The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Read online

  All the warriors crowded around, exclaiming at the way the glass made their faces long. Buffalo Hump thought the glass a very odd thing—he turned it over and over, and let his young braves handle it. It was clearly a thing of power, but he was not convinced that it could be used for prophesying.

  “Yes, it’s a prophecy glass, that’s what it is,” Joe insisted. “Take it to your medicine man. It’ll tell him where the buffalo are, and when’s the best time to hunt. It’ll tell you when to go to war, and when to stay home.”

  Buffalo Hump was not convinced, but as the afternoon waned, he began to want the glass. He wanted to take it home to his main camp and study it. Perhaps he would come to understand its power. His mother was old, and knew much. Perhaps she would understand why the glass made faces long.

  He decided, though, to kill the traders, the old one and the young one, too. He meant to take all the knives; there were several more boxes in the wagons. With so many knives they would not need the traders for several winters; he did not want Joe Nibbs coming into his country with such a thing as the glass. If it was a prophecy glass, then it could do much evil. Some of his people grew sick and died, just from meeting with the whites. With such a glass the old trader might cause many deaths. The glass might be a trick, to spread death among the Comanches, to get their robes and their horses and their hunting lands. The whites were always coming, up the rivers and creeks, always north and west, toward the Comancheria. Buffalo Hump thought the glass was a bad sign. He would take it to the main camp and let the old ones see it—perhaps one of them would know what to do.

  Buffalo Hump left them the Mexican girl and took his braves over the ridge, where the sand spumed. Then he told his braves that he had decided to kill the traders, take back the captives, and get all the knives. Kicking Wolf wanted to go back with him and catch the white men and torture them, but Buffalo Hump wouldn’t let him. Instead, he gave him the glass that might be evil, and rode back alone. When he crossed the ridge of blowing sand, the old white man had already tied the girl to a wagon wheel and was abusing her. The young white man sat on the tailgate of the wagon and waited his turn. Buffalo Hump walked quietly, over the soft sand. He had his lance, and a knife.

  Sam Douglas sat on the wagon, trying to decide whether to take one of the nine-year-old Mexican girls, or wait for night, when old Joe would be sleeping. Then he could do what he pleased with Rosa. He had meant to leave the nine-year-olds alone, but after all, why should he? They were slaves. They were there. Old Joe was tiresome, when he had a new slave to abuse. He might keep Rosa tied to the wagon wheel for hours.

  Then, before he knew it, Sam Douglas found himself doing the one thing he had vowed not to do: he looked straight into Buffalo Hump’s eyes.

  It was a mistake: he knew it. He had thought the big Indian was gone. But there he was: the animal, the panther, the bear.

  The next second, Buffalo Hump drove his knife straight down through Sam Douglas’s skull. One of the Mexican captives screamed. The old trader, Joe Nibbs, had his hammer in his hand. When he turned, Buffalo Hump threw the lance—the distance was short. Half the lance came out the other side of Joe Nibbs’s body and stuck in the ground, so that his torso was tilted slightly back. He was still alive; he dropped his hammer. Buffalo Hump picked it up and hit him at the base of the neck. Joe Nibbs’s head flopped back, like a chicken’s.

  Then the warriors came back; they took the captives, the knives, the donkeys. They decided to burn the wagons and camp for the night; they could eat all the white men’s food.

  Buffalo Hump could not get his knife out of Sam Douglas’s skull. It was stuck so deep that not even his strength was enough to pull it out. The braves laughed. Their own war chief had stuck a perfectly good knife into a white man’s skull so deeply that he could not get it out. Finally, Buffalo Hump smashed the skull with the old slaver’s hammer and freed his knife.

  Rosa, the young captive, could not stop weeping. She hurt from what the man with the hammer had done to her. She wanted to be with her mother, her brother, and little sister; but she knew she could not go home. She had been with the Comanche; the people of her village would consider her disgraced, if she went home. She wept, and listened to the sand; she wished that she could sleep beneath the sand, breathe it into her, and die. But she could not; she could only weep, and be cold, and wait for the big Comanche who sat nearby, holding the rawhide string that bound her wrists.

