Lonesome Dove

26.

JULY JOHNSON HAD BEEN RAISED not to complain, so he didn't complain, but the truth of the matter was, it had been the hardest year of his life: a year in which so many things went wrong that it was hand to know which trouble to pay attention to at any given time.

His deputy, Roscoe Brown-forty-eight years of age to July's twentyfour-assured him cheerfully that the increase in trouble was something he had better get used to.

"Yep, now that you've turned twenty-four you can't expect no mercy," Roscoe said.

"I don't expect no mercy," July said. "I just wish things would go wrong one at a time. That way I believe I could handle it."

"Well, you shouldn't have got married then," Roscoe said.

It struck July as an odd comment. He and Roscoe were sitting in front of what passed for a jail in Fort Smith. It just had one cell, and the lock on that didn't work-when it was necessary to jail someone they had to wrap a chain around the bans.

"I don't see what that has to do with it," July said. "Anyway, how would you know? You ain't never been married."

"No, but I got eyes," Roscoe said. "I can see what goes on around me. You went and got married and the next thing you know you turned yellow. Makes me glad I stayed a bachelor. You're still yellow," he went on to point out.

"It ain't Elmira's fault I got jaundice," July said. "I caught it in Missouri at that dern trial."

It was true that he was still fairly yellow, and fairly weak, and Elmira was losing patience with both states.

"I wish you'd turn back white," she had said that morning, although he was noticeably less jaundiced than he had been two weeks before. Elmira was short, skinny, brunette, and had little patience. They had only been married four months, and one of the surprises, from July's point of view, was her impatience. She wanted the chores done immediately, whereas he had always proceeded at a methodical pace. The first time she bawled him out about his slowness was only two days after the wedding. Now it seemed she had lost whatever respect she had ever had for him. Once in a while it occurred to him that she had never had any anyway, but if that was so, why had she married him?

"Uh-oh, here comes Peach," Roscoe said. "Ben must have been a lunatic to marry that woman."

"According to you, all us Johnsons are lunatics," July said, a little irritated. It was not Roscoe's place to criticize his dead brother, though it was perfectly true that Peach was not his favorite sister-in-law. He had never known why Ben nicknamed her "Peach," for she was large and quarrelsome and did not resemble a peach in any way.

Peach was picking her way across the main street of Fort Smith, which was less of a quagmire than usual, since it had been dry lately. She was carrying a red rooster for some reason. She was the largest woman in town, nearly six feet tall, whereas Ben had been the runt of the Johnson family. Also, Peach talked a blue streak and Ben had seldom uttered three words a week, although he had been the mayor of the town. Now Peach still talked a blue streak and Ben was dead.

That fact, well known to everyone in Fort Smith for the last six weeks, was no doubt what Peach was coming to take up with him.

"Hello, July," Peach said. The rooster flapped a few times but she shook him and he quieted down.

July tipped his hat, as did Roscoe.

"Whene'd you find the rooster?" Roscoe asked.

"It's my rooster, but he won't stay home," Peach said. "I found him down by the store. The skunks will get him if he ain't careful."

"Well, if he ain't careful he deserves it," Roscoe said.

Peach had always found Roscoe an irritating fellow, not as respectful as he might be. He was little better than a criminal himself, in her view, and she was opposed to his being deputy sheriff, although it was true that there was not much to choose from in Fort Smith.

"When are you aiming to start after that murderer?" she asked July.

"Why, pretty soon," he said, although he felt tired at the thought of starting after anybody.

"Well, he'll get over in Mexico or somewhere if you sit around here much longer," Peach said.

"I expect to find him down around San Antonio," July said. "I believe he has friends there."

Roscoe had to snort at that remark. "That's right," he said. "Two of the most famous Texas Rangers that ever lived, that's his friends. July will be lucky not to get hung himself. If you ask me, Jake Spoon ain't worth it."

"It's nothing to do with what he's worth," Peach said. "Ben was the one who was worth it. He was my husband and July's brother and the mayor of this town. Who else do you think seen to it your salary got paid?"

"The salary I get don't take much seeing to," Roscoe said. "A dern midget could see to it." At thirty dollars a month he considered himself grievously underpaid.

"Well, if you was earning it, the man wouldn't have got away in the first place," Peach continued. "You could have shot him down, which would have been no more than he deserved."

Roscoe was uneasily aware that he was held culpable in some quarters for Jake's escape. The truth was, the killing had confused him, for he had been a good deal fonder of Jake than of Ben. Also it was a shock and a surprise to find Ben lying in the street with a big hole in him. Everyone else had been surprised too-Peach herself had fainted. Half the people in the saloon seemed to think the mule skinner had shot Ben, and by the time Roscoe got their stories sorted out Jake was long gone. Of course it had been mostly an accident, but Peach didn't see it that way. She wanted nothing less than to see Jake hang, and probably would have if Jake had not had the good sense to leave.

July had heard it all twenty-five on thirty times, the versions differing a good deal, depending upon the teller. He felt derelict for not having made a stronger effort to run Jake out of town before he himself left for the trial in Missouri. Of course it would have been convenient if Roscoe had promptly arrested the man, but Roscoe never arrested anybody except old man Darton, the one drunk in the county Roscoe felt he could handle.

July had no doubt that he could find Jake Spoon and bring him back for trial. Gamblers eventually showed up in a town somewhere, and could always be found. If he hadn't had the attack of jaundice he could have gone right after him, but now six weeks had passed, which would mean a longer trip.

The problem was, Elmira didn't want him to go. She considered it an insult that he would even consider it. The fact that Peach didn't like her and had snubbed her repeatedly didn't help matters. Elmira pointed out that the shooting had been an accident, and made it plain that she thought he ought not to let Peach Johnson bully him into making a long trip.

While July was waiting for Peach to leave, the rooster, annoyed at being held so tightly, gave Peach's hand a couple of hard pecks. Without an instant's hesitation Peach grabbed him by the head, swung him a few times and wrung his neck. His body flew off a few feet and lay jerking. Peach pitched the head over in some weeds by the jailhouse porch. She had not got a drop of blood on her-the blood was pumping out of the headless rooster into the dust of the street.

"That'll teach him to peck me," Peach said. "At least I'll get to eat him, instead of a skunk having the pleasure."

She went over and picked the rooster up by the feet and held him out from her body until he quit jerking.

"Well, July," she said, "I hope you won't wait too long to start. Just because you're a little yellow don't mean you can't ride a horse."

"You Johnsons marry the dernest women," Roscoe said, when Peach was safely out of hearing.

"What's that?" July said, looking at Roscoe sternly. He would not have his deputy criticizing his wife.

Roscoe regretted his quick words. July was touchy on the subject of his new wife. It was probably because she was several years older and had been married before. In Font Smith it was generally considered that she had made a fool of July, though since she was from Kansas no one knew much about her past.

"Why, I was talking about Ben and Sylvester," Roscoe said. "I guess I forgot you're a Johnson, since you're the sheriff."

The remark made no sense-Roscoe's remarks often made no sense, but July had too much on his mind to worry about it. It seemed he was faced every single day with decisions that were hard to make. Sometimes, sitting at his own table, it was hard to decide whether to talk to Elmira or not. It was not hard to tell when Elmira was displeased, though. Her mouth got tight and she could look right through him and give no indication that she even saw him. The problem was trying to figure out what she was displeased about. Several times he had tried asking if anything was wrong and had been given bitter, vehement lectures on his shortcomings. The lectures were embarrassing because they were delivered in the presence of Elmira's son, now his stepson, a twelve-year-old named Joe Boot. Elmira had been married in Missouri to a fellow named Dee Boot, about whom she had never talked much-she just said he died of smallpox.

Elmira also often lectured Joe as freely as she lectured July. One result was that he and Joe had become allies and good friends; both of them spent much of their time just trying to avoid Elmira's wrath. Little Joe spent so much time around the jail that he became a kind of second deputy. Like Elmira, he was skinny, with big eyes that bulged a little in his thin face.

Roscoe was fond of the boy, too. Often he and Joe went down to the river to fish for catfish. Sometimes if they made a good catch July would bring Roscoe home for supper, but those occasions were seldom successful. Elmira thought little of Roscoe Brown, and though Roscoe was as nice to her as he could be, the fish suppers were silent, tense affairs.

"Well, July, I guess you're between a rock and a hand place," Roscoe said. "You either got to go off and fight them Texas Rangers or else stay here and fight Peach."

"I could send you after him," July said. "You're the one that let him get away."

Of course he was only teasing. Roscoe could hardly handle old man Darton, who was nearly eighty. He wouldn't stand much of a chance against Jake Spoon and his friends.

Roscoe almost tipped over in his chair, he was so astonished. The notion that he might be sent on a job like that was ridiculous-living with Elmira must have made July go crazy if he was thinking such thoughts.

"Peach ain't gonna let it nest," July said, as much to himself as to Roscoe.

"Yes, it's your duty to catch the man," Roscoe said, anxious to get himself as far off the hook as possible. "Benny was your brother, even if he was a dentist."

July didn't say it, but the fact that Benny had been his brother had little to do with his decision to go after Jake Spoon. Benny had been the oldest and he himself the youngest of the ten Johnson boys. All but the two of them went away after they grew up, and Benny seemed to feel that July should have gone away too. He was reluctant to give July the sheriff's job when it came open, although there had been no other candidate than Roscoe. July got the job, but Benny remained resentful and had balked at even providing a new lock for the jail's one cell. In fact, Benny had never done one kind thing for him that July could remember. Once when he pulled a bad tooth of July's he had charged the full fee.

July's feelings of responsibility had to do with the town, not the man who was killed. Since pinning on the sheriff's badge two years before, his sense of responsibility for the town had grown steadily. It seemed to him that as sheriff he had a lot more to do with the safety and well-being of the citizens than Benny had as mayor. The rivermen were the biggest problem-they were always drinking and fighting and cutting one another up. Several times he had had to pile five on six into the little cell.

Lately more and more cowboys passed through the town. Once the wild men of Shanghai Pierce had come through, nearly destroying two saloons. They were not bad men, just rowdy and wild to see a town. They tended to scare people's livestock and rope their pets, and were intolerant of any efforts to curb their play. They were not gunmen, but they could box-July had been forced to crack one on two of them on the jaw and keep them in jail overnight.

Little Joe worshiped the cowboys-it was plain to July that he would run off with one of the outfits, given the chance. When not doing chores he would spend hours practicing with an old rope he had found, roping stumps, or sometimes the milk-pen calf.

July was prepared to accept a certain rowdiness on the part of the cowboys as they passed through, but he felt no leniency at all for men like Jake Spoon. Gamblers offended him, and he had warned several out of town.

Roscoe loved to whittle better than any man July had ever known. If he was sitting down, which was usually the case, he was seldom without a whittling stick in his hands. He never whittled them into anything, just whittled them away, and the habit had come to irritate July.

"I guess if I leave you'll whittle up the whole dern town before I get back," he said.

Roscoe held his peace. He could tell July was in a touchy mood-and who could blame him, with a wife like Elmira and a sister-in-law like Peach. He enjoyed his whittling but of course he was not going to whittle down any houses. July often exaggerated when he was in a bad mood.

July stood up. He wasn't very tall, but he was sturdy. Roscoe had once seen him lift an anvil down at the blacksmith's shop, and he had just been a boy then.

"I'm going home," July said.

"Well, send little Joe over, if he ain't busy," Roscoe said. "We'll play some dominoes."

"It's milking time," July said. "He's got to milk. Anyway, Ellie don't like him playing dominoes with you. She thinks it'll make him lazy."

"Why, it ain't made me lazy, and I've played dominoes all my life," Roscoe said.

July knew the statement was absurd. Roscoe was only a deputy because he was lazy. But if there was one thing he didn't want to get into, it was an argument over whether Roscoe was lazy, so he gave him a wave and walked on off.

27.

WHEN JULY GOT HOME it was nearly dusk. Home was just a cabin on the edge of town. As he passed the horse pen he saw that little Joe had roped the milk-pen calf again-it was easy to do, for the calf seldom moved.

"You've got that calf broke," July said. "You could probably saddle him and ride him if you wanted to."

"I milked," Joe said. He got the pail, and the two walked to the cabin together. It was a fairly good cabin, although it didn't yet have a wood floor-just well-packed dirt. July felt bad about bringing his bride to a cabin without a wood floor, but being sheriff didn't pay much and it was the best he could do.

It was a high cabin with a little sleeping loft in it. July had initially supposed that was where they would put the boy, but, in fact, Elmira had put them in the sleeping loft and assigned the boy a pallet on the floor.

When they got there she had already cooked the supper-just bacon and cornbread-and was sitting up in the loft with her feet dangling. She liked to sit and let her feet dangle down into the cabin. Elmira liked being alone and spent most of her time in the loft, occasionally doing a little sewing.

"Don't you slosh that milk," she said, when Joe came in with the pail.

"Ain't much to slosh," Joe said.

It was true-the milk cow was playing out. Joe put his rope over by his pallet. It was his most prized possession. He had found it in the street one morning, after some cowboys had passed through. He didn't dare use it for several days, assuming the cowboy who had lost it would come back and look for it. But none did, so gradually he began to practice on the milk-pen calf. If he had had a horse, he would have thought seriously of leaving and trying to get on with a cow outfit, but they only had two horses and July needed both of those.

"The food's on," Elmira said, but she made no move to come down from the loft and eat it with them.

She seldom did eat with them. It bothered July a good deal, though he made no complaint. Since their little table was almost under the loft he could look up and see Elmira's bare legs as he ate. It didn't seem normal to him. His mother had died when he was six, yet he could remember that she always ate with the family; she would never have sat with her legs dangling practically over her husband's head. He had been at supper at many cabins in his life, but in none of them had the wife sat in the loft while the meal was eaten. It was a thing out of the ordinary, and July didn't like for things to be out of the ordinary in his life. It seemed to him it was better to do as other people did-if society at large did things a certain way it had to be for a good reason, and he looked upon common practices as rules that should be obeyed. After all, his job was to see that common practices were honored-that citizens weren't shot, or banks robbed.

He had arrested plenty of people who misbehaved, yet he could not bring himself to say a word to his wife about her own unusual behavior.

Joe didn't share July's discomfort with the fact that his mother seldom came to the table. When she did come it was usually to scold him, and he got scolded enough as it was-besides, he liked eating with July, or doing anything else with July. So far as he was concerned, marrying July was the best thing his mother had ever done. She scolded July as freely as she scolded him, which didn't seem right to Joe. But then July accepted it and never scolded back, so perhaps that was the way of the world: women scolded, and men kept quiet and stayed out of the way as much as possible.

"Want some buttermilk?" July asked, going to the crock.

"No, sin," Joe said. He hated buttermilk, but July loved it so that he always asked anyway.

"You ask him that every night," Elmira said from the edge of the loft. It irritated her that July came home and did exactly the same things day after day.

"Stop asking him," she said sharply. "Let him get his own buttermilk if he wants any. It's been four months now and he ain't drunk a drop-looks like you'd let it go."

She spoke with a heat that surprised July. Elmira could get angry about almost anything, it seemed. Why would it matter if he invited the boy to have a drink of buttermilk? All he had to do was say no, which he had.

"Well, it's good," he said quietly.

Joe almost wished he had taken a glass, since it would have kept July out of trouble. But it was too late.

After that one remark the meal went smoothly, mainly because no one said another word. Joe and July ate their cornbread and bacon, and Elmira hung her feet in the air.

"You take that medicine," she said to July, as soon as he had finished. "If you don't, I guess you'll be yellow the nest of your life."

"He ain't as yellow as he was," Joe said, feeling that it was incumbent on him to take up for July a little bit, since July would never take up for himself. He had no real fear of his mother-she whipped him plenty, but her anger never lasted long, and if she was really mad he could always outrun her.

"He's too yellow for me," Elmira said. "If I'd wanted a yellow husband I'd have married a Chinaman."

"What's a Chinaman?" Joe asked.

"Go get a bucket of water," Elmira said.

July sat at the table, feeling a little sad, while the boy drew a bucket of water. At least they had a well-the river was nearly a mile away, which would have been a long carry.

Joe brought the bucket in and went back outside. It was stuffy in the small cabin. There were a lot of fireflies out. For amusement he caught a few and let them flicker in his hand.

"Want a bath?" July asked his wife. "I'll fetch some more water if you do."

Elmira didn't answer because she didn't really hear him. It was peculiar, but July almost never said anything that she did hear anymore. It seemed to her that the last thing she heard were their marriage vows. After that, though she heard his voice, she didn't really hear his words. Certainly he was nothing like Dee Boot when it came to conversation. Dee could talk all week and never say the same thing twice, whereas it seemed to her July had never said anything different since they'd married.

That in itself didn't bother her, though. If there was one thing she didn't need to do, it was to talk to a man.

"I been thinking I might better go on and catch Jake Spoon," July said. He said everything in the same tone of voice, making it doubly difficult to pay attention to him, but Elmira caught his meaning.

"Do what?" she asked.

"Go get Jake Spoon," July said. "I'm over my jaundice enough to ride."

"Let him go," Elmira said. "Who wants him, anyway?"

July was not about to tell her Peach wanted him. "Well, he killed Benny," he said.

"I say let him go," Elmira said. "That was an accident."

She came downstairs and dipped her face in the cool water, then wiped it on an old piece of sacking they used for a towel.

"He shouldn't have run," July said. "He might have got off."

"No, Peach would have shot him," Elmira said. "She's the one don't care about the law."

That was a possibility. Peach had an uncontrollable temper.

"Well, I've got to catch him-it's my job," he said.

Elmira felt like laughing. July was flattening himself if he thought he could catch a man like Jake Spoon. But then, if she laughed she would be giving herself away. July had no idea that she knew Jake Spoon, but she had known Jake even before she knew Dee. He and Dee had been buddies up in Kansas. Jake even asked her to marry him once, in a joking way-for Jake was not the marrying kind and she hadn't been then, either. He had always kidded her, in the days when she was a sporting girl in Dodge, that she would end up respectable, though even he couldn't have guessed that she'd marry a sheriff. It amused him no end when he found out. She had seen him twice in the street after he came to Fort Smith, and she could tell by the way he grinned and tipped his hat to her that he thought it one of the world's finest jokes. If he had even come to the cabin and seen that it had a dirt floor, he would have realized it was one of those jokes that aren't funny.

And yet she had not hesitated when July proposed, though she had only known him three days. It was the buffalo hunters who convinced her she had better change her way of life. One had taken a fancy to her, a man so big and rough that she feared to refuse him, though she should have-in all her days she had never been used so hard. And the buffalo hunters were numerous. Had it not been for Dee, they might have finished her. But Dee had always been partial to her and loaned her enough money to make a start in a town where she had no reputation: St. Jo, Missouri, which was where July came to testify. She met him in court, for she had no job at the time and was watching the trial to pass the hours.

She just had a dusty little room in a boardinghouse in St. Jo, and the boy a cubbyhole in the attic. Dee snuck in twice, in the dead of night, so as not to tarnish her reputation. He liked Joe, too, and had the notion that he ought to grow up to be something. It was the last time she saw Dee that they had worked out the smallpox story.

"I'm going north, Ellie-I'm tired of sweating," he said. "You go south and you'll be fine. If anybody asks say your husband died of smallpox-you can get to be a widow without even having been married. I might get the smallpox anyway, unless I'm lucky."

"I'd go north with you, Dee," she said quietly, not putting much weight on it. Dee didn't care to have much weight put on things.

But Dee just grinned and pulled at his little blond mustache.

"Nope," he said. "You got to go respectable. I bet you make a schoolmarm yet."

Then he had given her a sweet kiss, told her to look after his boy, and left her with ten dollars and the memory of their reckless years together in Abilene and Dodge. She had known he wouldn't take her north-Dee traveled alone. It was only when he settled in a town to gamble that he liked a woman. But he had offered to go shoot the buffalo hunter who had used her so hard. She had pretended she didn't know the man's name. Dee wasn't a hard man, certainly not as hard as the buffalo hunter. He would have been the one to end up dead.

As for July, it had been no trick to marry him. He was like some of the young cowboys who had never touched a woman or even spoken to one. In two days he was hers. She soon knew that he made no impression on her. His habits never varied. He did the same things in the same way every day. Nine days out of ten he even forgot to wipe the buttermilk off his upper lip. But he wasn't hard like the buffalo hunters. With him she was safe from that kind of treatment, at least.

When she heard Jake was in town she thought she might just run away with him, though she knew he was even less dependable than Dee. But once he shot Benny she had to give up that little dream, the only little dream she had.

Since then, life had been very boring. She spent most of her days sitting in the loft, letting her feet dangle, remembering the old days with Dee and Jake.

July was sitting in the dark, buttermilk on his lip, looking at her as patiently as if he were a calf. The very look of him, so patient, made her want to torment him any way she could.

July knew that for some reason he irritated Elmira-she reacted crossly to almost everything he said or suggested. Sometimes he wondered if all men only made their wives look hostile and sullen. If it wasn't the case, then he wondered what made the difference.

He had always taken pains to be as nice as possible, sharing all the chores with little Joe and sparing her inconveniences whenever he could. Yet it seemed the more polite he tried to be, the more he stumbled or said the wrong thing or generally upset her. At night it had gotten so he could hardly put a hand on her, she looked at him so coldly. She could lie a foot from him and make him feel that he was miles away. It all made him feel terrible, for he had come to love her more than anything.

"Wipe your lip, July," she said. "I wish you'd ever learn, on else stop drinking that buttermilk."

Embarrassed, he wiped it. When Elmira was annoyed she made him so nervous that he couldn't really remember whether he had eaten, or what.

"You ain't sick, are you?" he asked. There were fevers going around, and if she had one it would explain why she felt so testy.

"I ain't sick," she said.

Since he had started the business about Jake, he thought he might as well finish it. She was mad anyway.

"If I start after Spoon now, I expect I could be back in a month," he said.

Ellie just looked at him. It was all right with her if he was gone for a year. The only reason she objected to his going was that she knew Peach was behind it; if somebody was going to tell the man what to do, it ought to be her, not Peach.

"Take Joe with you," she said.

Such a thought had never occurred to July, though it had crossed his mind that he might take Roscoe.

"Why, you'll need him," July said. "You've got the chores."

Elmira shrugged. "I can milk that old cow," she said. "The chores ain't hard. We ain't raising cotton, you know. I want you to take Joe. He needs to see the world."

It was true the boy might be useful on a long trip. There would be someone to help him watch the prisoner, once there was a prisoner. But it meant leaving Ellie alone, which he didn't like.

As if reading his mind, she sat down at the table and looked at him.

"I been alone before, July," she said. "It ain't gonna hurt me. Roscoe can help if I need something I can't carry."

That was true, of course-not that Roscoe would be particularly obliging about it. Roscoe claimed to have a bad back and would complain for days if forced to do anything resembling manual labor.

"There could be a fight," July said, remembering that Jake Spoon was said to have difficult friends. "I don't expect it, but you never know with a gambler."

"I don't reckon they'd shoot a boy," Elmira said. "You take Joe. He's got to grow up sometime."

Then, to escape the stuffy cabin, she went outside and sat on a stump for a while. The night was thick with fireflies. In a little while she heard July come out. He didn't say anything. He just sat.

Despite his politeness and constant kindness, Elmira felt a bitterness toward him. The thing he didn't know was that she was with child. He wouldn't know it, either, if she could help it. She had just married out of fright-she didn't want him or the child either. And yet she was scared to try and stop the child-in Abilene she had known a girl who bled to death from trying to stop a baby. She had died on the stairs outside Elmira's room on a bitter cold night; blood had run all the way down the stairs and frozen in the night into red ice. The girl, whose name was Jenny, had stuck to the stairs. They had had to heat water in order to get her loose.

The sight had been enough to discourage her from trying to stop a baby. Yet the thought that she had one made her bitter. She didn't want to go through it all again, and she didn't want to live with July Johnson. It was just that the buffalo hunter had been so rough; it had scared her into thinking she had to find a different life.

Life in Font Smith was different, too-so dull that she found little reason to raise herself from her quilts, most days. The women of the town, though they had no reason to suspect her, suspected her anyway and let her alone. Often she was tempted just to walk into a saloon where there was a girl or two she could might have talked to, but instead she had given way to apathy, spending whole days sitting on the edge of her sleeping loft, doing nothing.

Watching the fireflies sparkle in the woods behind the cabin, Elmira waited, listening. Sure enough, in a few minutes, she heard the little metallic clicks, as July slowly rotated the chambers in his pistol before going back to town to make his rounds. It set her teeth on edge that he would do it every night.

"Guess I'll go have a look," he said. "Won't be long."

It was what he said every night. It was true, too. Unless the rivermen were fighting, he was never long. Mainly he hoped that when he came to bed she'd want him. But she didn't want him. She had kept him at a distance since she was sure about the baby. It hunt his feelings, but she didn't care.

As she heard him walk off through the dankness, her spirits sank even lower. It seemed there was no winning in life. She wanted July and Joe to be gone, suddenly, so she would not have to deal with them every day. Their needs were modest enough, but she no longer wanted to face them. She had reached a point where doing anything for anyone was a strain. It was like heavy work, it was so hard.

It came to her more strongly every day how much she missed Dee Boot. He was the exact opposite of July Johnson. July could be predicted down to the least gesture, whereas Dee was always doing what a person least expected. Once, in Abilene, to get revenge on a madam he hadn't liked, he had pretended to bring her a nice pie from the bakery, and indeed he had got the baker to produce what looked like a perfect piecrust-but he had gone over to the livery stable and filled the piecrust with fresh horse turds. The madam, a big, mean woman named Sal, had actually cut into it before she sensed the joke.

Elmira smiled to herself, remembering some of the funny things Dee did. They had known one another for nearly fifteen years, since she had found herself stranded, as a girl, way up in Kansas. It hadn't been all Dee, of course; there had been plenty of others. Some had lasted only a few minutes, some a week or two or a month, but somehow she and Dee always found themselves back together. It irritated her that he had been content just to pull his mustache and head for the north without her. He seemed to think it would be easy for her to be respectable. Of course, it was her fault for picking July. She hadn't expected his politeness to irritate her so much.

After the night deepened, the moon came out and rose above the pines. Elmira sat on the stump and watched it, glad to be alone. The thought that July and Joe would be going off caused her spirits to lift--it occurred to her that once they left there would be nothing to stop her from leaving too. Boats went up the Arkansas nearly every week. It might be that Dee Boot was missing her as much as she missed him. He woudn't mind that she was with child-such things he took lightly.

It made her smile to think of finding Dee. While July tracked one gambler, she would track another, in the opposite direction. When July got back, with on without Jake, and discovered that his wife was gone, it might surprise him so much he would even forget to drink his buttermilk.

28.

THE NEXT MORNING, an hour before dawn, July and Joe left the cabin and caught their horses. Joe was almost stunned with excitement at getting to go with July. His friend Roscoe Brown had been stunned, too, when July went by the jail and told Roscoe they were going.

"You'll get that boy kilt before I even teach him all my domino tricks," Roscoe said. It puzzled him that July would do such a thing.

Joe was not tempted to question the miracle. The main thing that bothered him was that he lacked a saddle, but July took care of that by borrowing an old singletree from Peach Johnson. She was so pleased July was finally going after her husband's killer that she would have given them the saddle-rats had eaten most of it, anyway.

Elmira got up and cooked them breakfast, but the food did nothing to ease the heaviness of heart which July felt. All night he had hoped she might turn to him, it being his last night at home for a while-but she hadn't. Once he had accidentally touched her, turning on the pallet they slept on, and she had stiffened. It was clean to July that she wasn't going to miss him, though he was certainly going to miss her. It was peculiar, but she showed no sign of being sorry to see Joe go, either. Yet Joe was her son and he was her husband-if she didn't love her husband and her son, who did she love? For all she knew they would be gone for months, and yet she was just as brisk with them as if it was an ordinary day. She saw to it that Joe drew another bucket of water before he left, and then jumped on July for nearly forgetting his jaundice medicine.

Yet, for all her bad temper, it was no relief to leave. He felt apprehension so strongly that at one point it seemed to tighten his throat and nearly caused him to choke on a bite of corn bread. He felt he was being carried along through his life as a river might carry a chip. There seemed to be no way he could stop anything that was happening, although it all felt wrong.

The only relief he could find was in the knowledge that he was doing his job and earning the thirty dollars a month the town paid him. There were a few tightfisted citizens who didn't think there was thirty dollars' worth of sheriffing to do in Fort Smith in a given month. Going after a man who had killed the mayor was the kind of work people seemed to think a sheriff ought to do, although it would probably be less dangerous than having to stop two rivermen from carving one another up with knives.

They left Elmira standing in the door of the cabin and rode through the dark town to the jail, but before they got there Red, Joe's horse, suddenly bowed up, began to buck, and threw him. Joe was not hurt, but he was dreadfully embarrassed to be thrown right at the outset of such an important trip.

"It's just Red," July said. "He's got to have his buck. He's gotten rid of me a time or two that way."

Roscoe slept on a couch in the jail and was up and stumbling around in his bare feet when they got there. July got a rifle and two boxes of bullets and then got down a shotgun too.

"That's my shotgun," Roscoe said. He was not in the best of tempers. He hated to have his sleeping quarters invaded before it was even light.

"We'll need to eat," July said. "Joe can shoot a rabbit now and then if we don't see no deer."

"You'll probably see a Comanche Indian and they'll cook both of you as if you was dern rabbits," Roscoe said.

"Oh, they're about whipped, I reckon," July said.

"'Bout?" Roscoe said. "Well, I 'bout knocked out a wasp's nest last year, but the two I missed near stung me to death. 'Bout ain't good enough where Comanches are concerned. You must be planning to make San Antonio in one day, since you're starting this early," he added, still grumpy from having been routed out of bed.

July let him grumble and took a saddle scabbard off one of the other rifles so there'd be something to put the shotgun in.

By the time light had begun to show over the river, they were ready to go. Roscoe was awake enough by then to feel apprehensive. Being deputy was an easy job while July was around, but the minute he left it became heavy with responsibility. Anything could happen, and he would be the one who would have to handle it.

"Well, I hope the dern Comanches don't decide they want Fort Smith," he said morosely. Several times he had dreams of a troop of wild Indians riding right down the street and filling him full of arrows while he sat in front of the jail, whittling.

"They won't," July said, anxious to get away before Roscoe thought up other bad things that might happen.

Roscoe noted that Joe was bareheaded, another sign of July's recklessness. It occurred to him that he had an old black felt hat. It was hanging on a peg, and he went back in and got it for the boy.

"Here, you take this," he said, surprised at his own generosity.

When Joe put it on, his head disappeared nearly down to his mouth, which was grinning.

"If he wears that he'll probably ride off a cliff," July said, although it was true the boy needed a hat.

"He can tie it on with some string," Roscoe said. "It'll keep that dern sun out of his eyes."

Now that they were ready, July felt strangely unwilling to leave. It was getting good light-far down the street they could see the river shining, and beyond it a faint glow of red on the horizon. In its awakening hour the town seemed peaceful, lovely, calm. A rooster began to crow.

Yet July had a sense that something was terribly wrong. More than once it occurred to him that Elmira might have some strange disease that caused her to act the way she was acting. She had less appetite than most people, for one thing-she just nibbled at her food. Now he had no one to trust her to except Roscoe Brown, who was only slightly less afraid of her than he would be of a Comanche.

"You look after Ellie," he said sternly. "If she needs her groceries carried, you carry them."

"Okay, July," Roscoe said.

July got on his horse, adjusted his bedroll and sat looking at the river. They weren't carrying much bedding, but then the warm weather was coming.

"Take her a fish now and then, if you catch one," he said.

To Roscoe Brown it seemed a strange instruction. Elmira had made it plain that she didn't like fish.

"Okay, July," he said again, though he didn't mean to waste his time offering fish to a woman who didn't like them.

July could think of no more instructions. Roscoe knew the town as well as he did.

"Joe, be careful," Roscoe said. For some reason it affected him to see the boy going. It was a poor saddle he had, too. But the boy still grinned out from under the old hat.

"We'll catch him," Joe said proudly.

"Well, I'll try not to let nobody shoot no more dentists," Roscoe said.

July regarded the remark as irrelevant, for Roscoe knew well enough that the town had been without a dentist since Benny's death. "Just watch old man Darton," he said. "We don't want him to fall off the ferry."

The old man lived in a shack on the north bank and merely came over for liquor. Once in a while he eluded Roscoe, and twice already he had fallen into the river. The ferrymen didn't like him anyway, and if it happened again they might well let him drown.

"I'll handle the old scamp," Roscoe said confidently. Old man Darton was one responsibility he felt he could handle any day.

"Well, I guess we'll see you when we see you, Roscoe," July said. Then he turned his horse away from the river and the glowing sky, and he and little Joe were soon out of town.

29.

SIX DAYS LATER responsibility descended upon Roscoe Brown with a weight far beyond anything he had ever felt. As usual, it fell out of a clear blue sky-as fine a day as one could want, with the Arkansas River sparkling down at the end of the street. Roscoe, having no pressing duties, was sitting in front of the jail whittling, when he noticed Peach Johnson coming up the street with little Charlie Barnes at her side. Charlie was a banker, and the only man in town to wear a necktie every day. He was also the main deacon in the church, and, by common consent the man most likely to marry Peach if she ever remarried. Charlie was a widower, and richer by far than Benny had ever been. Nobody liked him, not even Peach, but she was too practical a woman to let that stop her if she took a notion to marry.

When Roscoe saw them coming he snapped shut his whittling knife and put the stick he had been whittling in his shirt pocket. There was no law against whittling, but he didn't want to get a reputation as an idler, particularly not with a man who was as apt as not to end up the next mayor of Fort Smith.

"Morning, folks," he said, when the two walked up.

"Roscoe, I thought July gave you instructions to look after Elmira," Peach said.

"Well, he said take her a fish if I caught one, but I ain't caught any lately," Roscoe said. He felt a little guilty without even knowing what was wrong, for Elmira had not once crossed his mind since July left.

"If I know July-and I do know July-I bet he said more than that," Peach said.

"Well, he said to carry her some groceries if she asked, but she ain't asked," he said.

"When have you seen her?" Charlie Barnes asked. He was looking stern, though it was hand for a man so short and fat to really muster much sternness.

The question stumped Roscoe. Probably he had seen Elmira recently, but when he thought about it he couldn't think when. The woman was not much for traipsing around town. Right after the marriage she had been seen in the stores some, spending July's money, but he couldn't recollect having seen her in a stone in recent days.

"You know Elmira," he said. "She don't come out much. Mainly she just stays in the cabin."

"Well, she ain't in it now," Peach said.

"We think she's gone," Charlie Barnes said.

"Why, where would she go?" Roscoe said.

Peach and Charlie didn't answer, and a silence fell.

"Maybe she just took a walk," Roscoe said, although he knew that sounded weak.

"That's what I thought yesterday," Peach said. "She wasn't there yesterday and she ain't there today. I doubt she'd take no overnight walk."

Roscoe had to admit it was unlikely. The nearest town, Catfish Grove, was fourteen miles away, and not much of a destination at that.

"Maybe she just don't want to answer the door," he said. "She takes a lot of naps."

"Nope, I went in and looked," Peach said. "There ain't a soul in that cabin, and there wasn't yesterday, neither."

"We think she's gone," Charlie Barnes said again. He was not a talkative man.

Roscoe got up from his comfortable seat. If Elmira was indeed gone, that constituted a serious problem. Peach and Charlie stood there as if they expected him to do something, or tell them right off where she had gone.

"I wonder if something got her?" he asked, thinking out loud. There were still plenty of bears in the woods, and some said there were panthers, though he himself had never seen one.

"If she wandered off, anything could have got her," Peach said. "Could have been an animal or it could have been a man."

"Why, Peach, I don't know why a man would want her," Roscoe said, only to realize that the remark probably sounded funny. After all, Peach was related to her.

"I don't either, but I ain't a man," Peach said, giving Charlie Barnes a hard look. Roscoe thought it unlikely that Charlie wanted Elmira. It might be that he didn't even want Peach.

He walked to the edge of the porch and looked up the street, hoping to see Elmira standing in it. In all his years as a deputy he had never heard of a woman just getting lost, and it seemed unfair that it should happen to July's wife. There was nobody in the street but a farmer with a mule team.

"Why, I'll go have a look," he said. "Maybe she just went visiting."

"Who would she visit?" Peach asked. "She ain't been out of that cabin more than twice since July married her. She don't know the names of five people in this town. I was just going to take her some dumplings, since July is gone off. If I hadn't done it I doubt she would have even been missed."

From her tone Roscoe got the clear implication that he had been remiss in his duty. In fact, he had meant to look in on Elmira at some point, but the time had passed so quickly he had forgotten to.

"Well, I'll go right up there," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "I expect she'll turn up."

"We think she's gone," Charlie Barnes said, for the third time.

Roscoe decided to go at once to keep from having to hear Charlie Barnes repeat himself all morning. He tipped his hat to Peach and started for the cabin, but to his dismay Peach and Charlie stayed right at his heels. It disturbed him to have company, but there was nothing he could do about it. It seemed to him curious that Peach would take Elmira dumplings, for the two women were known not to get along; it crossed his mind that Elmira had seen Peach coming and gone into hiding.

Sure enough, the cabin was empty. There was no sign that anybody had been in it for a day or two. A slab of corn bread sat on the cookstove, already pretty well nibbled by the mice.

"She mostly sat in the loft," Roscoe said, mainly to hear himself talk. Hearing himself was better than hearing Peach.

"There ain't nothing up there but a pallet," Peach said.

That proved to be the truth. It was not much of a pallet, either-just a couple of quilts. July, being the youngest of the Johnson family, had never had any money and had not accumulated much in the way of goods.

Roscoe racked his brain to try and think if there was anything missing, but he had never been in the loft before and could not think of a possession that might have been missing-just Elmira.

"Didn't she have shoes on, when they got hitched?" he asked.

Peach looked disgusted. "Of course she had shoes on," she said. "She wasn't that crazy."

"Well, I don't see no shoes in this cabin, men's or women's," Roscoe said. "If she's gone, I guess she wore 'em."

They went out and walked around the cabin. Roscoe was hoping to find a trail, but there were weeds all around the cabin, wet with dew, and all he did was get his pants legs wet. He was growing more and more uneasy-if Elmira was just in hiding from Peach he wished she'd give up and come out. If July came back and found his new wife missing, there was no telling how upset he'd be.

It seemed to him the most likely explanation was bears, though he knew it wasn't a foolproof explanation. If a bear had just walked in and got her, there would have been some blood on the floor. On the other hand, no bear had ever walked into Fort Smith and got a woman, though one had entered a cabin near Catfish Grove and carried off a baby.

"I guess a bear got her unless she's hiding," he said, unhappily. Being a deputy sheriff had suddenly gotten a lot harder.

"We think she's gone," Charlie Barnes said, with irritating persistence. If a bear had got her, of course she would be gone.

"He means we think she's left," Peach said.

That made no sense at all, since the woman had just married July.

"Left to go where?" he said. "Left to do what?"

"Roscoe, you ain't got the sense God gave a turkey," Peach said, abandoning her good manners. "If she left, she just left-left. My guess is she got tired of living with July."

That was such a radical thought that merely trying to think it gave Roscoe the beginnings of a headache.

"My God, Peach," he said, feeling stunned.

"There's no need to swear, Roscoe," Peach said. "We all seen it coming. July's a fool or he wouldn't have married her."

"It could have been a bear, though," Roscoe said. All of a sudden, it seemed the lesser of two evils. If Elmira was dead July might eventually get over it-if she had run off, there was no telling what he might do.

"Well, where's the tracks, then?" Peach asked. "If a bear came around, all the dogs in this town would have barked, and half the horses would have run away. If you ask me, Elmira's the one that run away."

"My God," Roscoe said again. He knew he was going to get blamed, no matter what.

"I bet she took that whiskey boat," Peach said. In fact, a boat had headed upriver only a day or two after July left.

It was the only logical explanation. No stage had passed through in the last week. A troop of soldiers had come through, going west, but soldiers wouldn't have taken Elmira. The boat had been filled with whiskey traders, headed up for Bents' Fort. Roscoe had seen a couple of the boatmen staggering on the street, and when the boat had left with no fights reported, he had felt relieved. Whiskey traders were rough men-certainly not the sort married women ought to be traveling with.

"You better go see what you can find out, Roscoe," Peach said. "If she's run off, July's gonna want to know about it."

That was certainly true. July doted on Elmira.

It took no more than a walk to the river to confirm what Peach had suspected. Old Sabin, the ferryman, had seen a woman get on the whiskey boat the morning it left.

"My God, why didn't you tell me?" Roscoe asked.

Old Sabin just shrugged. It was none of his business who got on boats other than his own.

"I figert it was a whore," he said.

Roscoe walked slowly back to the jail, feeling extremely confused. He wanted badly for it all to be a mistake. On the way up the street he looked in every store, hoping he would find Elmira in one of them spending money like a normal woman. But she wasn't there. At the saloon he asked Renfro, the barkeep, if he knew of a whore who had left town lately, but there were only two whores in town, and Renfro said they were both upstairs asleep.

It was just the worst luck. He had worried considerably about the various bad things that might happen while July was gone, but the loss of Elmira had not been among his worries. Men's wives didn't usually leave on a whiskey barge. He had heard of cases in which they didn't like wedded life and went back to their families, but Elmira hadn't even had a family, and there was no reason for her not to like wedded life, since July had riot worked her hard at all.

Once it was plain that she was gone, Roscoe felt in the worst quandary of his life. July was gone too, off in the general direction of San Antonio. It might be a month before he got back, at which point someone would have to tell him the bad news. Roscoe didn't want to be the someone, but then he was the person whose job it was to sit around the jail, so he would probably have to do it.

Even worse, he would have to sit there for a month or two worrying about July's reaction when he finally got back. Or it could be three months or six months-July had been known to be slow. Roscoe knew he couldn't take six months of anxiety. Of course it just proved that July had been foolish to marry, but that didn't make the situation any easier to live with.

In less than half an hour it seemed that every single person in Fort Smith found out that July Johnson's wife had run off on a whiskey barge. It seemed the Johnson family provided almost all the excitement in the town, the last excitement having been Benny's death. Such a stream of people came up to question Roscoe about the disappearance that he was forced to give up all thought of whittling, just at a time when having a stick to whittle on might have settled his nerves.

People who had seldom laid eyes on Elmira suddenly showed up at the jail and began to question him about her habits, as if he was an authority on them-though all he had ever seen the woman do was cook a catfish or two.

One of the worst was old lady Harkness, who had once taught school somewhere or other in Mississippi and had treated grownups like schoolchildren ever since. She helped out a little in her son's general store, where evidently there wasn't work enough to keep her busy. She marched across the street as if she had been appointed by God to investigate the whole thing. Roscoe had already discussed it with the blacksmith and the postmaster and a couple of cotton farmers, and was hoping for a little time off in which to think it through. Old lady Harkness didn't let that stop her.

"Roscoe, if you was my deputy, I'd arrest you," she said. "What do you mean lettin' somebody run off with July's wife?"

"Nobody run off with her," Roscoe said. "She just run off with herself, I guess."

"What do you know about it?" Old lady Harkness said. "I don't guess she'd just have got on a boatful of men if she wasn't partial to one of them. When are you going after her?"

"I ain't," Roscoe said, startled. It had never occurred to him to go after Elmira.

"Well, you will unless you're good for nothing, I guess," the old lady said. "This ain't much of a town if things like that can happen and the deputy just sit there."

"It never was much of a town," Roscoe reminded her, but the point, which was obvious, merely seemed to anger her.

"If you ain't up to getting the woman, then you better go get July," she said. "He might want his wife back before she gets up there somewhere and gets scalped."

She then marched off, much to Roscoe's relief. He went in and took a drink or two from a bottle of whiskey he kept under his couch and usually only used as a remedy for toothache. He was careful not to drink too much, since the last thing he needed was for the people in Fort Smith to get the notion he was a drunk. But then, the next thing he knew, despite his care, the whiskey bottle was empty, and he seemed to have drunk it, although it did not feel to him like he was drunk. In the still heat he got drowsy and went to sleep on the couch, only to awake in a sweat to find Peach and Charlie Barnes staring down at him.

It was very upsetting, for it seemed to him the day had started out with Peach and Charlie staring down at him. In his confusion it occurred to him that he might have dreamed the whole business about Elmira running off. Only there were Peach and Charlie again; the dream might be starting over. He wanted to wake up before it got to the part about the whiskey barge, but it turned out he was awake, after all.

"Is she still gone?" he asked, hoping by some miracle that Elmira had showed up while he was sleeping.

"Of course she's still gone," Peach said. "And you're drunk on the job. Get up from there and go get July."

"But July went to Texas," Roscoe said. "The only place I've ever been to is Little Rock, and it's in the other direction."

"Roscoe, if you can't find Texas you're a disgrace to your profession," Peach said.

Peach had a habit of misunderstanding people, even when the point was most obvious.

"I can find Texas," he said. "The point is, kin I find July?"

"He's riding with a boy, and he's going to San Antonio," Peach said. "I guess if you ask around, someone will have seen them."

"Yeah, but what if I miss 'em?" Roscoe asked.

"Then I guess you'll end up in California," she said.

Roscoe found that he had a headache, and listening to Peach made it worse.

"His wife's gone," Charlie Barnes said.

"Dern it, Charlie, shut up!" Peach said. "He knows that. "I don't think he's forgot that."

Roscoe had not forgotten it. Overnight it had become the dominant fact of his life. Elmira was gone and he was expected to do something about it. Moreover, his choices were limited. Either he went upriver and tried to find Elmira or he had to go to Texas and look for July. He himself was far from sure that either action was wise.

Trying to recover his wits, with a headache and Peach and Charlie Barnes staring at him for the second time that day, was not easy. Mainly Roscoe felt aggrieved that July had put him in such a position. July had been doing well enough without a wife, it seemed to Roscoe; but if he had to marry, he could have been a little more careful and at least married someone who would have the courtesy to stay around Fort Smith-about the least that one ought to be able to ask of a wife. Instead, he had made the worst possible choice and left Roscoe to suffer the consequences.

