“Dish, you take the right point,” Call said. “Soupy can take the left and Bert and Needle will back you up.” Dish had assumed that, as a top hand, he would have a point, and no one disputed his right, but both Bert and Needle were unhappy that Soupy had the other point. They had been with the outfit longer, and felt aggrieved.
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“It’s hard for normal men to relax around you, Call,” Augustus told him once. “You ain’t never been relaxed yourself, so you don’t know what you’re missing.” “Pshaw,” Call said. “Pea goes to sleep around me half the time. I guess that’s relaxed.” “No, that’s worn out,” Augustus said. “If you didn’t work him sixteen hours a day he’d be as nervous as the rest.” When Call had eaten, he took his plate back to Bolivar, who seemed to have decided to go along. He had made no move to leave, at least. Call wanted him along, and yet somehow didn’t feel quite right about it. It didn’t seem proper that a man with a wife and daughters would go away without even informing them, on a journey from which he might never return. The old pistolero didn’t owe the Hat Creek outfit that kind of effort, and Call reluctantly raised the subject with him.
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“I heard Jake was around but I don’t see him,” Soupy said. He and Jake had been close buddies once, and it was partly curiosity about him that made Soupy want to rejoin the Hat Creek outfit.
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“Where’d you come from, Soupy?” Augustus asked. “Didn’t we hear you was mayor of someplace. Or was it governor?” “I was just in Bastrop, Gus,” Soupy said. “Bastrop don’t have no mayor, or governor either. It’s barely a town.” “Well, we’re barely an outfit,” Augustus said, “though we got two fine pigs that just joined us last night. Are you looking for employment?” “Yes, my wife died,” Soupy said. “She was never strong,” he added, in the silence that followed the remark.
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“You’ll have to pardon the grub,” Augustus said. “Bol has learned to season but he forgot to learn to cook.” Bolivar was resting comfortably against a wagon wheel and ignored the sally. He was wavering in his mind whether to stay or go. He did not like travel—the thought of it made him unhappy. And yet, when he went home to Mexico he felt unhappy too, for his wife was disappointed in him and let him know it every day. He had never been sure what she wanted—after all, their children were beautiful—but whatever it was, he had not been able to give it to her. His daughters were his delight, but they would soon all marry and be gone, leaving him no protection from his wife. Probably he would shoot his wife if he went home. He had shot an irritating horse, right out from under himself. A man’s patience sometimes simply snapped. He had shot the horse right between the ears and then found it difficult to get the saddle off,once the horse fell. Probably he would shoot his wife in the same way, if he went home. Many times he had been tempted to shoot one or another of the members of the Hat Creek outfit, but of course if he did that he would be immediately shot in return. Every day he thought he might go home, but he didn’t. It was easier to stay and cut up a few snakes into the cook pot than to listen to his wife complain.
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Those feelings hadn’t come to the boy yet. He was a good boy, as gentle as the gray doves that came to peck for gravel on the flats behind the barn. He would try to do any task that was asked of him, and if he worried overmuch it was that he wasn’t good enough at his work to please the Captain. But then the whole outfit worried about that—all, at least, except Mr. Gus. Deets himself had fallen short a few times over the years and had felt the Captain’s displeasure afflict him like a bruise.
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Newt sometimes asked so many questions that Deets had to laugh—he was like a cistern, from which questions flowed instead of water. Some Deets answered and some he didn’t. He didn’t tell Newt all he knew. He didn’t tell him that even when life seemed easy, it kept on getting harder. Deets liked his work, liked being part of the outfit and having his name on the sign; yet he often felt sad. His main happiness consisted of sitting with his back against the water tank at night, watching the sky and the changing moon.
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Talking to Sean had made Newt curious about Ireland. Sean said the grass was thick as a carpet there. The description didn’t help much for Newt had never seen a carpet. The Hat Creek outfit possessed no rugs of any kind, or anything that was green. Newt had a hard time imagining how a whole country could be covered with green grass.
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“Yes, I think I will,” Jake said. He didn’t stop to pass the time; in a second he was out of sight in the shadows. It made Newt’s spirits fall a little, for Jake had seldom said two words to him since he came back. Newt had to admit that Jake was not much interested in him, or the rest of them either. He gave the impression of not exactly liking anything around the Hat Creek outfit.
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Call knew there was no point in reminding Jake that the whole drive had been his idea. The man was willful as a child in some respects. Show him what he ought to do and he would dig in his heels and refuse. It was particularly irritating in this instance, because nobody in the outfit had ever been farther north than Kansas. Jake knew the country and could be a big help.
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It seemed the Irishmen were part of the outfit, though. Their total inexperience was offset by an energy and a will to learn that impressed even Call. He let them stay in the first place, because he was so short-handed he couldn’t afford to turn away any willing hand. By the time more competent men arrived the Irishmen had gotten over their fear of horses and worked with a will. Not being cowboys, they had no prejudice against working on the ground. Once shown the proper way to throw a roped animal, they cheerfully flung themselves on whatever the ropers drug up to the branding fire, even if it was a two-year-old bull with lots of horn and a mean disposition. They had no great finesse, but they were dogged, and would eventually get the creature down.
