“I’ve funds in a bank in San Antonio,” Augustus said. “Also I own half a cattle herd. It ought to be north of the Yellowstone by now.” “I brought pen and ink,” the doctor said. “If I were you I’d make your will while you’re still sober.” Augustus drank all afternoon and did not use the pen or ink. Once, when the music stopped, he looked out the window and saw a skinny pockmarked girl in a black dress standing in the street looking up at him curiously. He waved but could not be sure she saw him. He took another twenty-dollar gold piece from his pants pocket and sailed it out the window toward her. It landed in the street, to the puzzlement of the girl. She walked over and picked up the gold piece, looking up.
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Augustus suddenly grew faint. “Give her twenty dollars out of my pants and tell her to keep playing,” he said. “And shove this bed a little closer to the window—it’s stuffy in here.” The doctor managed to shove the bed over near the window, but the effort tired him so that he sat back down in the chair where he had been dozing.
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“I understand your attachment to your own appendages,” he said, opening the bandage. He winced when he looked at the wound, but kept working. “I don’t want to cut your other leg off bad enough to get shot in the process. However, you’ll die if you don’t reconsider. That’s a plain fact.” “Go buy me some more whiskey,” Augustus said. “There’s money in my pants. Is that girl playing the piano a whore?” “Yes, her name is Dora,” the doctor said. “Consumptive, I’m afraid. She’ll never see Philadelphia again.” He began to wrap the leg in a clean bandage.
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Worse than that, he almost immediately lost the little bundle of boots and pants, shirt, all his provisions and part of his ammunition. He had reached down with one hand to try and move the rifle a little higher up on his leg, and the water sucked the bundle away and swept it far ahead of him. Pea Eye began to realize he was going to drown unless he did better than he was doing. The water pushed him under several times. He wanted badly to climb up the bank but was by no means sure he was past the Indians. Gus said to go down at least a mile, and he wasn’t sure he had gone that far. The water had a suck to it that he had constantly to fight against; to his horror he felt it sucking his pants off. He had been so disconsolate when he walked into the river that he had not buckled his belt tightly. He had nothing much in the way of hips, and the water sucked his pants down past them. The rifle sight was gouging him in the leg. He grabbed the rifle, but then went under. The dragging pants, with the rifle in one leg, were drowning him. He began to try frantically to get them off, so as to have the free use of his legs. He wanted to cuss Gus for having suggested sticking the rifle in his pants leg. He could never get it out in time to shoot an Indian, if one appeared, and it was causing him terrible aggravation. He fought to the surface again, went under, and when he came up wanted to yell for help, and then remembered there would be no one around to hear him but Indians. Then his leg was almost jerked off—he had been swept close to the bank and the dragging gun had caught in some underbrush. The bank was only a few feet away and he tried to claw over to it, but that didn’t work. While he was struggling, the pants came off and he was swept down the river backwards. One minute he could see the south bank of the river, and the next minute all he could see was water. Twice he opened his mouth to suck in air and sucked in water instead, some of which came back out his nose. His legs and feet were so numb from the cold water that he couldn’t feel them.
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As soon as he reached swimming depth, he forgot Gus and everything else, due to a fear of drowning. The icy water pushed him under at once. Floating wasn’t as easy as Gus had made it seem. The rifle was a big problem. Stuck in his pants leg, it seemed to weigh like lead. Also, he had no experience in such fast water. Several times he got swept over to the side of the creek and almost got tangled in the underbrush that the rushing water covered.
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“Stick it through your belt and down your pants leg,” Augustus said. “You can float downstream, you won’t actually have to swim much.” Pea Eye took off his boots and his shirt and made a bundle of them. Then he did as Gus ordered and stuck his rifle through his belt. He stuffed some jerky in one boot for provisions. All he needed to do was leave, but it was hard.
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“Well, my lord,” he said, from time to time. “My lord.” An Indian boy had killed him, the Captain said. Deets was still wearing a pair of the old patchy quilt pants that he had favored for so long. Pea Eye scarcely knew what to think. He and Deets had been the main hired help on the Hat Creek outfit ever since there had been a Hat Creek outfit. Now it was down to him. It would mean a lot more chores for him, undoubtedly, for the Captain only trusted the two of them with certain chores. He remembered that he and Deets had had a pretty good conversation once. He had been vaguely planning to have another one with him if the chance came along. Of course that was off, now. Pea Eye went over and leaned against a wagon wheel, wishing he could stop feeling weak in the legs.
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The day remained fair, and the picnic was a great success for everyone except Captain Call and July Johnson, both of whom felt awkward and merely waited for it to be over. The girls tried to get July to wade in the Platte, but he resisted solemnly. Newt waded, and then Lorena, rolling up her pants, and Lorena and Betsey walked far downstream, out of sight of the party. The baby dozed in the shade, while Clara and Augustus bantered. The sixteen-year gap in their communications proved no hindrance at all. Then Augustus rolled up his pants and waded with the girls, while Clara and Lorena watched. All the food was consumed, Call drinking about half the buttermilk himself. He had always loved buttermilk and had not had any for a long time.