"I ain't much of a traveler," Roscoe said, for actually his one trip, to Little Rock, had been one of the nightmares of his life, since he had ridden the whole way in a cold rain and had run a fever for a month as a result.

Nonetheless, the next morning he found himself saddling up the big white gelding he had ridden for the last ten years, a horse named Memphis, the town of his origin. Several of the townspeople were there at the jail, watching him pack his bedroll and tie on his rifle scabbard, and none of them seemed worried that he was about to ride off and leave them unprotected. Although Roscoe said little, he felt very pettish toward the citizens of Fort Smith, and toward Peach Johnson and Charlie Barnes in particular. If Peach had just minded her own business, nobody would even have discovered that Elmira was missing until July returned, and then July would have been able to take care of the problem, which rightly was his problem anyway.

"Well, I hope nobody don't rob the bank while I'm gone," he said to the little crowd watching him. He wanted to suggest worse possibilities, such as Indian raids, but, in fact, the Indians had not molested Fort Smith in years, though the main reason he rode white horses was that he had heard somewhere that Indians were afraid of them.

The remark about the bank being robbed was aimed at Charlie Barnes, who blinked a couple of times in response. It had never been robbed, but if it had been, Charlie might have died on the spot, not out of fright but because he hated to lose a nickel.

The little jail, which had been more or less Roscoe's home for the last few years, had never seemed more appealing to him. Indeed, he felt like crying every time he looked at it, but of course it would not do to cry in front of half the town. It was another beautiful morning, with the hint of summer-Roscoe had always loved the summer and hated the cold, and he wondered if he would get back in time to enjoy the sultry days of July and August, when it was so hot even the river hardly seemed to move. He was much given to premonitions-had had them all his life-and he had a premonition now. It seemed to him that he wouldn't get back. It seemed to him he might be looking his last on Fort Smith, but the townspeople gave him no chance to linger or be sorry.

"Elmira'll be to Canada before you get started," Peach pointed out.

Reluctantly, Roscoe climbed up on Memphis, a horse so tall it was only necessary to be on him to have a view. "Well, I hate to go off and leave you without no deputy," he said. "I doubt if July will like it. He put me in charge of this place."

Nobody said a word to that.

"If July gets back and I ain't with him, you tell him I went looking," Roscoe said. "We may just circle around for a while, me and July. First I'll look for him, then he can look for me. And if the town goes to hell in the meantime, don't blame it on Roscoe Brown."

"Roscoe, we got the fort over there half a mile away," Peach said. "I guess the soldiers can look after us as good as you can."

That was true, of course. There wouldn't even be a Fort Smith if there hadn't been a fort first. Still, the soldiers didn't concern themselves much with the town.

"What if Elmira comes back?" Roscoe asked. No one had raised that possibility. "Then I'd be gone and won't know it."

"Why would she come back?" Peach asked. "She just left."

Roscoe found it hard even to remember Elmira, though he had done practically nothing but think about her for the last twenty-four hours. All he really knew was that he hated to ride out of the one town he felt at home in. That everyone was eager for him to go made him feel distinctly bitter.

"Well, the soldiers ain't gonna help you if old man Darton goes on a tear," he said. "July told me to be sure and watch him."

But the little group of citizens seemed not to be worried by the thought of what old man Darton might do. They watched him silently.

Unable to think of any other warnings, or any reason for his staying that might convince anyone, Roscoe gave Memphis a good kick-he was a steady horse once he hit his stride, but he did start slow-and the big-footed gelding kicked a little dust on Charlie Barnes's shiny shoes, getting underway. Roscoe took one last look at the river and headed for Texas.

30.

THE FIRST GOOD WASH Lorena got was in the Nueces River. They had had a bad day trying to fight their way through mesquite thickets, and when they came to the river she just decided to stop, particularly since she found a shady spot where there wasn't any mesquite or prickly pear.

Jake had no part in the decision because Jake was drunk. He had been steadily drinking whiskey all day as they rode, and was so unsteady in his seat that Lorena wasn't even sure they were still going in the right direction. But they were ahead of the cattle-from every clearing she could look back and see the dust the herd raised. It was a fair way back, but directly behind them, which made her feel reassured. It would not be pleasant to be lost, with Jake so drunk.

Of course, he only drank because his hand was paining him. Probably he hadn't gotten all the thorn out-his thumb had turned from white to purple. She was hoping they would strike a town that had a doctor, but there seemed to be nothing in that part of the country but prickly pear and mesquite.

It was bad luck, Jake having an accident so soon after they started, but it was just a thorn. Lorena supposed the worst it could do was fester. But when he got off his horse, his legs were so unsteady he could barely wobble over to the shade. She was left to tie the horses and make the camp, while Jake lay propped up against the tree and continued to pull on his bottle.

"Dern, it's hot," he said, when she stopped for a minute to look at his hand. "I wonder where the boys are camped tonight. We might go over and get up a game of cards."

"You'd lose," she said. "You're too drunk to shuffle."

There was a flash of anger in Jake's eyes. He didn't like being criticized. But he made no retort.

"I'm going to have a wash," Lorena said.

"Don't drown," he said. "Be a pity if you was to drown on your way to San Francisco."

It was clear he was angry-he hated to be denied, or to see her take the lead over him in anything. Lorena met his anger with silence. She knew he couldn't stay mad very long.

The river was green and the water cold underneath the surface. She waded in and stood chest-deep, letting the water wash away the layers of dust and sweat. As she was wading out, feeling clean and light, she got a scare: a big snapping turtle sat on the bank right where she had entered the river. It was big as a tub and so ugly Lorena didn't want to get near it. She waded upstream, and just as she got out heard a shot-Jake was shooting his pistol at the turtle. He walked down to the water, probably just because he liked to see her naked.

"You are a sight," he said, grinning. Then he shot at the turtle again and missed. He shot four times, all the bullets plopping into the mud. The turtle, unharmed, slid off into the water.

"I was never no shot with my left hand," Jake said.

Lorena sat down on a grassy place in the sun and let the water drip off her legs. As soon as she sat down Jake came over and began to rub her back. He had a feverish look in his eye.

"I don't know where I got such a fancy for you," he said. "You are a sight to see."

He stretched out beside her and pulled her back. It was odd to look up beyond his head and see the white sky above them instead of the cracked boards in the ceiling above her head in the Dry Bean. More than usual, it made her feel not there-far from Jake and what he was doing. Crowded up in a room, it was difficult for her to keep herself-on the grass, with the sky far above, it was easy.

But it was not easy for Jake to finish-he was sicker than she had suspected. His legs were trembling and his body strained at hers. She looked in his face and saw he was frightened-he groaned, trying to grip her shoulder with his sore hand. Then, despite himself, he slipped from her; he tried to push back in, but kept slipping away. Finally he gave up and collapsed on her, so tired that he seemed to pass out.

When he sat up, she eased out from under him. He looked around with no recognition. She dressed and helped him dress, then got him propped against a big shade tree. She made a little fire, thinking some coffee might help him. While she was getting the pot out of the pack she heard a splashing and looked up to see a black man ride his horse into the river from the other side. Soon the horse was swimming, but the black man didn't seem frightened. The horse waded out, dripping, and the black man dismounted and let it shake itself.

"How do, miss," the black man said. Jake had fallen into a drowse and didn't even know the man was there.

"Mister Jake taking a nap?" he asked.

"He's sick," Lorena said.

The man walked over and squatted by Jake a moment, then gently lifted his hand. Jake woke up.

"Why, it's old Deets," he said. "We're all right now, Lorie. Deets will see us through."

"I been looking for a good place to cross the herd," Deets said. "Captain made me the scout."

"Well, he's right," Jake said. "We'd all have been lost twenty years ago if it hadn't been for you."

"You full of fever," Deets said. "Let me get that sticker out of your hand."

"I thought I got it all the other day," Jake said. "I'd as soon have you cut my hand off as dig around in there."

"Oh, no," Deets said. "You got to keep your hand. Might need you to shoot a bandit if one gets after me."

He went back and rummaged in his saddlebag, bringing out a large needle.

"I got to keep a needle," he said to Lorena. "Got to sew my pants from time to time."

Then, after heating the needle and letting it cool, he carefully probed the swelling at the base of Jake's thumb. Jake yelped when he began, and then yelped again a little later, but he didn't resist.

"Goddamn the dern thorns," he said weakly.

Then, with a wide grin, Deets held up the needle. The tiny yellow tip of the thorn was on it. "Now you be cuttin' the cards agin," he said.

Jake looked relieved, though still flushed with fever.

"I'll play you right now, Deets," he said. "You're the only one in the whole dern outfit with any money."

The black man just grinned and returned the needle to the little packet in his saddlebag. Then he accepted the cup of coffee which Lorie offered.

"Miss, you oughta get him on across the river," he said, when he handed back the coffee cup.

"Why?" Lorena asked. "We done made camp. He'll want to rest."

"Rest on the other side," Deets said. "Gonna come a storm tonight. The river be up tomorrow."

It seemed hard to believe. There was not a cloud in the sky. But the man had spoken in a tone that indicated he knew what he was talking about.

The girl looked sad, Deets thought. He glanced at the sun, which was dropping.

"I can help," he said. "I'll get you settled." The black man had them packed in no time, tying their bedrolls high so as to keep them out of the river.

"Dern, we didn't use this camp much," Jake said, when he realized they were moving. But when Deets mentioned the storm, he simply mounted and rode into the river. He was soon across.

It was a good thing Deets had offered to help. Lorena's mare balked and wouldn't take the water. She would go in chest-deep and then whirl and climb back up the bank, showing the whites of her eyes and trying to run. Despite herself, Lorena felt her fear rising. Once, already, the mane had nearly fallen. She might really fall, tnapping Lorena beneath the green water. She tried to control her fear-she would have to get across many rivers if she was to get to San Francisco-but the mare kept flouncing and trying to turn and Lorena couldn't help being afraid. She could see Jake on the other bank. He didn't look very concerned.

The third time the mare turned, the black man was suddenly beside her. "Let me have her," he said.

When he took the reins Lorena felt a deeper fright than she had ever known. She gripped the horse's mane so tightly the honsehairs cut into her hands. Then she shut her eyes-she couldn't bear to see the water coming over her. The mare took a leap, and there was a different feeling. They were swimming. She heard the black man's voice talking soothingly to the mare. The water lapped at her waist, but it came no higher; after a moment she opened her eyes. They were nearly across the river. The black man was looking back watchfully, lifting her reins a bit so as to keep the horse's head out of the water. Then there was the suck of the water against her legs as they started to climb out of the river. With a smile, the black man handed her back her wet reins. She was gripping the mane so tightly it took an act of will to turn her hands loose.

"Why, she's a fine swimmer," Deets said. "You be fine on this horse, Miss."

Lorena had clenched her teeth so tightly she couldn't even speak to thank the man, though she felt a flush of gratitude. Had it not been for him she felt sure she would have drowned. Jake by this time had untied his bedroll and thrown it down under a big mesquite. It had been nothing to him, her having to cross the river. Though the fright had begun to relax its grip, Lorena still didn't feel that she had control of her limbs so that she could simply step off the horse and walk as she had always walked. She felt angry at Jake for taking it all so lightly.

Deets smiled at Lorena tolerantly and turned his own horse back toward the river.

"Make your fire and do your cooking now," he said. "Then blow out the fire. It's gonna come a bad wind. If the fire gets loose you might have trouble."

He glanced south, at the sky.

"The wind's gonna come about sundown," he said. "First it will be sand and then lightning. Don't tie the horses to no big trees."

Despite herself, Lorena felt her spirits sinking. She had always feared lightning above all things, and here she was without even a house to hide in. She saw it was going to be harder than she had imagined. Here it was only the second day and she had already had a fright like death. Now lightning was coming. For a moment it all felt hopeless-better she had just sat in the Dry Bean for life, or married Xavier. She had gone over to Jake in a minute, and yet, the truth was Xavier would probably have taken care of her better. It was all foolish, her dream of San Francisco.

She looked again at the black man, meaning to try and thank him for helping her across the river, but he was looking at her kindly, and she didn't say anything.

"I got to go lead the Captain to the crossing," he said.

Lorena nodded. "Tell Gus hello," she said.

"I'll tell him," Deets said, and rode into the Nueces for the third time.

31.

"WELL, HERE'S WHERE we all find out if we was meant to be cowboys," Augustus said-for he had no doubt that Deets would soon be proved night about the coming storm. "Too bad it couldn't wait a day or two until some of you boys had more practice," he added. "I expect half of you will get trampled before the night is over, leaving me no way to collect my just debts."

"We have to expect it," Call said. "It's the stormy time of the year."

Still, a sandstorm at night, with a herd that wasn't trail-broken and a green crew of men, was not going to be anything to look forward to.

"You reckon we could make it across the river before it hits?" he asked, but Deets shook his head. They were several miles from the Nueces and the sun was low.

"It's a steep crossing," Deets said. "You don't want to hit it in the dark."

Newt had just come off the drags for a drink of water, and the first thing he heard was talk of sandstorm. It didn't seem to him that it would make much difference; his world was mostly sand anyway. He had to rinse his mouth five or six times before he could even eat a plate of beans without swallowing grit with them.

Call felt uncertain. He had never had to plan for a storm in brushy country, with a fresh herd of cattle. There were so many factors to consider that he felt passive for a moment-an old feeling he knew well from his years of rangering. Often, in a tight situation, his mind would seem to grow tired from so much hard thinking. He would sink for a time into a blankness, only to come out of it in the midst of an action he had not planned. He was never conscious of the trigger that set him back in motion, but something always pulled it, and he would find himself moving before he was conscious that it was time to move.

Already he could feel a change in the wind. The day had been still, but there was a hot breath against his cheek, coming from the south. He had waited out many such winds in Lonesome Dove, with the sand whirling up from Mexico so fast it felt like bindshot when it hit the skin. The Hell Bitch looked around restlessly, well aware of what was coming.

"It's gonna be a muddy sundown, boys," Augustus said.

In fact, the sun was barely visible, only its edges showing yellow and the disc itself dark as if in an eclipse. To the west and south the sand was rising in the clean sky like a brown curtain, though far above it the evening star was still bright.

Bolivar stopped the wagon and went back to dig around in the piles of bedrolls, looking for his serape.

"Go tell Dish and Soupy to hold up the cattle," Call said to Newt. The boy felt proud to have been given a commission and loped around the herd until he came to the point. The cattle were behaving quietly, just walking along, grazing when there was anything to graze on. Dish was slouched at ease in his saddle.

"I guess this means you've been promoted," he said, when Newt rode up. "Or else I been demoted."

"We're getting a storm," Newt said. "The Captain says to hold 'em up."

Dish looked at the sky and loosened his bandana. "I wish the dern storms would learn to get here in the daytime," he said with a grin. "I don't know why, but they generally strike just when I'm ready to catch a nap."

His attitude toward the storm was contemptuous, as befitted a top hand. Newt tried to imitate his manner but couldn't bring it off. He had never been out in a sandstorm at night, with thousands of cattle to control, and was not looking forward to the experience, which began almost immediately. Before he could get around the herd to Soupy, the sand was blowing. The sun disappeared as if someone had popped a lid over it, and a heavy half-light filled the plains for a few minutes.

"By God, it looks like a good one comin'," Soupy said, adjusting his bandana over his nose and pulling his hat down tight on his head. The loss of hats due to sudden gusts of wind had become a larger problem than Newt would have thought it could be. They were always blowing off, spooking the horses or cattle or both. He was grateful to Deets for having fixed a little rawhide string onto his so that he had been spared the embarrassment of losing it at crucial times.

Newt had meant to go back to the wagon, but the storm gave him no time. While Soupy was fixing his bandana, they looked around and saw streams of sand like small, low clouds blowing in the dim light through the mesquite just to the south. The little clouds of sand seemed like live things, slipping around the mesquite and by the chaparral as a running wolf might, sliding under the bellies of the cattle and then rising a little, to blow over their backs. But behind the little sand streams came a river, composed not of water but of sand. Newt only glanced once, to get his directions, and the sand filled his eyes so that he was immediately blind.

It was in his first moment of blindness that the cattle began to run, as if pushed into motion by the river of sand. Newt heard Soupy's horse break into a run, and Mouse instantly was running too, but running where, Newt had no idea. He dug a finger into his eyes, hoping to get the sand out, but it was like grinding them with sandpaper. Tears flowed, but the sand turned them to mud on his lashes. Now and then he could get a blurred glimpse out of one eye, and at the first glimpse was horrified to discover that he was in among the cattle. A horn nudged his leg, but Mouse swerved and nothing more happened. Newt stopped worrying about seeing and concentrated on keeping his seat. He knew Mouse could leap any bush not higher than his head. He felt a hornible sense of failure, for surely he had not done his job. The Captain had not meant for him to stay near the head of the herd; he was there because he had not moved quick enough, and it was his fault if he was doomed, as he assumed he was. Once he thought he heard a whoop and was encouraged, but the sound was instantly sucked away by the wind-the wind keened like a cry, its tone rising over the lower tone of the pounding hooves. When Newt began to be able to see again, it did him little good, for it was then almost pitch-dark.

Over the roar of the wind and the running herd he suddenly heard the popping of tree limbs. A second later a mesquite limb hit him in the face and brush tore at him from all sides. He knew they had hit a thicket and assumed it was his end-Mouse faltered and almost went to his knees, but managed to night himself. All Newt could do was duck as low over the horn as possible and hold his arms in front of his face.

To his great relief the running cattle soon slowed. The brush was so thick it checked them as a herd, though the same thicket soon divided them into several groups. The bunch Newt was with soon slowed to a trot and then a walk. Mouse's sides were slick with sweat. Newt felt it was a miracle that he was still alive. Then he heard pistol shots ahead and to his right-a string of cracks, the sound instantly taken by the wind. The wind seemed to be increasing. When he tried to straighten up in the saddle it was like pushing with his back against a heavy door. He tried to turn Mouse, because he still hoped to get back to the rear, where he belonged, but Mouse wouldn't turn. It angered Newt-he was supposed to be making the decisions, not Mouse. The horse would circle, but he wouldn't go into the wind, and Newt finally gave up, aware that he probably couldn't find the wagon or the main herd anyway.

In the short lulls in the wind he could hear the clicking of long horns, as the cattle bumped into one another in the dankness. They were walking slowly, and Newt let Mouse walk along beside them. He had worried as much as he could, and he simply rode, his mind blank. It seemed like he had been riding long enough for the night to be over, but it wasn't, and the sand still stung his skin. He was surprised suddenly by a flicker of light to the west-so quick and so soon lost that he didn't at first recognize it as lightning. But it flickered again and soon was almost constant, though still far away. At first Newt welcomed it-it enabled him to see that he was still with the several hundred cattle, and also helped him avoid thickets.

But as the lightning came closer thunder came with it-the sound seemed to roll over them like giant boulders. Mouse flinched, and Newt began to flinch too. Then, instead of running across the horizon like snakes' tongues, the lightning began to drive into the earth, with streaks thick as poles, and with terrible cracks.

In one of the flashes Newt saw Dish Boggett, not thirty yards away. Dish saw him, too, and came toward him. In the next flash Newt saw Dish pulling on a yellow slicker.

"Where's Soupy?" Dish asked. Newt had no idea.

"He must have got turned wrong," Dish said. "We've got most of the cattle. You should have brought a slicker. We're going to get some rain."

As the flashes continued, Newt strained his eyes to keep Dish in sight, but soon lost him. To his amazement he saw that the cattle seemed to have caught the lightning-little blue balls of it rolled along their horns. While he was watching the strange sight, a horse bumped his. It was Deets.

"Ride off the cattle," he said. "Don't get close to them when they got the lightning on their horns. Get away from 'em."

Newt needed no urging, for the sight was scary and he remembered Dish describing how lightning had hit a cowboy he knew and turned him black. He wanted to ask Deets some questions, but between one flash and another Deets vanished.

The wind had become fitful, gusting and then dying, and instead of beating steadily at his back, the sand was fitful too, swirling around him one moment and gone the next. In the flashes of lightning he could see that the sky was clearing high to the east, but a wall of clouds loomed to the west, the lightning darting underneath them.

Almost before the last of the sand had stung his eyes, it seemed, the rain began, pelting down in big scattered drops that felt good after all the grit. But the drops got thicken and less scattered and soon the rain fell in sheets, blown this way and that at first by the fitful wind. Then the world simply turned to water. In a bright flash of lightning Newt saw a wet, frightened coyote run across a few feet in front of Mouse. After that he saw nothing. The water beat down more heavily even than the wind and the sand: it pounded him and ran in streams off his hat brim. Once again he gave up and simply sat and let Mouse do what he wanted. As far as he knew, he was completely lost, for he had moved away from the cattle in order to escape the lightning and had no sense that he was anywhere near the herd. The rain was so heavy that at moments he felt it might drown him right on his horse. It blew in his face and poured into his lip from his hat brim. He had always heard that cowboying involved considerable weather, but had never expected so many different kinds to happen in one night. An hour before, he had been so hot he thought he would never be cool again, but the drenching water had already made him cold.

Mouse was just as dejected and confused as he was. The ground was covered with water-there was nothing to do but splash along. To make matters worse they hit another thicket and had to back out, for the wet mesquite had become quite impenetrable. When they finally got around it the rain had increased in force. Mouse stopped and Newt let him-there was no use proceeding when they didn't know where they needed to proceed. The water pouring off his hat brim was an awkward thing-one stream in front, one stream behind. A stream of water poured night in front of his nose while another sluiced down his back.

Then Mouse began to move again and Newt heard the splashing of a horse ahead. He didn't know if it carried a friendly rider, but Mouse seemed to think so, for he was trotting through the hock-high water, trying to locate the other horse. In one of the weakening flashes of lightning Newt saw cattle trotting along, fifty yards to his night. Suddenly, with no warning, Mouse began to slide. His back feet almost went out from under him-they had struck a gully, and Newt felt water rising up his legs. Fortunately it wasn't a deep gully; Mouse regained his balance and struggled through it, as scared as Newt.

There was nothing to do but plod on. Newt remembered how happy he had been when dawn finally came after the night they had gone to Mexico. If he could just see such a dawn again he would know how to appreciate it. He was so wet it didn't seem as if he could ever be dry, or that he could do such a simple thing as sit in the bright sun again feeling hot, on stretch out on the grass and sleep. As it was, he couldn't even yawn without water blowing in his mouth.

Soon he got too tired to think and could only hope that it would finally be morning. But the night went on and on. The lightning died and the hard rain stopped, but a drizzle continued; they hit intermittent patches of thick brush and had to back and turn and go on as best they could. When he had crossed the gully, one boot had filled with water. Newt wanted to stop and empty it-but what if he dropped it and couldn't find it in the dark? Or got it off and couldn't get it back on? A fine sight he would make, if he even saw camp again, riding in with one boot in his hand. Thinking about the ridicule that would involve, he decided just to let the boot squish.

All the same, he felt proud of Mouse, for many horses would have fallen, sliding into a gully.

"Good horse," he said. "If we just keep going maybe it'll get light."

Mouse swung his head to get his wet forelock out of his eyes, and kept on plodding through the mud.

32.

JAKE HAD FORGOTTEN to hobble the horses-he remembered it when the first lightning struck and Lorena's young mare suddenly snapped her rein and ran off. It was dank and the sand was still blowing. He managed to get the hobbles on his own horse and the pack mule, but had to let the mare go.

"She won't go far," he said, when he got back to Lorie. She was huddled under a blanket, her back against a big mesquite tree and her legs half buried in the sand.

"No better than she likes to swim. I expect we'll find her on this side of the river," Jake said.

Lorena didn't answer. The lightning filled her with such tension that she didn't think she could endure it. If it went on much longer she felt it would twist her like a wire.

She held the blanket around her as tightly as she could, and her teeth were clenched as they had been when she crossed the river. She kept trying to think about something besides the lightning, but she couldn't. She kept thinking of how it would feel if it hit her-it was said to be like a burn, but how could a burn travel through your body in an instant?

Then the lightning began to strike in the trees nearby, with cracks so loud that it made her head ring. She didn't mind the wet. Jake had tried to rig a tarp, but it wasn't big enough.

A bolt hit just behind them, with a sound so loud that it took her breath. I want to go back, she thought. When she got her breath back she was crying, the tears mingling with the rain on her face.

"We got to get out from under this dern tree," Jake yelled.

Lorena didn't move. He was crazy. The tree was all that was keeping them from death. Out in the open the lightning would immediately strike them.

But Jake began to pull at her. "Come on," he said. "We'll get under the bank. It might strike the tree."

The lightning had become constant-she could see every whisker on Jake's face in the glare. He looked old. But he wouldn't leave her under the tree. In the flashes she could see the river. The river had almost got her and now he wanted her to go back to it. When he pulled, she fought. The tree was the only protection she had and she didn't want to leave it.

"Dern it, come on!" Jake said. "This ain't no place to sit out a lightning storm."

Every time he pulled, the tightness inside her broke out a little and she struck at him. The first blow hit him in the eye and he slipped and sat down in the mud. Then it was dark. When the lightning flashed again, she saw Jake trying to get up, a look of surprise on his face. But he grabbed her in the darkness and began to drag her away from the tree. She kicked at him and they both went down, but a bolt struck so loud and so near that she forgot to fight. She let him pull her toward the river, dragging the tarp. Another bolt hit so near it shook the ground, almost causing Jake to fall in the water. There was not much overhang to the bank, and the tarp was so muddy he could barely drag it, but he pulled it over them and sat close to her, shivering. In the flashes the light was so bright that she could see every wavelet on the river. She wondered where the turtle was, but before she could look it was pitch-dark again. In the next flash she saw the horses jumping and trying to shake off their hobbles. She shut her eyes but when the bolts hit she felt the light on her eyelids. There was nothing to do but wait to die. Jake was shivering against her. She felt her muscles coiling up, getting tighter and tighter.

"Well, I wish we'd brought our feather bed," Jake said, trying to make light of it.

She opened her eyes to blackness and a second later saw the lightning come to earth just across the river, cracking into the tree where they had made their first camp. The tree split at the top, then darkness fell, and when the next flash came the split part had fallen to the ground.

"We got ol' Deets to thank that we're still alive," Jake said. "That one would have got us if we'd stayed put."

You didn't thank him, Lorena thought. She put her head against her knees and waited.

33.

BY DAWN the rain had stopped completely and the sky was cloudless. The first sunlight sparkled on the wet thickets and the hundreds of puddles scattered among them, on the wet hides of the cattle and the dripping horses.

At the head of the main bunch of cattle, Call surveyed the situation without too much apprehension. Unless there was a lightning victim somewhere, they had come through the storm well. The cattle had walked themselves out and were docile for the time being. Deets had been to look, and Soupy, Jasper and Needle had the rest of the herd a mile or two east. The wagon was stuck in a gully, but when the hands gathered they soon had enough ropes on it to pull it out. Bol refused to budge from the wagon seat while the pullout took place. Lippy had got out to help push and consequently was covered in mud practically up to his lip.

Newt had been extremely surprised, when dawn came, to discover that he was in his natural position in relation to the herd: behind it. He was too tired even to feel very relieved. All he wanted was to stretch out and sleep. Several times he dozed off, sitting straight up in the saddle. Mouse was just as tired, and kept to a slow walk.

Deets reported that all the hands were well and accounted for with one exception: Mr. Gus. He had been with the main herd for a while but now he was nowhere to be seen.

"He probably rode off to the café to get his breakfast," Dish Boggett said. "Or else went in to San Antone to get himself a shave."

"He might have went to see Mn. Jake," Deets said. "Want me to go look?"

"Yes, have a look," Call said. "I want to cross the river as soon as possible and it would be convenient to have Gus along."

"It ain't much of a river," Dish said. "I could near jump across it if I had a long-legged horse."

When asked how many cattle he thought might be lost Dish estimated no more than twenty-five head, if that many.

"Well, you nearly lost me," Jasper Fant said, when they were all standing around the wagon. Bol had some dry wood that he had kept under a tarp, but the preparation of victuals was going too slowly to suit most of the hands.

"I'm so tired I won't be worth nothing for a week," Jasper added.

"When was you ever worth anything?" Dish inquired. He himself was in rather good fettle. It always improved his mood to have his skill recognized, as it clearly was by all hands. He had managed to turn the main part of the herd out of the worst of the brush and keep it together. Even Captain Call had seemed impressed.

The only cowboy who had not performed up to caliber in the emergency was Sean O'Brien, who had been walking out to catch his night horse when the storm hit. He was such a poor roper that Newt usually roped his horses for him, if he happened to be around. This time, of course, he hadn't been. The Spettles, responsible for the remuda, were afraid Sean's awkward roping would cause the whole herd to bolt; Bill Spettle had roped a horse for him, but it wasn't one he could ride. Sean had promptly been bucked off, and when the remuda did bolt, Sean's horse ran with it. Sean had been forced to ride in the wagon all night, more worried for his life than his reputation. Bolivan had made it clear that he didn't like passengers.

While breakfast was cooking most of the cowboys pulled off their shirts and spread them on bushes to dry. A few took off their pants, too, but only the few who possessed long underwear. Dish Boggett was one of the few who had carefully wrapped his extra clothes in an oilcloth, so he soon had on dry pants and a shirt, which somewhat increased his sense of superiority to the nest of the crew.

"You boys look like a dern bunch of wet chickens," he said.

It was true that the crew presented an odd appearance, though Newt wouldn't have compared them to chickens. Most of them were burned a deep brown on the face, neck and hands, but the nest of their bodies, which the sun never touched, were stank white. Bert Borum was the funniest-looking without a shirt, for he had a round fat belly with curly black on it that ran right down into his pants.

Pea Eye walked around in a pain of all-enveloping long johns which he had worn continuously for the last several years. He had his knife and gun belt on over his underwear, in case of sudden attack.

"There ain't no point in gettin' too dry," he pointed out. "We got to cross the river after a while."

"I'd just as soon go around it," Needle said. "I've crossed it many times but I've been lucky."

"I'll be glad to cross it-maybe I'll get a wash," Lippy said. "I can't do much under all this mud."

"Why, that ain't a river, it's just a creek," Dish said. "The last time I crossed it I didn't even notice it."

"I guess you'll notice it if five or six of them heifers get on top of you," Jasper said.

"It's just the first of many," Bert said. "How many rivers is it between here and the Yellowstone?"

The question set everyone to counting and arguing, for as soon as they decided they had an accurate count, someone would think of another stream, and there would be a discussion as to whether it should count as a river.

The Rainey boys were sleeping under the wagon. Both had dropped like rocks once they dismounted, oblivious to wet clothes and too tired to be interested in food. The Raineys liked their sleep, whereas the Spettles could do without it. They seemed unaffected by the strenuous night-they sat apart, as silent as always.

"I wish they'd talk, so we'd know what they were thinking," Sean said. The silent Spettles made him nervous.

Call was annoyed with Gus, who had still not returned. Pea had reported seeing him just after dawn, riding east in evident health. Call noticed the Texas bull, standing about fifty yards away. He was watching the two pigs, who were rooting around a chaparral bush. Probably they were trying to root out a ground squirrel, or perhaps a rattlesnake. The bull took a few steps toward them, but the pigs ignored him.

Needle Nelson was scared of the bull. The minute he noticed him he went to get his rifle out of his saddle scabbard. "If he comes at me, I aim to shoot him," Needle said. "He'll never live to cross the Yellowstone unless he leaves me be."

Lippy, too, disliked the bull, and climbed up on the wagon when he saw how close the bull was.

"He won't change the camp," Call said-though in fact he was not so sure the bull wouldn't.

"Why, he changed Needle," Jasper said. "Needle had to get going so fast he near forgot his dingus."

At that there was a general laugh, though Needle Nelson didn't join in. He kept his rifle propped against a wagon wheel while he was eating.

The bull continued to watch the pigs.

34.

AS SOON AS THE SUN got high enough to be warm, Lorena spread their gear on trees and bushes to dry. It seemed astonishing to her that she was alive and unhurt after such a night. Her spirits rose rapidly and she was even reconciled to having to ride the pack mule. But Jake wouldn't hear of that. His own spirits were low.

"I hate to squish every move I make," he said. "It ain't supposed to get this wet in these parts."

Now that the scare was over, Lorena found that she didn't mind that things were damp. It beat being hot, in her book. The only awkward part was that the few foodstuffs they had brought had been soaked. The flour was ruined, the salt a lump. At least the bacon and coffee weren't ruined, and they had a little of each before Jake rode off to look for her horse.

Once he left, she went down to the river to wash the mud off her legs. Then, since the sun was already hot, she found a grassy place that wasn't too wet and lay down to have a nap. Looking up at the sky, her spirits rose even more. The sky was perfectly clear and blue, only whitened with sun over to the east. Being outside felt good-she had spent too much time in little hot rooms, looking at ceilings.

While she was resting, who should come riding up with her mare but Gus.

"I hope there's still some coffee in the pot," he said, when he dismounted. "I've usually had ten biscuits by this time of day, not to mention some honey and a few eggs. Got any eggs, Lorie?"

"No, but we got bacon," she said. "I'll fry you some."

Augustus looked around with amusement at the muddy camp.

"I don't see young Jake," he said. "Is he off preaching a sermon, or did he wash away?"

"He went to look for the horse, only I guess he went in the wrong direction," Lorie said.

Augustus took out his big clasp knife and cut the bacon for her. For a woman who had spent the night being drenched she looked wonderfully fresh, young and beautiful. Her hair was not yet dry; the wet ends were dark. Occasionally a little line of water ran down her bare arm. Bending over the fire, her face was relaxed in a way he had never seen it. The strain that always showed in Lonesome Dove-the strain of always holding herself apart-had disappeared, making her look girlish.

"Why, Lorie," he said, "I guess traveling agrees with you. You look pretty as the morning."

Lorena smiled. It was funny. Out in the open she felt more at ease with Gus than she had in the saloon.

"How long has Jake been gone?" he asked.

"Not long," she said. "He rode down the river, looking for tracks."

Augustus laughed. "Why, Jake couldn't track an elephant if he was more than ten steps behind it," he said. "I guess we ought to call him back before he gets lost."

He drew his pistol and fired a couple of shots into the air.

A few minutes later, as he was finishing the bacon, Jake came galloping into camp, rifle in hand. Lorena was going around from bush to bush, collecting the clothes, which the hot sun had already dried.

"Gus, I didn't know we was gonna have to have you for breakfast every day of the whole trip," Jake said.

"You was never grateful for nothing, Jake," Augustus said. "Here I returned a fifty-dollar horse that you couldn't have found in a week, and all you can do is gripe about my company."

"Well, there's such a thing as too much of your dern company," Jake said, looking to see if Lorie was out of hearing.

"Are you jealous, or what?" Augustus asked.

"Why wouldn't I be, when you've tried to poke every woman I ever looked at?" Jake said.

"Whoa, now," Augustus said. "I'm just eating my bite of bacon. But I will say you should have brought a tent if you mean to take a sprightly girl like Lorie out in the weather."

Jake didn't intend to spend any time bantering about women with Gus. It was good they had the horse back, of course. "I reckon we'll pack up and move on to San Antonio," he said, just as Lorena came back with an armful of dry clothes.

"I don't want to go to San Antone," she said. "I been there."

J ake was taken aback. "Why, it's a good gambling town," he said. "We ain't rich yet. It wouldn't hurt us to stop for a week, while the boys get the herd started good. Then we can catch up."

"I don't like to go back to places," Lorena said. "It's bad luck."

"Yes, and it would be worse luck to get up the trail and run out of money."

"That's all right, Jake," Augustus said, flinging the dregs of his coffee into a chaparral bush. "I'll be glad to keep tabs on Lorie while you run into town and lose your wad."

"What makes you think I'd lose it?" Jake said, his face darkening.

"You'd lose it if I was around," Augustus said, "and if I wasn't handy, you'd probably get in a scrape and shoot another dentist. Besides, if anybody with a badge on is trying to hunt you up, I'd think the first place they'd look is San Antonio."

"If anybody with a badge on comes looking for me he's apt to find more of me than he wants," Jake said. "Let's get packed, Lorie. We might make town tomorrow, if we push on."

"I don't want to go to San Antonio," Lorena said again. She knew Jake hated to be contradicted, but she didn't much care.

Before she could think, he whipped around and slapped her-not hard, but it was a slap.

"Dern it all, I guess you'll go where I say go," he said, his face red with anger.

Lorena felt embarrassed to have been hit in front of Gus, but he seemed uninterested in what she and Jake did. Of course he was just being polite-what else could he do?

She remembered all the money Xavier had pressed on her. It was lucky she had it.

She looked at Augustus again and saw that he was quietly watching, waiting to see how she would handle Jake, who was glaring at her, expecting her to cry, probably. But it had taken all the fury of the storm to make her cry; a little pop from him was just something to be ignored. She turned her back on him and walked off to start the packing.

In a minute Jake cooled down sufficiently to come over and squat by the fire. "I don't know what's wrong with Lorie," he said. "She's getting touchy."

Augustus chuckled. "You're the one that's touchy," he said. "She didn't slap you."

"Well, by God, why would she buck me?" Jake asked. "I'm the one that decides where we go and when we stop."

"You may be and you may not be," Augustus said. "Maybe it ain't that simple."

"It'll be that simple or she'll have soon seen the last of me," Jake said.

"I doubt she'll miss you, Jake," Augustus said. "You got your charms but then I got my charms too. I'll come and make camp with her if you decide you've had enough of her sass. I ain't violent like you, neither."

"I didn't hurt her," Jake said. He felt a little guilty about the slap-it had upset him to ride in and see her sitting there with Gus, and then she bucked him. Gus always managed to aggravate whatever situation he was in with a woman.

"I've got to go," Augustus said. "Captain Call will be mad as a hornet if I don't get back. Much obliged for the breakfast."

"That's two you owe us," Jake said. "I hope you'll ride into town and buy us a feed when you're up that way."

"Why, the two of you won't be in town," Augustus said. He trotted down to where Lorena was quietly packing the mule.

"Don't forget to hobble that mare," he said. "I guess she ain't as tired of Lonesome Dove as we are. She was on her way home when I came across her."

"I'll hobble her," Lorena said. She gave Gus a grin-Jake's little flare-up had not affected her good spirits.

"If you get any prettier you won't be safe around me," Augustus said. "I might be forced to cut the cards with you again."

"No, I told you we're gonna play a hand next time," Lorena said. "It'll give me a better chance."

"You look out for yourself," Augustus said. "If that scamp runs off and leaves you, why, come and get me. You can find us by the dust."

"He won't leave," Lorena said. "He'll be fine."

She watched Gus swim the muddy river. He waved from the other bank and soon disappeared into the brush. She went on packing. Soon Jake couldn't stand it and walked over.

"You oughtn't to provoke me like that," he said, looking a little hangdog. He tried putting his hands on her, but Lorena shrugged them off and went to the other side of the pack mule.

"I wasn't provoking you," she said. "I just said I wasn't going back to San Antone."

"Dern it, I'd like to gamble a little somewhere between here and Denver," Jake said.

"Go gamble," she said. "I never said you couldn't. I'll stay in camp."

"Oh, no doubt you've made arrangements with Gus," Jake said. "I guess he's planning to come over and teach you card tricks," he said bitterly, and turned on his heel.

Lorena didn't mind. It was too pretty a day. The fact that Gus had found her horse was a good sign. She felt like riding, even though the country was brushy. She felt like a lope, in fact. Jake could sulk if he wanted to. She was looking forward to the trip.

35.

THE DAY SOON GREW HOT, and the cattle, tired from their all-night walk, were sluggish and difficult to move. Call had to put half the crew on the drags to keep them going. Still, he was determined to get across the Nueces, for Deets had said he expected it to storm again that night.

There was no avoiding the brush entirely, but Deets had found a route that took them slightly downriver, around the worst of the thickets. As they got close to the river they began to encounter swarms of mosquitoes, which attacked horses and men alike, settling on them so thickly that they could be wiped off like stains. All the men covered their faces as best they could, and the few who had gloves put them on. The horses were soon flinching, stamping and swishing their tails, their withers covered with mosquitoes. The cattle were restive too, mosquitoes around their eyes and in their nostrils.

Newt was soon so covered with blood from mashed mosquitoes that he looked as if he had been wounded in battle. Sean, who rode near him, was no better. Any inconvenience made Sean think of home, and the mosquitoes were a big inconvenience.

"I'd like to be going to Ireland," he told Newt. "If I only knew where the boats were, I'd be going." His face was lumpy from mosquito bites.

"I guess we'll drown the skeeters when we hit the river," Newt said. It was the only thing that promised relief. He had been dreading the river, but that was before the mosquitoes hit.

To make matters worse, one particular red cow had begun to irritate him almost beyond endurance. She had developed a genius for wiggling into thickets and just stopping. Shouting made no impression on her at all-she would stand in the thicket looking at him, well aware that she was safe. Once Newt dismounted, planning to scare her on foot, but she lowered her head menacingly and he abandoned that idea.

Time and again she hid in a thicket, and time and again, after shouting himself hoarse, he would give up and force his horse into the thicket after her. The cow would bolt out, popping limbs with her horns, and run as if she meant to lead the herd. But when the next thicket appeared, she would wiggle right in. She was so much trouble that he was sorely tempted to leave her-it seemed to him the boys were driving the herd and he was just driving the one red cow.

Once the mosquitoes hit, the cow's dilatoriness became almost more than Newt could endure. The cow would stand in a thicket and look at him silently and stupidly, moving only when she had to and stopping again as soon as she could find a convenient thicket. Newt fought down a terrible urge just to pull his gun and shoot her-that would show the hussy! Nothing less was going to make any impression on her-he had never felt so provoked by a single animal before. But he couldn't shoot her and he couldn't leave her; the Captain wouldn't approve of either action. He had already shouted himself hoarse. All he could do was pop her out of thicket after thicket.

Call had taken the precaution of buying a lead steer from the Pumphreys-a big, docile longhorn they called Old Dog. The steer had never been to Montana, of course, but he had led several herds to Matagorda Bay. Call figured the old steer would at least last until they had the herd well trail-broken.

"Old Dog's like me," Augustus said, watching Dish Boggett edge the old steer to the front of the herd in preparation for the crossing.

"How's that?" Call asked. "Lazy, you mean?"

"Mature, I mean," Augustus said. "He don't get excited about little things."

"You don't get excited about nothing," Call said. "Not unless it's biscuits or whores. So what was Jake up to?" he asked. It rankled him that the man was being so little help. Jake had done many irritating things in his rangering days, but nothing as aggravating as bringing a whore along on a cattle drive.

"Jake was up to being Jake," Augustus said. "It's a full-time job. He requires a woman to help him with it."

Dish had gradually eased Old Dog to the front of the herd, working slowly and quietly. The old steer was twice as big as most of the scrawny yearlings that made up the herd. His horns were long and they bent irregularly, as if they were jointed.

Just before the men reached the river they came out into a cleaning a mile or more wide. It was a relief, after the constant battle with the mesquite and chaparral. The grass was tall. Call loped through it with Deets, to look at the crossing. Dish trotted over to Augustus on the trim sorrel he called Mustache, a fine cow horse whose eyes were always watching to see that no rebellious cow tried to make a break for freedom. Dish uncoiled his rope and made a few practice throws at a low mesquite seedling. Then he even took a throw, for a joke, at a low-flying buzzard that had just risen off the carcass of an armadillo.

"I guess you're practicing up so you can rope a woman, if we make it to Ogallala," Augustus said.

"You don't have to rope women in that town, I hear," Dish said. "They rope you."

"It's a long way to Nebrasky," Augustus said. "You'll be ready to be roped by then, Dish."

"Whene'd you go for half the morning?" Dish asked. He was hoping Gus would talk a little about Lorena, though part of him didn't want to hear it, since it would involve Jake Spoon.

"Oh, Miss Lorena and I like to take our coffee together in the morning," Augustus said.

"I hope the weather didn't treat her too bad," Dish said, feeling wistful suddenly. He could think of nothing pleasanter than taking coffee with Lorena in the morning.

"No, she's fine," Augustus said. "The fresh air agrees with her, I guess."

Dish said no more, and Augustus decided not to tease him. Occasionally the very youngness of the young moved him to charity-they had no sense of the swiftness of life, non of its limits. The years would pass like weeks, and loves would pass too, or else grow sour. Young Dish, skilled cowhand that he was, might not live to see the whores of Ogallala, and the tender feelings he harbored for Lorena might be the sweetest he would ever have.

Looking at Dish, so tight with his need for Lorena, whom he would probably never have, Augustus remembered his own love for Clara Allen-it had pained him and pleased him at once. As a young woman Clara had such grace that just looking at her could choke a man; then, she was always laughing, though her life had not been the easiest. Despite her cheerful eyes, Clara was prone to sudden angers, and sadnesses so deep that nothing he could say or do would prompt her to answer him, or even to look at him. When she left to marry her horse trader, he felt that he had missed the great opportunity of his life; for all their fun together he had not quite been able to touch her, either in her happiness or her sadness. It wasn't because of his wife, either-it was because Clara had chosen the angle of their relation. She loved him in certain ways, wanted him for certain purposes, and all his straining, his tricks, his looks and his experience could not induce her to alter the angle.

The day she told him she was going to marry the horse trader from Kentucky, he had been too stunned to say much. She just told him plainly, with no fuss: Bob was the kind of man she needed, and that was that. He could remember the moment still: they had been standing in front of her little store, in Austin, and she had taken his hand and held it for a time.

"Well, Clara," he said, feeling very lame, "I think you are a fool but I wish you happiness. I guess I'll see you from time to time."

"You won't if I can help it, Gus," she said. "You leave me be for the next ten years or so. Then come and visit."

"Why ten years?" he asked, puzzled.

Clara grinned-her humor never rested for long. "Why, I'll be a wife," she said. "I won't be wanting to be tempted by the likes of you. But once I've got the hang of married life I'll want you to come."

It made no sense at all to Augustus. "Why?" he asked. "Planning to run off after ten years, or what?"