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Since the Hat Creek outfit had been gathering cattle and getting ready for their drive, games were handier than they had been for a while. Several cowboys drifted into Lonesome Dove, looking for work; some of them had enough snap left at night to wander in and cut the cards. A tall cowboy named Needle Nelson showed up from north of San Antonio, and a cheerful cowboy from Brownsville named Bert Borum.
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And yet Indians, who could not even talk a normal language, seemed to understand more about it even than Mr. Gus, who could talk a passel about the motions of nature or anything else you wanted to hear talked about. Mr. Gus had even tried to tell him the world was round, though Deets regarded that as just joking talk. But it was Mr. Gus who put his name on the sign so that everyone who could read would realize he was part of the outfit—it made up for a lot of joking.
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“Do we ask their names before we shoot them?” he inquired.“It ain’t necessary,” Augustus assured him. “Most of them are named Jesus anyway.” “Well, I ain’t named Jesus,” Jake said. “You boys try not to do your learning in my direction. I’ve been known to get riled when I’m shot at.” When the two Irishmen came trotting up to the horse herd behind Augustus and Jake, Dish Boggett could hardly believe his eyes. He had always heard that the Hat Creek outfit was peculiar, but arming men who didn’t even know how to dismount from their horses was not so much peculiar as insane.
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“I might go to the Raineys’,” Call said. “As many boys as they got they ought to be able to spare a few.” “I sparked Maude Rainey once upon a time,” Augustus said, tilting back his chair. “If we hadn’t had the Comanches to worry with, I expect I’d have married her. Her name was Grove before she married. She lays them boys like hens lay eggs, don’t she?”Call left, to keep from having to talk all day. Deets was catching a short nap on the back porch, but he sat up when Call came out. Dish Boggett and the boy were roping low bushes, Dish teaching the boy a thing or two about the craft of roping. That was good, since nobody around the Hat Creek outfit could rope well enough to teach him anything. Call himself could rope in an emergency, and so could Pea, but neither of them were ropers of the first class.
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“His horse is here,” Call said. “I guess he probably come with it. Do you think he’ll work, once we start?” “No, and I won’t, either,” Augustus said. “You better hire these Irish boys while you got the chance.” “It’s work we’re looking for,” Allen said. “What we don’t know we’ll gladly learn.” Call refrained from comment. Men who didn’t know how to get on and off a horse would not be much use around a cow outfit.
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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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Wilbarger ignored him too. “This outfit is full of opinion,” he said. “If opinions was money you’d all be rich.” He looked at Call.
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was Deets. Nobody expected Deets to talk, which left him free to pay attention, and he paid careful attention, often noticing things that Call had overlooked, or confirming judgments that Call felt uncertain about. Even Gus was quick to admit that Deets had the best hearing in the outfit, although Deets himself claimed to rely just as much on his sense of smell—a claim Augustus poked fun at.
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Of course, when trouble came Gus was reliable, but the only man in the outfit who was really much help as a planner .
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But the farther they rode, the more lost he felt; about all he knew for sure was that the river was on his left. He tried to watch the Captain and Mr. Gus and to recognize the landmarks they were guiding the outfit by. But he could detect nothing. They did not seem to be paying much attention to the terrain. It was only when they loped over a ridge and surprised a sizable herd of longhorns that the Captain drew rein. The cattle, spooked by the seven riders, were already running away.
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He was in the middle of the company. It was Pea Eye’s traditional job to watch the rear. Newt rode beside Dish Boggett, who had not said one word since leaving and whose state Newt couldn’t judge, though at least he hadn’t fallen off his horse. The thin moon lit the sky but not the ground. The only landmarks were shadows, low shadows, mostly made by chaparral and mesquite. Of course, it was not Newt’s place to worry about the route, but it occurred to him that he had better try to keep some sense of where he was in case he got separated from the outfit and had to find his own way back.
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“Look at ’em,” Augustus said. “You’d think they just discovered teeth.” As the day died and the afterglow stretched upward in the soft, empty sky, the Hat Creek outfit, seven strong, crossed the river and rode southeast, toward the Hacienda Flores.
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“That’s right,” he said. “I ’spect they’ll make me boss any day. And the first thing I’ll do is raise your wages.” Deets slapped his leg and laughed, the thought was so funny. When the rest of the outfit finally wandered down from the house they found the two of them grinning back and forth at one another.
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Deets was a man of few words but many looks. Newt had often had the feeling that Deets was the only one in the outfit who really understood his wishes and needs. Bolivar was kind from time to time, and Mr. Gus was usually kind, though his kindness was of a rather absentminded nature. He had many concerns to talk and argue about, and it was mostly when he got tired of thinking about everything else that he had the time to think about Newt.
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