Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“He’s a haughty son of a bitch,” Bert Borum said. “He acted like he never knowed a one of us.” “He tolt me I smelled like cowshit,” Needle said. “He was sitting there gambling and had some whore hanging over him.” “I wouldn’t say he misses that one that got took,” Soupy said.

Jasper Fant finally straggled in. Everyone was standing around grinning, though he couldn’t see why.

“Something must have happened funnier than what I been doing,” he said.

“A lot of things are funnier than vomiting,” Pea Eye said.

“Jasper missed the cobbler, that’s the laugh,” Allen O’Brien said, not feeling too frisky himself. “I used to be better at hangovers, back in Ireland. Of course, then I had one every day,” he reflected. “I had more practice.” When Jasper realized he had missed a dewberry cobbler, one of his favorite dishes, he threatened to quit the outfit, since they were so ungrateful. But he was too weak to carry out his threat. Po Campo forced him to eat a big spoonful of molasses as a headache cure, while the rest of the crew got the herd on the move.

“I guess the next excitement will be the old Red River,” Dish Boggett said, as he took the point.

JUST AS THE WORLD had been drying out nicely and the drive becoming enjoyable, in Newt’s view, it suddenly got very wet again. Two days before they hit the Red River low black clouds boiled out of the northwest like smoke off grease. It was springlike and fair in the morning, but before it was even afternoon the world turned to water.

It rained so hard for two hours that it was difficult even to see the cattle. Newt moped along on Mouse, feeling chilled and depressed. By this time, they were on a rolling plain bare of trees. There was nothing to get under except the sky.

They made a wet camp and Po Campo poured hot coffee down them by the gallon, but it still promised to be a miserable night. Po and Deets, the acknowledged experts on weather, discussed the situation and admitted they didn’t know when it might stop raining.

“It probably won’t rain a week,” Po Campo said, which cheered nobody up.

“Dern, it better not rain no week,” Jasper said. “Them rivers will be like oceans.” That night they all herded, not because the cattle were particularly restless but because it was drier on a horse than on the sopping ground. Newt began to think it had been a mistake to leave Lonesome Dove if it was going to be so wet. He remembered how dry and clear the days had been there. He and Mouse stumbled through the night somehow, though before morning he was so tired he had lost all interest in living.

The next day was no better. The skies were like iron, and Mr. Gus wasn’t back. He had been gone a long time, it seemed, and so had Lorena. Dish Boggett grew increasingly worried and took to confiding in Newt now and then. Newt respected his feelings, whereas the other hands were distinctly callous when it came to Dish’s feelings.

“Because of Jake we lost ’em both, I guess,” Dish said. “Jake is a goddamn bastard.” It was painful to Newt to have to think of Jake that way. He still remembered how Jake had played with him when he was a little child, and that Jake had made his mother get a lively, merry look in her eyes. All the years Jake had been gone, Newt had remembered him fondly and supposed that if he ever did come back he would be a hero. But it had to be admitted that Jake’s behavior since his return had not been heroic at all. It bordered on the cowardly, particularly his casual return to card playing once Lorena had been stolen.

“If she’s alive and Gus gets her back, I still aim to marry her,” Dish said, as rain poured off his hat in streams.

“Dern, we should be herding fish,” he said, a little later, holding the point nonetheless, though he hardly felt like it. If Lorena was indeed dead, he meant to stay clear of other women and grieve for her for a lifetime.

It was still raining when they came to the low banks of the Red River. The river was up somewhat, but it was still not a very wide channel or a very deep one. What worried Call was the approach to it—over a hundred yards of wet, rusty- colored sand. The Red was famous for its quicksands.

Deets sat with him, looking at the river thoughtfully. It had long represented the northern boundary of their activity. The land beyond the rusty sands was new to them.

“Do you think we ought to wait and let it go down?” Call asked.

“It ain’t going down,” Deets pointed out. “Still raining.” Dish came over to watch as Deets probed for a crossing, several times checking his horse and moving to the side to seek firmer footing.

“I guess this will spoil Jasper’s digestion,” he said, for Jasper’s sensitivity on the subject of rivers was becoming more pronounced. “We bogged sixty head of Mr. Pierce’s cattle in this very river, although that was over toward Arkansas. I must have had a hundred pounds of mud on my clothes before we got them out.” Deets put his horse into the surging water and was soon across the channel, but had to pick his way across another long expanse of sand before he was safely on the north bank. Evidently he didn’t like the crossing, because he waved the others back with his hat and loped away downriver. He was soon out of sight in the rain, but came back in an hour with news of a far better crossing downstream. By then the whole crew was nervous, for the Red was legendary for drowning cowboys, and the fact that they had nothing to do but sit and drip increased general anxiety.

But their fears were unfounded. The rain slowed and the sun broke through as they were easing the cattle across the mud flats toward the brownish water. Deets had found a gravel bar that made the entrance to the river almost as good as a road. Old Dog led the herd right in and was soon across and grazing on the long wet grass of the Oklahoma Territory. Five or six of the weaker cows bogged as they were coming out, but they were soon extracted. Dish and Soupy took off their clothes and waded into the mud and got ropes on the cows, and Bert Borum pulled them out.

The sight of the sun put the men in high spirits. Hadn’t they crossed the Red River and lived to tell about it? That night the Irishman sang for hours, and a few of the cowboys joined in—they had gradually learned a few of the Irish songs.

Sometimes Po Campo sang in Spanish. He had a low, throaty voice that always seemed like it was about to die for lack ofbreath. The songs bothered some of the men, they were so sad.

“Po, you’re a jolly fellow, how come you only sing about death?” Soupy asked. Po had a little rattle, made from a gourd, and he shook it when he sang. The rattle, plus his low throaty voice, made a curious effect.

The sound could make the hairs stand upon Pea Eye’s neck. “That’s right, Po. You do sing sad, for a happy man,” Pea Eye observed once, as the old man shook his gourd.