"No," Clara said. "But I'd want my children to know you. I'd want them to have your friendship."

It struck him that he was already years late-it had been some sixteen years since Clara held his hand in front of the store. He had not watched the time closely, but it wouldn't matter. It might only mean that there would be more children for him to be friends with.

"I may just balk in Ogallala," he said out loud.

Dish was surprised. "Well, balk any time you want to, Gus," he said.

Augustus was put out with himself for having spoken his thoughts. Still, the chance of settling near Clara and her family appealed to him more than the thought of following Call into another wilderness. Clara was an alert woman who, even as a girl, had read all the papers; he would have someone to talk to about the events of the times. Call had no interest in the events of the times, and a person like Pea Eye wouldn't even know what an event was. It would be nice to chat regularly with a woman who kept up-though of course it was possible that sixteen years on the frontier had taken the edge off Clara's curiosity.

"Can you read, Dish?" he asked.

"Well, I know my letters," Dish said. "I can read some words. Of course there's plenty I ain't had no practice with."

A few hundred yards away they could see Call and Deets riding along the riverbank, studying the situation.

"I wisht we was up to the Red River," Dish said. "I don't like this low country."

"I wish we was to the Yellowstone, myself," Augustus said. "Maybe Captain Call would be satisfied with that."

When they reached the river it seemed that it was going to be the smoothest crossing possible. Old Dog seemed to have an affinity for Deets and followed him right into the water without so much as stopping to sniff. Call and Dish, Augustus and Pea and Needle Nelson spread out on the downriver side, but the cattle showed no signs of wanting to do anything but follow Old Dog.

The water was a muddy brown and the current fast, but the cattle only had to swim a few yards. One or two small bunches attempted to turn back, but with most of the crew surrounding them they didn't make a serious challenge.

Despite the smoothness, Newt felt a good deal afraid and shut his eyes for a second when his horse went to swimming depth and the water came over the saddle. But he got no wetter, and he opened his eyes to see that he was almost across the river. He struck the far bank almost at the same time as a skinny brown longhorn; Mouse and the steer struggled up the bank side by side.

It was just as Newt turned to watch the last of the cattle cross that a scream cut the air, so terrible that it almost made him faint. Before he could even look toward the scream Pea Eye went racing past him, with the Captain just behind him. They both had coiled ropes in their hands as they raced their horses back into the water-Newt wondered what they meant to do with the ropes. Then his eyes found Sean, who was screaming again and again, in a way that made Newt want to cover his ears. He saw that Sean was barely clinging to his horse, and that a lot of brown things were wiggling around him and over him. At first, with the screaming going on, Newt couldn't figure out what the brown things were-they seemed like giant worms. His mind took a moment to work out what his eyes were seeing. The giant worms were snakes-water moccasins. Even as the realization struck him, Mr. Gus and Deets went into the river behind Pea Eye and the Captain. How they all got there so fast he couldn't say, for the screams had started just as Mouse and the steer reached the top of the bank, so close that Newt could see the droplets of water on the steer's horns.

Then the screams stopped abruptly as Sean slipped under the water-his voice was replaced almost at once by the frenzied neighing of the horse, which began to thrash in the water and soon turned back toward the far bank. As he gained a footing and rose out of the water he shook three snakes from his body, one slithering off his neck.

Pea Eye and the Captain were beating about themselves with their coiled ropes. Newt saw Sean come to the surface downstream, but he wasn't screaming any more. Pea leaned far off his horse and managed to catch Sean's arm, but then his horse got frightened of the snakes and Pea lost his hold. Deets was close by. When Sean came up again Pea got him by the collar and held on. Sean was silent, though Newt could see that his mouth was open. Deets got Pea's horse by the bridle and kept it still. Pea managed to get his hands under Sean's arms and drag him across the saddle. The snakes had scattered, but several could be seen on the surface of the river. Dish Boggett had his rifle drawn but was too shaken by the sight to shoot. Deets waved him back. Suddenly there was a loud crack-Mr. Gus had shot a snake with his big Colt. Twice more he shot and two more snakes disappeared. The Captain rode close to Pea and helped him support Sean's body.

In a minute Pea's horse was across the deep water and found its footing. Call and Deets held the horse still while Pea took the dying boy in his arms-then Deets led the horse ashore. Augustus rode out of the water behind Call. The cattle were still crossing, but no cowboys were crossing with them. Bert, the Rainey boys and Allen O'Brien were on the south bank, not eager to take the water. A mile back, across the long clearing, the wagon and the horses had just come in sight.

Pea handed the boy down to Dish and Deets. Call quickly took his slicker off his saddle and they laid the boy on it. His eyes were closed, his body jerking slightly. Augustus cut the boy's shirt off-there were eight sets of fang marks, including one on his neck.

"That don't count the legs," Augustus said. "There ain't no point in counting the legs."

"What done it?" Dish asked. He had seen the snakes plainly and had even wanted to shoot them, but he couldn't believe it or understand it.

"It was his bad luck to strike a nest of them, I guess," Augustus said. "I never seen a nest of snakes in this river before and I've crossed it a hundred times. I never seen that many snakes in any river."

"The storm got 'em stirred up," Deets said.

Call knelt by the boy, helpless to do one thing for him. It was the worst luck-to come all the way from Ireland and then ride into a swarm of water moccasins. He remembered, years before, in a hot droughty summer, stopping to water his horse in a drying lake far up the Brazos-he had ridden his horse in so he could drink and had happened to look down and see that the muddy shallows of the lake were alive with cottonmouths. The puddles were like nests, filled with wiggling snakes, as brown as chocolate. Fortunately he had not ridden into such a puddle. The sight unnerved him so that he shot a snake on reflex-a useless act, to shoot one where there were hundreds.

He had seen the occasional snake in rivers along the coast but never more than one or two together; there had been at least twenty, probably more, around the boy. On the south bank, the horse he had ridden was rolling over and over in the mud, ignored by the frightened cowboys. Maybe the horse was bitten too.

Pea, who had been the first to the rescue, swimming his mount right into the midst of the snakes, suddenly felt so weak he thought he would fall off his horse. He dismounted, clinging to the horn in case his legs gave out.

Augustus noticed how white he was and went to him.

"Are you snake-bit, Pea?" he asked, for in the confusion a man could get wounds he wasn't aware of. He had known more than one man to take bullets without noticing it; one Ranger had been so frightened when his wound was pointed out to him that he died of fright, not the bullet.

"I don't think I'm m bit," Pea said. "I think I whupped them off."

"Get your pants down," Call said. "One could have struck you down low."

They could find no wound on Pea-meanwhile, the cattle had begun to drift, with no one watching them cross. Some were making the bank a hundred yards downstream. The cowboys on the south bank had still not crossed.

"Gus, you and Deets watch him," Call said, mounting. "We've got to keep the cattle from drifting."

He noticed Newt sitting beside Pea's horse, his face white as powder.

"Come help us," he said, as Pea and Dish loped off toward the cattle.

Newt turned his horse and followed the Captain, feeling that he was doing wrong. He should have said something to Sean, even if Sean couldn't hear him. He wanted to tell Sean to go on and find a boat somewhere and go back to Ireland quick, whatever the Captain might think. Now he knew Sean was going to die, and that it was forever too late for him to find the boat, but he wanted to say it anyway. He had had a chance to say it, but had missed it.

He trotted beside the Captain, feeling that he might vomit, and also feeling disloyal to Sean.

"He wanted to go back to Ireland!" he said suddenly, tears pouring out of his eyes. He was so grieved he didn't care.

"Well, I expect he did," the Captain said quietly.

Newt held his reins, still crying, and let Mouse do the work. He remembered Sean's screams, and how much the snakes had looked like giant wiggly worms. When at last the cattle were started back toward the main herd the Captain put his horse back into the river, which startled Newt. He didn't see how anybody could just ride back into a river that could suddenly be filled with snakes, but this time no snakes appeared. Newt saw that Mr. Gus and Deets had not moved, and wondered if Sean was dead yet. He kept feeling he ought to leave the cattle and go talk to Sean, even if it was too late for Sean to answer, but he was afraid to. He didn't know what to do, and he sat on his horse and cried until he started vomiting. He had to lean over and vomit beneath his horse's neck.

In his mind he began to wish for some way to undo what had happened-to make the days run backward, to the time when they were still in Lonesome Dove. He imagined Sean alive and well-and did what he had not done, told him to go off to Galveston and find a boat to take him home. But he kept looking back, and there was Deets and Mr. Gus, kneeling by Sean. He longed to see Sean sit up and be all right, but Sean didn't, and Newt could only sit hopelessly on his horse and hold the cattle.

Augustus and Deets could do little for Sean except sit with him while his life was ending.

"I guess it would have been better if Pea had just let him drown," Augustus said. "He was an unlucky young sprout."

"Mighty unlucky," Deets said. He felt an unsteadiness in his limbs. Though he had seen much violent death, he had not seen one more terrible than the one that had just occurred. He felt he would never again cross a river without remembering it.

Before his brother crossed the river, Sean O'Brien died. Augustus covered the boy with his slicker just as the horse herd came clambering up the bank. The herd passed so close that when some of the horses stopped to shake themselves the fine spray wet Deets's back. The Spettle boys came out of the river wide-eyed with fright, clinging to their wet mounts. On the far bank Call had the other men helping to ease the wagon down the steep crossing.

"Now if them snakes had come at Bol, he would have had a chance," Augustus said. "He has his ten-gauge."

"The storm stirred them up," Deets said again. He felt guilty, for he had chosen the crossing in preference to one up the river, and now a boy was dead.

"Well, Deets, life is short," Augustus said. "Shorter for some than for others. This is a bad way to start a trip."

Bolivar was unhappy. He didn't think the wagon would make it, even across such a small river, but he was not willing to leave it either. He sat grimly on the wagon seat, Lippy beside him, while the cowboys got ropes on the wagon.

"You mean Sean's dead?" Allen O'Brien asked the Captain, so stunned he could barely speak.

"Yes, he's dead," Call said-he had seen Gus cover the corpse.

"It's me that done it," Allen said, tears on his round face. "I never should have brought the boy. I knew he was too young."

Call said nothing more. The boy's age had had nothing to do with what had happened, of course; even an experienced man, riding into such a mess of snakes, wouldn't have survived. He himself might not have, and he had never worried about snakes. It only went to show what he already knew, which was that there were more dangers in life than even the sharpest training could anticipate. Allen O'Brien should waste no time on guilt, for a boy could die in Ireland as readily as elsewhere, however safe it might appear.

Jasper and Bert had seen the snakes, and Jasper was so terrified that he couldn't look at the water. Soupy Jones was almost as scared. The Rainey boys looked as if they might fall off their horses.

More than anything, Jasper wanted to quit. He had crossed the Nueces many times, and yet, as the moment approached when he would have to do it again, he felt he couldn't. Pea and Dish and the others who had already crossed seemed to him like the luckiest men in the world.

"Captain, do you reckon them snakes are gone?" he asked.

"Well, they're scattered," Call said.

As they got ready to go in Jasper drew his pistol, but Call shook his head. "No shooting," he said. He had no confidence that any of the men could shoot from a swimming horse and hit anything, as Gus had.

"Just quirt 'em if you see any," he added.

"I hope none don't crawl in this wagon," Lippy said, his lip quivering with apprehension.

The wagon floated better than expected-Bolivar barely got his feet wet. Jasper flinched once when he saw a stick he thought was a snake, but the moccasins had scattered and were not seen again.

Allen O'Brien dismounted and stood and cried over his brother. Jasper Fant cried, too, mostly from relief that he was still alive.

While they were having their cry, Deets and Pea got shovels from the wagon and dug a grave, back from the river a hundred yards, beside a live oak tree. Then they cut off part of one of the wagon sheets, wrapped the dead boy in it and carried him in the wagon to the grave. They laid him in it and Deets and Pea soon covered him, while most of the crew stood around, not knowing what to do or say.

"If you'd like to sing or something, do it," Call said. Allen stood a moment, started singing an Irish song in a quavering voice, then broke down crying and couldn't finish it.

"I don't have no pianer or I'd play one of the church hymns," Lippy said.

"Well, I'll say a word," Augustus said. "This was a good, brave boy, for we all saw that he conquered his fear of riding. He had a fine tenor voice, and we'll all miss that. But he wasn't used to this part of the world. There's accidents in life and he met with a bad one. We may all do the same if we ain't careful."

He turned and mounted old Malaria. "Dust to dust," he said. "Lets the rest of us go on to Montana."

He's right, Call thought. The best thing to do with a death was to move on from it. One by one the cowboys mounted and went off to the herd, many of them taking a quick last look at the muddy grave under the tree.

Augustus waited for Allen O'Brien, who was the last to mount. He was so weak from shock, it seemed he might not be able to, but he finally got on his horse and rode off, looking back until the grave was hidden by the tall gray grass. "It seems too quick," he said. "It seems very quick, just to ride off and leave the boy. He was the babe of our family," he added.

"If we was in town we'd have a fine funeral," Augustus said. "But as you can see, we ain't in town. There's nothing you can do but kick your horse."

"I wish I could have finished the song," Allen said.

36.

THE WHISKEY BOAT STANK, and the men on it stank, but Elmira was not sorry she had taken passage. She had a tiny little cubbyhole among the whiskey casks, with a few planks and some buffalo skins thrown over it to keep the rain out, but she spent most of her time sitting at the rear of the boat, watching the endless flow of brown water. Some days were so hot that the air above the water shimmered and the shore became indistinct; other days a chill rain blew and she wrapped herself in one of the buffalo robes and kept fairly dry. The rain was welcome, for it discouraged the fleas. They made her sleep uneasy, but it was a small price to pay for escaping from Fort Smith. She had lived where there were fleas before, and worse things than fleas.

As the boat inched its way up the Arkansas, the brown river gradually narrowed, and as it narrowed the boatmen and whiskey traders grew more restless. They drank so much whiskey themselves that Elmira felt they would be lucky to have any left to sell. Though she often felt them watching her as she sat at the end of the boat, they let her alone. Only Fowler, the chief trader, ever spoke more than a word or two to her. Fowler was a burly man with a dirty yellow beard and one eyelid that wouldn't behave. It twitched and jerked up and down erratically, so that looking at him was disconcerting: one minute he would be looking at you out of both eyes, and then the eyelid would droop and he would only be looking with an eye and a half.

Fowler drank continuously-all day and all night, so far as Elmira could tell. When she woke, from the fleas or the rocking of the boat, she would always hear his hoarse voice, talking to anyone who would listen. He kept a heavy rifle in the crook of his arm, and his eyes were always scanning the banks.

Mainly Fowler talked of Indians, for whom he had a pure hatred. He had been a buffalo hunter and had had many run-ins with them. When the buffalo ran out he began to traffic in whiskey. So far neither he nor any of his men had offered Elmira the slightest offense. It surprised her. They were a rough-looking bunch, and she had taken a big gamble in getting on the boat. No one in Fort Smith had seen her leave, as far as she knew, and the boatmen could have killed her and thrown her to the turtles without anyone's being the wiser. The first few nights in her cubbyhole she had been wakeful and a little frightened, expecting one of the men to stumble in and fall on her. She waited, thinking it would happen-if it did, she would only have her old life back, which had been part of the point of leaving. She would stop being July Johnson's wife, at least. It might be rough for a while, but eventually she would find Dee and life would improve.

But the men avoided her, day or night-all except Fowler, who wandered the boat constantly. Once, standing beside her, he knelt suddenly and cocked his rifle, but what he thought was an Indian turned out to be a bush. "The heat's got my eye jumping," he said, spitting a brown stream of tobacco into the water.

Elmira also watched the distant banks, which were green with the grass of spring. As the river gradually narrowed, she saw many animals: deer, coyote, cattle-but no Indians. She remembered stories heard over the years about women being carried off by Indians; in Kansas she had had such a woman pointed out to her, one who had been rescued and brought back to live with whites again. To her the woman seemed no different from other women, though it was true that she seemed cowed; but then, many women were cowed by events more ordinary. It was hard to see how the Indians could be much worse than the buffalo hunters, two of whom were on board. The sight of them brought back painful memories. They were big men with buffalo-skin coats and long shaggy hair-they looked like the animals they hunted. At night, in her cubbyhole, she would sometimes hear them relieving themselves over the side of the boat; they would stand just beyond the whiskey casks and pour their water into the Arkansas.

For some reason the sound reminded her of July, perhaps because she had never heard him make it. July was reticent about such things and would walk far into the woods when he had to go, to spare her any embarrassment. She found his reticence and shyness strangely irritating-it sometimes made her want to tell him what she had really done before they married. But she held back that truth, and every other truth she knew; she ceased talking to July Johnson at all.

In the long days and nights, with no one to talk to but Fowler, and him only occasionally, Elmira found herself thinking more and more about Dee. Joe she didn't think about, had never thought about much. He had never seemed hers, exactly, though she had certainly borne him. But from the first she had looked at him with detachment and only mild interest, and the twelve years since his birth had been a waiting period-waiting for the time for when she could send him away and belong only to herself again. It occurred to her that the one good thing about marrying July Johnson was that he would do to leave Joe with.

With Dee, she could belong to herself, for if ever a man belonged to himself, it was Dee. You never knew where Dee would be from one day to the next; when he was there he was always eager to share the fun, but then, before you could look around he had vanished, off to another town or another girl.

Soon the skies above the river got wider and wider as the river wound out of the trees and cut through the plains. The nights were cool, the mornings warming quickly, so that when Elmira woke the river behind her would be covered with a frosting of mist, and the boat would be lost in the mist completely, until the sun could break through. Several times ducks and geese, taking off in the mist, almost flew into her as she stood at the near of the boat wrapped in the buffalo robe. When the mist was heavy the splash of birds or the jumping of fish startled her; once she was frightened by the heavy beat of wings as one of the huge gray cranes flew low over the boat. As the mist thinned she would see the cranes standing solemnly in the shallows, ignoring the strings of ducks that swam nearby. Pockets of mist would linger on the water for an hour or more after the sun had risen and the sky turned a clean blue.

At night many sounds came from the banks, the most frequent being the thin howling of coyotes. From time to time during the day they would see a coyote or a gray wolf on the bank, and the hunters would sharpen their aim by shooting at the animals. They seldom killed one, for the river was still too wide; sometimes Elmira would see the bullets kick mud.

When there was no rain she liked the nights and would often slip to the near of the boat and listen to the gurgle and suck of the water. There were stars by the millions; one night the full moon seemed to rise out of the smoky river. The moon was so large that at first it seemed to touch both banks. Its light turned the evening mist to a color like pearl. But then the moon rose higher and grew yellow as a melon.

It was the morning after the full moon that a fight broke out between one of the whiskey traders and a buffalo hunter. Elmira, waking, heard loud argument, which was nothing new-almost every night there was loud argument, once the men got drunk. Once or twice they fought with fists, bumping against the casks that formed the walls of her room, but those fights ran their course. She had seen many men fight and was not much disturbed.

But the morning fight was different-she was awakened by a high scream. It ended in a kind of moan and she heard a body fall to the deck of the boat. Then she heard heavy breathing, as the winner of the fight caught his breath. The man soon walked away and a heavy silence fell-so heavy that Elmira wondered if everyone had left the boat. She began to feel frightened. Maybe Indians had got on the boat and killed all the whiskey traders. She huddled in her quilts, wondering what to do, but then she heard Fowler's gruff voice. It had just been a fight of some kind.

When the sun came up she went to her place at the rear of the boat. It was very still. The men were up, sitting in a group at the far end. When she looked, she saw a man lying face down near the place where the fight had taken place. He wasn't moving. She recognized him as one of the whiskey traders by his red hair.

A few minutes later Fowler and a couple of the men came and stood looking at the body. Then, as Elmira watched, they took off his belt and boots, rolled him over and cleaned out his pockets. The front of his body was stiff with blood. When the men had everything valuable off his body they simply picked the man up and threw him overboard. He floated in the water face down, and as the boat went on, Elmira looked and saw the body bump the boat. That's the end of you, she thought. She didn't know the man's name. She wished he would sink so she wouldn't have to see him. It was still misty, though, and soon the body was lost in the mist.

A little later Fowler brought her a plate of breakfast.

"What was the fight about?" she asked.

"'Bout you," Fowler said, his eyelid drooping.

That was a surprise. The men seemed to have almost no interest in her. Also, if the fight was over her, it was unusual that the victim had not tried to claim her.

"About me how?" she asked.

Fowler looked at her with his eye and a half.

"Well, you're the only woman we got," he said. "There's some would take advantage of you. Only the one talking it the most is kilt now."

"I guess he is," she said. "Which one killed him?"

"Big Zwey," Fowler said.

Big Zwey was the worst-looking of the buffalo hunters. He had an oily beard and fingernails as black as tar. It was peculiar to think that a buffalo hunter had been her protector after what she had been through with them.

"Why'd he do it?" she asked. "What difference does it make to him what happens to me?"

"He fancies you," Fowler said. "Wants to marry you, he says."

"Marry me?" Elmira said. "He can't marry me."

Fowler chuckled. "He don't know that," he said. "Big Zwey ain't quite normal."

None of you are quite normal, Elmira thought, and I must not be either, on I wouldn't be here.

"You took a chance, gettin' on a boat with men like us," Fowler said.

Elmira didn't respond. Often, from then on, she felt Big Zwey's eyes on her, though he never spoke to her or even came near her. None of the other men did either-probably afraid they would be killed and dumped overboard if they approached her. Sometimes Zwey would sit watching her for hours, from far down the boat. It made her feel bitter. Already he thought she belonged to him, and the other men thought so too. It kept them away from her, but in their eyes she didn't belong to herself. She belonged to a buffalo hunter who had never even spoken to her.

Their fright made her contemptuous of them, and whenever she caught one of them looking at her she met the look with a cold stare. From then on she said nothing to anyone and spent her days in silence, watching the brown river as it flowed behind.

37.

TRAVELING WAS EVEN WORSE than Roscoe had supposed it would be, and he had supposed it would be pure hell.

Before he had been gone from Font Smith much more than three hours, he had the bad luck to run into a bunch of wild pigs. For some reason Memphis, his mount, had an unreasoning fear of pigs, and this particular bunch of pigs had a strong dislike of white horses, or perhaps of deputy sheriffs. Before Roscoe had much more than noticed the pigs he was in a runaway. Fortunately the pines were not too thick, or Roscoe felt he would not have survived. The pigs were led by a big brown boar that was swifter than most pigs; the boar was nearly on them before Memphis got his speed up. Roscoe yanked out his pistol and shot at the boar till the pistol was empty, but he missed every time, and when he tried to reload, racing through the trees with. a lot of pigs after him, he just dropped his bullets. He had a rifle but was afraid to get it out for fear he'd drop that too.

Fortunately the pigs weren't very determined. They soon stopped, but Memphis couldn't be slowed until he had run himself out. After that he was worthless for the rest of the day. In the afternoon, stopping to drink at a little creek, he bogged to his knees. Roscoe had to get off and whip him on the butt five or six times with a lariat rope before he managed to lunge out of the mud, by which time Roscoe himself was covered with it. He also lost one boot, sucked so far down in the mud he could barely reach it. He hadn't brought an extra pair of boots, mainly because he didn't own one, and was forced to waste most of the afternoon trying to clean the mud off the ones he had.

He made his first camp barely ten miles from town. What mostly worried him wasn't that he was too close to the town but that he was too close to the pigs. For all he knew, the pigs were still tracking him; the thought that they might arrive just after he went to sleep kept him from getting to sleep until almost morning. Roscoe was a town man and had spent little time sleeping in the woods. He slept blissfully on the old settee in the jail, because there you didn't have to worry about snakes, wild pigs, Indians, bandits, bears or other threats-just the occasional rowdy prisoner, who could be ignored.

Once the night got late, the woods were as noisy as a saloon, only Roscoe didn't know what most of the noises meant. To him they meant threats. He sat with his back to a tree all night, his pistol in his hand and his rifle across his lap. Finally, about the time it grew light, he got too tired to cane if bears or pigs ate him, and he stretched out for a little while.

The next day he felt so tired he could barely stay in the saddle, and Memphis was almost as tired. The excitement of the first day had left them both worn out. Neither had much interest in their surroundings, and Roscoe had no sense at all that he was getting any closer to catching up with July. Fortunately there was a well-marked Army trail between Font Smith and Texas, and he and Memphis plodded along it all day, stopping frequently to rest.

Then, as the sun was falling, he had what seemed like a stroke of luck. He heard someone yelling, and he rode into a little clearing near the trail only to discover that the reason there was a clearing was that a farmer had cut down the trees. Now the man was trying to get the clearing even clearer by pulling up the stumps, using a team of mules for the purpose. The mules were tugging and pulling at a big stump, with the farmer yelling at them to pull harder.

Roscoe had little interest in the work, but he did have an interest in the presence of the farmer, which must mean that a cabin was somewhere near. Maybe he could sleep with a roof over his head for one more night. He rode over and stopped a respectful distance away, so as not to frighten the mule team. The stump was only partly out-quite a few of its thick roots were still running into the ground.

At that point the farmer, who was weaning a floppy hat, happened to notice Roscoe. Immediately the action stopped, as the farmer looked him over. Roscoe rode a little closer, meaning to introduce himself, when to his great surprise the farmer took off his hat and turned out not to be a he. Instead the farmer was a good-sized woman wearing man's clothes. She had brown hair and had sweated through her shirt.

"Well, are you gonna get off and help or are you just going to set there looking dumb?" she asked, wiping her forehead.

"I'm a deputy sheriff," Roscoe replied, thinking that would be all the explanation that was needed.

"Then take off your star, if it's that heavy," the woman said. "Help me cut these roots. I'd like to get this stump out before dark. Otherwise we'll have to work at night, and I hate to waste the coal oil."

Roscoe hardly knew what to think. He had never tried to pull up a stump in his life, and didn't want to start. On the other hand he didn't want to sleep in the woods another night if he could help it.

The woman was looking Memphis over while she caught her breath. "We might could hitch that horse to the team," she said. "My mules ain't particular."

"Why, this horse wouldn't know what to do if it was hitched," Roscoe said. "It's a riding horse."

"Oh, I see," the woman said. "You mean it's dumb or too lazy to work."

It seemed the world was full of outspoken women. The woman farmer reminded Roscoe a little of Peach.

Somewhat reluctantly he got down and tied Memphis to a bush at the edge of the field. The woman was waiting impatiently. She handed Roscoe an ax and he began to cut the thick, tough roots while the woman encouraged the team. The stump edged out of the ground a little farther, but it didn't come loose. Roscoe hadn't handled an ax much in the last few years and was awkward with it. Cutting roots was not like cutting firewood. The roots were so tough the ax tended to bounce unless the hit was perfect. Once he hit a root too close to the stump and the ax bounced out of his hand and nearly hit the woman on the foot.

"Dern, I never meant to let it get loose from me," Roscoe said.

The woman looked disgusted. "If I had a piece of rawhide I'd tie it to your hand," she said. "Then the two of you could flop around all you wanted to. What town hired you to be deputy sheriff anyway?"

"Why, Fort Smith," Roscoe said. "July Johnson's the sheriff."

"I wish he'd been the one that showed up," the woman said. "Maybe he'd know how to chop a root."

Then she began to pop the mules again and Roscoe continued to whack at the roots, squeezing the ax tightly so it wouldn't slip loose again. In no time he was sweating worse than the woman, sweat dripping into his eyes and off his nose. It had been years since he had sweated much, and he didn't enjoy the sensation.

While he was half blinded by the sweat, the mules gave a big pull and one of the roots that he'd been about to cut suddenly slipped out of the ground, uncurled and lashed at him like a snake. The root hit him just above the knees and knocked him backward, causing him to drop the ax again. He tried to regain his balance but lost it and fell flat on his back. The root was still twitching and curling as if it had a life of its own.

The woman didn't even look around. The mules had the stump moving, and she kept at them, popping them with the reins and yelling at them as if they were deaf, while Roscoe lay there and watched the big stump slowly come out of the hole where it had been for so many years. A couple of small roots still held, but the mules kept going and the stump was soon free.

Roscoe got slowly to his feet, only to realize that he could barely walk.

The woman seemed to derive a certain amusement from the way he hobbled around trying to gain control of his limbs.

"Who did they send you off to catch?" she asked. "Or did they just decide you wasn't worth your salary and run you out of town?"

Roscoe felt aggrieved. Even strangers didn't seem to think he was worth his salary, and yet in his view he did a fine job of keeping the jail.

"I'm after July Johnson," he said. "His wife run off."

"I wish she'd run this way," the woman said. "I'd put her to work helping me clear this field. It's slow work, doing it alone."

And yet the woman had made progress. At the south edge of the field, where Memphis was tied, forty or fifty stumps were lined up.

"Where's your menfolks?" Roscoe asked.

"Dead or gone," the woman said. "I can't find no husband that knows how to stay alive. My boys didn't care for the work, so they left about the time of the war and didn't come back. What's your name, Deputy?"

"Roscoe Brown," Roscoe said.

"I'm Louisa," the woman said. "Louisa Brooks. I was born in Alabama and I wish I'd stayed. Got two husbands buried there and there's another buried on this property here. Right back of the house, he's buried, that was Jim," she added. "He was fat and I couldn't get him in the wagon so I dug the hole and there he lies."

"Well, that's a shame," Roscoe said.

"No, we didn't get on," Louisa said. "He drank whiskey and talked the Bible too, and I like a man that does one thing or the other. I told him once he could fall dead for all I care, and it wasn't three weeks before the fool just did it."

Though Roscoe had been hopeful of staying the night, he was beginning to lose his inclination. Louisa Brooks was almost as scary as wild pigs, in his view. The mules drug the stump over to where the others were and Roscoe walked over and helped Louisa untie it.

"Roscoe, you're invited to supper," she said, before he could make up his mind to go. "I bet you can eat better than you chop."

"Oh, I ought to get on after July," Roscoe said, halfheartedly. "His wife run off."

"I meant to run off, before Jim went and died," Louisa said. "If I had, I wouldn't have had to bury him. Jim was fat. I had to hitch a mule to him to drag him out of the house. Spent all day pulling up stumps and then had to work half the night planting a husband. How old are you getting to be?"

"Why, forty-eight, I guess," Roscoe said, surprised to be asked.

Louisa took off her hat and fanned herself with it as they followed the mules down one edge of the field. Roscoe led his horse.

"The skinny ones last longer than the fat ones," Louisa said. "You'll probably last till you're about sixty."

"On longer, I hope," Roscoe said.

"Can you cook?" Louisa asked. She was a fair-looking woman, though large.

"No," Roscoe admitted. "I generally eat at the saloon or else go home with July."

"I can't neither," Louisa said. "Never interested me. What I like is farming. I'd farm day and night if it didn't take so much coal oil."

That seemed curious. Roscoe had never heard of a woman farmer, though plenty of black women picked cotton during the season. They came to a good-sized clearing without a stump in it. There was a large cabin and a rail corral. Louisa unharnessed the mules and put them in the pen.

"I'd leave 'em out but they'd run off," she said. "They don't like farming as much as I do. I guess we'll have corn bread for supper. It's about all I eat."

"Why not bacon?" Roscoe asked. He was quite hungry and would have appreciated a good hunk of bacon or a chop of some kind. Several chickens were scratching around the cabin-any one of them would have made good eating but he didn't feel he ought to mention it, since he was the guest.

"I won't have no pigs around," Louisa said. "Too smart. I won't bother with animals I have to outwit. I'd rather just farm."

True to her word, Louisa served up a meal of corn bread, washed down with well water. The cabin was roomy and clean, but there was not much food in it. Roscoe was puzzled as to how Louisa could keep going with nothing but corn bread in her. It occurred to him that he had not seen a milk cow anywhere, so evidently she had even dispensed with such amenities as milk and butter.

She herself munched a plate of corn bread contentedly, now and then fanning herself. It was hot and still in the cabin.

"I doubt you'll catch that sheriff," she said, looking Roscoe over.

Roscoe doubted it too, but felt that he had to make a show of trying, at least. What was more likely was that if he rode around long enough July would eventually come and find him.

"Well, he went to Texas," he said. "Maybe I'll strike someone that's seen him."

"Yes, and maybe you'll ride right into a big mess of Comanche Indians," Louisa said. "You do that and you'll never enjoy another good plate of corn bread."

Roscoe let the remark pass. The less said about Indians the better, in his view. He munched corn bread for a while, preferring not to think about any of the various things that might happen to him in Texas.

"Was you ever married?" Louisa asked.

"No, ma'am," Roscoe said. "I was never even engaged."

"In other words you've went to waste," Louisa said.

"Well, I've been a deputy sheriff for a good spell," Roscoe said. "I keep the jail."

Louisa was watching him closely in a way that made him a little uncomfortable. The only light in the cabin came from a small coal-oil lamp on the table. A few small bugs buzzed around the lamp, their movements casting shadows on the table. The corn bread was so dry that Roscoe kept having to dip dippenfuls of water to wash it down.

"Roscoe, you're in the wrong trade," Louisa said. "If you could just learn to handle an ax you might make a good farmer."

Roscoe didn't know what to say to that. Nothing was less likely than that he would make a farmer.

"Why'd that sheriff's wife run off?" Louisa asked.

"She didn't say," Roscoe said. "Maybe she said to July but I doubt it, since he left before she did."

"Didn't like Arkansas, I guess," Louisa said. "He might just as well let her go, if that's the case. I like it myself, though it ain't no Alabama."

After that the conversation lagged. Roscoe kept wishing there was something to eat besides corn bread, but there wasn't. Louisa continued to watch him from the other side of the table.

"Roscoe, have you had any experience with women at all?" she asked, after a bit.

To Roscoe it seemed a bold question, and he took his time answering it. Once about twenty years earlier he had fancied a girl named Betsie and had been thinking about asking her to take a walk with him some night. But he was shy, and while he was getting around to asking, Betsie died of smallpox. He had always regretted that they never got to take their walk, but after that he hadn't tried to have much to do with women.

"Well, not much," he admitted, finally.

"I got the solution to both our problems," Louisa said. "You let that sheriff find his own wife and stay here and we'll get married."

She said it in the same confident, slightly loud voice that she always seemed to use-after a day of yelling at mules it was probably hard to speak in a quiet voice.

Despite the loudness, Roscoe assumed he had misunderstood her. A woman didn't just out and ask a man to marry. He pondered what she had said a minute, trying to figure out where he might have missed her meaning. It stumped him, though, so he chewed slowly on his last bite of corn bread.

"What was it you said?" he asked, finally.

"I said we oughta get married," Louisa said loudly. "What I like about you is you're quiet. Jim talked every second that he didn't have a whiskey bottle in his mouth. I got tired of listening. Also, you're skinny. If you don't last, you'll be easy to bury. I've buried enough husbands to take such things into account. What do you say?"

"I don't want to," Roscoe said. He was aware that it sounded impolite but was too startled to say otherwise.

"Well, you ain't had time to think about it," Louisa said. "Give it some thought while you're finishing the corn bread. Much as I hate burying husbands, I don't want to live alone. Jim wasn't much good but he was somebody in the bed, at least. I've had six boys in all but not a one of 'em stayed around. Had two girls but they both died. That's eight children. I always meant to have ten but I've got two to go and time's running out."

She munched her corn bread for a while. She seemed to be amused, though Roscoe couldn't figure out what might be amusing.

"How big was your family?" she asked.

"There was just four of us boys," Roscoe said. "Ma died young."

Louisa was watching him, which made him nervous. He remembered that he was supposed to be thinking about the prospect of marrying her while he finished the cornbread, but in fact his appetite was about gone anyway and he was having to choke it down. He began to feel more and more of a grievance against more and more people. The start of it all was Jake Spoon, who had no business coming to Fort Smith in the first place. It seemed to him that a chain of thoughtless actions, on the part of many people he knew, had resulted in his being stuck in a cabin in the wilderness with a difficult widow woman. Jake should have kept his pistol handier, and not resorted to a buffalo gun. Benny Johnson should have been paying attention to his dentistry and not walking around in the street in the middle of the day. July shouldn't have married Elmira if she was going to run off, and of course Elmira certainly had no business geting on the whiskey boat.

In all of it no one had given much consideration to him, least of all the townspeople of Fort Smith. Peach Johnson and Charlie Barnes, in particular, had done their best to see that he had to leave.

But if the townspeople of Fort Smith had not considered him, the same couldn't be said for Louisa Brooks, who was giving him a good deal more consideration than he was accustomed to.

"I was never a big meat eater," she said. "Living off corn bread keeps you feeling light on your feet."

Roscoe didn't feel light on his feet, though. Both his legs pained him from where the root had struck them. He choked down the last of the corn bread and took another swallow on two of the cool well water.

"You ain't a bad-looking feller," Louisa said. "Jim was prone to warts. Had 'em on his hands and on his neck both. So far as I can see you don't have a wart on you."

"No, don't believe so," Roscoe admitted.

"Well, that's all the supper," Louisa said. "What about my proposition?"

"I can't," Roscoe said, putting it as politely as he knew how. "If I don't keep on till I find July 1 might lose my job."

Louisa looked exasperated. "You're a fine guest," she said. "I tell you what, let's give it a tryout. You ain't had enough experience of women to know whether you like the married life or not. It might suit you to a T. If it did, you wouldn't have to do risky work like being a deputy."

It was true that being a deputy had become almost intolerably risky-Roscoe had to grant that. But judging from July's experience, marriage had its risks too.

"I don't favor mustaches much," Louisa said. "But then life's a matter of give and take."

They had eaten the corn bread right out of the pan, so there were no dishes to wash. Louisa got up and threw a few crumbs out the door to her chickens, who rushed at them greedily, two of them coming right into the cabin.

"Don't you eat them chickens?" Roscoe asked, thinking how much better the corn bread would have tasted if there had been a chicken to go with it.

"No, I just keep 'em to control the bugs," Louisa said. "I ate enough chicken in Alabama to last me a lifetime."

Roscoe felt plenty nervous. The question of sleeping arrangements could not be postponed much longer. He had looked forward briefly to sleeping in the cabin, where he would feel secure from snakes and wild pigs, but that hope was dashed. He hadn't spent a night alone with a woman in his whole life and didn't plan to start with Louisa, who stood in the doorway drinking a dipper of water. She squished a swallow or two around in her mouth and spat it out the door. Then she put the dipper back in the bucket and leaned over Roscoe, so close he nearly tipped over backward in his chair out of surprise.

"Roscoe, you've went to waste long enough," she said. "Let's give it a tryout."

"Well, I wouldn't know how to try," Roscoe said. "I've been a bachelor all my life."

Louisa straightened up. "Men are about as worthless a race of people as I've ever encountered," she said. "Look at the situation a minute. You're running off to catch a sheriff you probably can't find, who's in the most dangerous state in the union, and if you do find him he'll just go off and try to find a wife that don't want to live with him anyway. You'll probably get scalped before it's all over, or hung, or a Mexican will get you with a pigsticker. And it'll all be to try and mend something that won't mend anyway. Now I own a section of land here and I'm a healthy woman. I'm willing to take you, although you've got no experience either at farming or matrimony. You'd be useful to me, whereas you won't be a bit of use to that sheriff or that town you work for either. I'll teach you how to handle an ax and a mule team, and guarantee you all the corn bread you can eat. We might even have some peas to go with it later in the year. I can cook peas. Plus I've got one of the few feather mattresses in this part of the country, so it'd be easy sleeping. And now you're scared to try. If that ain't cowardice, I don't know what is."

Roscoe had never expected to hear such a speech, and he had no idea how to reply to it. Louisa's approach to marriage didn't seem to resemble any that he had observed, though it was true he had not spent much time studying the approaches to matrimony. Still, he had only ridden into Louisa's field an hour before sundown, and it was not yet much more than an hour after dark. Her proposal seemed hasty to him by any standards.

"Well, we ain't much acquainted," he said. "How do you know we'd get along?"

"I don't," Louisa said. "That's why I offered just to give it a tryout. If you don't like it you can leave, and if I can't put up with you I expect I could soon run you off. But you ain't even got the gumption to try. I'd say you're scared of women."

Roscoe had to admit that was true, except for a whore now and then. But he only admitted it to himself, not to Louisa. After some reflection he decided it was best to leave her charge unanswered.

"I guess I'll bed down out back," he said.

"Well, fine," Louisa said. "Just watch out for Ed."

That was a surprise. "Who's Ed?" he asked.

"Ed's a snake," Louisa said. "Big rattler. I named him after my uncle, because they're both lazy. I let Ed stay around because he holds down the rodents. He don't bother me and I don't bother him. But be hangs out around to the back, so watch out where you throw down your blanket."

Roscoe did watch. He stepped so gingerly, getting his bedding arranged, that it took him nearly twenty minutes to settle down. Then be couldn't get the thought of the big snake off his mind. He had never heard of anyone naming a snake before, but then nothing she did accorded with any procedure he was familiar with. The fact that she had mentioned the snake meant that he had little chance of getting to sleep. He had heard that snakes had a habit of crawling in with people, and he definitely didn't want to be crawled in with. He wrapped his blanket around him tightly to prevent Ed from slipping in, but it was a hot sultry night and he was soon sweating so profusely that he couldn't sleep anyway. There were plenty of grass and weeds around, and every time anything moved in the grass he imagined it to be the big rattler. The snake might get along with Louisa, but that didn't mean he would accept strangers.

Hours passed and he still couldn't get to sleep, though he was plenty tired. It was clear that if the sleeping didn't improve he was going to be dead on his feet long before he got back to Font Smith. His eyelids would fall, but then he'd hear something and jerk awake, a process that went on until he was too tired to care whether he died or not. He had been propped up against the wall of the cabin, but he slowly slid down and finally slept, flat on his back.

When he awoke he got a shock almost worse than if he had found the rattler curled on his chest: Louisa was standing astraddle of him. Roscoe was so tired that it was only his brain that had come awake, it seemed. He would ordinarily have reacted quickly to the sight of anyone standing astraddle of him, much less a woman, but in this case his limbs were so heavy with sleep that he couldn't move a one: opening his eyes was effort enough. It was nearly sunup, still sultry and humid. He saw that Louisa was barefoot and that her feet and ankles were wet from the dewy grass. He couldn't see her face or judge her disposition, but he felt a longing to be back on his couch in the jail, where crazy things didn't happen. Although he was just in his long johns, the blanket was up about his chest, so at least she hadn't caught him indecent.

For a second he took a sleepy comfort from that reflection, but a second later it ceased to be true. Louisa stuck one of her wet feet under the blanket and kicked it off. Roscoe was so anchored in sleep he still couldn't react. Then, to his extreme astonishment, Louisa squatted right atop his middle and reached into his long johns and took hold of his tool. Nothing like that had ever happened to him, and he was stunned, though his tool wasn't. While the rest of him had been heavy with sleep, it had become heavy with itself.

"Why you're a tom turkey, ain't you," Louisa said.

To Roscoe's astonishment, Louisa proceeded to squat right down on him. Instead of being covered with a blanket, he was covered with her skirts. At that point the sun broke through the mist, lighting the clearing and adding to his embarrassment, for anyone could have ridden up and seen that something mighty improper was happening.

As it was, though, only three or four of Louisa's chickens watched the act, but even the fact that the chickens were standing around added to Roscoe's embarrassment. Maybe the chickens weren't really watching, but they seemed to be. Meanwhile Louisa was wiggling around without much interest in what he thought about it all. Roscoe decided the best approach was to pretend a dream was happening, though he knew quite well it wasn't. But Louisa's vigor was such that even if Roscoe had got his thoughts in place they would soon have been jarred awry. A time or two he was practically lifted off the ground by her efforts; he was scooted off his tarp and back into the weeds and was forced to open his eyes again in hopes of being able to spot a bush he could grab, to hold himself in place. About the time Louisa moved him completely off the tarp, matters came to a head. Despite the chickens and the weeds and the danger of witnesses, he felt a sharp pleasure. Louisa apparently did too, soon afterward, for she wiggled even more vigorously and grunted loudly. Then she sat on him for several minutes, scratching at the chigger bites on his wet ankles. He soon sank right out of her, but Louisa was in no hurry to get up. She seemed in a quiet humor. Once in a while she clucked a time or two at the chickens. Roscoe felt his neck begin to itch from the weeds. A swarm of gnats hung right over his face, and Louisa considerately swatted them away.

"There's Ed," Louisa said. Sure enough, a big rattler was crawling over a log about ten yards away. Louisa continued to sit, unconcerned about the snake or anything else.

"Are you a one-timer or are you feisty, Roscoe?" she asked after a while.

Roscoe had a notion that he knew what she meant. "I'm mostly a no-timer," he said.

Louisa sighed. "You ain't hopeless, but you sure ain't feisty," she said after a while, wiping the sweat off her face with the sleeve of her dress. "Let's go see if the corn bread's done."

She got up and went back around the house. Roscoe quickly got dressed and drug his gear around the corner, dumping it in a heap beside the door.

When he went in, Louisa sat another pan of corn bread on the table and they had breakfast.

"Well, what's it going to be, marriage or Texas?" Louisa asked after a while.

Roscoe knew it had to be Texas, but it was not so simple a matter to think out as it had been before Louisa came out and sat down on him. For one thing, he had no desire to go to Texas; he felt his chances of finding July to be very slim, and July's of finding Elmira completely hopeless. In the meantime it had become clear to him that Louisa had her charms, and that the fact that they were being offered him on a trial basis was a considerable enticement. He was beginning to feel that Louisa was right: he had mostly been wasted, and might have more feistiness in him than anyone, himself included, had suspected. There was no likelihood of his getting to use much of this capacity in Texas, either.

"It's a hand choice," he said, though one thing that made it a little easier was the knowledge that life with Louisa involved more than featherbeds. It also involved pulling up stumps all day, an activity he had no interest in or aptitude for.

"Well, I don't take back nothing I said," Louisa declared. "You men are a worthless race. You're good for a bounce now and then, and that's about it. I doubt you'd make much of a farmer."

