat down on the porch and took a big swallow from the jug. He felt curious—not sick but suddenly empty—it was the way a kick in the stomach could make you feel. It was an odd thing, but true, that the death of an enemy could affect you almost as much as the death of a friend. He had experienced it before, when news reached them that Kicking Wolf was dead. Some young soldier on his second patrol had made a lucky shot and killed him, on the Clear Fork of the Brazos—and Kicking Wolf had kept two companies of Rangers busy for twenty years. Killed by a private.Call had been shoeing a horse when Pea brought him that piece of news, and he felt so empty for a spell that he had to put off finishing the job.

That had been ten years ago, and he and Gus soon quit rangering. So far as Call was concerned, the death of Kicking Wolf meant the end of the Comanches, and thus the end of their real job. There were other chiefs, true, and the final fights were yet to be fought, but he had never had the vengeful nature of some Rangers and had no interest in spending a decade mopping up renegades and stragglers.

Pedro Flores was a far cry from being the fighter Kicking Wolf had been. Pedro seldom rode without twenty or thirty vaqueros to back him up, whereas Kicking Wolf, a small man no bigger than the boy, would raid San Antonio with five or six braves and manage to carry off three women and scare all the whites out of seven or eight counties just by traveling through them. But Pedro was of the same time, and had occupied them just as long.

“I didn’t know you liked that old bandit so much,” Augustus said.

“I didn’t like him,” Call said. “I just didn’t expect him to die.” “He probably never expected it neither,” Augustus said. “He was a rough old cob.” After a few minutes the empty feeling passed, but Call didn’t get to his feet. The sense that he needed to hurry, which had been with him most of his life, had disappeared for a space.

“We might as well go on to Montana,” he said. “The fun’s over around here.” Augustus snorted, amused by the way his friend’s mind worked.

“Call, there never was no fun around here,” he said. “And besides, you never had no fun in your life. You wasn’t made for fun. That’s my department.” “I used the wrong word, I guess,” Call said.

“Yes, but why did you?” Augustus said. “That’s the interesting part.” Call didn’t feel like getting drawn into an argument, so he kept quiet.

“First you run out of Indians, now you’ve run out of bandits, that’s the point,” Augustus said. “You’ve got to have somebody to outwit, don’t you?” “I don’t know why I’d need anybody when I’ve got you,” Call said.

“I don’t see why we just don’t take over northern Mexico, now that Pedro’s dead,” Augustus said. “It’s just down the dern street. I’m sure there’s still a few folks down there who’d give you a fight.” “I don’t need a fight,” Call said. “It won’t hurt us to make some money.” “It might,” Augustus said. “I might drown in the Republican River, like the Pumphrey boy. Then you’d get all the money.

You wouldn’t even know how to have fun with it. You’d probably use it to buy gravestones for old bandits you happened to like.” “If you drown in the Republican River, I’ll give your part to Jake,” Call said. “I guess he’d know how to spend it.’” With that he mounted and rode off, meaning to find Jasper Fant and hire him, if he really wanted to work.BY THE TIME Jake Spoon had been in Lonesome Dove ten days, Lorena knew she had a job to do—namely the job of holding him to his word and making sure he took her to San Francisco as he had promised to do.

Of course Jake had not given her any direct notice that he intended to do differently. He moved in with her immediately and was just as pleasant about everything as he had been the first day. He had not taken a cent of money from her, and they seldom passed an hour together without him complimenting her in some way—usually on her voice, or her looks, or the fine texture of her hair, or some delicacy of manner. He had a way of appearing always mildly surprised by her graces, and if anything his sentiments only grew warmer as they got to know one another better. He repeated several times his dismay at her having been stuck for so long in a dismal hole like Lonesome Dove.

But after a week, Lorena became aware of a curious thing: Jake was more attached to her than she was to him. The fact struck her late one afternoon while she was watching him nap. He had insisted on a root, and gone right to sleep afterward; while the sweat was cooling on them she realized she wasn’t excited about him in the way she had been the first day. The first day had been one of the big days of her life, because of the smooth way Jake had shown up and taken over, ending her long period of tension and discomfort.

She still felt peaceful with him; they had never quarreled and he had not demonstrated the slightest inclination to meanness. But it was clear to her already that he was one of those men somebody had to take care of. He had fooled her for a few days into thinking he would do the taking care of, but that wasn’t so. He was a clever cardplayer and could make money, but that was just part of it. Jake had to have company. When he slept, or when he was amused, or was just lolling around telling stories, the childish part of him showed, and it was a big part. Before the week was over it seemed to her that he was all play.

The realization didn’t disturb her calm, though. It meant he needed her more than he would admit; she recognized the need and didn’t care whether he admitted it or not. If Jake had been as firm as he pretended to be, it would have left her with little security. He could have just walked off.