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“Is it just the two of you?” he asked, buttoning his pants. He had built up a certain curiosity about Mary, and despite all his embarrassments decided he might try to visit her if he ever got another ten.
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“You’ll have to come back next time you draw your wages,” she said. “Pull up your pants and send in that other tadpole.” As Newt got off the bed, he remembered Lorena suddenly. This was what she had done during all those months at the Dry Bean, with any man who had drawn his wages. He felt a terrible regret that he hadn’t had the ten dollars then.
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“I don’t get paid for watching cowboys wrestle with their dern boots, so I just leave the sheets off the bed. If they can’t shuck ’em quick, they have to do it with them on.” Meanwhile she had unbuttoned his pants and reached for his peter, which, once it was freed, met her halfway at least.
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“The problem with cowboys is all the time it takes to get their boots off,” she confided, as she was unbuttoning his pants.
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“Well, skin them pants off, Texas,” she said, and to his astonishment, unbuttoned three buttons on the front of her gown and pitched it on the bed. She stood before him naked and, since he was too startled to move, reached down and unbuckled his pants.
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The old man looked mainly at his leg. July had forgotten how ugly it looked—he had even forgotten it was still yellowish and almost bare, for he had cut his pants leg off when the leg was so swollen.
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When he awoke it was to severe pain and a right leg so swollen that he had to cut his pants open to see what was wrong.
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Little Eddie giggled his nervous giggle again as he watched his brother set the dead men’s clothes on fire. Even with the coal oil it wasn’t easy—Dan had to splash them several times before he got their clothes wet enough to blaze. But finally he did, and the clothes flared up. It was a terrible sight. Jake thought he wouldn’t look, but despite himself he did. The men’s sweaty clothes were burned right off them, and their scraggly beards seared. A few rags of clothes fell off beneath their feet. The men’s pants burned off, leaving their belts and a few shreds of cloth around their waists.
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“You boys ought to go home and teach school,” he said. “It’s all you’re good for.”“What did you expect me to do?” Roy asked. “I can’t see in the dark.” Dan walked over and looked down at Frog Lip. He ignored his brothers. He knelt down and pulled the Negro’s bloodstained shirt loose from his pants, exposing the wound. After a second he stood up.
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“I know I put three into him,” Dan Suggs said. “He must have slept with the damn reins in his hand or he’d have never got to His horse.” Frog Lip lay on the ground, still gripping his rifle. His eyes were wide open and he was breathing as heavily as a horse after a long run. His wound was in the groin—his pants were wet with blood. The rising sun shone in his face, which was bearded with sweat.
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He had been lounging in the shade of the store, but he stood up and carefully dusted his pants.
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I’ll shoot him while he sleeps.” “I’ll tell him that,” Elmira said. “Maybe he won’t sleep. Maybe he’ll kill you, while you’re at it.” “What have you got against me?” Luke said. “I mostly treat you nice.” “You knocked me off the wagon,” she said. “If that’s nice treatment I’ll pass.” “I only want a little,” Luke said. “Only once. We’re still a long ways from Nebraska. I can’t go that long.”The next day he caught her off guard and shoved her back in the wagon by the hides. He was on her like a terrier, but she kicked and scratched, and before he could do anything the mules took fright and started to run away. Luke had to grab the reins with his pants half down, and when he did Elmira grabbed Zwey’s extra rifle. When Luke got the mules stopped, he found a buffalo gun pointed at him.
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CALL AND DISH were just getting into their dry pants when Augustus came riding up. It was not until they heard the sound of his horse crushing the hailstones that they turned around. Call saw at once that Gus was riding a different horse from the one on which he had ridden off, but he himself looked fit.
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“Hell, I can’t help her,” Monkey John said. “You heard him. He gave her to them.” One of the Kiowas understood the talk and was angered. He pulled his knife and stood over Dog Face threateningly. Dog Face continued to moan. Then the Kiowa sat on his chest and Dog Face screamed, a weak scream. The rest of the Indians jumped for him. He was too weak even to lift a hand. One Kiowa cut his belt and two more pulled his pants off. Before Lorena could even turn her head, they castrated him. Another slashed a knife across his forehead and began to rip off his hair. Dog Face screamed again, but it was soon muffled as the Kiowas held his head and stuffed his own bloody organsinto his mouth, shoving them down his throat with the handle of a knife. His hair was soon ripped off and the Kiowa took the scalp and tied it to his lance. Dog Face struggled for breath, a pool of blood beneath his legs. Yet he wasn’t dead.
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Roscoe managed to get his pants to hold together pretty well although they were full of holes. As predicted, he could not get his boots on. Joe helped, but the two of them made no headway.
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“I guess you wouldn’t be the first man to lie,” Jim said, picking at the seams of his pants to see if he had any greenbacks sewed in them.
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Lorena didn’t care what he said. Her legs wouldn’t work, but she wanted the water so bad she crawled to it, getting her pants muddy, and her arms. She couldn’t drink fast enough—in gulping the water she got some up her nose. While she was drinking, Blue Duck waded in beside her and pulled her up by her hair.
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