For some reason Roscoe felt melancholy. For all her loud talk, Louisa didn't seem to be as disagreeable to him as he had first thought her to be. It seemed to him she might be persuaded to tone down her farming, maybe even move into a town and settle for putting in a big garden, if it was presented to her right. But he couldn't, because there was the problem of July, who had given him a job and been good to him. The point was, he owed July. Even if he never found him, he had to make the effort, or know that he had failed a friend. Had it not been for that obligation he would have stayed a day or two and considered Louisa's offer.

"It ain't that I ain't obliged," he said. "I'm obliged. The dern thing about it is July. Even if Elmira ain't coming back, he's got to be told. It's my dern job, too. July's the only friend I got in that town except Joe. Joe's Elmira's boy."

Then a happy thought occurred to him. Maybe July had made a slow start. He might not be too far ahead. Perhaps his jaundice had come back on him, in which case he might have had to hole up for a few days. If he himself was lucky he might strike July in a week or two and break the news. Once that was done, his obligation would be satisfied and there would be nothing to keep him from coming back for another visit with Louisa-provided he could find the farm a second time.

"I could come by on my way back," he said. "July's been sick-he may have had to hole up. I might not have to look no more than a month."

Louisa shrugged. "Suit yourself but don't expect me to hold you no stall," she said. "Somebody feistier than you might ride in tomorrow for all I know."

Roscoe found nothing to say. Obviously he was taking a risk.

"What's the story on this July?" Louisa asked. "That wife of his sounds like a woman of ill fame. What kind of sheriff would marry a woman of ill fame?"

"Well, July's slow," Roscoe said. "He's the sort that don't talk much."

"Oh, that sort," Louisa said. "The opposite of my late husband, Jim."

She took a pair of men's brogans from beside the table and began to lace them on her bare feet.

"The thing about men that don't talk much is that they don't usually learn much, either," Louisa said. She got her sunbonnet off a nail on the wall and tucked her thick brown hair under it.

"You don't blabber, but I believe you've got it in you to learn," she said. "I'm going to do some farming."

"What do I owe you for the grub?" Roscoe asked.

"I'd hate to think I'd charge for corn bread," Louisa said. They went out and Roscoe began to roll up his bedroll. He was preoccupied and made such a sloppy job of it that Louisa burst out laughing. She had a happy laugh. One corner of his tarp hung down over his horse's flank.

"Roscoe, you're a disgrace in most respects," Louisa said. "I bet you lose that bedroll before you get to Texas."

"Well, should I stop back?" Roscoe asked, for she seemed in a fair humor.

"Why, I guess so," Louisa said. "I've put up with worse than you, and probably will again."

Roscoe rode off, though Memphis didn't take kindly to having the tarp flopping at his flank, so he had to get down and retie the roll. When he finally got it tied and remounted to ride on, he saw that Louisa had already hitched her mules to a stump and was giving them loud encouragement as they strained at the harness. It seemed to him he had never met such a curious woman. He gave her a wave that she didn't see, and rode on west with very mixed feelings. One moment he felt rather pleased and rode light in the saddle, but the next moment the light feeling would turn heavy. A time or two Roscoe could barely hold back the tears, he felt so sad of a sudden-and it would have been hand to say whether the sadness came because of having to leave Louisa or because of the uncertain journey that lay ahead.

38.

JOE KNEW RIGHT OFF that something was bothering July, because he didn't want to talk. It was not that July had ever been a big talker, like Roscoe could be if he was in the mood, but he was seldom as silent as he was the first week of the trip. Usually he would talk about horses or fishing or cowboys or the weather or something, but on the trip west it just seemed he didn't want to talk at all.

At first it made a problem because Joe had never been on such an important journey, and there were many things he wanted to ask about. For one thing, he was curious to know how they were going to go about catching Jake Spoon. Also, he was curious about Indians, and about the famous Texas Rangers Roscoe said were protecting Jake. He wanted to know how far it was to Texas and if they would see an ocean on the trip.

Once he started asking these questions it became clear at once that it was a strain for July even to listen, much less answer. It cost him such an effort to respond that Joe soon gave up asking and just rode along in silence, waiting for the land to change and the Indians to appear.

In fact they rode so hard that Joe soon stopped missing the talk. Although still curious, he discovered that travel was harder than he had expected it to be. Besides hating to talk, July also seemed to hate to stop. When they came to a creek he would let the horses water, and now and then he got down to relieve himself; otherwise they rode from first light until it was too dark to see. On nights when there was a moon they rode well into the night.

It was a strange business, traveling, Joe decided. July went at it hard. Yet Joe didn't wish for a minute that he had stayed home. Going with July was the most exciting thing he had ever done by far.

Several times they came upon farms. July asked the farmers if they had seen Jake, and twice was told that yes, Jake had spent the night. But they themselves didn't spend the night, and rarely even took a meal. Once on a hot afternoon July did accept a glass of buttermilk from a farmer's wife. Joe got one too. There were several little girls on that farm, who giggled every time they looked at Joe, but he ignored them. The farmer's wife asked them twice to stay overnight, but they went on and made camp in a place thick with mosquitoes.

"Does Texas have mosquitoes too?" Joe asked.

July didn't answer. He knew the boy was starved for talk, and that he himself had been a sorry companion on the trip, but in fact he had no talk in him. He was so filled with worry that the only way he could contain it was just to keep silent and concentrate on the travel. He knew he was pushing both the boy and the horses harder than he ought to, but he couldn't keep from it. Only hard, constant travel allowed him to hold down the worry-which was all to do with Elmira.

Almost from the day they left, he felt something was wrong. He had had a feeling that something bad had happened, and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the job at hand, the worry wouldn't leave. It was all he could do to keep from turning the horses around and heading back for Font Smith.

At first Joe was cheerful and eager, but he was not a particularly strong boy, and he was not used to riding sixteen hours a day. He didn't complain, but he did grow tired, sleeping so deeply when they stopped that July could barely get him awake when it was time to move on. Often he rode in a doze for miles at a stretch. Once or twice July was tempted to leave him at one of the farms they passed. Joe was a willing worker and could earn his keep until he could come back and get him. But the only reason for doing that would be to travel even harder, and the horses couldn't stand it. Besides, if he left the boy, it would be a blow to his pride, and Joe didn't have too much pride as it was.

For several days they bore southwest, through the pine woods. It had been a rainy spring and their big problem was mosquitoes. The trees dripped and the puddles lay everywhere. July hardly noticed the mosquitoes himself, but Joe and the horses suffered, particularly at night.

"Pretty soon I'll be all bump," Joe said, grinning, as they slogged through a clearing. He looked up to see a broad, muddy river curving down from the north.

"I guess that's the Red," July said. "That means we're about to Texas."

When they rode up to the banks of the river they were greeted by an amazing sight. Though running freely, the river was shallow and evidently boggy. Evidence for the bogginess was visible in the form of a tall man over toward the far bank. He was standing in knee-high water, between a gaunt horse and a little brown pack mule, both of which had sunk past their hocks in the river mud.

"I've heard this river was half quicksand," July said.

From Roscoe, Joe had heard terrible stories about quicksand-in the stories, men and horses and even wagons were slowly swallowed up. He had suspected the stories were exaggerated, and the man and his animals proved it. All might be bogged, but none were sinking. The man wore a tall beaver hat and a long frock coat. Both animals had numerous parcels tied to them, and the man was amusing himself by untying the parcels and pitching them into the river. One by one they began to float away. To their astonishment he even threw away his bedroll.

"The man must be a lunatic," July said. "He must think that horse will float if he gets off some weight. That horse ain't gonna float."

The man noticed them and gave a friendly wave, then proceeded to unburden the mule of most of its pack. Some floated and some merely lay in the shallow water.

July rode upstream until he found a place where both deer and cattle had crossed. The water was seldom more than a foot deep. They crossed a reddish bar of earth, and it seemed for a moment they might bog, but July edged south and soon found firm footing. In a few minutes they were on the south bank, whereas the man in the beaver hat had made no progress at all. He was so cool about his predicament that it was hard to tell if he even wished to make progress.

"Let me have your rope," July said to Joe. He tied their two ropes together and managed to fling the man a line. After that it was no great trouble to drag the horse and the pack mule out. The man waded out with them.

"Thank you, men," he said. "I believe if my mule hadn't got out soon, he would have learned to live on fish. They're self-reliant creatures."

"I'm July Johnson and this is Joe," July said. "You didn't need to throw away your baggage."

"I've suffered no loss," the man said. "I'm glad I found a river to unload that stuff in. Maybe the fish and the tadpoles will make better use of it than I have."

"Well, I've never seen a fish that used a bedroll," July said.

Joe had never met a man so careless that he would throw his possessions in a river. But the man seemed as cheerful as if he'd just won a tub of money.

"My name's Sedgwick," he said. "I'm traveling through this country looking for bugs."

"I bet you found plenty," July said.

"What do you do with bugs?" Joe asked, feeling that the man was the strangest he had ever met.

"I study them," the man said.

Joe hardly knew what to say. What was there to study about a bug? Either it bit you or it didn't.

"I've left about a thousand bugs in Little Rock," the man said. "That's why I threw away my equipment. I'm out of the mood to study bugs and am thinking of going to Texas to preach the Gospel. I've heard that Texans can use some good straight Gospel."

"Why study a bug?" Joe asked again, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"There's more than a million species of insect and only one species of human being," the man said. "When we finish up with this planet the insects will take over. You may not think it, seeing all this fair land, but the days of the human race are numbered. The insects are waiting their turn."

July decided the man was mildly touched, but probably no danger to himself or anyone. "I'd watch these crossings, if I were you. Cross where the deer cross and you'll be all right," he said.

The man turned his blue eyes on July for a moment. "Why, son, I'm fine," he said. "You're the one in trouble. I can see you carry a weight on your heart. You're hurrying along to do something you may not want to do. I see by your badge that you're a lawman. But the crimes the law can understand are not the worst crimes. I have often sinned worse than the murderer, and yet I try to live in virtue."

July was so taken aback he hardly knew what to say. This Mr. Sedgwick was one of the queerest men he had ever met.

"This boy looks a little peaked," Mr. Sedgwick said. "You can leave him with me, if you like. I'll bring him along slow, fatten him up and teach him about the insect kingdom as we travel. I doubt he's had much chance to get an education."

July was half tempted. The stranger seemed kindly. On the other hand he wore a sidearm under his coat, so perhaps he wasn't as kindly as he looked.

"It may be we'll meet down the road," July said, ignoring the offer.

"Perhaps," Mr. Sedgwick said. "I see you're in a hurry to get someplace. It's a great mistake to hurry."

"Why?" Joe asked, puzzled by almost everything the traveler said.

"Because the grave's our destination," Mr. Sedgwick said. "Those who hurry usually get to it quicker than those who take their time. Now, me, I travel, and when I'll get anywhere is anybody's guess. If you two hadn't come along I'd have likely stood there in the river for another hour or two. The moving waters are ever a beautiful sight."

Mr. Sedgwick turned and walked down the riverbank without another word. From time to time he squatted to peer closely at the ground.

"I reckon he's spotted a bug," Joe said.

July didn't answer. Crazy or not, the tall traveler had been smart enough to figure out that the sheriff of Fort Smith was traveling with a heavy heart.

39.

THE DEATH OF the young Irishman cast a heavy gloom over the cow camp. Call could do nothing about it. For the next week it seemed no one talked of anything but the death.

At night while they were having their grub, or just waiting for their turn at night herding to start, the cowboys talked endlessly about deaths they had witnessed, deaths they had heard about. Most of them had lived through rough times and had seen men die, but no one of their acquaintance had ridden into a nest of snakes in a river, and they could not keep the subject off their tongues.

The worst, by far, was Jasper Fant, who was so unnerved by what he had seen that for a time Call felt he might be losing his mind. Jasper had never been reticent, but now it seemed he had to be talking every waking minute as a means of holding his own fears in balance.

Allen O'Brien had the opposite response. He rode all day in silence, as nervous and withdrawn as the Spettle brothers. He would sit by the fire crying while the others talked of memorable deaths.

The cattle, still fresh to the trail, were not easily controlled. The brush was bad, the weather no better. It rained for three days and the mosquitoes were terrible. The men were not used to the night work and were irritable as hens. Bert Borum and Soupy Jones had an argument over how to hobble a horse and almost came to blows. Lippy had been put in charge of firewood, and the wood he cut didn't suit Bolivar, who was affronted by Lippy's very presence. Deets had fallen into one of his rare glooms, probably because he felt partly to blame for the boy's death.

Dish Boggett was proving a treasure as a point man. He kept the point all day, true as a rule, and little happened with the cattle that he didn't see.

By contrast the Rainey boys were disappointing. Both had taken homesick, missing their jolly mother and her well-stocked table. They drug around listlessly, not actually shirking their work but taking a long time to do it.

Augustus roamed freely about the outfit. Sometimes he rode ahead of the herd, which put Dish Boggett in a bad mood-nobody was supposed to be ahead of him except the scout. Other days Augustus would idle along with his pigs, who frequently stopped to wallow in puddles or root rats out of their holes.

Everyone had been dreading the next river, which was the San Antonio. There was much controversy about how far north moccasins could live-were they in the Cimarron, the Arkansas, the Platte? No one knew for sure, but everyone knew there were plenty in the San Antonio river.

One morning after breakfast Deets came back to say he had found a shallow crossing only a mile or two from the camp.

"What's the snake population?" Augustus asked. It was another gray wet day and he was wearing his big yellow slicker.

"Seen a few turtles, that's all," Deets said. "If they're there, they're hid."

"I hope they ain't there," Augustus said. "If a mouse snake was to show itself now, half these waddies would climb a tree."

"I'm more worried about Indians," Pea Eye said.

It was true. The minute they left Lonesome Dove he had begun to have his big Indian dreams. The same big Indian he had dreamed about for years had come back to haunt his sleep. Sometimes just dozing on his horse he would dream about the Indian. He slept poorly, as a result, and felt he would be tired and good for nothing by the time they reached Montana.

"It's curious how things get in your head," he said. "I've got an Indian in mine."

"I expect your ma told you you'd be stolt, when you was young," Augustus said.

He and Call rode over to the crossing and looked carefully for snakes, but saw none.

"I wish you'd stop talking about that boy's death," Call said. "If you would maybe they'd get over it."

"Wrong theory," Augustus said. "Talk's the way to kill it. Anything gets boring if you talk about it enough, even death."

They sat on the bank of the river, waiting for the herd to come in sight. When it did, the Texas bull was walking along beside Old Dog. Some days the bull liked to lead, other days he did nothing but fight or worry the heifers.

"This ain't a well-thought-out journey," Augustus remarked. "Even if we get these cattle to Montana, who are we gonna sell 'em to?"

"The point ain't to sell 'em next week," Call said. "The point is to get the land. The people will be coming."

"Why are we taking that ugly bull?" Augustus asked. "If the land's all that pretty, it don't need a lot of ugly cattle on it."

To their relief the crossing went off well. The only commotion was caused by Jasper, who charged the river at a gallop and caused his horse to stumble and nearly fall.

"That might have worked if there'd been a bridge," Soupy Jones said, laughing.

Jasper was embarrassed. He knew he couldn't run a horse across a river, but at the last minute a fear of snakes had overcome him and blocked out his common sense.

Newt was too tired to be afraid of anything. He had not adjusted to night herding. While his horse was watering, Mr. Gus rode up beside him. The clouds had broken to the west.

"I wish the sun would come out and fry these skeeters," Augustus said.

The wagon was slowly approaching the crossing, Bolivar driving and Lippy riding in the back. Behind came the horse herd and the Spettle boys.

It was strange, Newt thought, that one river could be so peaceful and another suddenly boil up with snakes and kill Sean. Several times, mostly at night, he had imagined Sean was still alive. Being so sleepy made it harder to keep from mixing dreams with what was actually happening. He even had conversations with the other hands that seemed like they were conversations in dreams. He had never known the sadness of losing a friend, and had begun to consider what a long way they had to go.

"I hope don't nobody else get killed," he said.

"Well, it's hard to calculate the odds in this kind of a situation," Augustus said. "We may not have another bad injury the whole way. On the other hand, half of us may get wiped out. If we have much bad luck I doubt I'll make it myself."

"Why?" Newt asked, startled to hear him say such a thing.

"Because I ain't spry like I used to be," Augustus said. "Used to be I was quick to duck any kind of trouble. I could roll off a horse quicker than a man can blink. I'm still faster than some folks, but I ain't as fast as I was."

The wagon made the crossing easily, and the two blue pigs, who had been ambling along behind it, walked in and swam the San Antonio river.

"Look at them," Augustus said happily. "Ain't they swimmers?"

40.

AS THE DAYS PASSED, Lorena found she liked the traveling more and more. The nights were no easier-almost every night the lightning flickered and thunderstorms rolled over them. Often, while she and Jake slept, big drops of rain would hit them in the face and force them to grab for the tarp. Soon the blankets seemed permanently damp, causing Jake to grumble and complain. But the tarp was hot and stiff, and he himself never thought to keep it handy. She would have to stumble around and arrange it in the dark, while Jake cussed the weather.

But no matter how uncomfortable the nights, the sky usually cleared in the morning. She liked to sit on the blankets and feel the sun getting warmer. She watched her arms getting slowly tanned and felt that a life of travel was what she was meant for. Her mare had gotten used to the travel too and no longer looked back toward Lonesome Dove.

Lorena might love the traveling, but it was clear that Jake didn't. More and more he was inclined to sulk. The fact that she had refused to go into San Antonio festered like the thorn he had had in his hand. Every day he brought it up, but she had said all she intended to say on the subject and just shook her head. Often she traveled all day in silence, thinking her thoughts and ignoring Jake's complaints.

"Dern you, why can't you talk?" he said one night as she was making the campfire. Deets, who stopped by their camp almost every day to see that they were all right, had shown her how to make a fire. He had also taught her how to pack the mule and do various other chores that Jake mostly neglected.

"I can talk," Lorena said.

"Well, you don't," Jake said. "I never seen a woman keep so quiet."

He spoke hotly-indeed, had been angry at her most of the trip. He was spoiling for a battle of some kind, but Lorena didn't want to battle. She had nothing against Jake, but she didn't feel she had to jump every time he whistled, which seemed to be what he expected. Jake was very fussy, complaining about the way she cooked the bacon or laid out the blankets. She ignored him. If he didn't like the way she did things, he was free to do them different-but he never did them different. He just fussed at her.

"We could be sleeping in a fine hotel tonight," he said. "San Antonio ain't but an hour's ride."

"Go sleep in one, if you want to," Lorena said. "I'll stay in camp."

"I guess you do wish I'd leave," Jake said. "Then you could whore with the first cowpoke that came along."

That was too silly to answer. She had not whored since the day she met him, unless you counted Gus. She sipped her coffee.

"That's your game, ain't it?" Jake said, his eyes hot.

"No," Lorena said.

"Well, you're a goddamn liar, then," Jake said. "Once a whore, always a whore. I won't stand for it. Next time I'll take a rope to you."

After he ate his bacon he saddled and rode off without another word-to go gamble, she supposed. Far from being scared, Lorena was relieved. Jake's angers were light compared to some she had known, but it was no pleasure having him around when he was so hot. Probably he thought to scare her, riding off so quick and leaving her in camp, but she felt no fear at all. The herd and all the boys were only a mile away. No one would be likely to bother her with the cow camp so close.

She sat on her blankets, enjoying the night. It was deep dusk, and birds-bullbats-were whooshing around-she could see them briefly as shadows against the darkening sky. She and Jake had camped in a little clearing. While she was sipping her coffee, a possum walked within ten feet of her, stopped a moment to look at her stupidly, and walked on. After a while she heard faraway singing-the Irishman was singing to the cattle herd. Deets had told them about the terrible death of his brother.

Before she could get to sleep a horse came racing toward the camp. It was only Jake, running in in the hope of scaring her. He raced right into camp, which was irritating because it raised dust that settled in the blankets. He had ridden into town and bought whiskey, and then had rushed back, thinking to catch her with Gus or one of the cowhands. He was jealous every hour of the day.

He yanked his saddle off the horse and passed her the whiskey bottle, which was already half empty.

"I don't want none," she said.

"I guess there's nothing I could ask that you'd do," Jake said. "I wish that dern Gus would show up. At least we could have a card game.

Lorena lay back on her blanket and didn't answer. Anything she said would only make him worse.

Watching her lie there, calm and silent, Jake felt hopeless and took another long drink from the whiskey bottle. He considered himself a smart man, and yet he had got himself in a position that would have embarrassed a fool. He had no business traveling north with a woman like Lorie, who had her own mind and wouldn't obey the simplest order unless it happened to suit her. The more he drank, the sorrier he felt for himself. He wished he had just told Lorie no, and left her to sweat it out in Lonesome Dove. Then at least he could be in camp with the men, where there were card games to be had, not to mention protection. Despite himself, he could not stop worrying about July Johnson.

Then he remembered Elmira, whom he had sported with a few times in Kansas. What a trick on July to have married a whore and not know it.

He offered Lorena the bottle again, but she just lay there.

"Why won't you drink?" Jake asked. "Are you too good to get drunk?"

"I don't want to," she said. "You'll be drunk enough for both of us."

"By God, I guess I'll find out if there's anything you'll still do," Jake said, yanking open his pants and rolling onto her.

Lorena let him, thinking it might put him in a better humor. She watched the stars. But when Jake finished and reached for his bottle again, he seemed no happier. She reached for the bottle and took one swallow-her throat was dry. Jake wasn't angry anymore, but he looked sad.

"Lie down and sleep," Lorena said. "You don't rest enough."

Jake was thinking that Austin was only two days away. Maybe he could take Lorena to Austin and sneak off and leave her. Once he rejoined the boys, there would be little she could do about it. After all, she would be safer there than she would be on the trail. Beautiful as she was, she would do well in Austin.

Yet she was uncommonly beautiful. It had always been his trouble-he liked the beauties. It gave her a power he didn't appreciate, otherwise he would never have been talked into a trip that was little more than absurd. He was slowed to the pace of Call's cow herd and tied to a woman who attracted every man she saw. Even then, he didn't know if he could leave her. For all her difficult ways, he wanted her and couldn't tolerate the thought of her taking up with Gus or any one else. He felt she would stick by him if things got bad. He didn't like being alone or having to take orders from Call.

"Have you ever been to a hanging?" he asked.

"No," Lorena said. The question surprised her.

Jake offered her the bottle and she took another swallow. "I expect they'll hang me someday," he said. "I was told by a fortune-teller that such would be my fate."

"Maybe the fortune-teller didn't know," Lorie said.

"I've seen many a hanging," Jake said. "We hung plenty of Mexicans when we were Rangers. Call never wasted no time when it came to hangings."

"He wouldn't, I guess," Lorena said.

Jake chuckled. "Did he ever come visit you all that time you were there?" he asked.

"No," Lorena said.

"Well, he had a whore once," Jake said. "He tried to sneak around, but me and Gus found out about it. We both used to spark her once in a while, so we both knew. I guess he thought he got away with it."

Lorena knew the type. Many men came to her hoping no one would know.

"Her name was Maggie," Jake said. "She was the one had little Newt. I was gone when she died. Gus said she wanted to marry Call and give up the life, but I don't know if it's true. Gus will say anything."

"So whose boy is he?" Lorena asked. She had seen the boy often, looking at her window. He was old enough to come to her, but he probably had no money, or else was just too shy.

"Newt? Why, who knows?" Jake said. "Maggie was a whore."

Then he sighed and lay down beside her, running his hand up and down her body. "Lorie, me and you was meant for feather beds," he said. "We wasn't meant for these dusty blankets. If we could find a nice hotel I'd show you some fun."

Lorena didn't answer. She would rather keep traveling. When Jake had his feel he went to sleep.

41.

BEFORE THE HERD HAD PASSED San Antonio they nearly lost Lippy in a freak accident with the wagon. It was a hot day and the herd was moseying along at a slow rate. The mosquitoes were thinning a little, to everyone's satisfaction, and the cowboys were riding along half asleep in their saddles when the trouble started.

The herd had just crossed a little creek when Newt heard stock running and looked back to see the wagon racing for the creek like Comanches were after it. Bol was not on the seat, either-the mules ran unchecked. Lippy was on the seat, but he didn't have the reins and couldn't stop the team.

Jim Rainey was in the rear, and, thinking to be helpful, turned back to try and head the mules. In fact, the mules refused to be headed, and all Jim accomplished was to turn them out of the easy track where the herd had crossed, which caused them to strike the creek at a place where the bank dropped off about three feet. Newt saw there was going to be a terrible wreck, but short of shooting the mules, had no way to stop it. What he couldn't understand was why Lippy didn't jump. He sat on the seat, frozen and helpless, as the mules raced right off the cutbank.

As they were going off, Newt saw that the tail of Lippy's old brown coat had gotten pinched in the wagon seat-which explained his not having jumped. The wagon tipped straight down, bounced once, and turned completely over just as it hit the water. The mules, still hitched to it, fell backwards on top of the mess. All four wagon wheels were spinning in the air when Newt and the Raineys jumped off their horses. The trouble was, they had no idea what to do next.

Fortunately Augustus had seen the commotion and in a minute was in the water, on old Malaria. He threw a loop over one of the spinning wheels and spurred the big horse vigorously, pulling the wagon to a tilt on one edge.

"Fish him out, boys, otherwise we'll have to go all the way to Montana without no pianer player," he said-though privately he doubted his efforts would do any good. The wagon had landed smack on top of Lippy. If he wasn't drowned he probably had a broken neck.

When the wagon tilted, Newt saw Lippy's legs. He and the Raineys waded in and tried to get him loose, but the coat was still pinched in the seat. All they could do was get his head above water, though his head was so covered with mud that it was difficult at first to know if he was dead or alive. Fortunately Pea soon rode up and cut the coat loose with his bowie knife.

"He's a mudhead, ain't he," Pea said, carefully wiping his knife on his pants leg. "Now I guess he'll be mad at me for ten years because I ruined his coat."

Lippy was limp as a rag and hadn't moved a muscle. Newt felt sick to his stomach. Once more, on a perfectly nice day with everything going well, death had struck and taken another of his friends. Lippy had been part of his life since he could remember. When he was a child, Lippy had occasionally taken him into the saloon and let him bang on the piano. Now they would have to bury him as they had buried Sean.

Strangely, neither Pea nor Mr. Gus was much concerned. The mules had regained their feet and stood in the shallow water, swishing their tails and looking sleepy. Call rode up about that time. He had been at the head of the herd, with Dish Boggett.

"Ain't nobody gonna unhitch them mules?" he asked. A big sack of flour had been thrown out of the wagon and lay in the river getting ruined. Newt had not noticed it until the Captain pointed at it.

"Well, I ain't," Augustus said. "The boys can, their feet are already wet."

It seemed to Newt everyone was being mighty callous about Lippy, who lay on the riverbank. Then, to his surprise, Lippy, whose head was still covered with mud, rolled over and began to belch water. He belched and vomited for several minutes, making a horrible sound, but Newt's relief that he was not dead was so great that he welcomed the sound and waded out to help the Raineys unhitch the mules.

It soon became clear that the wagon bed had been damaged beyond repair in the accident. When it was righted, all the goods that had been in it floated in the shallow water.

"What a place for a shipwreck," Augustus said.

"I never seen a wagon break in two before," Pea said.

The wagon bed, old and rotten, had burst upon impact. Several cowboys rode up and began to fish their bedrolls out of the muddy water.

"What became of Bol?" Pea asked. "Wasn't he driving the wagon?"

Lippy was sitting up, wiping mud off his head. He ran one finger under his loose lip as if he expected to find a tadpole or a small fish, but all he found was mud. About that time the Spettle boys rode up, and crossed the horse herd.

"Seen the cook?" Augustus asked.

"Why, he's walking along carrying his gun," Bill Spettle said. "Them pigs are with him."

Bolivar soon came in sight a couple of hundred yards away, the blue pigs walking along beside him.

"I heared a shot," Lippy said. "About that time them mules took to running. I guess a bandit shot at us."

"No competent bandit would waste a bullet on you or Bol either," Augustus said. "There ain't no reward for either of you."

"It sounded like a shotgun," Bill Spettle volunteered.

"Bol might have been taking target practice," Augustus said. "He might have fired at a cowpie."

"It don't matter what it was," Call said. "The damage is done."

Augustus was enjoying the little break the accident produced. Walking along all day beside a cow herd was already proving monotonous-any steady work had always struck him as monotonous. It was mainly accidents of one kind and another that kept life interesting, in his view, the days otherwise being mainly repetitious things, livened up mostly by the occasional card game.

It was made even more interesting a few minutes later when Bolivar walked up and handed in his resignation. He didn't even look at the smashed wagon.

"I don't want to go this way," he said, addressing himself to the Captain. "I am going back."

"Why, Bol, you won't stand a chance," Augustus said. "A renowned criminal like you. Some young sheriff out to make a reputation will hang you before you get halfway to the border."

"I don't care," Bol said. "I am going back."

In fact, he expected to be fired anyway. He had been dozing on the wagon seat, dreaming about his daughters, and had accidentally fired off the ten-gauge. The recoil had knocked him off the wagon, but even so it had been hard to get free of the dream. It turned into a dream in which his wife was angry, even as he awoke and saw the mules dashing away. The pigs were rooting in a rat's nest, under a big cactus. Bol was so enraged by the mules' behavior that he would have shot one of them, only they were already well out of range.

He had not seen the wagon go off the creek bank, but he was not surprised that it was broken. The mules were fast. He would probably not have been able to hit one of them even with a rifle, distracted as he was by the dream.

The fall convinced him he had lived long enough with Americans. They were not his compañeros. Most of his compañeros were dead, but his country wasn't dead, and in his village there were a few men who liked to talk about the old days when they had spent all their time stealing Texas cattle. In those years his wife had not been so angry. As he walked toward the busted wagon and the little group of men, he decided to go back. He was tired of seeing his family only in dreams. Perhaps this time when he walked in, his wife would be glad to see him.

At any rate, the Americanos were going too far north. He had not really believed Augustus when he said they would ride north for several months. Most of what Augustus said was merely wind. He supposed they would ride for a few days and then sell the cattle, or else start a ranch. He himself had never been more than two days' hard ride from the border in his life. Now a week had passed and the Americanos showed no sign of stopping. Already he was far from the river. He missed his family. Enough was enough.

Call was not especially surprised. "All right, Bol, do you want a horse?" he asked. The old man had cooked for them for ten years. He deserved a mount.

"Sí," Bol said, remembering that it was a long walk back to the river, and then three days more to his village.

Call caught the old man a gentle gelding. "I've got no saddle to give you," he said, when he presented Bol with the horse.

Bol just shrugged. He had an extra serape and soon turned it into a saddle blanket. Apart from the gun, it was his only possession. In a moment he was ready to start home.

"Well, Bol, if you change your mind, you can find us in Montana," Augustus said. "It may be that your wife's too rusty for you now. You may want to come back and cook up a few more goats and snakes."

"Gracias, Capitán," Bol said, when Call handed him the reins to the gelding. Then he rode off, without another word to anybody. It didn't surprise Augustus, since Bol had worked for them all those years without saying a word to anybody unless directly goaded into it-usually by Augustus.

But his departure surprised and saddened Newt. It spoiled his relief that Lippy was alive-after all, he had lost another friend, Bol instead of Lippy. Newt didn't say so, but he would rather have lost Lippy. He didn't want Lippy to die, of course, but he wouldn't have minded if he had decided to return to Lonesome Dove.

But Bol rode away from them, his old gun resting across the horse's withers. For a moment Newt felt so sad that he almost embarrassed himself by crying. He felt his eyes fill up. How could Bol just go? He had always been the cook, and yet in five minutes he was as lost to them as if he had died. Newt turned and made a show of spreading out the bedrolls, but it was mainly to conceal the fact that he felt sad. If people kept leaving, they'd be down to nobody before they even got north of Texas.

Riding away, Bolivar too felt very sad. Now that he was going, he was not sure why he had decided to go. Perhaps it was because he didn't want to face embarrassment. After all, he had fired the shot that caused the mules to run. Also, he didn't want to get so far north that he couldn't find his way back to the river. As he rode away he decided he had made another stupid choice. So far, in his opinion, almost every decision of his life had been stupid. He didn't miss his wife that much-they had lost the habit of one another and might not be able to reacquire it. He felt a little bitter as he rode away. The Capitán should not have let him go. After all, he was the only man among them who could cook. He didn't really like the Americanos, but he was used to them. It was too bad they had suddenly decided to get so many cattle and go north. Life in Lonesome Dove had been easy. Goats were plentiful and easy to catch, and his wife was the right distance away. When he grew bored, he could beat the dinner bell with the broken crowbar. For some reason it gave him great satisfaction to beat the dinner bell. It had little to do with dinner, or anything. It was just something he liked to do. When he stopped he could hear the echoes of his work fading into Mexico.

He decided that, since he was in no hurry, he would stop in Lonesome Dove and beat the bell a few more times. He could say it was the Capitán's orders. The thought was comforting. It made up for the fact that most of his decisions had been stupid. He rode south without looking back.

42.

"WELL, IF WE WASN'T DOOMED to begin with, we're doomed now," Augustus said, watching Bolivar ride away. He enjoyed every opportunity for pronouncing doom, and the loss of a cook was a good one.

"I expect we'll poison ourselves before we get much farther, with no regular cook," he said. "I just hope Jasper gets poisoned first."

"I never liked that old man's cooking anyway," Jasper said.

"You'll remember it fondly, once you're poisoned," Augustus said.

Call felt depressed by the morning's events. He did not particularly lament the loss of the wagon-an old wired-together wreck at best-but he did lament the loss of Bol. Once he formed a unit of men he didn't like to lose one of them, for any reason. Someone would have to assume extra work, which seldom sat well with whoever had to do it. Bolivar had been with them ten years and it was trying to lose him suddenly, although Call had not really expected him to come when he first announced the trip. Bolivar was a Mexican. If he didn't miss his family, he'd miss his country, as the Irishman did. Every night now, Allen O'Brien sang his homesick songs to the cattle. It soothed the cattle but not the men-the songs were too sorrowful.

Augustus noticed Call standing off to one side, looking blue. Once in a while Call would fall into blue spells-times when he seemed almost paralyzed by doubts he never voiced. The blue spells never came at a time of real crisis. Call thrived on crisis. They were brought on by little accidents, like the wagon breaking.

"Maybe Lippy can cook," Augustus suggested, to see if that would register with Call.

Lippy had found an old piece of sacking and was wiping the mud off his head. "No, I never learned to cook, I just learned to eat," Lippy said.

Call got on his horse, hoping to shake off the low feeling that had settled over him. After all, nobody was hurt, the herd was moving well, and Bol was no great loss. But the low feeling stayed. It was as if he had lead in his legs.

"You might try to load that gear on them mules," he said to Pea.

"Maybe we can make a two-wheel cart," Pea said. "There ain't much wrong with the front of the wagon. It's the back end that's busted up."

"Dern, Pea, you're a genius for figuring that out," Augustus said.

"I guess I'll go into San Antonio," Call said. "Maybe I can hire a cook and buy a new wagon."

"Fine, I'll join you," Augustus said.

"Why?" Call asked.

"To help judge the new chef," Augustus said. "You'd eat a fried stove lid if you was hungry. I'm interested in the finer points of cooking, myself. I'd like to give the man a tryout before we hire him."

"I don't see why. He won't have nothing much tenderer than a stove lid to cook around this outfit anyway," Jasper said. He had been very disappointed in the level of the grub.

"Just don't get nobody who cooks snakes," he warned. "If I have to eat any more snakes I'm apt to give notice."

"That's an idle threat, Jasper," Augustus said. "You wouldn't know where to go if you was to quit. For one thing, you'd be skeert to cross a river."

"You ought to let him be about that," Call said, when they had ridden out of earshot. Jasper's fear of water was nothing to joke about. Call had seen grown men get so scared of crossing rivers that it was practically necessary to knock them out at every crossing-and a shaky man was apt to panic and spook the herd. Under normal circumstances, Jasper Fant was a good hand, and there was nothing to be gained by riding him about his fear of water.

On the way to San Antonio they passed two settlements-nothing more than a church house and a few little stores, but settlements anyway, and not ten miles apart.

"Now look at that," Augustus said. "The dern people are making towns everywhere. It's our fault, you know."

"It ain't our fault and it ain't our business, either," Call said. "People can do what they want."

"Why, naturally, since we chased out the Indians and hung all the good bandits," Augustus said. "Does it ever occur to you that everything we done was probably a mistake? Just look at it from a nature standpoint. If you've got enough snakes around the place you won't be overrun with rats or varmints. The way I see it, the Indians and the bandits have the same job to do. Leave 'em be and you won't constantly be having to ride around these dern settlements."

"You don't have to ride around them," Call said. "What harm do they do?"

"If I'd have wanted civilization I'd have stayed in Tennessee and wrote poetry for a living," Augustus said. "Me and you done our work too well. We killed off most of the people that made this country interesting to begin with."

Call didn't answer. It was one of Gus's favorite themes, and if given a chance he would expound it for hours. Of course it was nonsense. Nobody in their right mind would want the Indians back, or the bandits either. Whether Gus had ever been in his right mind was an open question.

"Call, you ought to have married and had six or eight kids," Augustus remarked. If he couldn't get anywhere with one subject he liked to move on to another. Call's spirits hadn't improved much. When he was low it was hard to get him to talk.

"I can't imagine why you think so," Call said. "I wonder what's become of Jake?"

"Why, Jake's moseying along-starved for a card game, probably," Augustus said.

"He ought to leave that girl and throw in with us," Call said.

"You ain't listening," Augustus said. "I was trying to explain why you ought to marry. If you had a passel of kids, then you'd always have a troop to boss when you felt like bossing. It would occupy your brain and you wouldn't get gloomy as often."

"I doubt that marriage could be worse than having to listen to you," Call said, "but that ain't much of a testimonial for it."

They reached San Antonio late in the day, passing near one of the old missions. A Mexican boy in a brown shirt was bringing in a small herd of goats.

"Maybe we ought to take a few goats to Montana," Augustus said. "Goats can be melodious, more so than your cattle. They could accompany the Irishman and we'd have more of a singsong."

"I'll settle for more of a wagon," Call said.

Fortunately they were able to buy one almost at once from a big livery stable north of the river. It was necessary to buy two more mules to pull the wagon back to the herd. Fortunately the mules were cheap, twenty dollars a head, and the big German who ran the livery stable threw in the harness.

Augustus volunteered to drive the wagon back to the herd on condition he could have a drink and a meal first. He hadn't been to San Antonio in years and he marveled at the new establishments that had sprung up.

"Why, this place'll catch New Orleans if it don't stop growing," he said. "If we'd put in a barbershop ten years ago we'd be rich now."

There was a big saloon on the main street that they'd frequented a lot in their rangering days. It was called the Buckhorn, because of the owner's penchant for using deer horns for coat and hat racks. His name was Willie Montgomery, and he had been a big crony of Augustus's at one time. Call suspected him of being a card sharp, but if so he was a careful card sharp.

"I guess Willie will be so glad to see us he'll offer us a free dinner, at least," Augustus said, as they trotted over to the saloon. "Maybe a free whore, too, if he's prospering."

But when they strode in, there was no sign of Willie or anyone they recognized. A young bartender with slick hair and a string tie gave them a look when they stepped to the bar, but seemed as if he could scarcely be troubled to serve them. He was wiping out glasses with a little white towel and setting each one carefully on a shelf. The saloon was mostly empty, just a few cardplayers at a table in the back.

Augustus was not one to stand patiently and be ignored by a bartender. "I'd like a shot of whiskey and so would my companion, if it ain't too much trouble," he said.

The bartender didn't look around until he had finished polishing the glass he had in his hand.

"I guess it ain't, old-timer," he said. "Rye, or what will it be?"

"Rye will do, provided it gets here quick," Augustus said, straining to be polite.

The young bartender didn't alter his pace, but he did provide two glasses and walked slowly back to get a bottle of whiskey.

"You dern cowboys ought to broom yourselves off before you walk in here," he said with an insolent look. "We can get all the sand we need without the customers bringing it to us. That'll be two dollars."

Augustus pitched a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar and as the young man took it, suddenly reached out, grabbed his head and smashed his face into the bar, before the young man could even react. Then he quickly drew his big Colt, and when the bartender raised his head, his broken nose gushing blood onto his white shirtfront, he found himself looking right into the barrel of a very big gun.

"Besides the liquor, I think we'll require a little respect," he said. "I'm Captain McCrae and this is Captain Call. If you care to turn around, you can see our pictures when we was younger. Among the things we don't put up with is dawdling service. I'm surprised Willie would hire a surly young idler like you."

The cardplayers were watching the proceedings with interest, but the young bartender was too surprised at having suddenly had his nose broken to say anything at all. He held his towel to his nose, which was still pouring blood. Augustus calmly walked around the bar and got the picture he had referred to, which was propped up by the mirror with three or four others of the same vintage. He laid the picture on the bar, took the glass the young bartender had just polished, slinging it lazily into the air back in the general direction of the cardplayers, and then the roar of the big Colt filled the saloon.

Call glanced around in time to see the glass shatter. Augustus had always been a wonderful pistol shot-it was pleasing to see he still was. All of the cardplayers scurried for cover except a fat man in a big hat. Looking more closely, Call remembered him-his name was Ned Tym, and he was a seasoned gambler, too seasoned to be disturbed by a little flying glass. When it stopped flying, Ned Tym coolly took his hat off and blew the glass from the brim.

"Well, the Texas Rangers is back in town," he said. "Hello, Gus. Next time I see a circus I'll ask them if they need a trick shot."

"Why, Ned, is that you?" Augustus said. "My old eyes are failing. If I'd recognized you I'd have shot your hat off and saved a glass. Where do you keep your extra aces these days?"

Before Ned Tym could answer, a man in a black coat came running down the stairs at the back of the saloon. He wasn't much older than the bartender.

"What's going on here, Ned?" the man asked, prudently stopping by the card table. Augustus still held the big pistol in his hand.

"Oh, nothing, John," Ned said. "Captain McCrae and Captain Call happened in and Captain McCrae gave us a little demonstration with his pistol, that's all."

"It ain't all," the bartender said, in a loud voice. "The old son of a bitch broke my nose."

With a movement so graceful it seemed almost gentle, Augustus reached across the bar and rapped the bartender above the ear with his gun barrel. A tap was enough. The bartender slid out of sight and was seen no more.

"Why'd you do that?" the man in the black coat asked. He was angry, but, even more, he seemed surprised. Call glanced at him and judged him no threat-he sipped his whiskey and left the theatrics to Augustus.

"I'm surprised you have to ask why I did that," Augustus said, holstering his gun. "You heard the name he called me. If that's city ways, they don't appeal to me. Besides, he was a dawdling bartender and deserved a lick. Do you own this place, or what's your gripe?"

"I own it," the man said. "I don't allow shooting in it, either."

"What became of Wee Willie Montgomery?" Augustus asked. "You didn't have to whack the bartender just to get a glass of whiskey when he owned it."

"Willie's woman run off," Ned Tym informed them. "He decided to chase her, so he sold the place to Johnny here."

"Well, I can't say that I think he made a good choice," Augustus said, turning back to the bar. "Probably chose bad in the woman department too. Maybe if he's lucky she'll get plumb away."

"No, they're living up in Fort Worth," Ned said. "Willie was determined not to lose her."

Call was looking at the picture Augustus had fetched from behind the bar. It was of himself and Gus and Jake Spoon, taken years before. Jake was grinning and had a pearl-handled pistol stuck in his belt, whereas he and Gus looked solemn. It had been taken in the year they chased Kicking Wolf and his band all the way to the Canadian, killing over twenty of them. Kicking Wolf had raided down the Brazos, messing up several families of settlers and scaring people in the little settlements. Driving them back to the Canadian had made the Rangers heroes for a time, though Call had known it was hollow praise. Kicking Wolf hadn't been taken or killed, and there was nothing to keep him on the Canadian for long. But for a few weeks, everywhere they went there was some photographer with his box, wanting to take their picture. One had cornered them in the Buckhorn and made them stand stiffly while he got his shot.

The young man in the black coat went over behind the bar and looked at the fallen bartender.

"Why did you have to break his nose," he asked.

"He'll thank me someday," Augustus said. "It will make him more appealing to the ladies. He looked too much like a long-tailed rat, as it was. With no better manners than he had, I expect he was in for a lonely life."

"Well, I won't have this!" the young man said loudly. "I don't know why you old cowboys think you can just walk in and do what you please. What's that picture doing on the bar?"

"Why, it's just a picture of us boys, back in the days when they wanted to make us senators," Augustus said. "Willie kept it on the mirror there so when we happened in we could see how handsome we used to look."

"I'm a notion to call the sheriff and have the two of you arrested," the young man said. "Shooting in my bar is a crime, and I don't care what you done twenty years ago. You can get out of here and be quick about it or you'll end up spending your night in jail." He got angrier as he spoke.

"Oh, now, John, I wouldn't threaten these gentlemen if I was you," Ned Tym said, appalled at what he was hearing. "This is Captain Call and Captain McCrae."

"Well, what's that to me?" the man said, whirling on Ned. "I never heard of them and I won't have these old cowboys coming in here and making this kind of mess."

"They ain't old cowboys," Ned said. "They're Texas Rangers. You've heard of them. You've just forgot."

"I don't know why I would have," the man said. "I just lived here two years, miserable ones at that. I don't necessarily keep up with every old-timer who ever shot at an Indian. It's mostly tall tales anyway, just old men bragging on themselves."

"John, you don't know what you're talking about," Ned said, growing more alarmed. "Captain Call and Captain McCrae would be the last ones to brag."

"Well, that's your opinion," John said. "They look like braggarts to me."

Call was beginning to feel annoyed, for the young man was giving them unmannerly looks and talking to them as if they were trash; but then it was partly Gus's fault. The fact that the bartender had been a little slow and insolent hadn't necessarily been a reason to break his nose. Gus was touchy about such things though. He enjoyed having been a famous Texas Ranger and was often put out if he didn't receive all the praise he thought he had coming.

