Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“Next time you come, why don’t you just catch a grizzly bear and ride him in?” Gill said. “I’d rather stable a grizzly than this mare.” “She bite you or what?” “No, but she’s biding her time,” the old man said. “Take her away so I can relax. I ain’t been drunk this early in several years, and it’s just from having her around.” “We’re leaving,” Call said.

“Now, why would you keep a creature like that?” the old man said, once Call had her saddled.

“Because I like to be horseback when I’m horseback,” Call said.

Old man Gill was not persuaded. “Hope you like to be dead when you’re dead, then,” he said. “I reckon she’s deadlier than a cobra.” “I reckon you talk too much,” Call said, feeling more and more that he didn’t care for Miles City.

He found the old trapper, Hugh Auld, sitting in front of the dry goods store. It was a cloudy day and a cool wind blew. The wind had a wintry feel, though it had been hot the day before. Call knew they didn’t have long before winter, and his men were poorly equipped.

“Can you drive a wagon?” he asked old Hugh.

“Yes, I can whip a mule as good as anybody else,” Hugh said.

Call bought supplies—not only coats and overshoes and gloves but building supplies as well. He managed to rent the wagon he had carried the salt in, promising to return it when possible.

“You’re restless,” Old Hugh said. “You go on. I’ll creep along in this wagon and catch you north of the Musselshell.” Call rode back toward the herd, but at a fairly slow pace. In the afternoon he stopped and sat for several hours by a little stream. Ordinarily he would have felt guilty for not heading back to the boys right away, but Gus’s death had changed that. Gus was not a person he had expected to outlive; now that he had, much was different. Gus had always been lucky—everybody said so, and he said so himself. Only Gus’s luck ran out. Jake’s had run out, Deets’s had run out; both deaths were unexpected, both sad, terribly sad, but Call believed them. He had seen them both with his own eyes. And, believing in the deaths, he had put them behind him.

He had seen Gus die, too—or seen him dying, at least—but it seemed he hadn’t started believing it. Gus had left, and that was final, but Call felt too confused even to feel sad. Gus had been so much himself to the end that he wouldn’t let even his death be an occasion—it had just felt like one of their many arguments that normally would be resumed in a few days.

This time it wouldn’t be resumed, and Call found he couldn’t adjust to the change. He felt so alone that he didn’t really want to go back to the outfit. The herd and the men no longer seemed to have anything to do with him. Nothing had anything to do with him, unless it was the mare. For his part he would just as soon have ridden around Montana aloneuntil the Indians jumped him, too. It wasn’t that he even missed Gus yet all that much. Only yesterday they had talked, as they had talked for thirty years.

Call felt some resentment, as he almost always had when thinking of his friend. Gus had died and left the world without taking him with him, so that once again he was left to do the work. He had always done the work—only he suddenly no longer believed in the work. Gus had tricked him out of his belief, as easily as if cheating at cards. All his work, and it hadn’t saved anyone, or slowed the moment of their going by a minute.

Finally, as night fell, he mounted and rode on, not anxious to get anywhere, but tired of sitting. He rode on, his mind a blank, until the next afternoon, when he spotted the herd.

The cattle were spread for three miles over the great plain, grazing peacefully along. No sooner had the hands spotted him than Dish and Needle Nelson came racing over. Both looked scared.

“Captain, we seen some Indians,” Dish said. “There was a bunch of them but they didn’t attack us yet.” “What did they do?” Call asked.

“Just sat on a hill and watched us,” Needle Nelson said. “We were going to give them two of these slow beeves if they’d ask, but they didn’t ask.” “How many in the bunch?” “We didn’t count,” Dish said. “But it was a bunch.” “Women and children with them?” Call asked.

“Oh yes, a passel,” Needle said.

“They seldom drag their womenfolk into battle,” Call said. “Probably Crow. I’m told the Crow are peaceful.” “Did you find Gus?” Dish asked. “Pea can’t talk about nothing else.” “I found him. He’s dead,” Call said.

The men were turning their horses to go back to the herd. They stopped as if frozen.

“Gus is dead?” Needle Nelson asked.

Call nodded. He knew he would have to tell the story, but didn’t want to have to tell it a dozen times. He trotted on over to the wagon, which Lippy was driving. Pea Eye sat in the back end, resting. He was still barefoot, though Call saw at once that his feet were better. When he saw Call riding in alone he looked worried.

“Did they carry him off, Captain?” he asked.

“No, he made it to Miles City,” Call said. “But he had blood poisoning in both legs from those arrows, and he died day before yesterday.” “Well, I swear,” Pea Eye said, “I wished he hadn’t.

“I got away and Gus died,” he added sadly. “Wouldn’t you figure it’d be the other way around?” “I would if I had to make odds,” Jasper Fant said. He was close by and had loped over in time to hear.

Newt heard the facts from Dish, who soon rode around the herd, telling the boys. Many of them loped into the wagon to get more details, but Newt didn’t. He felt like he had the morning he saw Deets dead—like turning away. If he never went to the wagon, he would never have to hear any more. He cried all afternoon, riding as far back on the drags as he could get. For once he was grateful for the dust the herd raised.