  Later, not long before dawn, one of the donkeys began to whinny. The wind had shifted; now it blew from the west, and the donkey had smelled something. The horses pointed their ears to the west, but did not whinny. The braves around the campfire thought it was an animal. Donkeys were cowards—they would whinny at a coyote, or even a badger. Fast Boy, who slept little, decided that the animal was probably a cougar. Perhaps the cougar they had seen earlier was following them, hoping to eat a donkey. The other braves laughed at Fast Boy, and laughed even more when he mounted his horse and loped off to look for the cougar. They thought it was ridiculous for Fast Boy to suppose he could find a cougar in the darkness.

  When Fast Boy returned, running his horse, the sun was just rising. The wind was high; the sun was ringed with a haze of sand. Buffalo Hump was annoyed, when Fast Boy raced into camp. He did not approve of such behavior. They were cooking horse meat from one of the old slaver’s horses. Fast Boy’s horse kicked dust on the meat, which was gritty enough, anyway.

  But Buffalo Hump forgot his irritation when Fast Boy told him that a party of whites was camped only three miles to the west. It was a small party, mostly women, Fast Boy said. There were only four men and a boy, besides the women. But the news that made Buffalo Hump forgive the reckless riding and the gritty meat was that one of the men was Gun-in-the-Water, the young Ranger who had killed his son. When Buffalo Hump heard that, he began to put on his war paint—most of the other warriors put on their war paint, too. Kicking Wolf declined to bother—he did not like to paint himself. He made the point to Buffalo Hump that he himself could sneak over the hill and kill Gun-in-the-Water and all the whites in less time than it would take for Buffalo Hump and the other braves to paint themselves. Buffalo Hump ignored Kicking Wolf. Kicking Wolf had always thought his way of doing things was best. Buffalo Hump didn’t care what Kicking Wolf thought. He intended to paint himself properly. Then he would ride to where the whites were and do to Gun-in-the-Water what he had done to the old slaver: throw his lance so hard that it would go through him without killing him at once. Then, before he died, Buffalo Hump intended to scalp him and cut him. The scalp he would take home to his son’s mother, so she would know the boy had been correctly avenged.

  When Buffalo Hump mounted, he made a speech in which he warned all the braves to leave Gun-in-the-Water alone. He himself would kill Gun-in-the-Water.

  Kicking Wolf didn’t like the speech much. He rode off in the middle of it, in a hurry to have a look at the women. Perhaps one of them would be as pretty as the Mexican girl, or even prettier. He wanted to be the first to see the women, so he would get the best. Maybe he would find one who smelled better than his wife.

  6.

  THE HORSES SMELLED THE Indians first. Call was about to throw the sidesaddle on Lady Carey’s black gelding, when the gelding began to nicker and jump around. Gus’s bay did the same, and even the mules acted nervous. Lady Carey’s tent had been folded and packed—they were all about ready to start the day’s ride. Emerald was brushing her white mule; she brushed the mule faithfully, every morning.

  Call scanned the horizon to the east, but saw nothing unusual—just the bright edge of the rising sun. Lady Carey still had a teacup in her hand. Willy was eating bacon. Mrs. Chubb was trying to wash his ears, pouring water out of a little canteen onto a sponge that she kept with her, just for the purpose of washing Willy. Wesley Buttons had his boots off—he was prone to cramps in his feet, and liked to rub his toes for awhile in the morning, before he put his boots on. If he took a bad cramp with the boot on, he would
have to hop around in pain until the cramp eased.

  Matilda Roberts walked her mare around in circles. The mare was skittish in the mornings, with a tendency to crow-hop. Matilda was no bronc rider; she liked to walk off as much of the mare’s nervousness as she could. Twice already, the mare had thrown her; once she had narrowly missed landing on a barrel cactus, which was all the more reason to walk the mare for awhile.

  Gus McCrae and Long Bill had walked off from camp a little ways, meaning to relieve themselves. Long Bill was much troubled by constipation, whereas Gus’s bowels tended to run too freely. They had formed the habit of answering nature’s call together—they could converse about various things, while they were at it. One of the things Gus had on his mind was whores; now that he was eating better and not having to walk until he dropped, his sap had risen. A subject of intense speculation between himself and Long Bill was whether Matilda Roberts intended to take up her old profession, now that they were back in Texas—and if so, when? Gus was hoping she would resume it sooner, rather than later. He was of the opinion that anytime would be a good time for Matilda to start being a whore again, even if he and Long Bill were her only customers.

