The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Read online

  Before they had been on the river half a day, Elihu Carson, the dentist, walked off to squat awhile, in the grip of a series of cramps, and had the bad luck to get bitten in the ass by a rattlesnake. Several men testified that they had heard the snake rattle, but Elihu Carson was a little deaf—he didn’t hear the warning.

  “I think you’re cursed, Carson,” the Colonel said, when informed of the accident. “First you trip on your suitcase and get stickers in your face, and now you have fangs in your ass.”

  “Sir, everything is sharp in this part of the country,” the dentist said.

  Most of the men expected Carson to die of snakebite, and those he had extracted teeth from hoped that he would. But Elihu Carson confounded them. He showed only brief ill effects—four hours after the bite, he was pulling one of young Tommy Spencer’s teeth. The boy from Missouri had let a horse kick him right in the face, and had two broken front teeth to show for his carelessness.

  Later that day, the mules pulling the main supply wagon spooked at a cougar that bounded out of a little clump of bushes right in front of them. Gus and several others blazed away at the cougar, but the cat got clean away. The mules fled down a gully, pulling the heavy wagon: it struck a rock, turned completely over in the air, and burst apart. One of the wheels came off its axle and rolled on down the gully out of sight. Caleb Cobb’s canoe, which had been on top of the load, smashed to bits. One mule broke its leg and had to be shot.

  While Brognoli and several other Rangers were standing around the wreck, debating whether there was any hope of repairing the big wagon, Alchise, the half-breed scout, pointed to the north. All Call saw was an advancing cloud of dust—the troop took cover and prepared for battle, but the source of the dust turned out to be a herd of horses, about twenty in number, being driven by two white men and a Negro. One of the white men, a bulky fellow with a thick brown beard, was leading another horse, with two little girls on it. The little girls were about five or six; both were blond. They were a good deal scratched up, and looked scared. Neither of them spoke at all, though Sam and Brognoli tried to coax them down, and offered them biscuits. The three men looked as if they had been dipped in dust. They had clearly ridden fast and hard.

  “Howdy, I’m Charlie Goodnight,” the large man said. “This is Bill and this is Bose.”

  “Get down and take some coffee,” Caleb offered. “We’ve just had a wreck. My canoe is ruined and I don’t know what else.”

  “No, we can’t pause,” Charles Goodnight said. “These girls were stolen two weeks ago, from down by Weatherford. Their parents will have no peace of mind until I return them.”

  “They also ran off these horses,” the man said. “We had to race to catch up with the rascals.”

  “At least you succeeded,” Caleb said. “Comanches took ’em?”

  “Yes, Kicking Wolf, he’s a clever thief,” Goodnight said. “What are you doing taking wagons across the baldies?”

  “Why, ain’t you heard of us, Mr. Goodnight?” Caleb asked. By this time the whole troop had gathered around the travelers. “I’m Colonel Cobb. We’re the Texas–Santa Fe expedition, heading out toward New Mexico.”

  “Why?” Goodnight asked bluntly. Call thought the man’s manner short to the point of rudeness. He wasn’t insolent, though—just blunt.

  “Well, we mean to annex it,” Caleb said. “We may have to hang a few Mexicans in the process, but I expect we’ll soon whip ’em back.”

  “No, they’ll hang you—if you get there,” Goodnight said.

  “Why wouldn’t we get there, sir?” Caleb asked, a little stung by the man’s brusque attitude.

  “I doubt you know the way—that’s one reason,” Goodnight said. “There ain’t water enough between here and Santa Fe to keep this many horses alive. That’s two reasons.”

  He rose in his saddle and pointed toward the escarpment, a thin line in the distance, with white clouds floating over it.

  “That’s the caprock,” he said. “Once you’re on top of it there’s nothing.”

  “Well, there has to be something,” Caleb said. “There’s grass, at least.”

  “Yes sir, lots of grass,” Goodnight said. “I’ve rarely met the man who can live on grass, though, and I’ve rarely seen the horse that could travel five hundred miles without water.”

  Caleb Cobb was stunned by the comment.

  “Five hundred miles—are you sure?” he asked. “We thought it would be another hundred, at most.”