Gus held the picture out so the young man could see it.

"You have to admit that's us," he said. "Why would you keep our picture propped up behind your bar and then expect us to stand there and be treated like spit when we walk in?"

"Oh, well, I never even noticed them dern pictures," John said. "I ought to have thrown all that old junk out, but I never got around to it. Just drink your drink and skedaddle or be ready to go to jail. Here comes the sheriff now."

Sure enough, in about a minute, Tobe Walker stepped into the bar. He was a heavyset man with a walrus mustache who looked older than his years. Call was amused to see him, for what the angry young man didn't know was that Tobe had been in their Ranger troop for four years, just before they quit. He had only been sixteen then, but he made a good Ranger. Tobe had looked up to both of them as if they were gods, and was an unlikely man to arrest them. His eyes widened when he saw them.

"Why, can it be?" he asked. "Captain Call?"

"Well, Tobe," Call said, shaking his hand.

Augustus, too, was highly amused by the turn of events.

"'I God, Tobe," he said, "I guess it's your duty to handcuff us and march us off to jail."

"Why would I do that?" Tobe asked. "There's times when I think I ought to jail myself, but I don't know why I'd want to jail you two."

"Because you're hired to keep the peace and these old soaks have been disturbing it," John said. The fact that Tobe obviously recognized them only made him more testy.

Tobe became immediately frosty. "What's that you say, John?" he asked.

"I guess you heard me, sheriff, unless you're deaf," John said. "These men came in here and broke my bartender's nose. Then one of them shot off a gun for no reason. Then they pistol-whipped the bartender. I offered them a chance to leave, but since they haven't, I'm a notion to file charges and let the law take its course."

He said his little say so pompously that it struck the three of them as funny. Augustus laughed out loud, Call and Tobe smiled, and even Ned Tym chimed in with a chuckle.

"Son, you've misjudged our reputation," Augustus said. "We was the law around here when you was still sucking a teat. So many people think we saved them from the Indians that if you was to bring charges against us, and any of the boys that rangered with us got wind of it, they'd probably hang you. Anyway, whacking a surly bartender ain't much of a crime."

"John, I'd advise you to stop your name-calling," Tobe said. "You're acting too hot. You'd best just apologize and bring me a whiskey."

"I'll be damned if I'll do either one," John said, and without another word stepped over the fallen bartender and went back upstairs.

"What's he got, a whore up there?" Augustus asked hopefully. He was beginning to feel restive and would have liked some female company.

"Yes, John keeps a señorita," Tobe said. "I guess you'll have to excuse him. He's from Mobile and I've heard it said people in those parts are hotheaded."

"Well, it ain't a local prerogative," Augustus said. "We've got hotheads in our crew, and ain't none of them from Mobile, Alabama."

They got a whiskey bottle, sat down at a table and chatted for a while, talking of old times. Tobe inquired after Jake, and they carefully refrained from mentioning that he was on the run from the law. While they were talking, the bartender got up and staggered out the back way. His nose had stopped bleeding but his shirt was drenched in blood.

"Hell, he looks like he's been butchered," Tobe said cheerfully.

Ned Tym and his friends soon resumed their card game, but the other players' nerves were shaken and Ned soon drained them of money.

Tobe Walker looked wistful when they told him they were taking a herd to Montana. "If I hadn't married, I bet I'd go with you," he said. "I imagine there's some fair pastures up there. Being a lawman these days is mostly a matter of collaring drunks, and it does get tiresome."

When they left, he went off dutifully to make his rounds. Augustus hitched the new mules to the new wagon. The streets of San Antonio were silent and empty as they left. The moon was high and a couple of stray goats nosed around the walls of the old Alamo, hoping to find a blade of grass. When they had first come to Texas in the Forties people had talked of nothing but Travis and his gallant losing battle, but the battle had mostly been forgotten and the building neglected.

"Well, Call, I guess they forgot us, like they forgot the Alamo," Augustus said.

"Why wouldn't they?" Call asked. "We ain't been around."

"That ain't the reason-the reason is we didn't die," Augustus said. "Now Travis lost his fight, and he'll get in the history books when someone writes up this place. If a thousand Comanches had cornered us in some gully and wiped us out, like the Sioux just done Custer, they'd write songs about us for a hundred years."

It struck Call as a foolish remark. "I doubt there was ever a thousand Comanches in one bunch," he said. "If there had been they would have taken Washington, D.C."

But the more Augustus thought about the insults they had been offered in the bar-a bar where once they had been hailed as heroes-the more it bothered him.

"I ought to have given that young pup from Mobile a rap or two," he said.

"He was just scared," Call said. "I'm sure Tobe will lecture him next time he sees him."

"It ain't the pint, Woodrow," Augustus said. "You never do get the pint."

"Well, what is it, dern it?" Call asked.

"We'll be the Indians, if we last another twenty years," Augustus said. "The way this place is settling up it'll be nothing but churches and dry-goods stores before you know it. Next thing you know they'll have to round up us old rowdies and stick us on a reservation to keep us from scaring the ladies."

"I'd say that's unlikely," Call said.

"It's dern likely," Augustus said. "If I can find a squaw I like, I'm apt to marry her. The thing is, if I'm going to be treated like an Indian, I might as well act like one. I think we spent our best years fighting on the wrong side."

Call didn't want to argue with nonsense like that. They were nearly to the edge of town, passing a few adobe hovels where the poorer Mexicans lived. In one of them a baby cried. Call was relieved to be leaving. With Gus on the prod, anything could happen. In the country, if he got mad and shot something, it would probably be a snake, not a rude bartender.

"We didn't fight on the wrong side," Call said. "What's a miracle is that you stayed on the right side of the law for as long as you have. Jake's too cowardly to be much of an outlaw, but you ain't."

"I may be one yet," Augustus said. "It'd be better than ending up like Tobe Walker, roping drunks for a living. Why, the man nearly cried when we left, he wanted to come so bad. Tobe used to be quick, and look at him now, fat as a gopher."

"It's true he's put on weight, but then Tobe was always chunky built," Call said. On that one, though, he suspected Gus was right. Tobe had looked at them sadly when they mounted to ride away.

43.

AS FAR AS ROSCOE WAS CONCERNED, travel started bad and got worse. For one thing, it seemed he would never find Texas, a fact that preyed on his mind. From all indications it was a large place, and if he missed it he would be laughed out of Fort Smith-assuming he ever got back.

When he started out, he supposed that the easiest way to find Texas would be just to ask the settlers he encountered, but the settlers proved a remarkably ignorant lot. Most of them seemed never to have been more than a few hundred feet from the place they happened to be settled. Many were unable to give directions to the next settlement, much less to a place as remote as Texas. Some were able to point in the general direction of Texas, but after riding a few miles, dodging thickets and looking for suitable crossings on the many creeks, Roscoe could not be sure he was still proceeding in that direction.

Fortunately the problem of direction was finally solved one afternoon when he ran into a little party of soldiers with a mule team. They claimed to be heading for someplace called Buffalo Springs, which was in Texas. There were only four soldiers, two horseback and two in the wagon, and they had relieved the tedium of travel by getting drunk. They were generous men, so generous that Roscoe was soon drunk too. His relief at finding men who knew where Texas was caused him to imbibe freely. He was soon sick to his stomach. The soldiers considerately let him ride in the wagon-not much easier on his stomach, for the wagon had no springs. Roscoe became so violently ill that he was forced to lie flat in the wagon bed with his head sticking out the back end, so that when the heaves hit him he could vomit, or at least spit, without anyone losing time.

An afternoon passed in that way, with Roscoe alternately vomiting and lying on his back in the wagon, trying to recover his equilibrium. When he lay on his back the hot sun beat right down in his face, giving him a hard headache. The only way to block the sun was to put his hat over his face, but when he did that the close atmosphere in the hat, which smelled like the hair lotion Pete Peters, the barber back in Fort Smith, had used liberally, made him sick to his stomach again.

Soon Roscoe had nothing left in him to throw up but his guts, and he was expecting to see them come up any time. When he finally sat up, feeling extremely weak, he found that they had come to the banks of a wide, shallow river. The soldiers had ignored his illness, but they couldn't ignore the river.

"This is the Red," one soldier said. "That's Texas right across yonder."

Roscoe crawled out of his wagon, thinking to ride Memphis across, but found he couldn't make the climb into the saddle. Of course, Memphis was a tallish horse, but normally the saddle was reachable. Suddenly it wavered in the heat. It wasn't that the saddle was rising, it was that Roscoe's legs were sinking. He found himself sitting on the ground, holding to one stirrup.

The soldiers laughed at his plight and pitched him on Memphis as if he were a sack of potatoes.

"It's a good thing you run into us, Deputy," one soldier said. "If you'd kept on going west into the Territory, the dern Indians would have got you and et your testicles off."

"Et my what?" Roscoe asked, appalled at the casual way the soldier dropped such a terrible remark.

"I've heard that's what occurs if you let 'em catch you alive," the soldier said.

"Well, what's the Indian situation in Texas then?" Roscoe asked. The soldiers seemed completely uninformed on the subject. They were from Missouri. All they knew about Indians was that they liked to do bad things to white captives. One mentioned that a soldier he knew had been shot with an arrow at such close range that the arrow went in one ear and the point came out the other side of the soldier's head.

The soldiers seemed to enjoy telling such stories, but Roscoe couldn't share their enthusiasm. He lay awake most of the night, thinking about testicles and arrows in the head.

The next afternoon the soldiers turned west, assuring him that he only had to hold a course southwest and he would eventually hit San Antonio. Though recovered from his drunk, he didn't feel very vigorous-lack of proper sleeping conditions was slowly breaking down his health, it seemed.

That evening, as dusk was falling, he was about to reconcile himself to another night spent propped against a tree. He didn't like sleeping sitting up, but it meant he could be up and running quicker, if the need arose. But before he could select a tree to lean against he spotted a cabin a little distance ahead.

When he approached, he saw an old man with a tobacco-stained beard sitting on a stump skinning a small animal-a possum, as it turned out. Roscoe felt encouraged. The old man was the first person he had seen in Texas, and perhaps would be a source of accurate information about the road.

"Howdy," he said loudly, for the old man had not looked up from his skinning and Roscoe considered it dangerous to take people by surprise.

The old man didn't look up, but a form appeared in the doorway of the cabin-a girl, Roscoe thought, though in the dusk he couldn't be sure.

"Mind if I stop for the night?" Roscoe asked, dismounting.

The old man squinted at him briefly. "If you want supper you'll have to kill your own varmint," he said. "And leave the gal alone, she's mine, bought and paid for."

That struck Roscoe as strange. The old man's manner was anything but friendly. "Well, it's a little too late to go possum-huntin'," Roscoe said, trying to make light talk. "I've got a biscuit I can eat."

"Leave the gal alone," the old man said again.

The old man, a hard-looking customer, didn't look up again until he had finished skinning the possum. All Roscoe could do was stand around uneasily. The silence was heavy. Roscoe almost wished he had ridden on and spent the night sitting up against a tree. The level of civilization in Texas definitely wasn't very high if the old man was an example of it.

"Come get the varmint," the old man said to the girl.

She slipped out and took the bloody carcass without a word. In the dusk it was hard to make out much about her except that she was thin. She was barefoot and had on a dress that looked like it was made from part of a cotton sack.

"I gave twenty-eight skunk hides for her," the old man said suddenly. "You got any whiskey?"

In fact, Roscoe did have a bottle that he had bought off the soldiers. He could already smell frying meat-the possum, no doubt-and his appetite came back. He had nothing in his stomach and could think of little he would rather eat than a nice piece of fried possum. Around Fort Smith the Negroes kept the possums thinned out; they were seldom available on the tables of white folks.

"I got a bottle in my bag," Roscoe said. "You're welcome to share it."

He assumed that such an offer would assure him a place at the table, but the assumption was wrong. The old man took the whiskey bottle when he offered it, and then sat right on the stump and drank nearly all of it. Then he got up without a word and disappeared into the dark cabin. He did not reappear. Roscoe sat on the stump-the only place there was to sit-and the darkness got deeper and deeper until he could barely see the cabin fifteen feet away. Evidently the old man and the girl had no light, for the cabin was pitch-dark.

When it became plain he was not going to be invited for supper, Roscoe ate the two biscuits he had saved. He felt badly treated, but there was little he could do about it. When he finished the biscuits he pitched his bedroll up against the side of the cabin. As soon as he stretched out, the moon came up and lit the little clearing SO brightly it made it hard to sleep.

Then he heard the old man say, "Fix the pallet." The cabin was crudely built, with cracks between the logs big enough for a possum to crawl through, it seemed to Roscoe. He heard the old man stumbling around. "Goddamn you, come here," the old man said. Roscoe began to feel unhappy that he had stopped at the cabin. Then he heard a whack, as if the old man had hit the girl with a belt or a razor strap or something. There was a scuffle which he couldn't help but hear, and the strap landed a couple more times. Then the girl began to whimper.

"What's that?" Roscoe said, thinking that if he spoke up the old man might let be. But it didn't work. The scuffling continued and the girl kept whimpering. Then it seemed they fell against the cabin, not a foot from Roscoe's head. "If you don't lay still I'll whup you tomorrow till you'll wisht you had," the old man said. He sounded out of breath. Roscoe tried to think of what July would do in such a situation. July had always cautioned him about interfering in family disputes-the most dangerous form of law work, July claimed. July had once tried to stop a woman who was going after her husband with a pitchfork and had been wounded in the leg as a result.

In this case, Roscoe didn't know if it was even a family dispute that he was hearing. The old man had just said he bought the girl, though of course slavery had been over for years, and in any case the girl was white. The girl seemed to be putting up a good fight, despite her whimpering, for the old man was breathing hard and cursing her when he could get his breath. Roscoe wished more than ever that he had never spotted the cabin. The old man was a sorry customer, and the girl could only be having a miserable life with him.

The old man soon got done with the girl, but she whimpered for a long time-an unconscious whimpering, such as a dog makes when it is having a bad dream. It disturbed Roscoe's mind. She seemed too young a girl to have gotten herself into such a rough situation, though he knew that in the hungry years after the war many poor people with large families had given children to practically anyone who would take them, once they got of an age to do useful work.

Roscoe woke up soaked, though not from rain. He had rolled off his blanket in the night and been soaked by the heavy dew. As the sun rose water sparkled on the grass blades near his eyes. In the cabin he could hear the old man snoring loudly. There was no sound from the girl.

Since there was no likelihood he would be offered breakfast, Roscoe mounted and rode off, feeling pretty sorry for the girl. The old man was a rascal who had not even thanked him for the whiskey. If Texans were all going to be like him, it could only be a sorry trip.

A mile or two along in the day, Memphis began to grow restive, flicking his ears and looking around. Roscoe looked, but saw nothing. The country was pretty heavily wooded. Roscoe thought maybe a wolf was following them, or possibly some wild pigs, but he could spot nothing. They covered five or six miles at a leisurely pace.

Roscoe was half asleep in the saddle when a bad thing happened. Memphis brushed against a tree limb that had a wasp's nest on it. The nest broke loose from the limb and fell right in Roscoe's lap. It soon rolled off the saddle, but not before twenty or thirty wasps buzzed up. When Roscoe awoke, all he could see was wasps. He was stung twice on the neck, twice on the face, and once on the hand as he was battling them.

It was a rude awakening. He put Memphis into a lope and soon outran the wasps, but two had got down his shirt, and these stung him several more times before he could crush them to death against his body. He quickly got down from his horse and took off his shirt to make sure no more wasps were in it.

While he was standing there, smarting from yellow-jacket stings, he saw the girl-the same skinny girl who had been in the cabin, wearing the same cotton-sack dress. She tried to duck behind a bush but Roscoe happened to look up just at the right second and see her. Roscoe hastily put his shirt back on, though the wasp stings were stinging like fire and he would have liked to spit on them at least. But a man couldn't be rubbing spit on himself with a girl watching.

"Well, come on out, since you're here," Roscoe said, thinking it interesting that the girl had easily kept up with Memphis for six miles. For all he knew the old man had sent her to request more whiskey, or something.

The girl came slowly to him, shy as a rabbit. She was still barefoot and her legs were scratched from all the rough country. She stopped twenty feet away, as if not sure how close she was supposed to come. She was rather a pretty girl, Roscoe thought, although her brown hair was dirty and she had bruises on her thin arms from the old man's rough treatment.

"How come you to follow?" Roscoe asked. It was the first good look he had had at her-she seemed not more than fourteen or fifteen.

The girl just stood, too shy to talk.

"I didn't get your name," Roscoe said, trying to be polite.

"Ma called me her Janey," the girl said. "I run off from old Sam."

"Oh," Roscoe said, wishing that the wasps had picked another time to sting him, and also that the girl named Janey had picked another time to run off.

"I near kilt him this morning," the girl said. "He used me bad and I ain't really his anyway, it's just he give Bill some skunk pelts for me. I was gonna take the ax and kill him but then you come by and I run off to go with you."

The girl had a low husky voice, lower than a boy's, and once over her first moment of shyness wasn't loath to talk.

"I seen you get stung," she said. "There's a creek just along there. Mud poultices are the best for them yellow-jacket stings. You mix 'em with spit and it helps."

That of course was common knowledge, though it was thoughtful of the girl to mention it. The running-away business he thought he better deal with at once.

"I'm a deputy sheriff," Roscoe said. "I'm headed down to Texas to find a man. I must travel fast, and I've got but one horse."

He stopped, feeling sure the girl would take the hint. Instead, something like a smile crossed her face for an instant.

"You call this fast travelin'?" she asked. "I could have been two miles ahead of you just running on foot. I done already walked all the way here from San Antone, and I guess I can keep up with you unless you lope."

The remark almost swayed Roscoe in the girl's favor. If she had been to San Antonio, she might know how to get back. He himself had been plagued from the start by a sense of hopelessness about finding his way, and would have welcomed a guide.

But a runaway girl was not the sort of guide he had in mind. After all, the only reason he was looking for July was to report on a runaway woman. How would it look if he showed up with another? July would think it highly irregular, and if the folks back in Fort Smith got wind of it it could easily be made to look bad. After all, old Sam hadn't kept her around just because she could fry a possum in the dark.

The memory of the frying possum crossed his mind, reminding him that he was very hungry. What with the wasp stings on top of the hunger, it was difficult to express himself clearly, or even to think clearly, for that matter.

As if reading his hunger from his expression, the girl quickly moved to strengthen her case. "I can catch varmints," she said. "Bill taught me the trick. Mostly I can outrun 'em. I can fish if you've got a hook."

"Oh," Roscoe said, "I guess you caught that possum then."

The girl shrugged. "I can walk faster than possums can run," she said. "If we can get to the creek I'll fix them stings."

The stings were burning like fire. Roscoe decided there would be no impropriety in letting the girl go as far as the creek. He considered offering to let her ride double, but before he could mention it she ran on ahead. Not only could she walk faster than a possum could run, she could walk faster than Memphis could walk. He had to put the horse into a trot to keep up with her. By the time they got to the creek, Roscoe felt lightheaded from the combination of hunger and wasp stings. His vision was swimming again, as it had when he was drunk. A wasp had got him close to one eye; soon the eye swelled shut. His head felt larger than it usually did. It was a very inconvenient life, and, as usual when traveling got bad, he felt resentful of July for having married a woman who would run off.

The girl beat him to the creek and began making mud poultices and spitting in them. She immediately dismantled a couple of crawdad houses to get the kind of mud she required. Fortunately the creek had a high bank, which cast a little shade. Roscoe sat in the shade and allowed the girl to pack the mud poultices over the stings on his face. She even managed to get one on the swelling near his eye.

"You get that shirt off," she said, startling Roscoe so that he obeyed. The mud felt cool.

"Old Sam et crawdads," she said, as she sat back to survey her handiwork. "He can't shoot worth a dern so he had to live off the varmints I could catch."

"Well, I wish you could catch a fat rabbit," Roscoe said. "I'm plumb starved."

The next moment the girl was gone. She disappeared over the bank. Roscoe felt silly, for of course he had not really meant for her to go catch a rabbit. She might be fast, but rabbits were surely faster.

His feeling of lightheadedness came back and he lay down in the cool shade, thinking a little nap wouldn't hurt. He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he saw a surprising sight-or two sights, really. One was a dead cottontail lying near him. The other was the girl, who was wading down the edge of the creek, a short stick in her hands. Suddenly a big bullfrog jumped off the bank. While the frog was in the air, the girl hit it with the stick and knocked it far up the bank. She scrambled up after it, and Roscoe stood up to watch, although he had only one eye to watch with. She had knocked the frog into some weeds, which slowed its hopping some. The frog cleared the weeds once, but it couldn't jump far, and the girl was soon on it with her stick. A moment later she came down the bank holding the squashed frog by the legs. Its pink tongue was hanging out.

"Got a rabbit and a frog," she said. "You want 'em fried up?"

"I never et no frog," Roscoe said. "Who eats frogs?"

"You just eat the legs," the girl said. "Gimme your knife."

Roscoe handed it over. The girl rapidly skinned the cottontail, which was indeed plump. Then she whacked the knife into the frog, threw the top half into the creek and peeled the skin off the legs with her teeth. Roscoe had a few simple utensils in his saddlebag, which she got without a word from him. Roscoe assumed the stings must be affecting him because he felt like he was in a dream. He wasn't asleep, but he felt no inclination to move. The top half of the frog, its dangling guts pale in the water, drifted over to shore. Two gray turtles surfaced and began to nibble at the guts. Roscoe mainly watched the turtles while the girl made a little fire and cooked the rabbit and the frog legs. To his surprise, the frog legs kept hopping out of the pan as if the frog was still alive.

However, when she got them cooked, he ate one and was very pleased with the taste. Then he and the girl divided the rabbit and ate it to the last bite, throwing the bones into the creek. The combination of rabbit and frog innards had caused quite a congregation of turtles to collect.

"Niggers eat turtles," the girl said, cracking a rabbit bone between her teeth.

"They eat most anything," Roscoe said. "I guess they can't be choosy."

After the meal, Roscoe felt less lightheaded. The girl sat a few feet away, staring into the waters of the creek. She seemed just a child. Her legs were muddy from wading in the creek, her arms still bruised from her troubles with old Sam. Some of the bruises were blue, others had faded to yellow. The cotton-sack dress was torn in several places.

The problem of what to do about her began to weigh on Roscoe's mind. It had been nice of her to feed him, but that didn't answer the question of what was to be done with her. Old Sam had not looked like a man who would take kindly to losing something he regarded as his property. He might be trailing them at that very moment, and since they weren't far from the cabin he might be about to catch up.

"I guess that old man will be coming after you," Roscoe said, feeling nervous.

"Nope," the girl said.

"Well, he said you was his," Roscoe said. "Why wouldn't he come after you?"

"He's got rheumatism in his knees," the girl said.

"Don't he have a horse?"

"No, it foundered," she said. "Besides, I took the big pan and whacked him across the knees to keep him still a few days."

"My goodness," Roscoe said. "You're a rough customer, I guess."

The girl shook her head. "I ain't rough," she said. "Old Sam was rough."

She took the utensils to the creek and washed them before putting them back in the packs.

Roscoe was painfully aware that he had to make a decision. It was near midday and he. had only covered a few miles. The girl was a handy person to have along on a trip, he had to admit. On the other hand, she was a runaway, and it would all be hard to explain to July.

"Don't you have no folks?" he asked, hoping there was a relative somewhere ahead whom he could leave the girl with.

She shook her head. "They died," she said. "I had a brother but the Indians run off with him. Ma died and Pa went crazy and shot himself. I lived with a Dutchman till Bill got me."

"My lord," Roscoe said. "Who was this Bill?"

A look of unhappiness crossed the girl's face. "Bill was taking me to Fort Worth," she said. "Then he run across old Sam up there by Waco and they got drunk and Sam traded for me."

She never explained who Bill was, but Roscoe let it go. He decided to put off deciding what to do about her for at least a day. His wasp stings were paining him and he didn't feel he could make a competent decision when he could only see out of one eye. Maybe they would hit a settlement and he could find some nice family who needed help. They might take her off his hands.

The only problem was the one horse. It didn't seem right for him to ride and her to walk. Of course, she weighed next to nothing. It wouldn't hurt Memphis to carry them both.

"You best come for a day or two," he said. "Maybe we can find you someplace better than where you left. I'd hate for you to have to go back."

"I ain't going back," the girl said. "Old Sam would kill me."

When Roscoe offered her a stirrup up, she looked at him strangely.

"I don't mind the walk," she said.

"Well, we got to hurry," he said. "July's way ahead. Jump up here."

The girl did. Memphis looked annoyed, but he was too lazy to put up a fuss. The girl hooked her toes in the girth and held onto the saddle strings.

"It's high, ain't it?" she said. "I can see over the bushes."

"You tell me if I go wrong," Roscoe said, as they splashed across the creek. "I can't afford to miss that San Antone."

44.

NORTH OF SAN ANTONIO the country finally began to open up, to the relief of everyone. Two weeks of mesquite had tried everyone's patience. Gradually the mesquite thinned and the country became less heavily wooded. The grass was better and the cattle easier to handle. They grazed their way north so slowly most days that Newt felt it would take forever just to get out of Texas, much less make it to Montana.

He still worked the drags; as the grass improved the work was a little less dusty. He mainly rode along with the Rainey boys, discussing things they might see up the trail. A major topic of speculation was whether the Indians had actually been whipped or not.

At night around the campfire there were always Indian stories being told, mostly by Mr. Gus. Once the crew had settled into the rhythm of night work, the Captain took to doing what he had always done: he removed himself from the company a little distance. Almost every night he would catch the Hell Bitch and ride away. It puzzled some of the men.

"Reckon he don't like the way we smell?" Bert Borum asked.

"If that's what it is, I don't blame him," Jasper said. "Pea needs to wash his underwear more than twice a year."

"The Captain likes to go off," Pea said, ignoring the remark about his underwear.

Augustus was in a card game with the Irishman and Lippy. The stakes were theoretical, since he had already won six months of their wages.

"Woodrow likes to be out where he can sniff the wind," he said. "It makes him feel smart. Of course he would be the first one massacred if there was any smart Indians left."

"I hope there ain't none," Lippy remarked.

"They wouldn't want you," Augustus said. "They don't bother with crazies."

"I wisht we'd get a cook," Jasper said. "I'm dern tired of eating slop."

It was a common complaint. Since Bolivar's departure the food had been uneven, various men trying their hand at cooking. Call had ridden into several settlements, hoping to find someone they could hire as cook, but he had had no luck. Augustus usually cooked breakfast, catering to his own interests entirely and drawing many complaints because he favored scrambling eggs-a style several hands, Dish Boggett in particular, found revolting.

"I like my eggs with just a light fry," Dish said, morning after morning, only to watch helplessly as Augustus turned them into batter and poured them into a big skillet. "Don't do that, Gus," he said. "You'll get the white and the yellow all mixed up."

"They're going to get mixed up in your stomach anyway," Augustus pointed out.

Dish was not the only one who hated scrambled eggs. "I don't eat the white of eggs if I can help it," Jasper said. "I hear it causes blindness."

"Where'd you hear nonsense like that?" Augustus asked, but Jasper couldn't remember.

However, by breakfast time everyone was usually so hungry they ate whatever they could get, complaining with every bite.

"This coffee would float a stove lid," Call said one morning. He always rode in in time for breakfast.

"I generally eat mine with a spoon," Lippy said.

"This is a free country we live in," Augustus reminded them. "Anyone who don't like this coffee can spit it out and make their own."

No one cared to do anything that extreme. Since Call didn't believe in stopping for a meal at noon, breakfast was a necessity, whoever cooked it.

"We got to get a cook, even if it's a bad one," Augustus said. "It's too dangerous for a valuable man like me. I might get shot yet, over eggs."

"Well, Austin ain't far," Call said. "We can try there."

The day was fine and the herd moving nicely, with Dish holding the point as if he had held it all his life. Austin was only twenty miles to the east. Call was ready to go but Augustus insisted on changing his shirt.

"I might meet a lady," he said. "You can look for the cook."

They rode east and soon picked up the wagon trail into Austin, but they had not followed it far when Augustus suddenly swung his horse to the north.

"That ain't the way to Austin," Call said.

"I just remembered something," Augustus said.

He loped off without another word. Call turned the Hell Bitch and followed. He thought perhaps Gus was thirsty-they weren't far from a little creek that fed into the Guadalupe.

Sure enough, it was the little spring-fed creek that Augustus had been looking for. It ran through a small grove of live oaks, spread along the slope of a good-sized hill. Gus and old Malaria stopped on the hill, looking down at the creek and a little pool it formed below the trees. Gus was just sitting and looking, which was odd-but then Gus was odd. Call rode up, wondering what had drawn Gus's attention to the spot, and was shocked to see that Gus had tears in his eyes. They wet his cheeks and glistened on the ends of his mustache.

Call didn't know what to say because he had no idea what was wrong. Gus sometimes laughed until he cried, but he seldom just cried. Moreover, it was a fine day. It was puzzling, but he decided not to ask.

Gus sat for five minutes, not saying a word. Call got down and relieved himself to pass the time. He heard Gus sigh and looked up to see him wiping his eyes with a bandana.

"What has come over you?" Call asked finally.

Augustus took off his hat for a moment to let his head cool. "Woodrow, I doubt you'd understand," he said, looking at the grove and the pool.

"Well if I don't, I don't," Call said. "I sure don't so far."

"I call this Clara's orchard," Augustus said. "Me and her discovered it one day while on a buggy ride. We come out here on picnics many a time."

"Oh," Call said. "I might have known it would have something to do with her. I doubt there's another human being over whom you'd shed a tear.

Augustus wiped his eyes with his fingers. "Well, Clara was lovely," he said. "I expect it was the major mistake of my life, letting her slip by. Only you don't understand that, because you don't appreciate women."

"If she didn't want to marry you I don't guess there was much you could have done about it," Call said, feeling awkward. The subject of marriage was not one he was comfortable with.

"It weren't that simple," Augustus said, looking at the creek and the little grove of trees and remembering all the happiness he had had there. He turned old Malaria and they rode on toward Austin, though the memory of Clara was as fresh in his mind as if it were her, not Woodrow Call, who rode beside him. She had had her vanities, mainly clothes. He used to tease her by saying he had never seen her in the same dress twice, but Clara just laughed. When his second wife died and he was free to propose, he did one day, on a picnic to the place they called her orchard, and she refused instantly, without losing a trace of her merriment.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'm used to my own ways," she said. "You might try to make me do something I wouldn't want to do."

"Don't I indulge your every whim?" he asked.

"Yes, but that's because you haven't got me," Clara said. "I bet you'd change fast if I ever let you get the upper hand."

But she had never let him get the upper hand, though it seemed to him she had surrendered it without a fight to a dumb horse trader from Kentucky.

Call was a little embarrassed for Augustus.

"When was you the happiest, Call?" Augustus asked.

"Happiest about what?" Call asked.

"Just about being a live human being, free on the earth," Augustus said.

"Well, it's hard to single out any one particular time," Call said.

"It ain't for me," Augustus said. "I was happiest right back there by that little creek. I fell short of the mark and lost the woman, but the times were sweet."

It seemed an odd choice to Call. After all, Gus had been married twice.

"What about your wives?" he asked.

"Well, it's peculiar," Augustus said. "I never was drawn to fat women, and yet I married two of them. People do odd things, all except you. I don't think you ever wanted to be happy anyway. It don't suit you, so you managed to avoid it."

"That's silly," Call said.

"It ain't, either," Augustus said. "I don't guess I've watched you punish yourself for thirty years to be totally wrong about you. I just don't know what you done to deserve the punishment."

"You've got a strange way of thinking," Call said.

They had hardly ridden three miles from the grove when they spotted a little camp at the foot of a limestone bluff. It was near a pool and a few trees.

"I bet that's Jake," Call said.

"No, it's just Lorie," Augustus said. "She's resting by a tree. I bet J ake's gone to town and left her."

Call looked again, but the camp was half a mile away and all he could see was the horses and the pack mule. Throughout his years as a Ranger, Augustus had always been renowned for his remarkable eyesight. Time and again, on the high plains and in the Pecos country, it had been proven that he could see farther than other people. In the shimmering mirages the men were always mistaking sage bushes for Indians. Call himself could shade his eyes and squint and still not be certain, but Augustus would merely glance at the supposed Indian for a moment, laugh and go back to card playing or whiskey drinking or whatever he might be doing.

"Yep, that's a big tribe of sage bushes," he would say.

Pea, particularly, stood in awe of Augustus's vision, his own being notably weak. Sometimes on a hunt Augustus would try in vain to show Pea Eye an antelope or a deer.

"I might could see it if we could get closer," Pea would say.

"Pea, I don't know what keeps you from riding off a cliff," Augustus responded. "If we get closer the animal will just get farther."

"Let's hire Lorie to cook," Augustus said.

"Let's don't," Call said. "Bring her into that camp and there'd be fights ever day, even if she was a decent woman."

"I don't know why you're so down on whores, Woodrow," Augustus said. "You had yours, as I remember."

"Yes, that was my mistake," Call said, annoyed that Gus would bring it up.

"It ain't a mistake to behave like a human being once in a while," Augustus said. "Poor Maggie got her heart broke, but she gave you a fine son before she quit."

"You don't know that and I don't want to talk about it," Call said. "He could be yours, or Jake's, or some damn gambler's."

"Yes, but he ain't, he's yours," Augustus said. "Anybody with a good eye can see it. Besides, Maggie told me. She and I were good friends."

"I don't know about friends," Call said. "I'm sure you were a good customer."

"The two can overlap," Augustus pointed out, well aware that his friend was not happy to have such a subject broached. Call had been secretive about it when it was happening and had been even more secretive about it since.

When they rode into the little camp, Lorena was sitting under the tree, quietly watching them. She had evidently just bathed in the pool, for her long blond hair was wet. Once in a while she squeezed water off a strand with her fingers. She had a bruise below one eye.

"'I god, Lorie, it looks like an easy life," Augustus said. "You got your own swimming hole. Where's Jake?"

"He went to town," Lorena said. "He's done been gone two days."

"Must be in a good game," Augustus said. "Jake will play for a week if he's ahead."

Call thought it was unconscionable to leave any woman alone that long in such rough country.

"When do you expect him back?" he asked.

"He said he wasn't coming back," Lorena said. "He left mad. He's been mad the whole way up here. He said I could have the horse and the mule and go where I pleased."

"I doubt he meant it," Augustus said. "What do you think?"

"He'll be back," Lorena said.

Call was not so sure. Jake had never been one to load himself with responsibilities unnecessarily.

To his annoyance, Gus got down and hitched his horse to a bush. Then he unsaddled.

"I thought you was going to Austin," Call said.

"Woodrow, you go," Augustus said. "I ain't in the mood for city life just now. I'll stay here and play cards with Lorie until that scamp shows up."

Call was very annoyed. One of Gus's worst traits was an inability to stick to a plan. Call might spend all night working out a strategy, and Augustus might go along with it for ten minutes and then lose patience and just do whatever came into his mind. Of course, going into town to hire a cook was no great project, but it was still irritating that Gus would just drop off. But Call knew it was pointless to argue.

"Well, I hope you get back to the herd tonight, in case I'm late," he said. "There should be somebody with some experience around."

"Oh, I don't know," Augustus said. "It's time that outfit got a little practice in doing without us. They probably think the sun won't come up unless you're there to allow it."

Rather than re-argue yet another old argument, Call turned the Hell Bitch. Even experienced men were apt to flounder badly in crises if they lacked leadership. He had seen highly competent men stand as if paralyzed in a crisis, though once someone took command and told them what to do they might perform splendidly. A loose group like the Hat Creek outfit wouldn't even know how to decide who was to decide, if both he and Gus were gone.

He put the Hell Bitch into a lope-it was a pleasure to watch the easy way the mare ate up the miles. With such a horse under him he could soon forget most of his vexations.

Then, for no reason, between one stride and the next, the Hell Bitch suddenly rolled out of her easy gait into a flying buck. Call was riding along relaxed and, before he could even jerk her head up, he lost a stirrup and knew he was thrown. Well, goddamn you, you finally got me, he thought, and a second later was on the ground. But he had taken a wrap around his hand with one rein and held on, hoping the rein wouldn't snap. The rein held, and Call got to his feet and caught the other rein.

"Well, your little plan failed," he said to the mare. He knew that with a little better luck she would have been loose and gone. She didn't fight at all when he remounted, and she showed no sign of wanting to buck anymore. Call kept her in a trot for a mile or two before letting her go back to the lope. He didn't expect her to try it again. She was too intelligent to waste her energies at a time when she knew he would be set for trouble. Somehow she had sensed that he had his mind on other things when she exploded. In a way it pleased him-he had never cared for totally docile horses. He liked an animal that was as alert as he was-or, in the mare's case, even more alert. She had been aware of his preoccupations, whereas he had had no inkling of her intentions.

Now she was content to ignore her own failure, but he had no doubt that if she judged the time to be right she would try again. He decided to find some braided horsehair reins when he got to Austin-the thin leather rein he was using could easily have snapped. Braided horsehair would give him an advantage if he got thrown again, and he had never been exceptional at riding bucking horses.

"You try what you like," he said. He had begun, more and more, to talk out loud to her when they were alone. "I'll tell you this: I aim to ride you across the Yellowstone, and if I don't it'll be because one of us gets killed first."

The gray mare loped on toward Austin, once again easily eating up the miles.

45.

LORENA WAS AMUSED that Gus had stopped. He was not a man to miss a chance. If he thought to trick her again, he would have to work hard at it, but she was relieved to have him stay. The two days since Jake had left were wearisome. Although she knew he would come back in time, she was less and less certain that it mattered, for Jake had taken a grudge against her and she suspected he would be slow to give it up. It was puzzling to her, thinking back on it, why she had been so quick to trust him. Somehow he had convinced her he was the answer to all her problems. She had felt an overpowering feeling of need and trust when he had sat down and began talking to her so friendly. He had seemed as eager to hear her talk as she had been to hear his.

Only a month had passed, and in the last few days he had made it perfectly clear that he had no interest in ever hearing her talk again and would prefer that she didn't. It made her sad. If she was always going to be so mistaken about men, she would be lucky ever to get to San Francisco.

At times, waiting, she had almost decided just to take the horse and the mule and try to find her way back to Lonesome Dove. Xavier had said he would marry her and take her anywhere she wanted to go. She remembered the day he had come into the room-his wild eyes, his threat to kill Jake. When she had nothing to do but sit around and think about it, her capacity for mistakes discouraged her so that she considered drowning herself in the little pool. But it was a sunny, pretty morning, and when she went into the pool a little later, it was only to wash her hair in the cool water. For a moment she put her head under and opened her eyes, but it felt silly-to die in such an element was only ridiculous. She began to wonder if perhaps she was touched-if that was why she made mistakes. Her mother had been touched. She often babbled of people no one knew. She talked to dead relatives, dead babies, speaking to them as if they were still alive. Lorena wondered if it was mistakes that had made her mother do that. Perhaps, after so many mistakes, your mind finally broke loose and wandered back and forth between past and present.

"Lorie, you look downcast," Augustus said. "Not four or five days ago you felt keen and looked more beautiful than the sky. What's that scamp done to cause such a change?"

"I don't know, Gus," Lorena said. "Seems like I change every day."

"Oh, like most people do," he said, watching her. She had a sad look in her eyes.

"I didn't used to down in Lonesome Dove," she said. "I mainly just felt the same from one day to the next."

"Yes, hopeless," Augustus said. "You didn't expect nothing. Then Jake come along and started you expecting again."

"I didn't expect this," Lorena said.

"No, but he got you hoping, at least," Augustus said. "The trouble is, Jake ain't a man to support nobody's hopes but his own."

Lorena shrugged. It hadn't been Jake's fault. He hadn't asked her to turn herself over to him, although he had accepted readily enough when she did.

"I guess I'm in a fix," she said. "He ain't gonna take me to California."

"Nope," Augustus said. "It's too bad Call's ornery about women or we could make you a cook and all the cowhands could fall in love with you. Dish is near crazy with love for you as it is."

"That won't get him much," Lorena said. Dish had been her last customer before Jake. He had a white body, like all the rest, and was so excited he was hardly with her any time.

"Well, he's got you to think about," Augustus said. "That's more important than you might think. A young man needs a woman to think about."

"I guess he's free to think all he wants," Lorena said. "Why'd you stop off, Gus?"

"Hoping for a poke," Augustus said. "What's it gonna be this time, draw poker?"

"No, blackjack," Lorena said. "I'm luckier at it. What do I get if I win?"

Augustus grinned. "I'll be your whore," he said. "You can have a poke on demand."

"Why would I want one?" Lorena asked. The notion of a man being a whore amused her a little, it was so unusual.

"Think about it a minute," Augustus said. "Suppose it all worked the other way, and men were the whores. You just walk into a saloon and jingle your money and buy anyone you wanted. And he'd have to take his clothes off and do what you said do."

"I never seen one I wanted," Lorena said. "'Cept Jake, and that didn't last any time."

"I know it's hard to think about," Augustus said. "You been the one wanted all this time. Just suppose it was the opposite and you could buy what you wanted in the way of a man."

Lorena decided Gus was the craziest man she had ever known. He didn't look crazy, but his notions were wild.

"Suppose I was a whore," he said. "I've always figured I'd make a good one. If you win this hand I'll give you a free poke and all you'll have to figure out is how to enjoy it."

"I wouldn't enjoy it," Lorena said. She had never enjoyed it, and it would take more than Gus's talk to change her opinion.

"Did you never play games?" Augustus asked.

"I played spin the bottle," Lorena said, remembering that she had played it with her brother, who had been sickly and had stayed in Alabama with her grandmother.

"Well, it's a kind of game we're talking about," Augustus said. "Games are played for fun. You've thought about it as a business too long. If you win the card game you ought to pretend you're a fancy lady in San Francisco who don't have nothing to do but lay around on silk sheets and have a nigger bring you buttermilk once in a while. And what my job is is to make you feel good."

"I don't like buttermilk," Lorena said. To her surprise, Gus suddenly stroked her cheek. It took her aback and she put her head down on her knees. Gus put his hand under her wet hair and rubbed the back of her neck.

"Yes, that's your problem," he said. "You don't like buttermilk, or nothing else. You're like a starving person whose stomach is shrunk up from not having any food. You're shrunk up from not wanting nothing."

"I want to get to San Francisco," Lorena said. "It's cool, they say."

"You'd be better off if you could just enjoy a poke once in a while," Augustus said, taking one of her hands in his and smoothing her fingers. "Life in San Francisco is still just life. If you want one thing too much it's likely to be a disappointment. The healthy way is to learn to like the everyday things, like soft beds and buttermilk-and feisty gentlemen."

Lorena didn't answer. She shut her eyes and let Gus hold her hand. She was afraid he would try more, without paying her or even playing cards, but he didn't. It was a very still morning. Gus seemed content to hold her hand and sit quietly. She could hear the horses swishing their tails.

Then Gus let her hand go and stood up and took off his shirt and pants. Lorena wondered what made him behave so strangely-they were supposed to play cards first. Gus had on flannel underwear that had been pink once. It was so worn the color had almost faded to white. It was full of holes and his white chest hair stuck out of some of the holes. He also took off his boots and socks.

"You had your bath, but I ain't had one," he said, and went to the water hole and waded right in, underwear and all. The water was cold, but Gus went splashing off across the pool. He ducked his head under a few times and then swam back.

"Dern, that water was so cold it shriveled my pod," he said. He sat down on a big rock to let the heat dry him. Then, looking beyond her, he apparently saw something she couldn't see.

"Lorie, would you mind handing me my gun belt?" he asked.

"Why?" she asked.

"I see an Indian coming and I can't tell if he's friendly," Augustus said. "He's riding a pacing horse and that ain't a good sign."

His old pistol was so heavy she had to use both hands to pass the gun belt to him.

"Jake rides a pacing horse," she said.

"Yes, and he's a scamp," Augustus said.

Lorena looked west, but she could see no one. The rolling plain was empty.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"He'll be a while yet," Augustus said.

"How do you know he's an Indian, if he's that far?" she asked.

"Indians got their own way of riding, that's why," Augustus said. "This one might have killed a Mexican or at least stole one's horse."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"He's got silver on his saddle, like Mexicans go in for," Augustus said. "I seen the sun flashing on it."

Lorena looked again and saw a tiny speck. "I don't know how you can see that far, Gus," she said.

"Call don't neither," Augustus said. "Makes him mad. He's better trained than me but ain't got the eyesight."

Then he grinned at her, and put his hat on to shade his eyes. He was watching the west in a way that made her apprehensive.

"You want the rifle?" she asked.

"No, I've shot many a sassy bandit with this pistol," he said. "I'm glad to have my hat, though. It don't do to go into a scrape bareheaded."

The rider was close enough by then that she too could see the occasional flash of sun on the saddle. A few minutes later he node into camp. He was a big man, riding a bay stallion. Gus had been right: he was an Indian. He had long, tangled black hair and wore no hat-just a bandana tied around his head. His leather leggings were greasy and his boots old, though he wore a pair of silver spurs with big rowels. He had a large knife strapped to one leg and carried a rifle lightly across the pommel of his saddle.

He looked at them without expression-in fact, not so much at them as at their horses. Lorena wished Augustus would say something, but he sat quietly, watching the man from under the brim of his old hat. The man had a very large head, squarish and heavy.

"I'd like to water," he said, finally. His voice was as heavy as his head.

"It's free water," Augustus said. "I hope you like it cold. We ain't got time to warm it for you."

"I like it wet," the man said and trotted past them to the pool. He dismounted and squatted quickly, raising the water to his mouth in a cupped hand.

"Now that's a graceful skill," Augustus said. "Most men just drop on their bellies to drink out of a pond, or else dip water in their hats, which means the water tastes like hair."

The bay stallion waded a few steps into the pool and drank deeply.

The man waited until the horse had finished drinking, then came walking back, his spurs jingling lightly as he walked. Again he glanced at their horses, before looking at them.

"This is Miss Wood," Augustus said, "and I'm Captain McCrae. I hope you've had breakfast because we're low on grub."