  “Well, but Lady Carey might not approve,” Long Bill speculated, as he squatted. “Matty might want to wait until we’re shut of all these English folks.”

  “But that won’t be till Galveston,” Gus said. “Galveston’s a far piece yet. I would like a whore a lot sooner than Galveston.”

  Long Bill had no comment—he noticed, as he squatted, that there was commotion back at the camp. Woodrow Call and Lady Carey were standing together, looking to the east. Long Bill could see that Call had his rifle. Matty had come back to stand near the others. Long Bill felt a strong nervousness take him—the nervousness clamped his troubled bowels even tighter.

  “Something’s happening,” he said, abruptly pulling his pants up. “This ain’t no time for us to be taking a long squat.”

  The two hurried back to camp, guns in their hands. It seemed a peaceful morning, but maybe it wasn’t going to be as peaceful as it looked.

  “Here’s Gus, he’s got the best eyes,” Call said.

  Lady Carey went to her saddlebag, and pulled out a small brass spyglass.

  “Help me look, Corporal McCrae,” she said. “Corporal Call thinks there’s trouble ahead, and so does my horse.”

  Lady Carey looked through her telescope, and Gus did his best to scan the horizons carefully with his eyes, but all he saw was a solitary coyote, trotting south through the thin sage. He, too, had begun to feel nervous—he didn’t fully trust his own eyes. He remembered, again, how completely the Comanches had concealed themselves the day they killed Josh and Zeke.

  Emerald walked over, leading her white mule.

  “The wild men are here, my lady,” she said, calmly.

  “Yes, I believe they are,” Lady Carey said. “I believe I smell them. Only they’re so wild I can’t see them.”

  Then they all heard a sound—a high sound of singing. Buffalo Hump, in no hurry, walking his horse, appeared on the distant ridge, the sun just risen above him. He was singing his war song. As the little group watched, the whole raiding party slowly came into view. All the braves were singing their war songs, high pitched and repetitive. Gus counted twenty warriors—then he saw the twenty-first, Kicking Wolf, somewhat to the side. Kicking Wolf was on foot, and he was not singing. His silence seemed more menacing than the war songs of the other braves.

  Call looked around for a gully or a ridge that might provide them some cover, but there was nothing—only the few sage bushes. They had camped on the open plain. The Comanches held the high ground, and had the sun behind them, to boot. They were four fighting men against twenty-one, and Wesley Buttons couldn’t shoot. Even if he had been a reliable shot, the Comanches could in any case easily overrun them, if they chose to charge. Four men, four women, and a boy would not look like much opposition to a raiding party, singing for death and torture. Call wondered if the English party knew what Comanches did to captives; he wondered if he ought to tell Lady Carey, and Emerald, and Mrs. Chubb how to shoot themselves fatally, if worse came to worst. Bigfoot’s instructions about putting the pistol to the eyeball came back to him as he watched the Comanches. No doubt Bigfoot had known exactly what he was talking about, but would the English lady, the nanny, and the Negress be capable of performing such an act? Would Matilda Roberts, for that matter?

  Lady Carey stood watching the Indians calmly. As always, she was dressed only in black, and wore her three veils. She did not seem frightened, or even disturbed.

  “What do you think, Corporal Call?” she asked. “Can we whip them?”

  “Likely not, ma’am,” Call said. “They beat us when we had nearly two hundred men. I don’t know why they wouldn’t beat us now that we’ve only got four.”

  “It’s interesting singing, isn’t it?” Lady Carey said. “Not so fine as opera, but interesting, nonetheless. I wonder what it means, that singing?”

  “It means death to the whites,” Gus said. “It means they want our hair.”

  “Well, they may want it, but they can’t have it,” young Willy said. “I need my hair, don’t I, Mamma?”

  “Of course you do, Willy,” Lady Carey said. “And you shall keep it, too—Mamma will see to that. Corporal Call, will you saddle my horse?”

  “I will, but I don’t think we can outrun them, ma’am,” Call said.