  “That’s what I said to begin with,” Goodnight said. “You don’t know where you’re going.”

  He turned and glanced at the three remaining wagons. The mules were exhausted from pulling the heavy wagons in and out of gullies—and Call could see that there seemed to be no end of gullies stretching west. Goodnight shook his head, and glanced back at the little girls, to see that they were all right.

  “We would appreciate some biscuits,” he said. “These children ain’t eaten nothing but a few bites of rabbit, in the last day.”

  “Give them what they need,” Caleb said. “Give them the biscuits and some bacon too.”

  He looked back at the escarpment, clearly disturbed by Goodnight’s news.

  “I guess you don’t think much of our wagons, do you?” he asked.

  “Them wagons would do fine to go to market in,” Goodnight said. “But you ain’t going to market. You’ll never get ’em up the hill. You’ll have to take what you can carry and hope you find game.”

  “Why, dammit, I was told there was a passage along the Red River,” Caleb said. “I was hoping we’d come to it tomorrow.”

  Goodnight looked at him oddly, as if he were listening to a child.

  “If you suppose you’re on the Red, then you’re worse lost than I thought,” Goodnight said. “This ain’t the Red, it’s the Big Wichita. The Red is a far piece ahead yet—I took back these horses just shy of the Red. You might make the Prairie Dog Fork of the Brazos, if you don’t jump no more cougars and lose no more mules.”

  “You’re a wonder, sir—how did you know about the cougar?” Caleb asked.

  “Tracks,” Goodnight said. “I ain’t blind. I’ve never met the mule yet that could tolerate cougars.”

  Then he noticed Shadrach, standing by Matilda—Bigfoot was nearby.

  “Why, Shad—are you a hundred yet?” he asked. “Hello, Miss Roberts.”

  He tipped his hat, as did the cowboy named Bill and the Negro named Bose.

  “I’m crowding it, Charlie,” Shadrach said.

  “Hello, Wallace—why would you want to walk all the way to New Mexico to get hung?” Goodnight asked Bigfoot. “Ain’t there enough hang ropes in Texas for you?”

  “I ain’t planning on no hanging, Charlie,” Bigfoot said. “I expect to fill my pockets with gold and silver and go back to Texas and buy a ranch.”

  Goodnight nodded. “Oh, that’s it, is it?” he said. “You’re all out for booty, I guess. You’ve heard there are big chunks of gold and silver lying in the streets, I expect.”

  “Well, we’ve heard minerals were plentiful,” Caleb said. Less and less did he like this blunt fellow, Charlie Goodnight—yet the man’s news, unwelcome as it was, was valuable, considering their situation. It was mortifying to be the leader of an expedition and discover that you were not even on the right river.

  “There are minerals aplenty—in the governor’s vault,” Goodnight said. “He might open it for you and ask you to help yourselves, but I doubt it. That ain’t the way of governors—not the ones I’ve met.”

  There was silence throughout the troop. Goodnight was not particularly likable, but few of the men could doubt that he knew what he was talking about. If he said they were putting themselves in danger of starvation only to run the risk of being hanged upon arrival, it well might be true.

  “It’s a marvel that you rode off and got your horses back, Mr. Goodnight,” Caleb said. “We’ve not had much luck pursuing the red boys. If there’s a special method you use I’d
appreciate it if you’d tell us what it is—it could be that we’ll lose stock, and we can’t afford to.”

  “No, you can’t, you’ll have to eat most of these horses, I expect,” Goodnight said.

  He looked at the solemn group of men, some of them with hopes still high for adventure and booty in New Mexico. Not for the first time, he was impressed by the folly of men.

  “How’d you get ’em back, sir?” Caleb asked again.

  “Well, they were my horses,” Goodnight said. “I’ll be damned if I’ll give up twenty horses to Kicking Wolf, not without a chase.

  “Pardon me for cussing, Miss Roberts,” he said, again tipping his hat.

  “The only way to get horses back from Indians is to outrun them—it’s why I try to stay well mounted,” he went on. “We caught them near the Red. There were four warriors and these children. We killed two warriors, but Kicking Wolf and his brother got away.”

  Sam handed him a little packet of biscuits, and some meat.