The man looked at Augustus calmly and a little insolently, it seemed to Lorena.

"I'm Blue Duck," he said. "I've heard of you, McCrae. But I didn't know you was so old."

"Oh, I wasn't till lately," Augustus said. It seemed to Lorena that he too had a touch of insolence in his manner. Though Gus was sitting in his underwear, apparently relaxed, Lorena didn't think there was anything relaxed about the situation. The Indian called Blue Duck was frightening. Now that he stood close to them his head seemed bigger than ever, and his hands too. He held the rifle in the crook of his arm, handling it like a toy.

"Where's Call if you're McCrae?" Blue Duck asked.

"Captain Call went to town," Augustus said. "He's shopping for a cook.

"I was told I best kill both of you if I killed one," the Indian said. "It's my bad luck he's gone."

"Well, he'll be back," Augustus said, the insolence more pronounced in his voice. "You can sit over there in the shade and wait if you'd enjoy a chance at us both."

Blue Duck looked him in the eye for a moment, and with a light movement swung back on his horse.

"I can't wait all day just for the chance to shoot two worn-out old Rangers," he said. "There are plenty that need killing besides you two."

"I guess Charlie Goodnight must have run you off," Augustus said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be off down here in respectable country riding some dead Mexican's saddle."

The man smiled a hand smile. "If you even bring that goddamned old tongue of yours north of the Canadian I'll cut it out and feed it to my wolf pups," he said. "That and your nuts too."

Without another look he rode past them and on out of the camp.

Lorena looked at Gus, half expecting him to shoot the man, but Gus just pushed his hat brim up and watched him ride away. Lorena almost wished Gus would shoot him, for she felt the man was a killer, although she had no basis for the judgment. He had not looked at her and didn't seem to be interested in her, yet he felt dangerous. Sometimes the minute a man stepped into her room she would know he was dangerous and would hurt her if she gave him the opportunity. Even Tinkersley had been that way. Some days he was harmless, other days dangerous. She could tell, even with her back to him, if he was in a mood to slap her. If he was in such a mood, he would hit her no matter how small she walked. But she wasn't really afraid with Tinkersley-his angers had a short life. He hit hard, but he only hit once.

The man called Blue Duck was much more frightening. He might not hit at all-on he might do something worse.

"Pack up, Lorie," Augustus said. "You best stay near us for a night or two."

"Who is he?" she asked.

"One we ought to have hung ten years ago," Augustus said. "Couldn't catch him. He's a Comancheno. He's got a greasy bunch of murderers and child-stealers. He used to work the Red River country from New Mexico all the way across to Arkansas, hitting settlers. They'd butcher the grownups and take the horses and kids."

"Why couldn't you catch him?" she asked.

"He was better at doing without water than we were," Augustus said. "He knew them dry plains and we didn't. Then the Army blocked us. MacKenzie said he'd get him, only he didn't."

"Would he have tried to kill you if Captain Call had been here?"

"I wonder," Augustus said. "I guess he thinks he's that good."

"Do you think he is?" she asked.

"You never know," Augustus said. "I don't underestimate him, though he'd have to step quick to beat me and Call both."

"He didn't even look at me," Lorena said. "I don't think he'll come back."

"I imagine he took you in long before he got to camp," Augustus said. "I ain't the only one in the world with good eyesight."

"I want to wait for Jake," Lorena said. "I told him I'd wait."

"Don't be foolish," Augustus said. "You didn't know Blue Duck was around when you told him. The man might decide he wants to use you for fish bait."

Lorena felt it was a test of Jake. She was frightened of the man, and part of her wanted to go with Gus. But she had trusted herself to Jake and she still hoped that he would make good.

"I don't want to go to that cow camp," she said. "They all look at me."

Augustus was watching the ridge where Blue Duck had disappeared. "I should have just shot him," he said. "Or he should have shot me. He was the last person I was expecting to see. We had heard that he was dead. I been hearing for years that he was dead, but that was him."

Lorena didn't believe the man was interested in her. Even if men avoided looking at her she could feel their interest, if they had any. The man called Blue Duck had been more interested in the horses.

"I don't know that Jake can protect you, even if he comes back," Augustus said.

It made her a little sad for Jake that all his friends doubted his abilities. He was not respected. Probably Gus was right: she should quit Jake. Gus himself was a more able man, she had no doubt. He might take her to California. He had made it clean he had no great interest in the cattle drive. He talked a lot of foolishness, but he had never been mean. He was still sitting on the big rock, idly scratching himself through a hole in the wet underwear.

"Gus, we could go to California," she said. "I'd go with you and let Jake take his chances."

Augustus looked at her and smiled. "Why, I'm complimented, Lorie," he said. "Mighty complimented."

"Let's go then," she said, impatient suddenly.

"No, I'm bound for Ogallala, honey," he said.

"Where's that?"

"In Nebraska," he said.

"What's there?" Lorena asked, for she had never heard anyone mention such a place.

"A woman named Clara," Augustus said.

Lorena waited, but he said no more than that. She didn't want to ask. It was always something, she thought-something to keep her from getting to the one place she wanted to be. It made her bitter-she remembered some of the things Gus had blabbed to her since she had known him.

"I guess you ain't so practical, then," she said.

Augustus was amused. "Do I claim to be practical?" he asked.

"You claim it but you ain't," Lorena said. "You're going all the way to Nebraska for a woman. I'm a woman, and I'm night here. You could have the pokes, if that's all it is."

"By God, I got you talking anyway," Augustus said. "I never thought I'd be that lucky."

Lorena felt her little anger die, the old discouragement take its place. Once again she found herself alone in a hot place, dependent on men who had other things on their mind. It seemed life would never change. The discouragement went so deep in her that she began to cry. It softened Gus. He put an arm around her and wiped the tears off her cheeks with his finger.

"Well, I guess you do want to get to California," he said. "I'll strike a deal. If we both make it to Denver I'll buy you a train ticket."

"I'll never make no Denver," Lorena said. "I'll never make it out of this Texas."

"Why, we're half out already," Augustus said. "Texas don't last much north of Fort Worth. You're young, besides. That's the big difference in us. You're young and I ain't." He got up and put on his clothes.

"Dern, I wonder where that greasy bandit was going," he said. "I've heard of him killing in Galveston; maybe that's where he's going. I wish now I'd have shot him while he was drinking."

He tried again to get Lorena to come over to the cow camp, but Lorena just shook her head. She wasn't going anywhere, and what's more, she was through talking. It did no good, never had.

"This is a worrisome situation," Augustus said. "I probably ought to track that man or send Deets to do it. Deets is a better tracker than me. Jake ain't back and I ain't got your faith in him. I best send one of the hands to guard you until we know where that bandit's headed."

"Don't send Dish," Lorena said. "I don't want Dish coming around."

Augustus chuckled. "You gals are sure hand on the boys that love you," he said. "Dish Boggett's got a truer heart than Jake Spoon, although neither one of them has much sense."

"Send me the black man," she said. "I don't want none of them others."

"I might," Augustus said. "Or I might come back myself. How would that suit you?"

Lorena didn't answer. She felt the anger coming back. Because of some woman named Clara she wasn't getting to San Francisco, when otherwise Gus would have taken her. She sat silently on the rock.

"Lorie, you're a sight," he said. "I guess I bungled this opportunity. You'd think I'd get smoother, experienced as I am."

She kept silent. Gus was nearly out of sight before she looked up. She still felt the anger.

46.

"NEWT, YOU LOOK like you just wiggled out of a flour sack," Pea Eye said. He had taken to making the remark almost every evening. It seemed to surprise him that Newt and the Rainey boys came riding in from the drags white with dust, and he always had the same thing to say about it. It was beginning to annoy Newt, but before he could get too annoyed, Mr. Gus surprised him out of his wits by telling him to lope over to Jake's camp and keep watch for Lorena until Jake got back.

"I wish I could clean up first," Newt said, acutely conscious of how dirty he was.

"He ain't sending you to marry her," Dish Boggett said, very annoyed that Gus had chosen Newt for the assignment. The thought that Jake Spoon had gone off and left Lorena unattended was irritation enough.

"I doubt Newt can even find her," he added to Gus, after the boy left.

"She's barely a mile from here," Augustus said. "He can find her."

"I would have been glad to take on the chore," Dish pointed out.

"I've no doubt you would," Augustus said. "Then Jake would have showed up and you two would have a gunfight. I doubt you could hit one another, but you might hit a horse or something. Anyway, we can't spare a top hand like you," he added, thinking the compliment might soothe Dish's feelings. It didn't. He immediately walked off in a sulk.

Captain Call rode in just as Newt was leaving.

"So where's the new cook?" Augustus asked.

"He'll be along tomorrow," Call said. "Why are you sending the boy off?"

Newt heard the question and felt unhappy for a moment. Almost everybody called him Newt, but the Captain still called him "the boy."

"Lorie can't be left by herself tonight," Augustus said. "I don't reckon you seen Jake."

"I never hit the night saloon," Call said. "I was after a cook. He's there, though. I heard his name mentioned several times."

"Hear anyone mentioned Blue Duck?" Augustus asked.

Call was unsaddling the mane. At the mention of the Comancheno he stopped.

"No, why would I?" he asked.

"He stopped and introduced himself," Augustus said. "Over at Jake's camp."

Call could hardly credit the information. He looked at Gus closely to see if it was some kind of joke. Blue Duck stole white children and gave them to the Comanches for presents. He took scalps, abused women, cut up men. What he didn't steal he burned, always fleeing west onto the waterless reaches of the llano estacado, to unscouted country where neither Rangers nor soldiers were eager to follow. When he and Call quit the Rangers, Blue Duck had been a job left undone. Stories of his crimes trickled as far down as Lonesome Dove.

"You seen him?" Call asked. In all these years he himself had never actually seen Blue Duck.

"Yep," Augustus said.

"Maybe it wasn't him," Call said. "Maybe it was somebody claiming to be him. This ain't his country."

"It was him," Augustus said.

"Then why didn't you kill him?" Call asked. "Why didn't you bring the woman into camp? He'll butcher her and the boy too if he comes back."

"That's two questions," Augustus said. "He didn't introduce himself at first, and once he did, he was ready. It would have been touch and go who got kilt. I might have got him or at least wounded him, but I'd have probably got wounded in the process and I don't feel like traveling with no wound."

"Why'd you leave the woman?"

"She didn't want to come and I don't think he's after her," Augustus said. "I think he's after horses. I sent Deets to track him-he won't get Lorie with Deets on his trail, and if he's circling and means to make a play for our horses, Deets will figure it out."

"Maybe," Call said. "Maybe that killer will figure it out first and lay for Deets. I'd hate to lose Deets."

Pea Eye, who had been standing around waiting for the Irishman to cook the evening's meat, suddenly felt his appetite going. Blue Duck sounded just like the big Indian of his dreams, the one who was always in the process of knifing him when he woke up.

Call turned the Hell Bitch loose in the nemuda and came back to the cook wagon. Augustus was eating a beefsteak and a big plate of beans.

"Is this cook you hired a Mexican?" Augustus asked.

Call nodded. "I don't like sending that boy off to sit up with a whore," he said.

"He's young and innocent," Augustus said. "That's why I picked him. He'll just moon over her a little. If I'd sent one of the full-grown rowdies, Jake might have come back and shoot him. I doubt he'd shoot Newt."

"I doubt he'll even come back, myself," Call said. "That girl ought to have stayed in Lonesome Dove."

"If you was a young girl, with life before you, would you want to settle in Lonesome Dove?" Augustus asked. "Maggie done it, and look how long she lasted."

"She might have died anyplace," Call said. "I'll die someplace, and so will you-it might not be no better place than Lonesome Dove."

"It ain't dying I'm talking about, it's living," Augustus said. "I doubt it matters where you die, but it matters where you live."

Call got up and went to catch his night horse. Without thinking, he caught the Hell Bitch again, though he had just turned her loose. One of the Spettle boys looked at him curiously and said nothing. Call saddled the Hell Bitch anyway and rode around the herd to see that all was in place. The cattle were calm, most of them already bedded down. Needle Nelson, perennially sleepy, dozed in his saddle.

In the fading light, Call saw a horseman coming. It was Deets, which made him feel better. More and more it seemed Deets was the one man in the outfit he could have a comfortable word with from time to time. Gus turned every word into an argument. The other men were easy to talk to, but they didn't know anything. If one stopped to think about it, it was depressing how little most men learned in their lifetimes. Pea Eye was a prime example. Though loyal and able and brave, Pea had never displayed the slightest ability to learn from his experience, though his experience was considerable. Time and again he would walk up on the wrong side of a horse that was known to kick, and then look surprised when he got kicked.

Deets was different. Deets observed, he remembered; rarely would he volunteer advice, but when asked, his advice was always to the point. His sense of weather was almost as good as an Indian's, and he was a superlative tracker.

Call waited, anxious to know where Blue Duck had gone, or whether it had really been him. "What's the news?" he asked.

Deets looked solemn. "I lost him," he said. "He went southeast about ten miles. Then I lost him. He went into a creek and never came out."

"That's odd," Call said. "You think it was Blue Duck?"

"Don't know, Captain," Deets said.

"Do you think he's gone, then?" Call asked.

Deets shook his head. "Don't think so, Captain," he said. "We better watch the horses."

"Dern," Call said. "I thought we might have a peaceful night for once."

"Full moon coming," Deets said. "We can spot him if he bothers us tonight."

They sat together and watched the moon rise. Soon it shed a pale, cool light over the bed-grounds. The Texas bull began to low. He was across the herd, in the shadows, but in the still air his lowing carried far across the little valley, echoing off the limestone bluffs to the west.

"Well, go get some grub," Call said to Deets. "I'm going over to them bluffs. He might have a gang or he might not. You get between our camp and Jake's camp so you can help if he comes for the girl. Be watchful."

He loped over to the bluffs, nearly a mile away, picked his way to the top and spread his bedroll on the bluff's edge. In the clean night, with the huge moon, he could see far across the bedded herd, see the bright wick of the campfire, blocked occasionally when someone led a horse across in front of it.

Behind him the mare kicked restlessly at the earth for a moment as if annoyed, and then began to graze.

Call got his rifle out of the scabbard and cleaned it, though it was in perfect order. Sometimes the mere act of cleaning a gun, an act he had performed thousands of times, would empty his mind of jarring thoughts and memories-but this time it didn't work. Gus had jarred him with mention of Maggie, the bitterest memory of his life. She had died in Lonesome Dove some twelve years before, but the memory had lost none of its salt and sting, for what had happened with her had been unnecessary and was now uncorrectable. He had made mistakes in battle and led men to their deaths, but his mind didn't linger on those mistakes; at least the battles had been necessary, and the men soldiers. He could feel that he had done as well as any man could have, given the raw conditions of the frontier.

But Maggie had not been a fighting man-just a needful young whore, who had for some reason fixed on him as the man who could save her from her own mistakes. Gus had known her first, and Jake, and many other men, whereas he had only visited her out of curiosity to find out what it was that he had heard men talk and scheme about for so long. It turned out not to be much, in his view-a brief, awkward experience, where the pleasure was soon drowned in embarrassment and a feeling of sadness. He ought not to have gone back twice, let alone a third time, yet something drew him back-not so much the need of his own flesh as the helplessness and need of the woman. She had such frightened eyes. He never met her in the saloon but came up the back stairs, usually after dark; she would be standing just inside the door waiting, her face anxious. Some weakness in him brought him back every few nights, for two months on more. He had never said much to her, but she said a lot to him. She had a small, quick voice, almost like a child's. She would talk constantly, as if to cover his embarrassment at what they had met to do. Some nights he would sit for half an hour, for he came to like her talk, though he had long since forgotten what she had said. But when she talked, her face would relax for a while, her eyes lose their fright. She would clasp his hand while she talked-one night she buttoned his shirt. And when he was ready to leave-always a needto leave, to be away, would come over him-she would look at him with fright in her face again, as if she had one more thing to say but couldn't say it.

"What is it?" he asked one night, turning at the top of the stairs. It was as if her need had pulled the question out of him.

"Can't you just say my name?" she asked. "Can't you just say it once?"

The question so took him by surprise that it was the one thing of all those she had said that stayed with him through the years. Why was it important that he say her name?

"Why, yes," he said, puzzled. "Your name's Maggie."

"But you don't never say it," she said. "You don't never call me nothin'. I just wish you'd say it once when you come."

"I don't know what that would amount to," he said honestly.

Maggie sighed. "I'd just feel happy if you did," she said. "I'd just feel so happy."

Something in the way she said it had disturbed him terribly. She looked as if she would cry or nun down the stairs after him. He had seen despair in men and women, but had not expected to see it in Maggie on that occasion. Yet despair was what he saw.

Two nights later he had started to go to her again, but stopped himself. He had taken his gun and walked out of Lonesome Dove to the Comanche crossing and sat the night. He never went to see Maggie again, though once in a while he might see her on the street. She had had the boy, lived four years, and died. According to Gus she had stayed drunk most of her last year. She had gotten thick with Jake for a spell, but then Jake left.

Over all those years, he could still remember how her eyes fixed on him hopefully when he entered, on when he was ready to leave. It was the most painful part of the memory-he had not asked her to care for him that much, yet she had. He had only asked to buy what other men had bought, but she had singled him out in a way he had never understood.

He felt a heavy guilt, though, for he had gone back time after time, and had let the need grow without even thinking about it or recognizing it. And then he left.

"Broke her heart," Gus said, many times.

"What are you talking about?" Call said. "She was a whore."

"Whores got hearts," Augustus said.

The bitter truth was that Gus was right. Maggie hadn't even seemed like a whore. There was nothing hard about her-in fact, it was obvious to everyone that she was far too soft for the life she was living. She had tender expressions-more tender than any he had even seen. He could still remember her movements-those more than her words. She could never quite get her hair to stay fixed, and was always touching it nervously with one hand. "It won't behave," she said, as if her hair were a child.

"You take care of her, if you're so worried," he said to Gus, but Gus shrugged that off. "She ain't in love with me, she's in love with you," he pointed out.

It was the point in all his years with Gus when they came closest to splitting the company, for Gus would not let up. He wanted Call to go back and see Maggie.

"Go back and do what?" Call asked. He felt a little desperate about it. "I ain't a marrying man."

"She ain't proposed, has she?" Gus asked sarcastically.

"Well, go back and do what?" Call asked.

"Sit with her-just sit with her," Gus said. "She likes your company. I don't know why."

Instead, Call sat by the river, night after night. There was a period when he wanted to go back, when it would have been nice to sit with Maggie a few minutes and watch her fiddle with her hair. But he chose the river, and his solitude, thinking that in time the feeling would pass, and best so: he would stop thinking about Maggie, she would stop thinking about him. After all, there were more talkative men than him-Gus and Jake, for two.

But it didn't pass-all that passed were years. Every time he heard of her being drunk, or having some trouble, he would feel uneasy and guilty, as if he were to blame. It didn't help that Gus piled on the criticism, so much so that twice Call was on the point of fighting him. "You like to have everyone needing you, but you're right picky as to who you satisfy," Gus had said in the bitterest of the fights.

"I don't much want nobody needing me," Call said.

"Then why do you keep running around with this bunch of halfoutlaws you call Texas Rangers? There's men in this troop who won't piss unless you point to a spot. But when a little thing like Maggie, who ain't the strongest person in the world, gets a need for you, you head for the river and clean your gun."

"Well, I might need my gun," Call said. But he was aware that Gus always got the better of their arguments.

All his life he had been careful to control experience as best he could, and then something had happened that was forever beyond his control, just because he had wanted to find out about the business with women. For years he had stayed to himself and felt critical of men who were always running to whores. Then he had done it himself and made a mockery of his own rules. Something about the girl, her timidity or just the lonely way she looked, sitting by her window, had drawn him. And somehow, within the little bits of pleasure, a great pain had been concealed, one that had hunt him far more than the three bullets he had taken in battle over the years.

When the boy was born it got worse. For the first two years he was in torment over what to do. Gus claimed Maggie had said the boy was Call's, but how could she know for sure? Maggie hadn't had it in her to refuse a man. It was the only reason she was a whore, Call had decided-she just couldn't turn away any kind of love. He felt it must all count as love, in her thinking-the cowboys and the gamblers. Maybe she just thought it was the best love she could get.

A few times he almost swayed, almost went back to marry her, though it would have meant disgrace. Maybe the boy was his-maybe it was the proper thing to do, although it would mean leaving the Rangers.

A time or two he even stood up to go to her, but his resolve always broke. He just could not go back. The night he heard she was dead he left the town without a word to anyone and node up the river alone for a week. He knew at once that he had forever lost the chance to right himself, that he would never again be able to feel that he was the man he had wanted to be. The man he had wanted to be would never have gone to Maggie in the first place. He felt like a cheat-he was the most respected man on the border, and yet a whore had a claim on him. He had ignored the claim, and the woman died, but somehow the claim remained, like a weight he had to carry forever.

The boy, growing up in the village, first with a Mexican family and then with the Hat Creek outfit, was a living reminder of his failure. With the boy there he could never be free of the memory and the guilt. He would have given almost anything just to erase the memory, not to have it part of his past, or in his mind, but of course he couldn't do that. It was his forever, like the long scar on his back, the result of having let a horse throw him through a glass window.

Occasionally Gus would try to get him to claim the boy, but Call wouldn't. He knew that he probably should, not out of certainty so much as decency, but he couldn't. It meant an admission he couldn't make-an admission that he had failed someone. It had never happened in battle, such failure. Yet it had happened in a little room over a saloon, because of a small woman who couldn't keep her hair fixed. It was strange to him that such a failure could seem so terrible, and yet it did. It was such a torment when he thought of it that he eventually tried to avoid all situations in which women were mentioned-only that way could he keep the matter out of mind for a stretch of time.

But it always came back, for sooner or later men around the camp fires or the wagon or the outfit would begin to talk of whores, and the thought of Maggie would sting his mind as sweat stings a cut. He had only seen her for a few months. The memory should have died, and yet it wouldn't. It had a life different from any other memory. He had seen terrible things in battle and had mostly forgotten them, and yet he couldn't forget the sad look in Maggie's eyes when she mentioned that she wished he'd say her name. It made no sense that such a statement could haunt him for years, but as he got older, instead of seeming less important it became more important. It seemed to undermine all that he was, or that people thought he was. It made all his trying, his work and discipline, seem fraudulent, and caused him to wonder if his life had made sense at all.

What he wanted most was what he could never have: for it not to have happened-any of it. Better by far never to have known the pleasure than to have the pain that followed. Maggie had been a weak woman, and yet her weakness had all but slaughtered his strength. Sometimes just the thought of her made him feel that he shouldn't pretend to lead men anymore.

Sitting on the low bluff, watching the moon climb the dark sky, he felt the old sadness again. He felt, almost, that he didn't belong with the very men he was leading, and that he ought to just leave: ride west, let the herd go, let Montana go, be done with the whole business of leading men. It was peculiar to seem so infallible in their eyes and yet feel so empty and sad when he thought of himself.

Call could faintly hear the Irishman still singing to the cattle. Once more the Texas bull lowed. He wondered if all men felt such disappointment when thinking of themselves. He didn't know. Maybe most men didn't think of themselves. Probably Pea Eye gave no more thought to his life than he did to which side of a horse he approached. Probably, too, Pea Eye had no Maggie-which was only another irony of his leadership. Pea had been faithful to his tenets, whereas he had not.

And yet, Call remembered, that very day he had seen Gus McCrae cry over a woman who had been gone fifteen years and more: Gus, of all men he knew, the most nonchalant.

Finally he felt a little better, as he always did if he stayed alone long enough. The breeze flickered over the little bluff. Occasionally the Hell Bitch pawed the ground. At night he let her graze on the end of a long rope, but this time he carefully wrapped the end of the rope around his waist before lying back against his saddle to sleep. If Blue Duck was really in the vicinity a little extra caution might pay.

47.

AS NEWT RODE through the dusk, he felt so anxious that he began to get a headache. Often that would happen when he felt a lot was expected of him. By the time he had ridden a couple of miles he began to have strong apprehensions. What if he missed Lorena's camp? Mn. Gus had said it was due east, but Newt couldn't be sure he was traveling due east. If he missed the camp there was no doubt in his mind that he would be disgraced. It would make him a permanent laughingstock, and Dish Boggett would probably refuse to have anything more to do with him-it was widely known that Dish was partial to Lorena.

It was a great relief to him when Mouse nickened and Lorena's horse nickered back. At least that disgrace had been avoided. He loped on to the little camp, and at first couldn't see Lorena at all, just the horse and the mule. Then he finally saw her sitting with her back against a tree.

He had spent most of the ride rehearsing things he might say to her, but at the sight of her he completely forgot them all. He slowed Mouse to a walk in hope of thinking up something to say before he had to speak, but for some reason his mind wouldn't work. He also found that he couldn't breathe easily.

Lorena looked up when she saw him coming, but she didn't rise. She sat with her back against the tree and waited for him to explain himself. Newt could see her pale face, but it was too dank to tell anything about her expression.

"It's just me," Newt managed to say. "My name's Newt," he added, realizing that Lorena probably didn't know it.

Lorena didn't speak. Newt remembered having heard men comment on the fact that she didn't talk much. Well, they were right. The only sound from the camp was the sound of crickets. His pride at having been given such an important errand began to fade.

"Mr. Gus said to come," he pointed out.

Lorena was sorry Gus had sent him. The bandit hadn't returned and she didn't feel in danger. She had a feeling Jake would be coming-even angry, he wouldn't want to do without her three nights in a row. She didn't want the boy around. The alone feeling had come back, the feeling that had been with her most of her life. In a way she was glad it had. Being alone was easier and more restful than having to talk to a boy. Anyway, why send a boy? He wouldn't be able to stand up to a bandit.

"You go on back," she said. It tired her to think of having the boy around all night.

Newt's spirits fell. It was just what he had feared she would say. He had been ordered to come and look after her, and he couldn't just blithely disobey an order. But neither did he want to disobey Lorena. He sat where he was, on Mouse, in the grip of terrible indecision. He almost wished something would happen-a sudden attack of Mexicans or something. He might be killed, but at least he wouldn't have to make a choice between disobeying Mr. Gus and disobeying Lorena.

"Mr. Gus said I was to stay," he said nervously.

"Gus can lump it," Lorena said. "You go on back."

"I guess I'll just tell him you said you were all right," Newt said, feeling hopeless.

"How old are you?" Lorena asked suddenly, to his immense surprise.

"I'm seventeen," Newt said. "I knew Jake when I was real little."

"Well, you ride on back," she said. "I don't need looking after."

She said it with more friendliness in her voice, but it didn't make it easier to do. He could see her plainly in the white night. She sat with her knees drawn up.

"Well, goodbye, then," he said. Lorena didn't answer. He turned back toward the herd, feeling a worse failure than ever.

Then it occurred to Newt that he would just have to trick her. He could watch without her knowing it. That way he wouldn't have to go back to camp and admit that Lorena didn't want him in camp with her. If he did that, the cowboys would make jokes about it all the way to Montana, making out that he had tried to do things he hadn't tried to do. He wasn't even sure what you were supposed to try to do. He had a sort of cloudy sense, but that was all.

He trotted what he judged to be about a half a mile from Lorena's camp before stopping and dismounting. His new plan for watching Lorena involved leaving Mouse-if he tried to sneak back on Mouse, Lorena's mare might nicker. He would have to tie Mouse and sneak back on foot, a violation of a major rule of cowboying. You were never supposed to be separated from your horse. The rule probably had to do with Indian fighting, Newt supposed: you would obviously be done for if the Indians caught you on foot.

But it was such a beautiful, peaceful night, the moon new and high, that Newt decided to chance it. Lorena might already be asleep, it was so peaceful. On such a night it would be little risk to tie Mouse for a few hours. He looped his rein over a tree limb and went walking back toward Lorena's. He stopped at a little stand of live oak about a hundred yards from the camp, sat down with his back against a tree and drew his pistol. Just holding it made him feel ready for anything.

Resting with his back against the tree, Newt let himself drift back into the old familiar daydreams in which he got better and better as a cowboy until even the Captain had to recognize that he was a top hand. His prowess was not lost on Lorena, either. He didn't exactly dream that they got married, but she did ask him to get off his horse and talk for a while.

But while they were talking he began to feel that something was wrong. Lorena's face was there and then it wasn't. Somehow the daydream had become a night dream, and the night dream was ending. He woke up very frightened, though at first he didn't know why he was frightened. He just knew that something was wrong. He still sat under the tree, the gun in his hand, only there was a sound that was wrong, a sound like drumming. For a second it confused him-then he realized what it was: the cattle were running. Instantly he was running too, running for Mouse. He wasn't sure how close the cattle were on whether they were running in his direction, but he didn't stop to listen. He knew he had to get to Mouse and then ride back to Lorena, to help her in case the cattle swerved her way. He began to hear men yelling to the west, obviously the boys trying to turn the cattle. Then suddenly a bunch of running cattle appeared night in front of him, fifty on sixty of them. They ran right past him and on toward the bluffs.

Newt ran as hard as he could, not because he was afraid of being trampled but because he had to get Mouse and try to be some help. He kept running until he was covered with sweat and could barely get breath into his lungs. He was hoping none of the cowboys saw him afoot. He held onto the gun as he ran.

Finally he had to slow down. His legs refused to keep up the speed and he trotted the last two hundred yards to where he had tied Mouse. But the horse wasn't there! Newt looked around to be sure he had the right place. He had used a boulder as a landmark, and the boulder was where it should be-but not the horse. Newt knew the stampede might have scared him and caused him to break the rein, but there was no broken rein hanging from the tree where Mouse had been tied.

Before he could stop himself, Newt began to cry. He had lost the Mouse, an unforgivable thing, and all because he thought he had conceived a good plan for watching Lorena. He hated to think what the Captain would say when he had to confess. He ran one way and then the other for a while, thinking there might be two identical boulders-that the horse might still be there. But it wasn't true. The horse was just gone. He sat down under the tree where Mouse should have been, sure that he was ruined as a cowboy unless a miracle happened. He didn't think one would.

The cattle were still running. He could feel the earth shake and hear the drumming of their hooves, though they weren't close. Probably the boys had managed to get them circling.

Newt finally got his breath back and stopped crying, but he didn't get up because there was no reason to. He felt a terrible anger at Mouse for having run off and put him in such a position. If Mouse had suddenly walked up, Newt felt he would cheerfully have shot him.

But Mouse didn't walk up. Newt heard a few shots, quite a ways to the north-just the boys, fining to turn the herd. Then the drumming got fainter and finally stopped. Newt knew the run was over. He sat where he was, wondering why, of all people, he had to be so unlucky. Then he noticed that it was beginning to get light. He must have slept most of the night over by Lorena's camp.

He got up and trudged through the faint light back toward the wagon, and had not walked a quarter of a mile before he heard a loping horse and turned to see Pea clipping along a ridge, right toward him. Though caught afoot, Newt still felt a certain relief. Pea was his friend, and wouldn't judge him as harshly as the others would.

Even in the cool morning Pea's horse was white with sweat, so it had been a hard run.

"Dern, you're alive after all," Pea said. "I figured you was. The Captain's about to have a fit. He decided you got trampled, and he and Gus are having at it because Gus was the one sent you off."

"Why did he think I got trampled?" Newt asked.

"Because your horse was mixed in with the cattle when we finally got 'em turned," Pea said. "They all think you're a dead hero. Maybe I'll get to be a hero when I tell 'em I found you."

Newt climbed upon Pea's weary horse, almost too tired to cane that his reputation had been saved.

"What'd he do, jump over a bush and throw you?" Pea asked. "I was always skittish about them small horses-they can get out from under you too quick."

"He'll play hell doing it again," Newt said, feeling very angry at Mouse. He ordinarily wouldn't have spoken so strongly in the presence of Pea, on any adult, but his feelings were ragged. Somehow Pea's explanation of what had happened made more sense than the truth-so much so that Newt began to half believe it himself. Being thrown was not particularly admirable, but it happened to all cowboys sooner or later, and it was a lot easier to admit to than what had actually occurred.

As they trotted over a ridge, Newt could see the herd about a mile away. It seemed curious that the Captain would get upset at the thought that he had been trampled-if he had let himself get thrown he deserved to be trampled-but he was too sleepy to cane what anybody thought.

"Looky there," Pea said. "I reckon that's the new cook."

Newt had let his eyelids fall. It was not easy to get them up again, even to see the new cook. He was so sleepy things looked blurred when he did open his eyes. Then he saw a donkey with a pack on its back, walking slowly along.

"I didn't know a donkey could cook," he said irritably, annoyed that Pea would josh him when he was so tired.

"No, the cook's over there," Pea said. "He's got a fain lead on the donkey."

Sure enough, a short man was walking through the grass some fifty yards ahead of the donkey. He was traveling slow: it was just that his donkey was traveling slower. The man wore a sombrero with a hole in the top.

"I guess the Captain found us another old bandit," Pea said. "He ain't much taller than a rock."

It was true that the new cook was very short. He was also very stout-looking. He carried a rifle casually over one shoulder, holding it by the barrel. When he heard them riding up he stopped and whistled at the donkey, but the donkey paid no attention.

Newt saw that the new cook was old. His brown face was nothing but wrinkles. When they rode up he stopped and courteously took off his sombrero, and his short hair was white. But his eyes were friendly.

"Howdy," Pea said. "We're with the Hat Creek outfit. Are you the new cook?"

"I am Po Campo," the man said.

"If you was to spur up that donkey you'd get there a lot quicker," Pea said. "We're all practically starved."

Po Campo smiled at Newt.

"If I tried to ride that donkey it would stop and I'd never get there at all," Po said. "Besides, I don't ride animals."

"Why not?" Pea asked, amazed.

"It's not civilized," the old man said. "We're animals too. How would you like it if somebody rode you?"

Such a question was too much for Pea. He didn't consider himself an animal, and in his whole life had never given one minute's thought to the possibility of being ridden.

"You mean you just walk everywhere?" Newt asked. The notion of a man who didn't ride horses was almost too strange to be believed. It was particularly strange that such a man was coming to cook for a crew of cowboys, some of whom hated to dismount even to eat.

Po Campo smiled. "It's a good country to walk in," he said.

"We got to hurry," Pea said, a little alarmed to be having such a conversation.

"Get down and walk with me, young man," Po Campo said. "We might see some interesting things if we keep our eyes open. You can help me gather breakfast."

"You'll likely see the Captain, if you don't speed along a little faster," Pea said. "The Captain don't like to wait on breakfast."

Newt slid off the horse. It was a surprise to Pea and even a little bit of a surprise to himself, but he did it anyway. The wagon was only two or three hundred yards away. It wouldn't take long to walk it, but it would postpone for a few minutes having to explain why he had lost his horse.

"I'll just walk on in with him," he said to Pea.

"By God, if this keeps up I guess we'll all be afoot before long," Pea said. "I'll just lope on over and tell the Captain neither one of you is dead."

He started to leave and then looked down at Po Campo.

"Do you use a lot of pepper in your cooking?" he asked.

"As much as I can find," Po Campo said.

"Well, that's all night, we're used to it," Pea said.

To Newt's surprise, Po Campo put a friendly hand on his shoulder. He almost flinched, for it was rare for anyone to touch him in friendship. If he got touched it was usually in a wrestling match with one of the Raineys.

"I like to walk slow," Po Campo said. "If I walk too fast I might miss something."

"There ain't much to miss around here," Newt said. "Just grass."

"But grass is interesting," the old man said. "It's like my serape, only it's the earth it covers. It covers everything and one day it will cover me."

Though the old man spoke cheerfully, the words made Newt sad. He remembered Sean O'Brien. He wondered if the grass had covered Sean yet. He hoped it had-he had not been able to rid himself of the memory of the muddy grave they had put Sean in, back by the Nueces.

"How many men in this outfit?" Po Campo asked.

Newt tried to count in his head, but his brain was tired and he knew he was missing a few hands.

"There's a bunch of us," he said. "More than ten."

"Have you got molasses?" Po Campo asked.

"There's a barrel in the wagon but we ain't used it yet," Newt said. "Might be saving it for Christmas."

"Maybe I'll fry up some grasshoppers tonight," Po Campo said. "Grasshoppers make good eating if you fry them crisp and dip them in a little molasses."

Newt burst out laughing at the thought of anyone eating a grasshopper. Po Campo was evidently a joker.

"What's your donkey's name?" he asked, feeling a little fresher for having had his laugh.

"I call her Mania after my sister," Po Campo said. "My sister was slow too."

"Do you really cook grasshoppers?" Newt asked.

"When I can get them," Po Campo said. "The old ones taste better than the young ones. It isn't that way with animals, but it is with grasshoppers. The old ones are brittle, like old men. They are easy to get crisp."

"I doubt you'll get anybody to eat one," Newt said, beginning to believe Po Campo was serious. After all the trouble there had been over snakes in the stew, it was hard to imagine what would happen if Po Campo fried up some grasshoppers.

Newt liked the old man and didn't want him to get off on the wrong foot with the crew, which, after all, was a touchy crew.

"Maybe you oughta just cook some beef," he suggested. "That's what we're mostly used to."

Po Campo chuckled again. "Worms make good butter, you know," he said. "Slugs particularly."

Newt didn't know what to say to that. It occurred to him that the Captain might have been a little hasty when he hired the cook. Po Campo was even friendlier than Bol, but still, a man who thought you could dip grasshoppers in molasses and use worms for butter was not likely to become popular with a finicky eater like Jasper Fant, who liked his beef straight.

"Mr. Gus used to make the biscuits, but he had to leave his ovens behind," Newt said. He was hungry, and the memory of how good Mr. Gus's biscuits had tasted when they lived in Lonesome Dove came over him so strongly that for a second he felt faint.

Po Campo looked at Newt quickly and hitched up his pants. "I'll make you something better than biscuits," he said, but he didn't mention what it might be.

"I hope it ain't worms," Newt said.

48.

"YOU THINK that Indian's around here somewhere?" Call asked.

"How would I know?" Augustus said. "He didn't inform me of his business. He just said he'd cut our balls off if we come north of the Canadian."

"I'd like to know why these cattle ran," Call said. "It was a still night and we had 'em bedded down."

"Cattle don't just run in the rain," Augustus said. "They can run on still nights too."

"I don't like it that Deets lost the man's track," Call said. "A man that Deets can't track is a slippery man."

"Hell," Augustus said. "Deets is just rusty. You're rusty too. The two of you have lost your skills. Running a livery stable don't prepare you for tracking Comancheros."

"I suppose you ain't rusty, though," Call said.

"My main skills are talking and cooking biscuits," Augustus said. "And getting drunk on the porch. I've probably slipped a little on the biscuits in the last few days, and I've lost the porch, but I can still talk with the best of them."

"Or the worst," Call said.

They were standing by the wagon, hoping the new cook would come in time to cook breakfast. Pea Eye loped up and unfolded himself in the direction of the ground.

"Your getting off a horse reminds me of an old crane landing in a mud puddle," Augustus said.

Pea ignored the remark-it was necessary to ignore most of those Gus made or else you got bogged down in useless conversation.

"Well, Newt's alive," he said. "He got throwed off, is all."

"Why didn't you bring him?" Call asked, relieved.

"We met the cook and he wanted company," Pea said. "The cook claims he don't ride on animals, so they're walking. There they come now."

Sure enough, they could see the boy and the old man a couple of hundred yards away. They were moving in the general direction of the camp, but not rapidly.

"If the cook's as slow as Newt, they won't be here till next week," Gus said.

"What are they doing?" Call asked. They were certainly doing something. Instead of simply coming to camp they were walking around in circles, as if looking for lost objects.

"The cook's got a donkey, only he don't ride it," Pea Eye remarked. "He says it ain't civilized to ride animals."

"Why, the man's a philosopher," Augustus said.

"That's right-I just hired him to talk to you," Call said. "It would free the rest of us so maybe we could work."

A few minutes later Newt and Po Campo walked up to the wagon, trailed at a good distance by the donkey. It turned out they had been gathering bird's eggs. They were carrying them in the old man's serape, which they had stretched between them, like a hammock.

"Buenos días," Po Campo said to the group at large. "If that donkey ever gets here we'll have breakfast."

"Why can't we have it now?" Augustus asked. "You're here and I see you brought the eggs."

"Yes, but I need my skillet," Po Campo said. "I'm glad I spotted those plovers. It's not every day I find this many plover's eggs."

"It's not every day I eat them," Augustus said. "What'd you say your name was?"

"Po Campo," the old man said. "I like this boy here. He helped me gather these eggs, although he's bunged up from gettin' throwed."

"Well, I'm Augustus McCrae," Augustus said. "You'll have to do the best you can with this rough old crew."

Po Campo whistled at his donkey. "Plover's eggs are better than quail's eggs," he said. "More taste, although quail's eggs aren't bad if you boil them and let them cool."

He went around the camp shaking hands with each man in turn. By the time he had finished meeting the crew the donkey had arrived, and in a remarkably short time Po Campo had unpacked a huge skillet, made himself a little grill with a couple of branding irons laid across two chunks of firewood, and had scrambled up sixty or seventy plover's eggs. He sprinkled in a few spices from his pack and cooked the eggs until they could be cut in slices, like an egg pie. After sampling his own wares and grunting cryptically, he gave each man a slice. Some, like Jasper, were reluctant to sample such exotic fare, but once they had eaten a bite or two their reluctance disappeared.

"Dern, this is the best bird-egg pie I ever tasted," Jasper admitted. "It's better than hen's eggs."

"Don't you even know an omelet when you see one, Jasper?" Augustus said. He was miffed to see the new cook become a hero in five minutes, whereas he had cooked excellent biscuits for years and drawn little praise.

"It's just a plain omelet, made from plover's eggs," he added, for emphasis. "I could have scrambled one up if I'd known you boys had a taste for such things."

"Tonight I intend to fry some grasshoppers," Po Campo remarked. He was watching the two blue pigs-they in their turn were watching him. They had come out from under the wagon in order to eat the eggshells.

"If you're thinking of them pigs, don't bother," Augustus said. "If they want grasshoppers, let them catch their own. They're quick as rabbits."

"No, I am going to fry some for Newt," Po Campo said. "He claims he has never eaten a good fried grasshopper dipped in molasses. It makes a good dessert if you fry them crisp."

The crew burst out laughing at the thought of eating grasshoppers. Po Campo chuckled too. He had already dismantled his little grill and was scouring the frying pan with a handful of weeds.

Call felt relieved. It was easy to see Po Campo had a way with men. Everyone looked happy except Gus, who was in a sulk because he had been outcooked. Gus always liked to be the best at whatever there was to do.

"I liked that bird's-egg pie but I draw the line at eating insects," Jasper said.

"I wish I had some sweet potatoes," Augustus said. "I'd show you girls how to make a pie."

"I hear you cook good biscuits," Po Campo said, smiling at him.

"That's right," Augustus said. "There's an art to biscuit making, and I learned it."

"My wife was good at it too," Po Campo remarked. "I liked her biscuits. She never burned them on the bottom."

"Where's she live, Mexico?" Augustus asked, curious as to where the short old man had come from.

"No, she lives in hell, where I sent her," Po Campo said quietly, startling everyone within hearing. "Her behavior was terrible, but she made good biscuits."

There was a moment of silence, the men trying to decide if they were supposed to believe what they had just heard.

"Well, if that's where she is, I expect we'll all get to eat her biscuits, one of these days," Augustus said. Even he was a little startled. He had known men who had killed their wives, but none so cool about admitting it as Po Campo.

"That's why I hope I go to heaven," Po Campo said. "I don't want nothing more to do with that woman."

"This here ain't Montana," Call said. "Let's start the cattle."

That night, true to his word, Po Campo fried some grasshoppers. Before he got around to it he fed the crew a normal meal of beefsteak and beans and even conjured up a stew whose ingredients were mysterious but which all agreed was excellent. Allen O'Brien thought it was better than excellent-it changed his whole outlook on life, and he pressed Po Campo to tell him what was in it.

"You saw me gathering it," Po Campo said. "You should have watched better."

True to his principles, he had refused to ride the donkey or climb up on the wagon seat beside Lippy. "I better walk," he said. "I might miss something."

"Might miss getting snakebit," Lippy said. Since the incident on the Nueces he had developed such a terror of snakes that he slept in the wagon and even stood on the wagon seat to urinate.

Po Campo had walked all day, a hundred yards or so west of the herd, trailing two sacks he had tucked in his belt. Now and then he would put something in one of them, but nobody saw what unless it was the pigs, who trailed the old man closely. All that could be said was that his stew was wonderfully flavorsome. Deets ate so many helpings that he grew embarrassed about his appetite.

It was Deets who first got up his nerve to sample the fried grasshoppers. Since the new cook had the crew in such a good mood, Call allowed him to use a little of the molasses they were saving for special occasions. Just having someone who could cook decently was a special occasion, though. like the men, he put no stock in eating grasshoppers.

But Po Campo had caught a big sackful, and when his grease was hot he sprinkled them into it five or six at a time. When he judged they were done he used the tip of a big knife to flick them out onto a piece of cheesecloth. Soon he had forty or fifty fried, and no one rushing to eat them.

"Eat them," he said. "They're better than potatoes."

"May be, but they don't look like potatoes," Allen O'Brien said. "They look like bugs."

"Dish, you're a top hand, you ought to take the first helping," Augustus said. "None of us would want to cut you out of your turn."

"You're welcome to my dang turn," Dish said. "I pass on eatin' bugs."

"What's holding you back, Gus?" Needle Nelson asked.

"Wisdom," Augustus said.

Finally Deets walked over and picked up one of the grasshoppers. He was inclined to trust a man who could cook such flavorsome stew. He grinned, but didn't eat it right away.

"Put a little molasses on it," Po Campo urged.

Deets dipped the grasshopper in the little dish of molasses.

"I don't guess it will kill him but I bet it makes him vomit," Lippy said, watching the proceedings from the safety of the wagon seat.

"I wish you'd fry up some of these mosquitoes," Augustus said. "I doubt they'd make good eating, but at least we'd be rid of them."

