Line up, walk west.
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BY LARRY MCMURTRY By Sorrow’s River The Wandering Hill Sin Killer Sacajawea’s Nickname: Essays on the American West Paradise Boone’s Lick Roads Still Wild: A Collection of Western Stories Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen Duane’s Depressed Crazy Horse Comanche Moon Dead Man’s Walk The Late Child Streets of Laredo The Evening Star Buffalo Girls Some Can Whistle Anything for Billy
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Finally he was asked about Augustus and the purpose of his journey so many times that he couldn’t tolerate it. He turned west into Colorado, meaning to skirt the main cattle trails. He was tired of meeting people. His only moments of peace came late in the day when he was too tired to think and was just bouncing along with Gus.
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A few days later they finally came to the Milk River. It was a crisp fall day, and most of the men were wearing their new coats. The slopes of the mountains to the west were covered with snow.
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“Them’s beaver,” Old Hugh kept saying. “You trap beaver, you don’t shoot ’em. A bullet will ruin the pelt and the pelt’s the whole point.” “Well, I hate the little toothy sons of bitches,” Jasper said. “The pelts be damned.” Call kept riding northwest until even Old Hugh began to be worried. The great line of the Rockies was clear to the west.
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It was the emptiness that discouraged him most. He had almost stopped worrying about Indians and bears. What he worried about was being lost. He knew by the stars he was still going south, but south where? Maybe he had veered east of the herd, or west of it, so that no one would spot him. Maybe he had already passed them, in which case there was little hope. The snows would just come and freeze him, or else he would starve.
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“I ’spect they’d catch me if I tried that,” Pea said. “Maybe the Captain will figure out that we’re in trouble and hurry on up here.” “He won’t miss us for another week,” Augustus said. “I don’t fancy squatting here by this creek for a week.” A few minutes later they heard a loud, strange cry from the east. It was an Indian war cry. Another came from the west, and several from the far bank of the river. The evening would be still and peaceful for a few minutes and then the war cries would start again. Pea had never approved of the way Indians yelled when they fought—it upset his nerves. This yelling was no exception. Some of the cries were so piercing that he wanted to hold his ears.
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“I’ll watch west and you watch east,” Augustus said. Almost as soon as he finished speaking a shot hit the cave bank just above their heads, causing dirt to shower down. Augustus looked down the creek and saw two horsemen cross it, too far away to make accurate targets in the dusk.
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“Now think a minute, Pea,” Augustus said. “How could it run milk when there ain’t no cows up here yet?” “Why did they call it the Milk, then? Milk is milk.” “Crazy is crazy, too,” Augustus said. “That’s what I’ll be before long from listening to you. Crazy.” “Well, Jasper’s mind might break if he don’t stop worrying about them rivers,” Pea Eye allowed. “I expect the rest of us will keep our wits.” Augustus laughed heartily at the notion of the Hat Creek outfit keeping its wits. “It’s true they could be kept in a thimble,” he said, “but who brought a thimble?” There was a little rise to the west, and Augustus loped over to it to see what the land looked like in that direction. Pea trotted along north, as he had been doing, not paying much attention. Gus was always loping off to test the view, as he called it, and Pea didn’t feel obliged to follow him every time.
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Call saw the runaway without seeing what caused it at first. He and Augustus were riding along together, discussing how far west they ought to go before angling north again.
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When they crossed the Powder they could see the Bighorn Mountains looming to the west—not really close, but close enough that anyone could see the snow on top of them. The nights began to be cold, and many of the hands began to regret the fact that they had not bought better coats in Ogallala when they had the opportunity.
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Deets went on a scout and reported that the country to the west didn’t improve—grass was as scarce as water in that direction. Far to the north they could see the outlines of mountains, and there was much talk about which mountains they were.
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At the height of the storm it seemed as if the herd might split into fragments. It was hard to see ten feet, and little bunches of cattle broke off unnoticed and slipped past the cowboys. Deets, more confident of his ability to find his way around than most, rode well west of the herd, turning back cattle whenever he found any. But it finally became pitch- dark, and even Deets could do nothing.
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Late that afternoon, while the cowboys were lying around resting, a wind sprang up from the west. From the first, it was as hot as if it were blowing over coals. By the time Call was ready to start the herd again, the wind had risen and they faced a full-fledged sandstorm. It blew so hard that the cattle were reluctant to face it.
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All day he rode west, and the country around him grew more bleak. Not fit for sheep, Call thought. Not hardly fit for lizards—in fact, a small gray lizard was the only life he saw all day. That night he made a dry camp in sandy country where the dirt was light-colored, almost white. He supposed he had come some sixty miles and could not imagine that the herd would make it that far, although the Hell Bitch seemed unaffected. He slept for a few hours and went on, arriving just after sunup on the banks of Salt Creek. It was not running, but there was adequate water in scattered shallow pools. The water was not good, but it was water. The trouble was, the herd was nearly eighty miles back—a four-day drive under normal conditions; and in this case the miles were entirely waterless, which wouldn’t make for normal conditions.
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“I was told if we went straight west we’d strike Salt Creek and could follow it to the Powder,” Call said. “It can’t be too far.” “It don’t take much to be too far, in this heat,” Augustus said.
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It was high summer, the days blazing hot almost until the sun touched the horizon. The cattle were mulish and hard to move, stopping whenever possible to graze, Or simply to stand. For several days they trailed west along the Platte, but when the river curved south, toward Colorado, Call pointed the herd northwest.
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With such a crowd there watching he couldn’t muster a protest, and he drove the little wagon three miles west on the Platte to a place where there were a few small cottonwoods.
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“I see you’ve got extras,” Weaver said. “We’ll take ’em. There’s a man who sells horses west of Ogallala. You can buy some more there and send the Army a bill.” “No, thanks,” Call said. “We like the ones we’ve got.” “I wasn’t asking,” Weaver said. “I’m requisitioning your horses.”Augustus laughed. Call didn’t. He saw that the man was serious.
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Three days later he saw the Platte, winding between low brown slopes. He soon hit a good wagon track and followed it west.
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The wagon was barely visible coming along the Platte from the west.
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They started Wilbarger’s horses west across the dark prairie in the direction the cattle should be. Captain Call led, Augustus and Deets rode to the sides, and Pea Eye and Newt brought up the rear. Newt had to admit that Jake’s horse had a beautiful smooth gait, but even so he wished he hadn’t changed horses—not so soon. It seemed wrong to be enjoying Jake’s horse, and his fine saddle too, after what had happened. But he was tired, so tired he didn’t even feel the sadness for very long. Soon his head dropped and he sat on the pacing gelding, sound asleep. Pea Eye noticed and trotted close beside him so he could catch the weary boy if he started to fall off.
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“It comes from up there,” Po Campo said, pointing west. “From those mountains you can’t see.” Lorena looked but could only see the brown plain. She ate a few more of the wild plums.
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“I doubt cattle has ever et this grass,” Augustus said. “I doubt anyone’s trailed cattle this far west of Dodge. Buffalo is probably all that’s et it.” Call’s mind was on Wilbarger, a resourceful man if ever he had seen one. If such a man had got caught, then there could well be serious trouble waiting for them.
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As he rode along, trailing the twenty-five horses, he decided the best thing for him would be to leave the west. He could travel over to St. Louis and catch a boat down to New Orleans, or even go east to New York. Both of them were fine towns for gamblers, or so he had heard. In either one he could be safe and could pursue the kind of life he enjoyed.
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