“Then why didn’t you kill him?” Call asked. “Why didn’t you bring the woman into camp? He’ll butcher her and the boy too if he comes back.” “That’s two questions,” Augustus said. “He didn’t introduce himself at first, and once he did, he was ready. It would have been touch and go who got kilt. I might have got him or at least wounded him, but I’d have probably got wounded in the process and I don’t feel like traveling with no wound.” “Why’d you leave the woman?” “She didn’t want to come and I don’t think he’s after her,” Augustus said. “I think he’s after horses. I sent Deets to track him—he won’t get Lorie with Deets on his trail, and if he’s circling and means to make a play for our horses, Deets will figure it out.” “Maybe,” Call said. “Maybe that killer will figure it out first and lay for Deets. I’d hate to lose Deets.” Pea Eye, who had been standing around waiting for the Irishman to cook the evening’s meat, suddenly felt his appetite going. Blue Duck sounded just like the big Indian of his dreams, the one who was always in the process of knifing him when he woke up.
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“I might meet a lady,” he said. “You can look for the cook.” They rode east and soon picked up the wagon trail into Austin, but they had not followed it far when Augustus suddenly swung his horse to the north.
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He still worked the drags; as the grass improved the work was a little less dusty. He mainly rode along with the Rainey boys, discussing things they might see up the trail. A major topic of speculation was whether the Indians had actually been whipped or not.
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Once he rejoined the boys, there would be little she could do about it. After all, she would be safer there than she would be on the trail. Beautiful as she was, she would do well in Austin.
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The cattle, still fresh to the trail, were not easily controlled. The brush was bad, the weather no better. It rained for three days and the mosquitoes were terrible. The men were not used to the night work and were irritable as hens. Bert Borum and Soupy Jones had an argument over how to hobble a horse and almost came to blows. Lippy had been put in charge of firewood, and the wood he cut didn’t suit Bolivar, who was affronted by Lippy’s very presence. Deets had fallen into one of his rare glooms, probably because he felt partly to blame for the boy’s death.
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Then, as the sun was falling, he had what seemed like a stroke of luck. He heard someone yelling, and he rode into a little clearing near the trail only to discover that the reason there was a clearing was that a farmer had cut down the trees.
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The next day he felt so tired he could barely stay in the saddle, and Memphis was almost as tired. The excitement of the first day had left them both worn out. Neither had much interest in their surroundings, and Roscoe had no sense at all that he was getting any closer to catching up with July. Fortunately there was a well-marked Army trail between Fort Smith and Texas, and he and Memphis plodded along it all day, stopping frequently to rest.
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Call had taken the precaution of buying a lead steer from the Pumphreys—a big, docile longhorn they called Old Dog. The steer had never been to Montana, of course, but he had led several herds to Matagorda Bay. Call figured the old steer would at least last until they had the herd well trail-broken.
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“I don’t want to go to San Antone,” she said. “I been there.” Jake was taken aback. “Why, it’s a good gambling town,” he said. “We ain’t rich yet. It wouldn’t hurt us to stop for a week, while the boys get the herd started good. Then we can catch up.” “I don’t like to go back to places,” Lorena said. “It’s bad luck.” “Yes, and it would be worse luck to get up the trail and run out of money.” “That’s all right, Jake,” Augustus said, flinging the dregs of his coffee into a chaparral bush. “I’ll be glad to keep tabs on Lorie while you run into town and lose your wad.”“What makes you think I’d lose it?” Jake said, his face darkening.
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“WELL, HERE’S WHERE we all find out if we was meant to be cowboys,” Augustus said—for he had no doubt that Deets would soon be proved right about the coming storm. “Too bad it couldn’t wait a day or two until some of you boys had more practice,” he added. “I expect half of you will get trampled before the night is over, leaving me no way to collect my just debts.” “We have to expect it,” Call said. “It’s the stormy time of the year.” Still, a sandstorm at night, with a herd that wasn’t trail-broken and a green crew of men, was not going to be anything to look forward to.
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Peach looked disgusted. “Of course she had shoes on,” she said. “She wasn’t that crazy.” “Well, I don’t see no shoes in this cabin, men’s or women’s,” Roscoe said. “If she’s gone, I guess she wore ’em.” They went out and walked around the cabin. Roscoe was hoping to find a trail, but there were weeds all around the cabin, wet with dew, and all he did was get his pants legs wet. He was growing more and more uneasy—if Elmira was just in hiding from Peach he wished she’d give up and come out. If July came back and found his new wife missing, there was no telling how upset he’d be.
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“Make it twenty-six hundred cattle and two pigs,” he said. “I guess we’ve seen the last of the dern Rio Grande. One of us ought to make a speech, Call. Think of how long we’ve rode this river.” Call was not willing to indulge him in any dramatics. He mounted the mare and went over to help the boys get the cattle started. It was not a hard task. Most of the cattle were still wild as antelope and instinctively moved away from the horsemen. In a few minutes they were on the trail, strung out for more than a mile. The point riders soon disappeared in the low brush.