Then Deets ate the grasshopper. He crunched it, chewed, and then reached for another, grinning his big grin. "Tastes just like candy," he said.

After he had eaten three or four he offered one to Newt, who covered it liberally with molasses. To his surprise, it tasted fine, though mostly what tasted was the molasses. The grasshopper itself just tasted crunchy, like the tailbones of a catfish.

Newt ate another of his own accord and Deets ate four or five more. Then Deets persuaded Pea Eye to try one and Pea ate two or three. To everyone's surprise, Call strolled over and ate a couple; in fact, he had a sweet tooth and couldn't resist the molasses. Dish decided he had to eat one to keep up his reputation, and then the Rainey boys each ate a couple to imitate Newt. Pete Spettle walked over and ate two and then Soupy, Needle and Bert each tried one. The remaining grasshoppers went quick, and before Jasper could make up his mind to try one they were all gone.

"Dern you all for a bunch of greedy pigs," he said, wishing someone had thought to save him at least one.

"Now I've seen everything," Augustus said. "Cowboys eating bugs." His pride had not allowed him to sample them-it would only mean another triumph for Po Campo.

"Did I tell you worms make good butter?" Po Campo said.

"Anybody who tries to butter my biscuit with a worm had better have a long stride," Soupy Jones remarked. "This outfit is getting crazier all the time."

While the crew was standing around discussing the merits of grasshoppers they heard a galloping horse approaching camp.

"I hope it's the mail," Augustus said.

"It's Mr. Jake," Deets said, long before the horse came in sight.

Jake Spoon rode right up to the campfire and jumped off his horse, which was lathered with sweat. He looked around wildly, as if expecting to see someone.

"Ain't Lorie here?" he asked.

"No," Augustus said, feeling sick suddenly. The night's stampede had caused him to forget Lorena completely. He had even forgotten that Jake had been out of pocket. He had drowsed all day, relieved that Newt was safe and supposing that Lorie had been fine or Newt wouldn't have left her.

"Gus, you better not be hiding her," Jake said in a shaky voice. He had whiskey on his breath.

"We're not hiding her," Call said quietly. "She ain't been here."

Newt was about to go on night guard. He was just repairing a cinch that had begun to fray. At the sight of Jake he felt a deep apprehension. All day he had believed that he had gotten away with his stupidity in leaving his horse. Now a new and worse fear struck him. Something had happened to the woman he had been sent to guard.

"Well, by God, she's gone, and I'd like to know where she went," Jake said.

"Maybe she moved camp," Augustus said, not wanting to face what he knew. "Or maybe you missed it-you look like you've had a few."

"I've had a whole bottle," Jake said. "But I ain't drunk, and even if I was I could find my own dern camp. Anyway, the camping stuff is there. It's just Lorie and the two horses that are gone."

Call sighed. "What about tracks?" he asked.

Jake looked disgusted. "I didn't look for no tracks," he said. "I figured she come over here and married Gus. They're such sweethearts they have to have breakfast together every morning. Anyhow, where else would she go? She ain't got a map."

Jake looked tired and shaky; he also looked worried.

"Where in tarnation could she go?" he asked the crowd at large. "I guess I can find her tomorrow. She can't be far off."

Augustus's saddle lay a few feet away. He had been meaning to spread a tarp by it and use the saddle for a pillow. Instead he picked it up, went over and untied his rope. Without another word he headed for the remuda.

"Where's he going?" Jake asked. "I can't figure him out."

The sight of Jake, half drunk and useless, filled Call with disgust. Incompetents invariably made trouble for people other than themselves. Jake had refused to take part in the work, had brought his whore along and then let her get stolen.

"She was there last night," Newt said, very worried. "Mr. Gus sent me to watch. I watched till the cattle got to running."

Augustus came back, leading a big sorrel he called Jerry. The horse had an erratic disposition but was noted for his speed and wind.

"You ought to wait and look at the tracks," Call said. "You don't know what happened. She could have ridden into town. Jake might have missed her."

"No, Blue Duck stole her," Augustus said. "It's my fault for not shooting the son of a bitch while he was drinking. I didn't know who he was at the time, but I should have shot him on suspicion. And then I plumb forgot about it all day. I'm getting too foolish to live."

"Blue Duck was here?" Jake said, looking sick.

"Yep," Augustus said, saddling the sorrel. "I didn't worry much because Deets tracked him way south. But I guess he fooled us both."

"Why, there was talk of him over at Fort Worth," Jake said. "He runs a big gang of murderers. They lay by the trails and murder travelers for whatever they've got on 'em. Why didn't you just bring her to camp, if you knew he was around?"

"I should have, for sure," Augustus said. "But she didn't want to come. She had faith in you for some reason."

"Well, this is aggravating," Jake said. "She wouldn't come to town either. She would have been safe in town. But she wouldn't come."

"What's your plan, Gus?" he asked, when he saw that Augustus was almost ready to leave.

"My plan is to go get Lorie back," Augustus said.

"I hope you catch the man before he gets home," Call said. "Otherwise you'll be up against a gang."

Augustus shrugged. "It's just one gang," he said.

"I'm going with you," Dish Boggett said, surprising everyone.

"I didn't ask for volunteers and I don't want any," Augustus said.

"It's none of your say anyway, you pup!" Jake said hotly.

"I ain't no pup and you're a gambling lowlife who let her get stolen," Dish said coolly. He and Jake faced off, both tense as wires, but Augustus mounted and rode his horse in between them.

"Now, girls," he said, "let's not get to gunfighting. I'm going and you two are staying here."

"It's a free country," Dish said, looking up at Augustus angrily.

"Not for you, it ain't," Augustus said. "You've got to stay here and keep this cow herd pointed for the north star."

"That's right," Call said quickly. Losing Gus was all right-he seldom worked anyway. But Dish was their best hand. He had already turned two stampedes-something no one else in the outfit had the skill to manage.

Dish didn't like it, but, faced with the Captain's orders, there was not much he could do about it. The thought of Lorena in the hands of an outlaw made him feel sick, and his rage at Jake Spoon for exposing her to such danger was terrible. He turned and walked away.

"Are we leaving tonight?" Jake asked. "My horse is rode down."

"You ain't leaving at all, Jake," Augustus said. "At least not with me. I'm likely to have to travel hard, and I won't have time for Conversation."

Jake flared up again. "By God, I'll go if I please," he said. "She's my woman."

Augustus ignored him. "I hate to leave just when you're breaking in a new cook," he said to Call. "I guess by the time I get back you'll all be nibbling on spiders and centipedes."

Deets came over, looking worried. "You best watch close," he said. "He gave me the slip-might give you the slip."

"Oh, you probably had your mind on grasshoppers or something, Deets," Augustus said.

"You got enough shells?" Call asked.

"I don't know, I ain't counted the gang yet," Augustus said. "If I run out I can always throw rocks at them."

With that and a nod he rode off. Call felt a little confused. Though the woman was no responsibility of his, he felt like he should be going too. Here he was, stuck with a bunch of cattle, while Gus was riding off to do the work they ought to have done long ago. It didn't feel right.

Meanwhile, Jake was working himself into a fury over Gus's behavior.

"I should have shot him!" he said. "By God, what does he mean, leaving me? I brought the woman, I guess I've got a right to go fetch her back."

"You should have stuck closer," Call remarked.

"I meant to," Jake said guiltily. "I only meant to stay in Austin one night. But then I got some good hands and thought I'd make it two. She could have come with me but she wouldn't. Loan me a horse, why don't you? I don't want Gus to get too much of a start."

"He said he didn't want you," Call said. "You know him. If he don't want you he won't take you."

"He wouldn't let us alone," Jake said, as if talking to himself. "He was always coming for breakfast."

Then his eyes fell on Newt, who was feeling guilty enough. "You was sent to watch her," Jake said. "I'd say you did a hell of a poor job."

Newt didn't reply. It was true-he had, and it made him feel worse that Jake was the one to say it. He mounted his night horse and rode quickly out of camp. He knew he was going to cry and didn't want any of the boys to see him. Soon he did cry, so much that the tears dripped off his face and wet the cantle of his saddle.

Back in camp, Jake was still stomping around in a fury. "That boy ain't worth his wages," he said. "I should have given him a lick or two."

Call didn't like his tone. "You sit down," he said. "He don't need a lick. He came back to help with the stampede, which is what he was supposed to do. Probably Blue Duck started the cattle running some way and then went and got the woman. It ain't the boy's fault."

Then Jake spotted Po Campo, who was sitting propped against a wagon wheel, his serape wrapped around him.

"Who's this, another bandit?" Jake asked.

"No, just a cook," Po Campo said.

"Well, you look like a bandit to me," Jake said. "Maybe that goddamned Indian sent you to poison us all."

"Jake, you sit down or get out," Call said. "I won't hear this wild talk."

"By God, I'll get out," Jake said. "Loan me a horse."

"No, sir," Call said. "We need all we've got. You can buy one in Austin."

Jake looked like he might collapse from nervousness and anger. All the boys who weren't on night guard watched him silently. The men's disrespect showed in their faces, but Jake was too disturbed to notice.

"By God, you and Gus are fine ones," Jake said. "I never thought to be treated this way." He climbed on his tired horse and rode out of camp mumbling to himself.

"Jake must have got his nerves stretched," Pea Eye said mildly.

"He won't get far on that horse," Deets said.

"He don't need to get far," Call said. "I imagine he'll just sleep off the whiskey and be back in the morning."

"You don't want me to go with Mr. Gus?" Deets asked. It was clear he was worried.

Call considered it. Deets was a fine tracker, not to mention a cool hand. He could be of some help to Gus. But the girl was none of his affair, and they needed Deets's scouting skills. Water might get scarcer and harder to find once they struck the plains.

"We don't want to lose Mr. Gus," Deets said.

"Why, I doubt anything would happen to Gus," Pea Eye said, surprised that anyone would think something might. Gus had always been there, the loudest person around, Pea Eye tried to imagine what might happen to him but came up with nothing-his brain made no picture of Gus in trouble.

Call agreed with him. Augustus had always proved to be a good deal more capable than most outlaws, even famous ones.

"No, you stay with us, Deets," Call said. "Gus likes the notion of whipping out a whole gang of outlaws all by himself."

Deets let be, but he didn't feel easy. The fact that he had lost the track worried him. It meant the Indian was better than him. He might be better than Mr. Gus, too. The Captain always said it was better to have two men, one to look in front and one to look behind. Mr. Gus would not have anyone to look behind.

Deets worried all the next day. Augustus did not come back, and no more was seen of Jake Spoon.

49.

LORENA DIDN'T SEE the man come. She wasn't asleep, or even thinking about sleep. What she was thinking was that it was about time for Jake to show up. Much as he liked card playing, he liked his carrot better. He would be back before long.

Then, without her hearing a step or feeling any danger, Blue Duck was standing in front of her, the rifle still held in his big hand like a toy. She saw his legs and the rifle when she looked up, but a cloud had passed over the moon and she couldn't see his face-not at first.

A cold fear struck her. She knew she had been wrong not to go to the cow camp. She had even sent the boy away. She should have gone, but she had the silly notion that Jake would show up and scare the bandit off if he came back.

"Let's git," Blue Duck said.

He had already caught her horse, without her hearing. Lorena felt so scared she was afraid she couldn't walk. She didn't want to look at the man-she might start running and then he would kill her. He had the worst voice she had ever heard. It was low, like the lowing of that bull she kept hearing at night, but there was death in it too.

She looked down for a moment at the bedding; she had been combing her hair and her little box with her comb in it was there. But the man pushed her toward the horse.

"No, thanks, we'll travel light," he said.

She managed to mount, but her legs were shaking. She felt his hand on her ankle. He took a rawhide string and tied her ankle to her stirrup. Then he went around and tied the other ankle.

"I guess that'll hold you," he said, and caught the packhorse.

Then they were moving, her horses snubbed to his by a short rope. To the west, where the cow camp was, she heard shouts, and the drumming sound of the cattle running. Blue Duck rode right toward the sound. In a minute they were in the running cattle; Lorena was so frightened she kept her eyes closed, but she could feel the heat of the animals' bodies. Then they were through the cattle. She looked, hoping to see Gus or one of the cowboys-anyone who might help her. But she saw no one.

When the sound of the stampede died, Lorena let go all hope. She had been stolen by a man Gus said was bad. The man put the horses into a lope, and it seemed to Lorena they were going to lope forever. Blue Duck didn't look back and didn't speak. At first she was only conscious of how scared she was, though she felt flickers of anger at Jake for letting it happen. She knew it was as much her fault as Jake's, but she soon stopped caring whose fault it was. She knew she was as good as dead, and would never get to see San Francisco, the one thing she had always looked forward to. Soon even that loss and the prospect of death ceased to mean much, she grew so tired. She had never ridden so hard. Before morning, all she could think of was stopping, although for all she knew, when they did stop something bad would happen. But in time it came to seem to be worth it just to stop.

Yet when they did stop, in the faint dawn, it was only for five minutes. They had crossed many creeks during the night. Her legs had been wet several times. In a little creek scarcely five feet wide he decided to let the horses water. He untied Lorena's ankles and nodded for her to get down. She did, and almost fell, her limbs were so weak and numb. It was dark in the little creek bed, but light on the ridge above it. As she stood by her horse, holding onto a stirrup until some feeling came back in her legs, Blue Duck opened his trousers and made water, while the horses drank.

"Get to it, if you plan to," he said, hardly looking at her.

Lorena couldn't. She was too scared. And it didn't occur to her to drink, an omission she would soon regret. Blue Duck drank and then motioned for her to mount again. He quickly retied her ankles. They were moving again as the dawn came. At first the light made her hopeful. Jake or somebody might be riding after them. They might pass a town or a farm-somebody might see that she was being stolen.

But the country they rode through was completely empty. It was a country of rocky hills and ridges and a hot, cloudless sky. A blankness came to her, replacing her foolish hope. Blue Duck never looked back. He seemed to be taking the horses through the roughest country he could find, but he never slackened his pace.

As the day grew hotter, she became thirsty, so thirsty that it was painful to remember that she had stood near a creek and hadn't drunk. She could remember the sound the creek made as it ran over the rocks. At moments it haunted her; most of the time she was too tired to remember anything. It seemed to her the horses would die if they just rode all day. They rode at a steady trot. In time she regretted, too, that she had not relieved herself-she had been too scared. Hours passed and they crossed creek after creek, but the man didn't stop again. He just kept riding. The need to relieve herself became an agony-it was mixed with thirst and fatigue, until she didn't know which was worse. Then she realized that her pants were wet and her thighs stinging-she had gone while she was dozing. Soon her thighs felt scalded from the urine and the constant rubbing of the saddle. The pain was minor compared to her thirst. During the afternoon, with the sun beating down so hot that her shirt was as wet from sweat as if she had swum a river in it, she thought she was going to break down, that she would have to beg the man for water. Her lips were cracked and the sweat off her face ran into the cracks and stung her, but she licked at it. At least it was wet and even a second of wetness on her tongue felt good. She had never been so thirsty in her life, and had not imagined it could be such a pain. The most terrible part was when they crossed water-for creeks were numerous. She would look down at the water as they crossed, and she wanted to beg. She leaned over at one of the deeper creeks, trying to get a little water in her hand, but she couldn't reach it, though it splashed beneath the horse's belly. She cried then, tears mingling with the sweat. Her head throbbed from the beating sunlight, and she began to lose hold on life for minutes at a time. She felt she might cross over. What a joke it would be on the man if, when he got her wherever he was taking her, she was dead. He wouldn't get much from her dead.

But she didn't die-she just got thirstier and thirstier. Her tongue began to bother her. It seemed to fill her mouth, and when she licked at the drops of sweat it felt as large as her hand.

Then, as she was dreaming of water, she opened her eyes to find that they were stopped by a sizable stream. Blue Duck was untying her ankles.

"I'd say you wet your pants," he said.

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.

"Don't drink so fast," he said. "You'll founder."

Then he pushed her head under and held it there. Lorena thought he meant to drown her and tried to grab his legs to pull herself out; but evidently he just wanted to give her a bath, because he soon let go and walked back to the horses. Lorena sat in the water, her clothes soaked, not caring. She drank until she couldn't drink any more. Blue Duck had unsaddled the horses, and they were standing in the river, drinking.

When she waded out of the river, Blue Duck was sitting under a tree, chewing on a piece of dried meat. He fished in his saddlebag and gave her a piece. Lorena didn't feel hungry-but then she remembered she had not felt thirsty that morning, either. She took the piece of jerky.

"We'll rest a spell till it's dark," he said.

She looked at the sun, which was not high. It wouldn't be much of a rest. She nibbled at the meat, which was so hard her teeth could barely dent it. She went and sat in the shade of a small tree growing by the creek.

Blue Duck hobbled the horses, then came and looked down at her. "I got a treatment for women that try to run away," he said casually. "I cut a little hole in their stomachs and pull out a gut and wrap it around a limb. Then I drag them thirty or forty feet and tie them down. That way they can watch the coyotes come and eat their guts."

He went back and lay down under a tree, adjusted his saddlebags for a pillow, and was soon asleep.

Lorena was too tired for his threat to scare her much. She wasn't going to run away and give him a reason to cut a hole in her stomach. She did think she was going to die, though. She felt death had her, in the form of the Comanchero. She wouldn't live to be cut or be gnawed by coyotes. She would die if he touched her, she felt. She was too tired to care much. The one thing that crossed her mind was that she should have gone with Xavier. He was a man of his word, and no worse in most respects than other men. And yet she had been determined to go riding off with Jake, who had not even looked after her three weeks. Jake was probably still in Austin, playing cards. She didn't particularly blame him-playing cards beat most things you could do.

She dozed for what seemed like a minute and woke to find Blue Duck shaking her. It was dusk, the sun just down.

"Let's git," he said. "We don't want to miss the cool of the evening."

Once again they rode all night. Lorena slept in the saddle and would have fallen off if she hadn't been tied in the stirrups. At dawn he let her down again, by another creek, and this time she did as he did-peed and drank. They rode all day again through empty country, never seeing a horseman, a town, even an animal. The only thing she noticed was that there were fewer trees. She grew so tired of riding that she would have been glad to die, if only because it meant being stopped. She wanted sleep more than she had ever wanted anything. The sun blazed all day. When she dozed, sweat stood on her eyelids and wet her face when she awoke.

Blue Duck took so little interest in her that she couldn't understand why he had stolen her. He scarcely looked back all day. He untied her when they stopped, tied her again when they mounted. Once, drinking at a creek that was barely a trickle, the hand she was bracing herself with slipped and she got mud on her nose. The sight seemed to amuse him slightly.

"Monkey John will like that yellow hair," he said. "He'll 'bout have to marry you when he sees that."

Later, as he was tying her back on her horse, he mentioned her hair again.

"It's too bad the tribes played out," he said. "A few years back all I would have had to do was scalp you. I could have got a bunch for a scalp like yours."

He reached up and idly fingered her hair. "I hope that goddamn old Ranger hurries along," he said. "I owe him a few."

"Gus?" she said. "Gus won't come. I ain't his."

"He's coming," Blue Duck said. "I don't know if it's for you or for me, but he's coming. I oughta just gut you and leave you here and let him bury whatever the buzzards and the varmints don't eat."

Lorena didn't look at him, for fear that if she looked he'd do it.

"Only I told the boys I'd bring them a woman," he said. "I doubt they thought I'd find the likes of you. They'll probably give me most of their money and all their hides when they see you."

That day her mare played out. She had been stumbling more and more, as she tired. In the heat of the afternoon she stopped and stood with her head down.

"I guess who ever picked this one was just planning to ride to church," Blue Duck said. He untied Lorena and put her on the packhorse. They rode off and left the mare. The packhorse lasted only a day, and when he stopped, Blue Duck made her get up behind him on the big sorrel. If it bothered the horse to carry two riders, he didn't show it. Lorena held to the saddle strings and tried not to touch Blue Duck, although he paid her no mind.

Riding at his back, she noticed something she had not seen before: a white necklace of some kind. It was a bone necklace, and after looking at it for a time she realized it was made of fingers-human fingers.

That evening, when they stopped to rest, Blue Duck saw her glance at the necklace. He grinned in the way that made her think of death.

"Easiest way to get the rings off," he said. "Just take the fingers. It's no harder than breaking off a little stick if you know how."

That night he tied her hand and foot and rode off. Lorena didn't speak, didn't question him. Maybe he was leaving her for the buzzards, but she felt she would rather die than say something that might anger him. She didn't try to get untied either, for fear he was watching, waiting for her to make some attempt to escape. She slept, and she awoke as he was cutting her bounds. Another horse was standing there.

"It ain't much of a horse, but it's only got to last about a day," he said.

There was no saddle-he had not bothered to take the saddle off the dying packhorse. He passed a cord under the horse's belly and tied her ankles.

She had thought the riding hard even when she had a saddle but quickly realized how easy that had been. She slipped from side to side and had to cling to the horse's mane to stay on. Blue Duck rode as before, seldom looking back. It was night and she was tired, but there was no dozing. Despite her grip on the mane, she almost slid off several times. With her feet tied, if she fell she would just roll under the horse's belly and be kicked to death. The horse was narrow-backed and not very smooth-gaited; she could find no way to sit that didn't jar her, and long before morning she thought if they didn't stop she would be cut in two.

But she wasn't, though her hands were raw from gripping the horsehair so tightly. Minute by minute, for hours, it seemed to her that she couldn't go on-that she might as well give up and slide under the animal's belly. There was no reason to stay alive anyway: Blue Duck had her.

When he untied her at a creek, she stumbled into it to drink, no longer caring if she got wet or muddy. Again he gave her only a piece of hard dried meat. She barely had the strength to get back on the horse; she had to claw her way up using the mane. Blue Duck didn't help her and he tied her ankles anyway, though it was obvious she was too weak to run away. She felt a flash of anger-why did he keep tying her when she could barely walk?

The country had begun to flatten out. The grass was higher than any she had seen. When she looked up and flung the sweat out of her eyes it seemed she could see a farther distance than she had ever seen before. Waves of heat shimmered over the grass-once she looked up and thought she saw a giant tree far ahead, but when she looked again it was gone.

Blue Duck rode on through the high grass, never slowing, seldom looking back. She felt hatred growing, pushing through her fear. If she fell, he probably wouldn't even stop. He only wanted her for his men. He didn't care how much she hurt or how tired she was. He hadn't cared to keep her saddle or even her saddle blanket, though the blanket would have kept the horse's hard back from bruising her so. She felt like she had felt when she had tried to shoot Tinkersley. If she ever got a chance she would kill the man, in revenge for all the painful hours she had spent watching his indifferent back.

Well before sundown they came to a broad riverbed with just a little thin ribbon of brown water visible across an expanse of reddish sand.

"Keep in my tracks," Blue Duck said. "If you don't you're apt to bog."

Just as he was about to put his horse into the sand, he held up. Across the river Lorena saw four riders watching them.

"It's Ermoke and three of his boys," Blue Duck said. "I guess they've been off scalping."

Lorena felt a chill, just looking at the riders. Jake had said most of the Indians still running loose were renegades. He made light of them. He had dealt with renegades before, he said, and could do it again. Except that he was still in Austin, playing cards, and there were the renegades.

She wanted to turn her horse and flee, hopeless as that was, but while she sat in a cold sweat of fear Blue Duck turned and caught her bridle, wrapping her reins around his saddle horn.

They went cautiously across the sand, Blue Duck occasionally backtracking a few yards to find a route he liked better. Lorena kept her eyes down. She didn't want to look at the men waiting on the other side.

Twice, despite all Blue Duck's caution, it seemed they had gone wrong. His horse started to bog, and then hers. But both times, by heavy spurring, Blue Duck got the big sorrel to lunge free, pulling her horse free. Once, in one of the lunges, she was thrown far up on her horse's neck. But finally they found a solid crossing and trotted through the few yards of brown water.

As they rode out of the river the four men waiting whipped up their mounts and raced down to meet them. One of them carried a lance strung with patches of hair. Lorena had never seen a scalp before, but she felt sure the patches were scalps. Most seemed old and dusty, but one, a patch of shiny black hair, was still crusted with blood. All of the men were Indians, heavily armed.

The leader, who carried the lance with the collection of scalps, had a hard face, with a thin wisp of mustache at each corner of his mouth. It was as if the hairs curled out of his mouth. She glanced only once and then kept her eyes away, for they were all looking at her and their looks were bad. She knew she had come to a hard place and had no one to help her. She heard the leader speak to Blue Duck and then felt their horses crowd around her. Several hands reached out to feel and pull her hair. She could smell the men and feel them, but she didn't look up. She didn't want to see them. Their rank, sweaty smell was almost enough to make her sick. One of them, amused by her hair, pulled it till her scalp stung, and he laughed a strange, jerky laugh. They crowded so close around her on their hot horses that for a moment she felt she might faint. She had never been in such a hard place, not even when Mosby's sisters locked her in the basement.

Two of the men dismounted and one of them started to untie her ankles, but Blue Duck whistled.

"Let's go," he said. "I reckon she'll keep till sundown."

Ermoke, the leader, the man with the wisps of hair at the corners of his mouth, retied her ankles so tightly that the rawhide cut her. He took her bridle and led her from then on. The other three men rode behind her.

At the sight, Blue Duck laughed. "I guess they don't want to take no chances on you getting away," he said. "Fresh women is scarce in these parts."

Lorena began to wish there was some way just to die. If there was, she would have done it. But she was tied, and there was no way.

They rode until the sun was gone and the western sky red with afterglow. Then Blue Duck reined in and quickly dropped the saddle off his horse.

"Okay, Ermoke," he said. "Go on and have a taste. We'll stop until the moon rises."

Before he had finished speaking, the men had cut her ankles free and were dragging her off the horse. They didn't even wait to tie their horses. When Lorena would open her eyes for a second she saw the darkening sky through the legs of the waiting horses. The man with the jerky laugh had a bugle and also less lust than the rest. After covering her once, he sat in the grass playing bugle calls. Now and then, watching what was happening, he would laugh the jerky laugh. Lorena had expected death, but it wasn't death she got-just the four men. Ermoke, the leader, wouldn't leave her. The other men began to complain. When she opened her eyes, she looked for the moon. But the moon was late and she only saw the horses, still standing over her. Blue Duck had gone away, and when he returned Ermoke was with her again.

"Let's go," Blue Duck said. "That's enough of a taste."

When Ermoke ignored him, Blue Duck walked over and kicked him in the ribs so hard that Lorena was rolled over with the Indian.

"You better mind," Blue Duck said. Ermoke got up, holding his side.

While they retied her ankles, the laughing bugler blew a few more notes.

50.

IT WAS JULY JOHNSON'S VIEW that all gamblers were lazy, and most of them cocky; Jake Spoon was known to be both. Maybe instead of riding all the way to south Texas he would decide to test his luck in Fort Worth, it being a fair-sized cow town.

July thought it was a possibility worth investigating, for if he could run into Jake there it would save himself and little Joe hundreds of miles. It would also mean he could get back to Elmira quicker. Getting back to Elmira occupied his mind a lot more than catching Jake Spoon. He rode along all day thinking about her, which made him a poor companion for Joe, who didn't seem to miss her at all.

Actually, as much as anything, July wanted to stop in Fort Worth to post her a letter he had written. It seemed to him she might be getting lonesome and would enjoy some mail. Yet the letter he composed, though he had labored over it several nights, was such a poor composition that he debated sending it. He hesitated, for if it struck her wrong she would make fun of it. But he felt a need to write and lamented the fact that he was such a poor hand at it. The letter was very short.

DEAR ELLIE

We have come a good peace and have been lucky with the weather, it has been clear.

No sign of Jake Spoon yet but we did cross the Red River and are in Texas, Joe likes it. His horse has been behaving all right and neither of us has been sick.

I hope that you are well and have not been bothered too much by the skeeters.

Your loving husband,

JULY

He studied over the letter for days and wanted to put in that he missed her or perhaps refer to her as his darling, but he decided it was too risky-Elmira sometimes took offense at such remarks. Also he was bothered by spelling and didn't know if he had done a good job with it. Several of the words didn't look right to him, but he had no way of checking except to ask Joe, and Joe had only had a year or two of schooling so far. He was particularly worried about the word "skeeters," and scratched it in the dirt one night while they were camped, to ask Joe's opinion.

"It looks too long," Joe said, glad to be asked. "I'd take out a letter or two."

July studied the matter for several minutes and finally decided he might spare one of the "e" letters. But when he took it out the word looked too short, so when he recopied the letter, he put it back in.

"I bet she'll be glad to get the letter," Joe said, to cheer July up. July had been nothing but gloomy since they left Fort Smith.

Actually, he didn't think his mother would care one way or another whether she got a letter from July. His mother didn't think much of July-she had told him so in no uncertain terms several times.

Joe himself was happy enough to be gone from Fort Smith, though he missed Roscoe somewhat. Otherwise he took a lively interest in the sights along the way, though for a while the sights consisted mostly of trees. Gradually they began to get into more open country. One day, to his delight, they surprised a small bunch of buffalo, only eight animals. The buffalo ran off, and he and July raced after them for a while to get a better look. After a couple of miles they came to a little river and they stopped to watch the buffalo cross. Even July forgot his gloom for a few minutes at the sight of the big, dusty animals.

"I'm glad there's some left," he said. "I know the hide hunters have about killed them off."

Late that day they rode into Fort Worth. The number of houses amazed Joe, and the wide, dusty streets were filled with wagons and buggies. July decided they ought to go to the post office first, though at the last minute he became so worried about his letter that he almost decided not to mail it. He wanted badly to mail it, and yet he didn't want to.

It seemed to Joe that they rode past about fifty saloons, looking for the post office. Fort Smith only had three saloons and one livery stable, whereas Fort Worth had a big wagon yard and stores galore. They even met a small herd of wild-looking longhorn cattle being driven right through the streets by four equally wild-looking cowboys. The cattle, for all their wild looks, behaved so well that they didn't get to see the cowboys actually rope one, a sight Joe longed to see.

At the post office July debated several more minutes and finally took his letter in, purchased a stamp and mailed it. The postal clerk was an old man wearing eyeglasses. He scrutinized the address on the letter and then looked at July.

"Arkansas, is that where you're from?" he asked.

"Why, yes," July said.

"Johnson your name?" the man asked.

"Why, yes," July said again. "I'm surprised you know."

"Oh, just guessing," the man said. "I think I got a letter for you here somewhere."

July remembered they had told Peach and Charlie they might stop in Fort Worth and try to get wind of Jake and, of course, Elmira. He had only mentioned it-it had never occurred to him that anyone might want to write him. At the thought that the letter might be from Elmira, his heart beat faster. If it was, he intended to ask for his own letter back so he could write her a proper answer.

The old clerk took his time looking for the letter-so much time that July grew nervous. He had not been expecting mail, but now that the prospect had arisen he could hardly wait to know who his letter was from and what it said.

But he was forced to wait, as the old man scratched around in piles of dusty papers and looked in fifteen or twenty pigeonholes. "Dern," the old man said. "I remember you having a letter. I hope some fool ain't thrown it away by mistake."

Three cowboys came in, all with letters they had written to their sisters or sweethearts, and all of them had to stand there waiting while the old man continued his search. July's heart began to sink. Probably the old man had a poor memory, and if there was a letter it was for somebody else.

One of the cowboys, a fiery fellow with a red mustache, finally could not contain his impatience. "Are you looking for your galoshes, or what?" he asked the old man.

The old man ignored him, or else couldn't hear him. He was humming as he looked.

"It ought to be a hanging crime for the post office to work so slow," the impatient fellow said. "I could have carried this letter by hand in less time than this."

Just as he said it, the old man found July's letter under a mail bag. "Some fool set a mailbag on it," he said, handing it to July.

"I guess men grow old and die standing here waiting to buy a dern stamp," the fiery fellow said.

"If you're planning to cuss I'll ask you to do it outside," the clerk said, unperturbed.

"I guess it's a free country," the cowboy said. "Anyway, I ain't cussing."

"I hope you can afford a stamp," the old man said. "We don't give credit around here."

July didn't wait to hear the end of the argument. He could tell by the handwriting on the envelope that the letter was from Peach, not Elmira. The realization knocked his spirits down several pegs. He knew he had no reason to expect a letter from Elmira in the first place, but he was longing to see her, and the thought that she might have written had been comforting.

Joe was sitting on the board sidewalk outside the post office, watching the steady stream of buggies, wagons and horseback riders go by.

July had looked perked up when he went in, but not when he came out. "It's from Peach," he said. He opened the letter and leaned against a hitch rail to try and make out Peach's handwriting, which was rather hen-scratchy:

DEAR JULY-

Ellie took off just after you did. My opinion is she won't be back, and Charlie thinks the same.

Roscoe's a poor deputy, you ought to dock his wages over this. He didn't even notice she was gone but I called it to his attention.

Roscoe has started after you, to give you the news, but it is not likely he'll find you-he is a man of weak abilities. I think the town is a sight better off without him.

We think Ellie left on a whiskey boat, I guess she took leave of her senses. If that's the case it would be a waste of time to go looking for her, Charlie thinks the same. You had better just go on and catch Jake Spoon, he deserves to pay the price.

Your sister-in-law,

MARY JOHNSON

July had forgotten that Peach had a normal name like Mary before his brother gave her the nickname. Ben had found Peach in Little Rock and had even lived there two months in order to court her.

"What'd it say?" Little Joe asked.

July didn't want to think about what it said. It was pleasanter to try and keep his mind off the facts-the main fact being the one his mind was most reluctant to approach. Ellie had left. She didn't want to be married to him. Then why had she married him? He couldn't understand that, or why she had left.

He looked at Joe, angry with the boy for a moment though he knew it was wrong to be. If Joe had stayed in Fort Smith, Ellie couldn't have left so easily. Then he remembered that it was Ellie who had insisted that the boy come along. None of it was Joe's fault.

"It's bad news," July said.

"Did Ma leave?" Joe asked.

July nodded, surprised. If the boy could figure it out so easily, it must mean that he was the fool for having missed something so obvious that even a boy could see it.

"How could you guess?" he asked.

"She don't like to stay in one place too long," Joe said. "That's her way."

July sighed and looked at the letter again. He decided he didn't believe the part about the whiskey boat. Even if Ellie had taken leave of her senses she wouldn't travel on a whiskey boat. He had left her money. She could have taken a stage.

"What are we gonna do now?" Joe asked.

July shook his head. "I ain't got it thought through," he said. "Roscoe's coming."

Joe's face brightened. "Roscoe?" he said. "Why'd he want to come?"

"Don't imagine he wanted to," July said. "I imagine Peach made him."

"When'll he show up?" Joe asked.

"No telling," July said. "No telling when, and no telling where, either. He don't have no sense of direction. He could be going east, for all we know."

That possibility alone made his quandary more difficult. His wife had left for parts unknown, his deputy was wandering in other parts unknown, and the man he was supposed to catch was in yet other parts unknown.

In fact, July felt he had reached a point in his life where virtually nothing was known. He and Joe were on a street in Fort Worth, and that was basically the sum of his knowledge.

"I guess we better go find your mother," he said, though even as he said it he knew it meant letting Jake Spoon get away. It also meant letting Roscoe Brown stay lost, wherever he was lost.

"Ellie might be in trouble," he said, talking mainly to himself.

"Maybe Roscoe's found out where she is," Joe suggested.

"I doubt it," July said. "I doubt Roscoe even knows where he is."

"Ma probably just went to look for Dee," Joe said.

"Who?" July asked, startled.

"Dee," Joe said. "Dee Boot."

"But he's dead," July said, looking very disturbed. "Ellie told me he died of smallpox."

From the look on July's face, Joe knew he had made a mistake in mentioning Dee. Of course, it was his mother's fault. She had never told him that Dee had died-if he had. Joe didn't believe he was dead either. It was probably just something his mother had told July for reasons of her own.

"Ain't he your pa?" July asked.

"Yep," Joe said proudly.

"She said he died of smallpox," July said. "She said it happened in Dodge."

Joe didn't know how to correct his blunder. July looked as if the news had made him sick.

"I don't think she'd lie to me," July said out loud, but again talking to himself. He didn't mean it and couldn't think why he had said it. Probably she had lied to him right along, about wanting to be married and everything. Probably Dee Boot was alive, in which case Elmira must be married to two men. It seemed hard to believe, since she didn't seem to enjoy being married much.

"Let's go," July said. "I can't think in all this bustle."

"Ain't you gonna look for Jake in the saloons?" Joe asked. After all, that was what they had come to Fort Worth to do.

But July mounted and rode off so fast that Joe was afraid for a second he would lose him amid the wagons. He had to jump on his horse and lope, just to catch up.

They rode east, back in the direction they had come from. Joe didn't ask any questions, nor did July give him the chance. It was almost evening when they started, and they rode until two hours after dark before they camped.

"We better find Roscoe," July said that night, when they were Camped. "He might know more than Peach thinks he does."

Suddenly he had a terrible longing to see Roscoe, a man who had irritated him daily for years. Roscoe might know something about Ellie-she might have explained herself to him, and Roscoe might have had his reasons for concealing the information from Peach. It was quite possible he knew exactly where Ellie was, and why she left.

By the time he lay down to sleep he was more than half convinced that Roscoe knew the truth and would put his mind at ease. Even so, as it was, his mind was far from at ease. He was tense with anger at Peach for being so open with her opinions, particularly the one about Ellie being gone for good.

Joe was sleeping with his mouth open, snoring softly. July wondered that he could sleep so soundly with his mother missing.

The stars were out and July lay awake all night, looking at them and wondering what to do. It occurred to him that Ellie was probably camped under the same stars, the same sky. He began to have strange thoughts. The stars looked so close together. As a boy he had enjoyed good balance and could cross creeks by stepping on stones and rocks. If only he could be in the sky and use the stars like stepping-stones. In no time he could find Ellie. If she went toward Kansas, then she was only a few stars to the north, and yet, on the earth, it would take him days to get to her.

The plains were still and silent, so silent that July felt that if he spoke Ellie ought to be able to hear him. If she was watching the stars, as he was, why wouldn't she know that he was thinking of her?

The longer he lay awake, the stranger he felt. He felt he was probably going crazy from all the strain. Of course the stars couldn't help. They were stars, not mirrors. They couldn't show Ellie what he was feeling. He dozed for a little while and had a dream that she had come back. They were sitting in the loft of their little cabin and she was smiling at him.

When he awoke and realized the dream wasn't true, he felt so disappointed that he cried. It had seemed so real, and Ellie had even touched him, smiling. He tried to go back to sleep so the dream would return, but he couldn't. The rest of the night he lay awake, remembering the sweetness of the dream.

51.

IN THE MORNING, when July was making coffee, they began to hear the sounds of cattle. They were camped near a little creek and the flats were misty, so he couldn't see much, but over the mists he could hear cattle bawling and cowboys hollering at them. Probably a herd had been bedded nearby and the boys were trying to get them moving.

Joe was yawning and trying to get awake. The hardest part of traveling was trying to start early. Just when he was sleeping best, July would get up and start saddling his horse.

By the time the sun was beginning to thin out the mists, they had had their coffee and a bite of bacon and were horseback. The herd was in sight, spread out over the plain for three or four miles, thousands of cattle in it. Neither July nor Joe had ever seen a herd so large, and they paused for a moment to look at it. The morning plains were still dewy.

"How many is it?" Joe asked. He had never dreamed there could be so many cattle in one place.

"I don't know. Thousands," July said. "I've heard south Texas is nothing but cattle."

Though the herd was in progress, the camp crew wasn't. The cook was packing his pots and skillets into a wagon.

"I guess we ought to ask them if they've seen Roscoe," July said. "He could be south of us. Or they might have news of Jake."

They loped over to the wagon just as the wrangler turned loose the horse herd. The horses, fifty or sixty of them, were jumping and frisking, kicking up their heels and nickering at one another, glad to be moving. July and Joe waited until the wrangler had them headed north before trotting on toward the wagon. The cook wore an old black hat, and had a long, dirty beard.

"You're too late, boys," he said. "The hands just et me out of breakfast."

"Well, we've et," July said, noticing for the first time a man sitting on a tarp by the ashes of the campfire. The unusual thing about the man was that he was reading a book. His horse, a fine-looking black, was saddled and grazing a few yards away.

"Where would I find the boss?" July asked, addressing himself to the old cook.

"I'm the boss, that's why I've got time to read," the reading man said. "My name's Wilbarger." He wore iron-rimmed spectacles.

"I like to snatch a minute for Mr. Milton, and the morning's my only hope," Wilbarger added. "At night I'm apt to be in a stampede, and you can't read Mr. Milton during a stampede-not and take his sense. My days are mostly taken up with lunkheads and weather and sick horses, but I sometimes get a moment of peace after breakfast."

The man looked at them sternly through his glasses. Joe, who had hated what little schooling he'd had, was at a loss to know why a grown man would sit around and read on a pretty day.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," July said.

"Are you a lawman?" Wilbarger asked in his impatient way.

"I am," July said.

"Then you're going to have to listen to some complaints about the law in this state," Wilbarger said. "I've never seen a place with less law. The farther south you go, the worse the horsethieves get. Along that border they're thicker than ticks."

"Well, I ain't from Texas, I'm from Arkansas," July said.

"It's a weak excuse," Wilbarger said, marking his place with a grass blade and standing up. "I didn't notice much law in Arkansas either. There's law of sorts in New Orleans, but out here it's every man for himself."

"Well, there's Texas Rangers but I guess they mostly fight the Indians," July said, wondering where the conversation would end.

"Yes, I met a couple," Wilbarger said. "They were excellent horsethieves themselves. They stole my remuda back from some sly Mexicans. Are you looking for a killer or what?"

"Yes, a man named Jake Spoon," July said. "He killed a dentist in Fort Smith."

Wilbarger tucked his book carefully into his bedroll and tossed the bedroll in the back of the wagon.

"You've overshot Mr. Spoon," he said. "He was recently seen in the town of Lonesome Dove, where he won twenty dollars from a hand of mine. However, he's headed this way. He partnered up with the gentlemen who got my horses back. If I were you I'd camp here and put this boy in school. They'll be along in two or three weeks."

"I thank you for the information," July said. "I don't suppose you've run across a man named Roscoe Brown along the trail."

"Nope, who'd he kill?" Wilbarger asked.

"Nobody," July said. "He's my deputy. It may be that he's lost."

"The name Roscoe don't inspire confidence," Wilbarger said. "People named Roscoe ought to stick to clerking. However, it's summertime. At least your man won't freeze to death. Any more people you're looking for?"

"No, just them two," July said, refraining from mentioning Elmira.

Wilbarger mounted. "I hope you hang Spoon promptly," he said. "I expect he's a card cheat, and card cheats undermine society faster than anything. If you find your deputy, see if you can't steer him into clerking."

With that he trotted over to the cook. "Are you coming with us, Bob?" he asked.

"No," the cook said. "I'm planning to marry and settle down here in north Texas."

"I hope you marry somebody who can cook," Wilbarger said. "If you do, let me know. When she gets ready to leave you, I'll hire her."

He looked around at Joe. "Need a job, son?" he asked. "We need a boy that don't ask questions and is handy with an ax. I don't know about your chopping skills, but you ain't asked a question yet."

Wilbarger seemed serious, and July was tempted to let Joe do it. Going north with a herd would be good experience for him. The main advantage, though, was that he himself could then travel alone, with just his thoughts. Without Joe to look after, he could better accomplish the main task ahead, which was to find Elmira.

Joe was startled. He had never expected to he offered a job with a cow outfit, and hearing the words was a thrill. But of course he couldn't take it-he had been assigned to July.

"Much obliged," he said. "I reckon I can't."

"Well, the job's open," Wilbarger said. "We may meet again. I've got to lope up to the Red River to see if I think the water's fresh enough for my stock."

"What'll you do if it ain't?" Joe asked. He had never known anyone who just said one unusual thing after another, as Wilbarger did. How could the water in a river not be fresh enough for cows?

"Well, I could piss in it to show it what I thought of it," Wilbarger said.

"Could you use any company?" July asked. "We're going up that way."

"Oh, I can always use good conversation, when I can get it," Wilbarger said. "I was brought up to expect good conversation, but then I run off to the wilderness and it's been spotty ever since. Why are you going north when the man you want is to the south?"

"I've got other business as well," July said. He didn't want to describe it though. He hadn't meant to ask Wilbarger if they could ride along. He wouldn't ordinarily have done it, but then his life was no longer ordinary. His wife was lost, and his deputy also. He felt more confused than he ever had in his life, whereas Wilbarger was a man who seemed far less confused than most. He seemed to know his mind immediately, whatever the question put to him.

Wilbarger started at once and loped several miles without speaking. Joe loped with him. The country was open, lightly spotted with elm and post oak. They came to a fair-sized stream and Wilbarger stopped to water his horse.

"Have you been to Colorado?" July asked.

"Yes, once," Wilbarger said. "Denver's no worse than most towns out here. I intend to avoid that country, though. The Indians in those parts ain't entirely reformed, and the outlaws are meaner than the Indians, with less excuse."

It was not comforting talk when one's wife was said to be on a whiskey boat going up the Arkansas.

"Planning a trip to Colorado?" Wilbarger asked.

"I don't know," July said. "Maybe."

"Well, if you go up on the plains and get scalped, there'll be that much less law in Arkansas," Wilbarger said. "But then there might not be that much crime in Arkansas now. I guess most of the crime's moved to Texas."

July wasn't listening. He was trying to convince himself that Peach was wrong-that Elmira had just gone wandering for a few days. When Wilbarger started to move on, July did not.

"Thanks for the company," he said. "I think we better go look for my deputy."

"There's a perfectly straight trail from Fort Smith into Texas," Wilbarger said. "Captain Marcy laid it out. If that deputy can't even stay in a road, I expect you ought to fire him."

Then he loped away without saying goodbye. Joe wished they were going with him. In only a few hours the man had paid him several compliments and had offered to hire him. He found himself feeling resentful both of July and Roscoe. July didn't seem to know what he wanted to do, and as for Roscoe, if he couldn't stay in a road, then he deserved to be lost. He wished he had spoken up and grabbed the job when Wilbarger offered it.