  “No, we won’t be running,” Lady Carey said. “I think the best thing would be for me to try my singing. I will be leading us through these Comanches, gentlemen. I’ll be mounted, but I want the rest of you to walk and lead your mounts. Saddle my horse, Corporal Call—and don’t look at me. None of you must look at me now, until I say you may.”

  “Well, but why not, ma’am?” Gus asked—he was puzzled by the whole proceedings.

  “Because I intend to disrobe,” Lady Carey said. “I shall disrobe, and I shall sing my best arias—besides that, I shall need my fine snake, Elphinstone. Emerald, could you bring him?”

  Calmly, not hurrying, Lady Carey began to sing scales, as she undressed. She let her voice rise higher and higher, moving up an octave and then another, until her high notes were higher than any that came from the Comanches. Emerald took the boa from its basket on the mule, and let it drape about her shoulders as Lady Carey undressed.

  “I think, Willy, you should mount your pony,” Lady Carey said. “The rest of you walk. Matilda, would you take my clothes and carry them for me? I shall want them, of course, once we have dispersed these savages. You haven’t saddled my horse yet, Corporal Call. Please cinch him carefully, so he won’t jump—I’ve got to be a regular Lady Godiva this morning, and I don’t want any trouble from this black beast.”

  Call saddled the horse and handed the reins to Matilda, along with his pistol. He had no belief that anything they could do would get them through the Comanches. Lady Carey could undress if she wanted—Buffalo Hump would kill them anyway.

  He kept his eyes down, as Lady Carey undressed—so did Long Bill, and Wesley Buttons. They had come to like Lady Carey—to revere her, almost—and were determined not to offend her modesty, though they were much confused by the undressing.

  Gus, though, could not resist a peep. So normal did she seem that he had almost forgotten that she was a leper, until he caught the first glimpse of black, eroded flesh as she turned to hand a garment to Matilda. Her neck and breasts were black; bags of yellowing skin hung from her shoulders. Gus was so startled that he almost lost his breakfast. He didn’t look at Lady Carey again, though he did notice that her legs, which were very white, did not seem to be affected by the disease, except for a single dark spot on one calf.

  “Oh Lord,” he said—but no one else was looking, and no one heard him.

  Lady Carey kept on her hat, and the three veils that hid her face. She also kept on her fine black boots. Matilda looked at Lady Carey’s body, and felt bad—the English lady had been nicer
to her even than her own mother. To see her young body blackened and yellowish from disease made Matilda feel helpless. Yet, she took the garments, one by one, as Lady Carey handed them to her, and folded them carefully. Mrs. Chubb was calm, as was Emerald—neither of them had seen what Comanches could do, Matilda reflected.

  When Lady Carey had disrobed she mounted the black gelding, settled herself firmly in the sidesaddle, and reached for her snake.

  “All right now, keep in line,” she said. “You too, Willy—keep in line. I want you Texans in the middle, right behind Willy. Matilda, Mrs. Chubb, and Emerald will bring up the rear. Emerald, if you don’t mind, I think you might want to carry my husband’s sword. Unsheath it, and hold the blade high—remember, it’s sharp. Don’t cut yourself.”

  The Negress smiled, at the thought that she might cut herself. Call had often noticed a fine sword in the baggage, but had not known that it was Lady Carey’s husband’s. Emerald took it and unsheathed it. She went to the rear, and waited.

  “All right now, front march,” Lady Carey said. “I am going to sing very loudly—after all, I’m one voice against twenty. Willy, you might want to stop your ears.”

  “Oh no, Mamma,” Willy said. “You can sing loud—I won’t mind.”

  Lady Carey, on the fine black gelding, started up the long ridge toward the Comanches, the boa draped over her shoulders. She was still singing her scales, but before she had gone more than a few feet she stopped the scales and began to sing, high and loud, in the Italian tongue—the tongue that had caused Quartermaster Brognoli to rouse himself briefly, and then die.

  The line of Comanches was still some two hundred yards away. Lucinda Carey, watching from behind her three veils, rode toward them slowly, singing her aria. When she had closed the distance to within one hundred yards, she stretched her arms wide; Elphinstone liked to twine himself along them. She felt in good voice. The aria she was singing came from Signor Verdi’s new opera Nabucco—he had taught her the aria himself, two years ago in Milan, not long before she and her husband, Lord Carey, sailed together for Mexico.