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ALTHOUGH HE KNEW they wouldn’t leave until the heat of the day was over, Newt felt so excited that he didn’t miss sleep and could hardly eat. The Captain had made it final: they were leaving that day. He had told all the hands that they ought to see to their equipment; once they got on the trail, opportunities for repair work might be scarce.
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Augustus found a small crowbar among the tools the man had cavalierly abandoned, and rode up the street to the Hat Creek corrals, where he easily pried his sign off the fence. The Dutch ovens were more resistant. They showed signs of crumbling, so he left them. There would be no time for leisurely biscuit making on the trail anyway.
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“Why, it’s the only herd on the trail that’s got two Irish baritones to sing to it,” Augustus said.
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Lorena kept looking out the window. It was as if her mind had already left Lonesome Dove and moved up the trail. Jake sat up and put his arms around her. He loved the way she smelled in the mornings; he liked to sniff at her shoulders or her throat. He did it again. She didn’t reject these little morning attentions, but she didn’t encourage them either. She waited for him to leave and go buy the horse, running over in her mind the few things she could take with her. There was not much. Her favorite thing was a mother-of-pearl comb Tinkersley had bought her when they first got to San Antonio.
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Jake stood looking out the window while she stripped the bed. He sipped his whiskey but didn’t mention the trail again.
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“Ain’t decided,” Bert said. “Might tie a few jugs to my horse. Jugs are good floats.” “Where would you get a dern jug on a cattle drive?” Jasper asked. “If the Captain was to catch you with a jug, he’d want to know who drank the whiskey out of it.” Jake was tolerant of the cowboys but careful to keep himself a bit apart from them. He never chimed in when they talked about the life they would have on the trail, and he never spoke to Lorena about the fact that the herd would be leaving in ten days. He didn’t work much on the branding, either, though once in a while he spent a night helping them gather more stock. Mostly he let it appear that the drive had nothing to do with him.
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When he got within fifteen miles of Lonesome Dove he cut west, thinking they would be holding the herd in that direction. He rode around the southern edge of the bad brush country and struck the trail of the horses. They had beengoing back south, over their own tracks, which was curious. Gus had taken them back to town. Probably he had a reason, but it was not one Call could guess, so he loped on home.
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By the time he had mulled the prospect for thirty minutes, Dish was in a fever. He had to have another shot or else carry some sharp regrets with him up the trail. Some might think it irresponsible—Captain Call, for one, certainly would—but he could not stand all night in chunking distance of Lorena and not go see her.
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As usual, though, life moved faster than he had intended it to. Call would come back with a lot of cowboys and he would practically have to marry Lorie in order to get out of going up the trail. Then, if he did set his foot down and stay in Lonesome Dove, who knew but what some lawman from Fort Smith would show up and drag him off to hang? Just as he had been in the mood to slow down, his own loose mouth had gotten him in trouble.
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“No, son, you’ve overshot the snow,” Augustus said. “What we have down here is sand.” Call felt his impatience rising. The night had been far more successful than he could have hoped. They could keep the best horses and sell the rest—the profits would easily enable them to hire a crew and outfit a wagon for the trip north. Then all they would have to do would be gather the cattle and brand them. If everyone would work like they should, it could all be accomplished in three weeks, and they could be on the trail by the first of April—none too soon, considering the distance they had to go. The problem would be getting everyone to work like they should. Jake was already off with his whore, and Augustus hadn’t had breakfast.
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“Well, we may see you up the trail, then,” he said to Call. “I wouldn’t aim for Montana, though. Too far, too cold, full of bears and I don’t know about the Indians. They may be beat but I wouldn’t count on it. You might end up making some a present of a fine herd of beef.” “We’ll try not to,” Call said.
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“Running off Mexican horses isn’t a job,” Wilbarger said. “It’s merely a gamble. You’ve the look of a cowboy, and I’m about to start up the trail with three thousand head.” “So are we,” Call said, amused that the man would try to hire a hand out from under him with him sitting there.
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“Well, we’re here,” he said. “Let’s take ’em.” “It’s a bunch,” Pea said. “We won’t have to come back for a while.” “We won’t never come back,” Call said. “We’ll sell some and take the rest with us to Montana.” Life was finally starting, Newt thought. Here he was below the border, about to run off a huge horse herd, and in a few days or weeks he would be going up the trail to a place he had barely even heard of. Most of the cowpokes who went north from Lonesome Dove just went to Kansas and thought that was far—but Montana must be twice as far. He couldn’t imagine what such a place would look like. Jake had said it had buffalo and mountains, two things he had never seen, and snow, the hardest thing of all to imagine. He had seen ridges and hills, and so had a notion about mountains, and he had seen pictures of buffalo in the papers that the stage drivers sometimes left Mr. Gus.
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