  “Thank you,” Goodnight said. “These young ladies have been too scared to eat. But they ain’t hurt—I expect they’ll get hungry one of these days.”

  “They’re pretty girls—I hope they eat,” Sam said. “I have a little jelly saved—plum jelly. Maybe it will tempt them.”

  He handed Goodnight a small jar of jelly—Goodnight looked at it and put it in his saddlebag.

  “If it don’t tempt the young ladies it will sure tempt me,” he said. Then he looked again at Caleb Cobb.

  “If you make the Red and any of them wagons still have the wheels on them, stick to the river and follow it west. There’s a place called the Narrows, where you might get through.”

  “Angosturas,” Alchise said, nodding.

  “Yes, that’s what the Mexicans call it,” Goodnight said. “I call it the Narrows.”

  Then he tipped his hat to Matilda a third time.

  “Let’s go, Bose,” he said.

  Soon the cloud of dust from the twenty horses was floating over the gullies to the south.

  “Charlie Goodnight’s salty,” Bigfoot observed.

  “I agree,” Caleb said.

  16.

  CALEB COBB RODE ALONE most of that day, accompanied only by his Irish dog. If he was disturbed to discover that he was not on the river he thought he was on, he didn’t express it. Nonetheless, the troop was uneasy. There was little talk. Each man rode along, alone with his thoughts. Gus tried once or twice to discuss the situation with Call, but Call didn’t answer. He was trying to push down the feeling that the whole expedition was foolish. They didn’t even know which river they were on, and their commander’s estimation of the distance they had to travel was off by hundreds of miles. They had already lost several men and most of their wagons; they had killed and eaten the last of their beeves. If there was any game in the area, no one could spot it.

  “I despise poor planning,” he said.

  Gus, though, was feeling frisky. He could not stay in low spirits long, not when the day was fine and the country glorious.

  “Why, you can see a hundred miles, if you stand up in your stirrups,” he said. “I prefer it to the trees, myself.

  “For one thing, Indians can hide in the trees,” he added.

  “They hid pretty well out beyond the Pecos, and there wasn’t no trees out there,” Call reminded him. “There could be a hundred of them watching us right now and you’ll never see them.”

  “Oh, shut up, you always think the worst,” Gus said, annoyed by his friend’s pessimistic nature. All he wanted to do was enjoy a fine afternoon on the prairies. He did not want to have to consider that there might be a hundred Indians in hiding in the next gully, or any gully. All he wanted was to enjoy the gallop out to New Mexico—it took the pleasure out of adventure to always be worrying, as his friend did.

  Call was not the only one in the company who was worried, though. That night Bes-Das and Alchise disappeared, taking six horses.

  “I guess they didn’t want to be shot down like Falconer was,” Bigfoot said. “Caleb’s too quick to flare. It ain’t good leading to be shooting down people we might need.”

  “I don’t guess we’re any worse off than we were,” Long Bill pointed out. “Those two were lost anyway. That fellow Goodnight is about the only man who knows his way around, out in these parts.”

  Two more wagons were lost between the Prairie Dog Fork of the Brazos and the wide pans of the Red River. Caleb put all the ammunition in the one wagon and told the men to keep only such gear as they could carry on their horses. That night they ate catfish—the river was low and some of the fish were trapped in shallow ponds. The men sharpened willow sticks into crude spears. More than fifty sizable fish were taken, cooked, and devoured, and yet the men went to bed unsatisfied.

  “Eating fish is like eating air,” Jimmy Tweed observed. “It goes in but it don’t fill you up.”

  Once they passed through the Narrows the great plain spread west before them. Though they had been on the prairie for weeks, none of them were prepared for the way the sky and the earth seemed to widen, once they rose onto the Llano Estacado. After a day or two on the llano the meaning of distance seemed changed. The great plain, silent and endless, became the world. In relation to the plain, they felt like ants. The smaller world of towns and creeks and clumps of forest seemed difficult to remember. At night on the llano, with the sky a star-strewn plain of darkness overhead, Gus tried to keep Clara in mind, but the thought that he had fallen in love with a girl, in a dusty little general store in Austin, had come to seem far away and insubstantial, like the dust motes that had floated down the sunbeams in the store. The girl and the store had been for the day—the great plain was forever.

  The whole troop was dismayed by the stretch of empty land ahead. If the Indians fell upon them when they were on the llano, what chance could they have?

  Bigfoot had been made chief of scouts. He took Gus and Call with him when he rode out every day. Gus he took mainly for his eyesight. It was generally acknowledged that Gus could see farther and more accurately than anyone in the troop. Call he took for his steadiness; Call didn’t flinch from trouble.

  On their third day on the plain, they saw that there was a difference in the horizon ahead. None of them, though, could puzzle the difference out. The clouds seemed closer to the surface of the ground. Gus was the first to note something strange: not far ahead, a hawk had dived at a rabbit or a quail, and yet the hawk didn’t swoop on its prey and lift it. The hawk kept going, as if it had dived into a hole.

  Ten minutes later they came to the lip of the Palo Duro Canyon, and the mystery was explained. The hawk hadn’t dived into a hole; it had dived into the canyon, which looked to be several miles across, and so many miles long that they couldn’t see the western end of it. Hundreds of feet below them buffalo were feeding in long grass.

  “Hurrah, we found the bufs,” Gus said. “Let’s climb down and shoot some—maybe the Colonel will promote us.”

  “He won’t, because you’ll break your neck going down, and even if you don’t you’ll never get back up, not carrying no buffalo meat,” Bigfoot said.

  “I’ve heard about this canyon,” he said, a little later. “I just had no idea we were close by.”

  He sent Call racing back to inform the company—he and Gus stayed, to explore the canyon wall and see if there was a way down. The sight of the grazing buffalo reminded him that he was hungry for meat—mush and Red River catfish didn’t fill you like buffalo ribs.

  While loping southeast toward the camp they had just left not long before, Call’s horse suddenly jumped sideways, so violently that Call lost his seat and was thrown high and hard. He managed to hang on to his bridle rein, but he landed on his head and shoulders so hard that his vision blurred for a moment. As it cleared he saw something white, nearby. In a moment, he realized that the white thing that had spooked his horse was the body of a man. At first he thought it might be one of the Rangers, out for a ride or a hunt. The man had be
en shot, scalped, stripped, and mutilated. Someone had hacked into his chest cavity and taken out his vitals. Call looked closely at the face, which was the face of a stranger. He didn’t think it belonged to anyone in the troop. The man had not a stitch of clothes on. There was no way to identify him. Call felt his neck, which was cold.

  Even so, his killer or killers might be close by. Call drew his pistol, just in case, and mounted cautiously. Just as he did he saw movement out of the corner of his eye: three Comanches and their horses seemed to rise up, out of the bare earth, only a hundred yards away. Call spurred his horse, and bent low as she raced. He knew his only chance was to run. To his relief, Buffalo Hump was not one of his pursuers. The troop was probably not more than five miles back, and he was on Betsy, a fleet sorrel mare. Betsy was one of the fastest horses in camp, and her wind was excellent. Yet before he had been running a minute, Call realized that the Comanches were gaining. Their horses were no faster than Betsy, but they knew the land better—it was the same thing he had felt west of the Pecos. They took advantage of every roll and dip. The lead warrior had a bow and arrow, and he was closing. To his left Call spotted something he had seen on the way up: a large prairie-dog town. Without hesitation he pointed Betsy toward it. It was a risk—the mare might step in one of the holes, in which case it would all be over, but it was a risk for the Comanches, too. Maybe they would slow down—he himself had no intention of slowing. If luck was with him he might race through the town and gain a few yards. He had to try it.

  At the approach of the racing mare, prairie dogs throughout the town whistled and darted into their holes. Betsy kicked up dust from the edge of more than one hole, but she wove through the town without slowing. Even so, Call didn’t gain much. The Comanches, too, avoided the holes. Just as he cleared the prairie-dog town, Call felt something nudge his arm and looked down to see an arrow sticking in his left arm, just above the elbow. He had not felt the arrow go in, and had no time to pay attention to it. He spurred Betsy, urging her to even more speed, and seemed, for the space of a mile, to gain a little on the Indians. No more arrows flew. Yet when he dared glance back, he saw that he wasn’t gaining. The Comanches were racing abreast, and they were still almost within arrow range.