But the moment had been missed-Wilbarger was already out of sight, and they were still sitting there. July looked depressed, as he had ever since they had left Fort Smith. Finally, without a word, he turned east, back toward Arkansas. Joe wished he was old enough to point out to July that nothing he was doing made any sense. But he knew July probably wouldn't even hear him in the state he was in. Joe felt annoyed, but he kept quiet and followed along.

52.

THE AMAZING THING about Janey, in Roscoe's view, was that she knew her way. Almost as amazing was that she liked to walk. The first day or two it felt a little wrong that he was riding and she was walking, but she was just a slip of a girl, and he was a grown man and a deputy besides. He pointed out to her that she was welcome to ride-she weighed practically nothing, and anyway they weren't traveling fast enough to tire a horse.

But Janey didn't want to ride. "I'll walk and all you have to do is keep up," she said. Of course it was no trouble for a man on horseback to keep up with a girl on foot, and Roscoe began to relax and even to enjoy the trip a little. It was pretty weather. All he had to do was trot along and think. What he mostly thought about was how surprised July would be when they showed up and told him the news.

Not only could Janey keep them on the trail but she was also extremely useful when it came to rounding up grub. Once they got settled in a camp at night she would disappear and come back five minutes later with a rabbit or a possum or a couple of squirrels. She could even catch birds. Once she came back with a fat brownish bird of a sort Roscoe had never seen.

"Now what bird is that?" he asked.

"Prairie chicken," Janey said. "There was two but one got away."

They ate the prairie chicken and it was as good as any regular chicken Roscoe had ever had. Janey cracked open the bones with her teeth and sucked out the marrow.

The only problem with her at all, from Roscoe's point of view, was that she was tormented by bad dreams and whimpered at night. Roscoe loaned her a blanket, thinking she might be cold, but that wasn't it. Even wrapped in a blanket she still whimpered, and because of that didn't sleep much. He would awake in the grayness just before dawn and see Janey sitting up, stirring the little campfire and scratching her ankles. She was barefoot, of course, and her ankles and shins were scratched by the rough grass she went through each day.

"Did you never have any shoes?" he asked once.

"Never did," Janey said, as if it didn't matter.

The only times she would consent to crawl up on the horse was when they had a sizable creek to cross. She didn't like wading in deep water.

"'Fraid of them snappers," she said. "If one of them was to bite me I'd die."

"They're mighty slow," Roscoe said. "It's easy to outrun 'em."

"I dream about them," Janey said, not reassured. "They just keep coming, and I can't run."

Except for snapping turtles and sleep, she seemed to fear nothing. Many times coiled rattlers would sing at them as they traveled, and Janey would never give the snakes a glance. Old Memphis was more nervous about snakes than she was, and Roscoe more nervous than either one of them. He had once heard of a man being bitten by a rattlesnake that had gotten up in a tree. According to the story, the snake had dropped right off a limb and onto the man and had bitten him in the neck. Roscoe imagined how unpleasant it could be to have a snake drop on one's neck-he took care to ride under as few limbs as possible and was glad to see the trees thinning out as they rode west.

It seemed they were on a fairly good trail, for every day they encountered three or four travelers, sometimes more. Once they caught up with a family plodding along in a wagon. It was such a large family that it looked like a small town on the move, particularly if you wanted to count the livestock. The old man of the family, who was driving the team, didn't seem talkative, but his wife was.

"We're from Missouri," she said. "We're going west and I guess we'll stop when we feel like it. We've got fourteen young 'uns and are hoping to establish a farm."

Eight or nine of the young ones were riding in the wagon. They stared at Roscoe and Janey, as silent as owls.

Several times they met soldiers going east toward Fort Smith. The soldiers were a taciturn lot and passed without much talk. Roscoe attempted to inquire about July, but the soldiers made it clear that they had better things to do than keep a lookout for Arkansas sheriffs.

Janey was shy of people. She had keen eyesight and would usually see other travelers before Roscoe did. Often when she saw one she disappeared, darting off the trail and hiding in weeds and tall grass until the stranger passed.

"What are you hiding for?" Roscoe asked. "Them soldiers ain't after you."

"Bill might be with them," Janey said.

"Bill who?"

"Bill," she repeated. "He gave me to old Sam. I ain't going with Bill again."

She continued to hide at the approach of strangers, and once in a while Roscoe had to admit that it was well she did. There were some rough customers traveling the trail. One day they met two dirty-looking men with greasy beards and six or seven guns between them. Roscoe had an anxious moment, for the men stopped him and asked to borrow tobacco. The fact that he was traveling without any didn't sit well with them, and they looked as if they might contest the issue.

"I reckon you're lying," one said. He was a small fellow but had mean little eyes and was generally more frightening than his companion, a man the size of an ox, who seemed to take no interest in the conversation.

"Why would a man travel without nothing to smoke?" the little one asked.

"It never agreed with me," Roscoe explained. "I had to give it up."

"If you was more dried up I guess we could smoke you," the little one said, with mean intent.

But the men rode on, and Roscoe soon forgot about them and began to feel drowsy. The day was muggy, and occasionally he would see lightning flicker in the west.

After a while it struck him that something was missing, and he figured out that it was Janey. Usually, once the travelers were out of sight, she reappeared. Memphis had come to trust her and would follow her like a pet goat.

Only this time she wasn't there to follow. Roscoe looked all around and there wasn't a soul in sight, though the plain stretched out and he could see for miles. He was alone, and by no means sure of his direction. It scared him. He had come to depend on the girl, even though she was a loud sleeper. He yelled a time or two, but got no response. The fact that he could see so far scared him a little. He had been raised in a land of trees and was not used to country that looked so long and empty. How he could have lost Janey in such an open place was a mystery to him. He sat still for a while, hoping she would pop up, but she didn't, and finally he rode on at a slow walk.

An hour passed, and then another, and Roscoe was forced to consider the possibility that he might have lost the girl. One of the snakes she took so little notice of could have bitten her. She could be dying somewhere back along the trail.

If she wasn't going to reappear it was his duty to go back and find her, and, as sunset was not far off, and it looked like thunderstorms were on the way, he had better hurry.

He turned and started back at a trot, but had not gone twenty paces before Janey popped up from behind a bush and jumped right up on Memphis.

"They're followin'," she said. "I been watching. I guess they want to kill you."

"Well, they won't find no tobacco, even if they do," Roscoe said.

Still, the little one had had a bad pair of eyes, and he could easily believe they meant to harm him. He wheeled the horse around and started to put him into a run, but Janey jerked on the reins.

"They're in front of us," she said. "They got around you while you was poking along."

Roscoe had never felt so at a loss. There was not so much as a tree in sight, and it was a long way back to Fort Smith. He didn't see how the men could expect to ambush him in the open plain.

"Dern," he said, feeling hopeless. "I can't figure which way to run."

Janey pointed north. "Up that way," she said. "There's a gully."

Roscoe couldn't see what good a gully would do but he took her advice, and they set off north at a dead run. Memphis was shocked to be spurred into a run, but once he got started he ran with a will.

Once again, Janey was right. They had only been running half a mile when they struck a big gully. Roscoe stopped and looked around. Not a soul was in sight, which made him feel silly. What were they to do next?

"Can you shoot?" Janey asked, jumping down.

"Well, I have shot," Roscoe said. "There ain't been nobody much to shoot at in Fort Smith. Sometimes July and I shoot at pumpkins, or bottles and things. July's a good shot, but I'm just fair. I expect I could hit that big fellow but I don't know about the little one."

"Gimme the pistol, I'll shoot 'em for you," Janey said.

"What'd you ever shoot?" he asked, surprised.

"Give it to me," Janey said, and when he slowly handed it over, she hopped off the horse, climbed out of the gully and disappeared.

Five minutes later, before he could even untie his tarp, it began to rain. Lightning started hitting the ground, and it rained torrents. Roscoe got totally soaked. In ten minutes there was a little river running down the middle of the gully, though the gully had been bone dry when they rode up. The thunder crashed and it grew dark.

Roscoe felt that he had never hated travel so much, not even when the pigs chased him. He was alone and likely either to be drowned or shot before the night was over, or even well begun.

He remembered how snug and secure the jail was, back in Fort Smith, how nice it was to come in slightly drunk and have a comfortable couch to lie on. It was a life he fervently wished he had never left.

The rain increased until it seemed to Roscoe it was raining as hard as it could possibly rain. He didn't try to seek shelter, for there was none. It was uncomfortable to be so soaked, but since the water was probably all that was keeping him from being murdered by the little man with the mean eyes, it was silly to complain. Roscoe just sat, hoping that the little creek that filled the gully wouldn't rise enough to drown him.

The storm turned out to be just a heavy shower. In ten minutes the rain lightened, and soon it was barely sprinkling. The sun had set, but to the west there was a clear band of sky under the clouds, and the clouds were thinning. The band of sky became red with afterglow. Above it, as the clouds thinned, there was a band of white, and then a deep blue, with the evening star in it. Roscoe dismounted and stood there dripping, aware that he ought to be planning some form of defense but unable to think of any. It seemed to him the storm might have discouraged the two men-maybe one of them had even been struck by lightning.

Before he could draw much comfort from that line of speculation he heard his own gun go off. A second or two later it went off again, and then again. The sound came from just north of the gully. As he could not be any wetter, and could not stand the suspense of not knowing what was going on, he waded the little creek and climbed the bank, only to look and see the barrels of a shotgun not a yard from his face. The ox of a man held the shotgun; in his big hands it looked tiny, though the barrels in Roscoe's face seemed as big as cannons.

"Clamber on up here, traveler," the big man said.

July had told him never to argue with a loaded gun, and Roscoe had no intention of disobeying his instructions. He climbed up the muddy bank and saw that Janey was involved in a tussle with the little outlaw. He had her down and was astraddle of her and was trying to tie her, but Janey was wiggling desperately. She was covered with mud, and in the wet, slick grass was proving hard to subdue. The man cuffed her twice, but the blows had no effect that Roscoe could see.

The big man with the shotgun seemed to find the tussle amusing. He walked over for a closer look, though he continued to keep the shotgun pointed at Roscoe.

"Why don't you just shoot her?" he asked the little man. "She was willing to shoot you."

The little man didn't answer. He was breathing hard but he continued to try and tie Janey's wrists.

Roscoe had to admire Janey's spunk. The situation looked hopeless, but she kept struggling, twisting around and scratching at the man when she could. Finally the big man stepped in and planted a muddy boot on one of her arms, enabling his companion to tie her wrists. The little man cuffed her again for good measure, and sat back to get his breath. He looked around at Roscoe, his eyes as bad as ever.

"Where'd you get this feisty rabbit?" he asked. "She dern near shot me and she nicked Hutto."

"We're from Arkansas," Roscoe said. He felt foolish for having given Janey the pistol. After all, he was the deputy. On the other hand, if they had seen him shoot, the men might have shot back.

"Let's just shoot them and take the horse," Hutto, the big man said. "We could have done it this afternoon and saved all this time."

"Yeah, and the dern soldiers would have found them," the other said. "You can't just leave bodies lying right in the road no more. Somebody's apt to take an interest."

"Jim, you're too nervous," Hutto said. "Anyway, this ain't a road, and we ain't far from the Territory. Let's shoot 'em and take what they got."

"What have they got, by God?" Jim asked. "Go bring the horse."

Hutton brought Memphis and the two amused themselves for a few minutes by going through the bedroll and the saddlebags. One kept Roscoe covered with the shotgun while the other emptied the contents of the saddlebags carelessly on the wet grass. What they saw was very disappointing to them.

"All right, Jim, I told you they looked like a waste of time," Hutto said.

"Well, there's a horse, at least," Jim said. Then he gave Roscoe a mean look.

"Strip off them duds," he said.

"What?" Roscoe asked.

"Strip off them duds," the man repeated. He picked up Roscoe's pistol, which had fallen in the grass, and pointed it at him.

"Why must I?" Roscoe asked.

"Well, your underwear might fit me," Jim suggested. "You ain't got much else to offer."

Roscoe was forced to take off every bit of clothing. He felt miserable taking off his boots, for he knew that wet as they were he'd be lucky to get them back on. But then, if he was dead it wouldn't matter. When he got down to his long johns he became embarrassed, for after all Janey was sitting there watching. She was wet and muddy, and hadn't said a word.

The man seemed to think he might have money sewed in his long johns, and insisted he take them off. Hutto poked him with the barrels of the shotgun, something he couldn't ignore. He took them off and stood there naked, hoping Janey wouldn't look.

Of course the men found the thirty dollars he was carrying in his old wallet-it represented a month's wages, and was all he had to finish the trip with. But they had found that before they made him strip. They seemed reluctant to believe it was all the money he had, and casually proceeded to pick his clothes apart with their knives.

"The thirty dollars is all I got," he said several times.

"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.

Roscoe was appalled, for the clothes that were being destroyed were the only ones he owned. Then he remembered that he was going to be killed anyway and felt a little better. It was very embarrassing to him to have to stand there naked.

The men weren't watching Janey-they were too intent on trying to find money in his saddlebags. While they were all ignoring her she had been quietly scooting backwards on the slick grass. Jim had his back to her and Hutto was winding Roscoe's old pocket watch. Roscoe happened to look and saw that Janey was quietly creeping away; they had tied her hands but had neglected her feet. Suddenly she began to run. It was deep dusk and in a second she had got into the tall grass north of the gully. She made no sound, but Hutto must have sensed something, for he whirled and let go a blast with the shotgun. Roscoe flinched. Hutto fired the other barrel, and Jim turned and shot three times with Roscoe's own pistol, which he had stuck in his belt.

Roscoe peered into the dusk, but there was no sign of Janey. The bandits looked too, with no better luck.

"Reckon we hit her?" Jim asked.

"Nope," Hutto said. "She got in that tall grass."

"Well, she could be hit," Jim said.

"I could be General Lee, only I ain't," Hutto remarked, looking disgusted. "Why didn't you tie her feet?"

"Why didn't you?" Jim retorted.

"I wasn't sitting on her," Hutto said.

"You watch this one and I'll go catch her," Jim said. "I bet once I do she won't get away for a while."

"Why, Jim, you can't catch her," Hutto said. "In this dark? Remember how she ambushed us? If she was a better shot we'd both be corpses, and if she's got a rifle hid out there somewhere we may be corpses yet."

"I ain't scared of her," Jim said. "Dern her, I should have cracked her with a gun barrel a time or two."

"You should have shot her," Hutto said. "I know you expected to amuse yourself, but look how it turned out. The girl got away and the deputy only had thirty dollars and some dirty underwear."

"She can't be far," Jim said. "Let's camp and look for her in the morning."

"Well, you can, but I'm going," Hutto said. "A girl that size ain't worth tracking."

Just as he said it, a good-sized rock came flying through the air and hit him right in the mouth. He was so surprised he slipped and sat down. The rock had smashed his lips; blood poured down his chin. A second later another hit Jim in the ribs. Jim drew a pistol and fired several times in the direction the rocks came from.

"Oh, stop wasting shells," Hutto said. He spat out a mouthful of blood.

Two more rocks came flying in, both aimed at Jim. One hit him right in the elbow, causing him to double over in pain. The other flew over his head.

Hutto seemed to think the whole thing was funny. He sat on the muddy ground, laughing and spitting great mouthfuls of blood. Jim crouched down, pistol drawn, watching for rocks.

"This beats all I ever heard of," Hutto said. "Here we are in a rock fight with a girl no bigger than a minute, and she's winning. If news of this gets out we'll have to retire."

He looked at Roscoe, who was standing stock-still. One of the rocks had just missed him-he didn't want to move and risk interfering with Janey's aim.

"By God, when I get her she'll wish she'd kept a-running," Jim said, cocking his gun. A second later a rock hit him on the shoulder and the gun went off. Furious, he fired into the darkness until the pistol was empty.

"Well, we'll sure have to kill this deputy now," Hutto remarked. He wiggled a loose tooth with a bloody finger. "If he was to tell about this, our reputation as desperados would be ruint forever."

"Then why don't you get up and help me rush her?" Jim said angrily.

"Oh, I think we should just sit and let her chunk us to death," Hutto said. "I think it serves us right for being idiots. You was scared of this deputy, when lie ain't no more dangerous than a chicken. Maybe next time you'll be content to shoot when I want to shoot."

Jim opened his pistol. He was trying to reload and watch for rocks, too, squinting into the darkness. Another rock came in low and he managed to turn and take it on his thigh, but it caused him to drop three bullets.

Roscoe was beginning to feel more hopeful. He was remembering all the varmints Janey had brought into camp-probably she had used them to sharpen her aim. His hope was she'd start throwing for the head before the men got around to killing him.

Hutto was calmer than Jim. He reached over, got his shotgun and broke the breach.

"I'll tell you, Jim," he said, "you just keep sitting there drawing her fire. I'll load up with some buckshot. Maybe if she don't brain you before the moon rises, I can catch the angle and shoot her. Or at least chase her out of chunkin' range."

He reached into the pocket of his buckskin coat for some shells, and as he did, a miracle happened-for in Roscoe's mind a miracle it was. He stood there, naked and wet, sure to be murdered within a few minutes unless a slip of a girl, armed only with rocks, could defeat two grown men armed with guns. He himself was so sure of being killed that he felt rather detached from what was happening, and invested only faint hope in Janey's chances of saving him.

Nobody saw July come. Hutto was reaching in his pocket for shells and Jim was trying to fish those he had dropped out of the mud. Roscoe was watching Jim, whom he liked least. He was hoping to see a big rock hit Jim right between the eyes, perhaps cracking his skull. It wouldn't stop Hutto from killing him, but it would be some consolation if Jim got his skull cracked first.

Then, at the same moment, Jim, Hutto, and he himself all became aware that someone was there who hadn't been. It was July Johnson, standing behind Jim with his pistol drawn and cocked.

"You won't need them shells," July said quietly. "Just leave 'em lie."

"Well, you son of a bitch," Jim said, "what gives you the right to pull a gun on me?"

Jim looked up, and just as he did, the rock Roscoe had been hoping for sailed in and hit him right in the throat. He dropped his gun and fell over backwards. He lay there clutching his throat and trying desperately to draw breath.

Hutto had two shotgun shells in his hand but he didn't try to shove them in the shotgun. "I've had bad luck before, but nothing to top this," he said, ignoring July and looking at Roscoe. "Can't you at least make that gal stop throwing rocks?"

Roscoe was having trouble believing what he saw. He felt he had missed a step or two in the proceedings somehow.

"Are you gonna get your clothes on or are you just going to stand there?" July asked.

It sounded like July, and it looked like July, so Roscoe was forced to conclude that he was saved. He had been in the process of adjusting to impending death, and it seemed to him a part of him must already have left for the other place, because he felt sort of absent and dull. Ordinarily he would not have stood around on a muddy prairie naked, and yet in some ways it was easier than having to pick up the pieces of his life again, which meant, first off, having to literally pick up pieces of his clothes.

"They cut up my duds," he said to July. "I doubt I'll ever be able to get them boots back on, wet as they are."

"Joe, bring the handcuffs," July said.

Joe walked into camp with two sets of handcuffs. It shocked him to see Roscoe naked.

"I never seen so many young 'uns," Hutto said. "Can this one throw rocks too?"

"Who is throwing the rocks?" July asked. He had been about to step in before the rock-throwing started, but the rock-thrower's accuracy had been so startling that he had waited a few minutes to watch the outcome.

"That's Janey," Roscoe said, buttoning up what was left of his best shirt. "She practices chunking varmints. It's how we been getting our grub."

July quickly handcuffed Jim, who was still writhing around on the grass. The blow to the throat seemed to have damaged his windpipe-he gasped loudly for air, like a drowning man.

"You might shoot me, but you ain't putting no dern cuffs on me," Hutto said when July approached him.

"This is July Johnson, and I wouldn't fight him," Roscoe said. For some reason he felt rather friendly to Hutto, though it was Hutto who had been most inclined to kill him.

Hutto didn't fight but neither did he get handcuffed, for the simple reason that his wrists were too big. July was forced to tie him with a saddle string, a method he would rather have avoided. A man as large as Hutto would eventually stretch out any rope or piece of rawhide if he kept trying.

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.

"It's a good thing you shot," Joe said. "We was already camped, but July recognized your gun."

"Oh, was that it?" Roscoe said, reluctant to admit that it had been Janey who shot.

Once the men were handcuffed and tied, July got them onto their horses and tied their feet to the stirrups. Hutto and Jim he knew by reputation, for they had harried the east Texas trails for the last year or two, mostly robbing settlers but occasionally killing those who put up a fight. He had expected to find Roscoe eventually, but not the two bandits. Now something would have to be done with them before he could even ask Roscoe all the questions he wanted to ask about Elmira. Also, there was the rock-thrower-Janey, Roscoe had called her. Why was a Janey traveling with Roscoe? Indeed, where was she? The rock-throwing had stopped but no one had appeared.

Now that the danger was past, Roscoe began to feel that there were many awkward matters awaiting explanation. He had forgotten about Elmira and her departure for several days, although her departure was the reason he was in Texas. Also, he would have to explain to July why he was traveling with a young girl. It seemed better to talk about the miracle of July's appearance, but July didn't want to say much about it.

"I never expected to see you right then," Roscoe said. "Then there you were, pointing that gun."

"This is the main trail to Texas from Fort Smith," July pointed out. "If I was looking for you that's where I'd likely be."

"Yeah, but I didn't know you was looking for me," Roscoe said. "You don't usually."

"Peach wrote and told me you was on the way," July said. It was all the explanation he planned to offer until he could get Roscoe alone.

"I guess we're caught, but what next?" Hutto asked. He did not like to be left out of conversations. Jim, who still had to suck hard to get his breath, showed no inclination to talk.

"You say there's a girl?" July asked.

"Yep, Janey."

"Call her in," July said.

Roscoe made an effort, but it went awkwardly. "Come on, July's here," he said loudly into the darkness. "It's safe, he's the sheriff I work for," he added, just as loudly.

There was no sound from the darkness, and no sign of Janey. Roscoe could tell July was impatient. It made him nervous. He remembered how Janey had disappeared for two hours that afternoon. If she thought July would wait two hours, she didn't know much about him.

"Come on in, we've got these men tied," he said, without much hope that Janey would obey.

She didn't. There was not a sound to be heard, except for some coyotes singing about a mile away.

"I suspect that girl has Indian blood," Hutto said. "She had us ambushed, fair and square, and if she was as good with a pistol as she is with a rock we'd be dead."

"What's the matter with her?" July asked. "Why won't she come?"

"I don't know," Roscoe said. "She don't take to company, I guess."

July thought it a very odd business. Roscoe had never been one to womanize. In fact, around Fort Smith his skill in avoiding various widow women had often been commented on. And yet he had somehow taken up with a girl who could throw rocks more accurately than most men could shoot.

"I don't intend to spend the night here," July said. "Has she got a horse?"

"No, but she's quick of foot," Roscoe said. "She's been keeping ahead of me without no trouble. Where are we going?"

"To Fort Worth," July said. "The sheriff there will probably be glad to get these men."

"Yes, he will, the son of a bitch," Hutto said.

Roscoe felt bad about going off and leaving Janey, but he couldn't think what to do about it. July tied the two outlaws' horses to a single lead rope and instructed Roscoe and Joe to stay close behind them. It had clouded up and was almost pitch-dark, but that had no effect on July's pace, which was fast. Having to deliver the outlaws to justice was taking him out of his way, but there was nothing else for it.

When they had been riding about an hour, Roscoe got the scare of his life, for suddenly someone jumped on the horse behind him. For a terrifying second he thought Jim must have gotten loose and come to strangle him or stick a knife in him. Memphis was startled, too, and jumped sideways into Joe's horse.

Then he heard the person panting and knew it was Janey.

"I couldn't keep up no longer," she said. "I thought he'd slow down but he just keeps going."

Joe was so startled to see a girl materialize behind Roscoe that he didn't say a word. He found it hard to credit that the person who had thrown the rocks could be a girl. Yet he had seen the rocks hit the men. How could a girl throw so hard and straight?

July had appropriated Hutto's shotgun, loaded it and put it across his saddle-he assumed it would make the prisoners think twice before starting trouble. His one thought was to get back to Fort Worth, turn the men over and start at once to look for Elmira.

They rode all night, and when the plains got gray they were no more than five miles from Fort Worth. He glanced back at the prisoners and was startled to see the girl, riding behind Roscoe. She looked very young. Her bare legs were as thin as a bird's. Roscoe was slumped over the horn, asleep, and the girl held the reins. She was also watching the two prisoners, both of whom were plenty wide-awake. July got down and checked Hutto's knots, which indeed were slipping.

"I guess you're Janey," he said to the girl. She nodded. July handed her the shotgun to hold while he retied Hutto.

"My God, don't do that, she's apt to cut us in two," Jim said. His voice had a husky croak from the blow on his throat-it pained him to speak, but the sight of the girl with the shotgun clearly pained him more.

Joe had managed to get the sleep out of his eyes, and was rather aggrieved that July had given the gun to the girl. She was no older than he was and she was female. He felt he ought to have been given the shotgun.

"You don't give a man much of a chance, do you?" Hutto said, as July retied him. He was a messy sight from all the dried blood on his mouth and his beard, but he seemed cheerful.

"Nope," July said.

"If they don't hang us, you better watch out for Jim," Hutto said. "Jim hates to have anyone point a gun at him. He's got a vengeful nature, too."

Jim did seem vengeful. His eyes were shining with hatred, and he was looking at the girl. The look was so hot that many men would have flinched from it, but the girl didn't.

All the while Roscoe slumped over his horse's neck, snoring away. They were nearly on the outskirts of Fort Worth before he woke up, and it was not until July handed the prisoners over to the sheriff that he began to feel alive.

Janey had acted like she wanted to bolt when they came into town-the sight of so many wagons and people clearly upset her-but she held on. July found a livery stable, for it would be necessary to rest the horses for a while. It was run by a woman, who kindly offered to scrape up a little breakfast for the youngsters. It consisted of corn bread and bacon, which they ate sitting on big washtubs outside the woman's house.

Roscoe's clothes were practically in ribbons, so much so that the woman laughed when she saw him. She offered to mend his clothes for another fifty cents, but Roscoe had to decline, since he had nothing to wear while the work was being done.

"This is a big-looking town," Roscoe said. "I guess I can buy myself some clothes."

"Not for no fifty cents," the woman said. "That's nothing but a sack the girl's wearing. You ought to get her something decent to wear while you're buying."

"Well, I might," Roscoe said. It was true that Janey's dress was a mere rag.

Janey seemed to think Forth Worth was quite a sight. She was over her fright, and she looked around with interest.

"Is that girl your daughter?" the woman asked.

"No," Roscoe said. "I never saw her till last week."

"Well, she's somebody's daughter and she deserves better than a sack to wear," the woman said. "That boy's dressed all right, how come you skimped on the girl?"

"No opportunity," Roscoe said. "I just found her up in the country."

The woman had a red face, and it got redder when she was angry, as she now clearly was. "I don't know what to think of you men," she said, and went in her house and slammed the door.

"Where did you get her?" July asked.

"I didn't get her, exactly," Roscoe said. He felt on the defensive. It was clear that people would think the worst of him, whatever he did. No doubt in Fort Smith the word would be out that instead of sticking to orders he had run off with the first young girl he could find.

"She run off and followed me," he added. July looked noncommittal.

"A dern old man beat her and used her hard, and that's why she run off," Roscoe elaborated. "Can we go to a saloon? I'd sure fancy a beer."

July took him to a saloon and bought him a beer. Now that he had Roscoe alone he felt curiously reluctant to mention Elmira. Even hearing her name spoken would be painful.

"What about Ellie?" he said finally. "Peach said she left."

"Well, Peach is right," Roscoe said. "Or if she didn't leave, then she's hiding. Or else a bear got her."

"Did you see bear tracks?" July asked.

"No," Roscoe admitted.

"Then a bear didn't get her," July said.

"She probably left on the whiskey boat," Roscoe said, trying to hide behind his beer glass.

"I don't see why," July said softly, almost to himself. He didn't see why. He had never done anything to disturb her that he could remember. He had never hit her, or even spoken harshly to her. What would prompt a woman to run off when nothing was wrong? Of course, it wasn't true that nothing had been wrong. Something had been. He just didn't know what. He didn't know why she had married him if she didn't like him, and he had the sense that she didn't. It was true that Peach had hinted a few times that peop]e got married for reasons other than liking, but Peach was known to be cynical.

Now, in the saloon, he remembered Peach's hints. Maybe Ellie had never liked him. Maybe she had married him for reasons she hadn't wanted to mention. Thinking about it all made him feel very sad.

"Did you talk to her at all after I left?" he asked Roscoe.

"No," Roscoe admitted.

July didn't speak for five minutes. Roscoe turned over in his mind various excuses for not seeing Elmira, but in truth, it had never once occurred to him to go and see her. He slowly drank his beer.

"What about Jake?" he asked.

"He's to the south," July said. "He's coming with a trail herd. I want to find Eflie. Once that's done we'll look for Jake."

He fished some money out of his pocket and paid for the beers. "Maybe you ought to take the young ones and go back to Arkansas," he said. "I'm going after Ellie."

"I'll come with you," Roscoe said. Now that he had found July, he had no intention of losing him again. He had had plenty of trouble coming, and yet worse might occur if he tried to go back on his own.

"I expect if we paid that woman she'd board the girl," July said. "You go buy some duds. You'll be a laughingstock if you try to travel in those you got on."

The woman at the livery stable agreed to board Janey for three dollars a month. July paid for two months. When told she was to stay in Fort Worth, Janey didn't say a word. The woman spoke to her cheerfully about getting some better clothes, but Janey sat on the washtub, silent.

The woman offered to take Joe, too, and board him free if he would help out around the livery stable. July was tempted, but Joe looked so unhappy that he relented and decided to let him stay with them. Then Roscoe showed up, in clothes that looked so stiff it was a wonder he could even walk in them.

"I guess you might break them clothes in by Christmas," the liverystable woman said, laughing. "You look like you're wearing stovepipes."

"I can't help it if they're black," Roscoe said. "It was all they had that fit."

He felt sorry about leaving Janey. What if old Sam got well and tracked them to Fort Worth and found her? He offered her two dollars in case she had expenses, but Janey just shook her head. When they rode off, she was still sitting on the big washtub.

Joe was glad she wasn't coming. She made him feel that he didn't do things very well.

He didn't have long to enjoy being glad, though. That night they camped on the plains, twenty miles north of Fort Worth. July felt it was all right to sleep without a guard, as there were trail herds on both sides of them. They could hear the night herders singing to the cattle.

In the morning, when Joe opened his eyes, Janey was squatting by the cold campfire. She still wore her sack. Even July had not heard her come. When July woke up she handed him back the six dollars he had given the woman. July just took it, looking surprised. Joe felt annoyed. It was wrong of the girl to come without July's permission. If the Indians carried her off, he for one would not be too sorry-although, when he thought about it, he realized he himself might be an easier catch. The girl had followed them at night, across the plains. It was something he couldn't have done.

All that day the girl ran along on her own, never getting far behind. She was not like any of the girls Joe had known in Fort Smith, none of whom could have kept up for five minutes. Joe didn't know what to make of her, and neither did July, or even Roscoe, who had found her. But soon they were far out on the plains, and it was clear to everyone that Janey was along for the trip.

53.

LONG BEFORE THE WHISKEY BOAT STOPPED, Elmira knew she was going to have trouble with Big Zwey. The man had never approached her, or even spoken to her, but every time she went out of her shed to sit and watch the water, she felt his eyes on her. And when they loaded the whiskey in wagons and started across the plains for Bents' Fort, his eyes followed her in whatever wagon she chose to ride for the day.

It seemed to her it might be the fact that she was so small that made Big Zwey so interested. It was a problem she had had before. Huge men seemed to like her because she was so tiny. Big Zwey was even larger than the buffalo hunter who had caused her to run to July.

Sometimes in the evening, when he brought her her food, Fowler would sit and talk with her a bit. He had a scar which ran over his nose and down across his lips into his beard. He had a rough look, but his eyes were dreamy.

"This whiskey-hauling business has about petered out," he said one evening. "Indians kept the trade going. Now they've about got them all penned up, down in these parts. I may go up north."

"Are there many towns up north?" she asked, remembering that Dee had mentioned going north. Dee liked his comforts-hotels and barbershops and such. Once she had offered to cut his hair and had made a mess of it. Dee had been good-natured about it, but he did remark that it paid to stick to professionals. He was vain about his looks.

"There's Ogallala," Fowler said. "That's on the Platte. There's towns in Montana, but that's a long way."

Big Zwey had a deep voice. She could sometimes hear him talking to the men, even over the creak of the wagon wheels. He wore a long buffalo coat and seldom took it off, even when the days were hot.

One morning there was great excitement. Just as the morning mists began to thin, the man on guard claimed to have seen six Indians on a ridge. He was a young man, very nervous. If there were Indians, they did not reappear. During the day the men surprised three buffalo and killed one of them. That night Fowler brought Elmira samples of the liver and the tongue-the best parts, he said.

The men had talked about the Fort so much that Elmira had supposed it was a real town, but it was just a few scattered buildings, none in good repair. There was only one woman there, the wife of a blacksmith, and she had gone crazy due to the death of all five of her children. She sat in a chair all day, saying nothing to anyone.

Fowler did his best for Elmira. He got the traders to let her have a little room-just a tiny, dirty closet, really. It was next to a warehouse where piles of buffalo skins were stored. The smell of the skins was worse than anything that had happened on the river. Her room was full of fleas that had escaped from the skins. She spent much of her time scratching.

Though the Fort was nothing much to see, it was a busy place, with riders coming and going all the time. Watching them, Elmira wished she was a man so she could just buy a horse and ride away. The men let her alone, but they did look at her whenever she left her room. There were several wild-looking Mexicans who scared her worse than the buffalo hunters.

After a week of scratching, she began to realize she had done a foolish thing, taking the whiskey boat. In Fort Smith, all she had felt was an overwhelming desire to go. The day she left she felt that her life depended on getting out of Fort Smith that day-she had a fear that July would suddenly show up again.

She didn't regret leaving, but neither did she calculate on landing in a place as bad as Bent's Fort. In the cow towns, stages came and went, at least-if you didn't like Dodge you could always go to Abilene. But no stage came to Bent's Fort-just a wagon track that soon disappeared into the emptiness of the plains.

Though she had not been bothered, the men at the Fort looked very rough. "They don't think you're worth robbing," Fowler said, but she wasn't sure he was right. Some of the Mexicans looked like they might do worse than rob her if the mood struck them. Once, sitting under the little shed outside her room, she saw a fight between two Mexicans. She heard a yell and saw each man pull a knife. They went at one another like butchers. Their clothes were soon bloody, but evidently the cuts were not serious, for after a while they stopped fighting and went back to gambling together.

Fowler said there might be a party of hunters going north, and that perhaps they would take her, but a week passed and the party didn't materialize. Then one day Fowler brought her a little plate of food, under her shed. He looked at her sheepishly, as if he had something to say but didn't want to say it.

"Big Zwey wants to marry you," he said finally, in an apologetic tone.

"Well, I'm already married," she said.

"What if he just wants to marry you temporary?" Fowler asked.

"It's always temporary," Elmira said. "Why don't he ask himself?"

"Zwey ain't much of a talker," Fowler said.

"I've heard him talk," she said. "He talks to the men."

Fowler laughed and said no more. Elmira felt angry. She was in a spot if some man was wanting to marry her. Someone had thrown a fresh buffalo skin into the warehouse and she could hear the flies buzzing on it from where she sat.

"He'll take you to Ogallala, if you'll do it," Fowler said. "You might think about it. He ain't as bad as some."

"How would you know?" she asked. "You ain't been married to him."

Fowler shrugged. "He might be your best bet," he said. "I'm going back downriver next week. A couple of hide haulers are taking a load to Kansas, and they might take you, but it'd be a hard trip. You'd have to smell them stinkin' hides all the way. Anyway, the hide haulers are rough," he said. "I think Zwey would treat you all right."

"I don't want to go to Kansas," she said. "I been to Kansas."

What ruined that was that she was pregnant, and showing. Some of the saloons weren't particular, but it was always harder to get work if you were pregnant. Besides, she didn't want to work, she wanted Dee, who wouldn't mind that she was pregnant.

Big Zwey began to spend hours just watching her. He didn't pretend to gamble or do anything else, he just watched her. She sat under her shed in one patch of shade, and he sat in another about thirty yards away, just watching. He didn't pretend to gamble or do anything else.

Once when he was watching, some riders spotted a little herd of buffalo. The other hunters were wild to go after them, but Zwey wouldn't go. They yelled at him and argued with him, but he just sat. Finally they went off without him. One hunter tried to borrow his gun, but Zwey wouldn't give it up. He sat there with his big rifle across his lap, looking at Elmira.

It became amusing to her, her power over the man. He had never spoken to her, not one word, and yet he would sit for hours, thirty yards away. It was something, what must go through men's minds where women were concerned, to cause them to behave so strangely.

One morning she came out of her closet earlier than usual-she had a touch of morning sickness and wanted some fresh air. When she opened the door, she almost bumped into Big Zwey, who had just been standing outside her door. Her sudden appearance embarrassed him so that he gave her one appalled look and turned and went off, practically at a trot, putting a safe distance between them. He was a very heavy man, and the sight of him trying to run made her laugh out loud, something she hadn't done in a while. He didn't turn to look back at her again until he was safely back in his spot, and then he turned fearfully, as if he expected to be shot for having stood by her door.

"Tell him I'll go," she said to Fowler that evening. "I guess he ain't so bad."

"You tell him," Fowler said.

The next morning she walked over to where Big Zwey sat. When he saw her coming, it seemed for a second like he might bolt, but she was too close. Instead, he sat as if paralyzed, fear in his eyes.

"I'll go if you think you can get me to Ogallala," she said. "I'll pay you what it's worth to you."

Zwey didn't say anything.

"How'll we travel?" she asked. "I ain't much good at riding horses."

Big Zwey didn't respond for about a minute. Elmira was about to lose patience when he brushed his mouth with the back of his hand, as if to clean it.

"Could get that there hide wagon," he said, pointing to a rundown piece of equipment a few yards away. To Elmira the wagon didn't look like it could travel ten yards, much less all the way to Nebraska.

"Could get the blacksmith to fix it," Big Zwey said. Now that he had spoken to her and not been struck by lightning, he felt a little easier.

"Did you mean just us two to go?" Elmira asked.

The question gave him so much pause that she almost wished she hadn't asked it. He fell silent again, his eyes troubled.

"Might take Luke," he said.

Luke was a weaselly little buffalo hunter with only a thumb and one finger on his left hand. He carried dice and gambled when he could get anyone to gamble with him. Once on the boat she had asked Fowler about him, and Fowler said a butcher had cut his fingers off with a cleaver, for some reason.

"When can we go?" she asked. It turned out to be a decision Big Zwey wasn't immediately up to making. He pondered the matter for some time but reached no conclusion.

"I want to get out of here," she said. "I'm tired of smelling buffalo hides."

"Get that blacksmith to fix that wagon," Zwey responded. He stood up, picking up the tongue of the wagon and began to drag it toward the blacksmith's shop, a hundred yards away. The next morning, the wagon, more or less patched, was sitting outside her closet. When she walked over to inspect it she saw that Luke was in it, sleeping off a drunk. He slept with his mouth open, showing black teeth, and not many of them at that.

Luke had ignored her on the trip upriver, but when he woke up he hopped out of the wagon and came right over, a grin on his weaselly face.

"Big Zwey and I have partnered up," he said. "Can you drive a wagon?"

"I guess I could if we go slow," she said.

Luke had spiky red hair that stuck out in all directions. A skinning knife a foot long was slung in a scabbard under one shoulder. He grinned constantly, exposing his black teeth and, unlike Zwey, was not a bit afraid to look her in the eye. He had an insolent manner and spat tobacco juice constantly while he talked.

"Zwey went to buy some mules," he said. "We got two horses but they won't do for the wagon. Anyway, we might get some hides while you're driving the wagon."

"I don't like the smell of hides," she said pointedly, but not pointedly enough for Luke to get the message.

"You get where you don't smell 'em after a while," he said. "I don't hardly even notice it, I've smelled 'em so much."

Luke had a little quirt and was always nervously popping himself on the leg with it. "You skeert of Indians?" he asked.

"I don't know," Elmira said. "I guess I don't like 'em much."

"I've already killed five of them," Luke said.

Big Zwey finally arrived leading two scrawny mules and carrying a harness he had traded for. The harness was in bad repair but there was plenty of rawhide around, and they soon had it tied together fairly well. Luke was quite dexterous with his thumb and little finger. He did better than Zwey, whose hands were too big for harness making.

She soon got the hang of driving the mules. There was not much to it, for the mules were content to follow the two men on horseback. It was only when the men loped off to hunt that the mules were likely to balk. On the second day out, with the men gone, she crossed a creek whose banks were so steep and rough that she felt sure the wagon would turn over. She was ready to jump and take her chances, but by a miracle it stayed upright.

That day the men killed twenty buffalo. Elmira had to wait in the sun all day while they skinned them out. Finally she got down and sat under the wagon, which provided a little shade. The men piled the bloody, smelly hides into the wagon, which didn't suit the mules. They hated the smell of hides as much as she did.

Big Zwey had lapsed back into silence, leaving all the talking to Luke, who chattered away whether anybody listened to him or not.

Often Elmira had a nervous stomach. The jostling of the wagon took getting used to. The plains looked smooth in the distance, but they were surprisingly rough to pass over. Big Zwey had given her a blanket to put over the rough seat-it kept her from getting splinters but didn't cushion the bumps.

Alone with the two men, in the middle of the great, empty prairie, she felt apprehensive. In the cow towns there had been lots of girls around-if a man got mean, she could yell. On the boat it hadn't seemed as dangerous, because the men were always fighting and gambling among themselves. But at night on the prairie there were only the three of them, and nothing much to keep anyone busy. Big Zwey sat and looked at her through the campfire, and Luke looked, too, while he talked. She didn't know if Big Zwey considered that in some way he had married her already. She worried that he might suddenly come over and want the marriage to begin, though so far he had been too shy even to speak to her much. For all she knew he might expect her to be married to Luke, too, and she didn't want that. The thought made her so nervous that she couldn't eat the buffalo meat they offered her-anyway, it was tougher than any meat she had ever tried to chew. She chewed on one bite until her jaws got tired and then spat it out.

But when she went to the wagon and made the one blanket into a kind of bed, neither man followed. She lay awake for a long time, apprehensive, but the men sat by the fire, occasionally looking her way but making no move to disturb her. Luke got his dice out and soon they were playing. Elmira was able to sleep, but awoke to the roll of thunder a few hours later. The men were asleep by the dying fire. Across the prairie she began to see lightning darting down the sky, and within a few minutes big drops of water hit her. In a minute she was wet. She jumped down and crawled under the wagon. It wasn't much protection but it was some. Soon lightning was crashing all around and the thunder came in big, flat cracks, as if a building had fallen down. It frightened her so that she hugged her knees and trembled. When the lightning struck, the whole prairie would be bathed for a second in white light.

The rainstorm soon passed, but she lay awake for the rest of the night, listening to water drip off the wagon. It grew very dark. She didn't know what might have happened to the men.

But in the morning they were right where they had gone to sleep, wet as muskrats but ready to drink a pot of coffee. Neither even commented on the storm. Elmira decided they were used to hard traveling and that she had better get used to it too.

Soon she began to talk to the mules as they plodded along. She didn't say much, and the mules didn't answer, but it made the long hot days pass a little faster.

54.

AUGUSTUS SPENT HALF THE FIRST DAY finding the tracks, for Blue Duck had been cool enough to lead Lorena through the stampeding cattle, so that their tracks would be blotted out by the thousands of cattle tracks. It was a fine trick, and one not many men would dare to try.

Years had passed since Augustus had done any serious tracking. He rode around all morning, trying to remember the last man he had tracked, just to give himself perspective. It seemed to him that the last man had been an incompetent horsethief named Webster Witter, who had rustled horses in the Blanco country at one time. He and Call had gone after him one day by themselves and caught him and hung him before sundown. But the tracking had been elemental, due to the fact that the man had been driving forty stolen horses.

The thing he remembered best about Webster Witter was that he had been a tall man and they caught him out in the scrub and had to hang him to a short tree. It was that or take him back, and Call was against taking him back. Call believed summary justice was often the only justice, and in those days he was right, since they had to depend on circuit judges who often as not didn't show up.

"If we take him back he'll bribe the jailer, or dig out or something, and we'll have to catch him at it again," Call said. It never occurred to Call just to shoot someone he could hang, and in this instance Augustus didn't suggest it, for they had rushed out without much ammunition and were traveling in rough country.

Fortunately, Webster's neck broke when they whipped the horse out from under him, otherwise he could have stood there and laughed at them, for the limb of the mesquite sagged badly and both his feet drug the ground.

That had been at least twelve years ago, and Augustus soon concluded that his tracking skills had rusted to the point of being unusable. The only horse tracks he found for the first three hours belonged to Hat Creek horses. He almost decided to go back and get Deets, though he knew Call would be reluctant to surrender him.

Finally, by circling wide to the northwest, Augustus crossed the three horses' tracks. Blue Duck had tried the one trick-crossing the stampede-but that was all. After that the tracks bore straight for the northwest, so unerringly that Augustus soon found he didn't need to pay much attention to them. If he lost them he could usually pick them up within half a mile.

He rode as hard as he dared, but he had only one horse and couldn't afford to ruin him. At each watering he let him have a few minutes of rest. He rode all night, and the next day the tracks were still bearing northwest. He felt unhappy with himself for he wasn't catching up. Lorena was getting a taste of hard travel the like of which she had never imagined. Probably she would have worse to deal with than hard travel unless she was very lucky, and Augustus knew it was his fault. he should have packed her into camp the minute he discovered who Blue Duck was; in retrospect he couldn't imagine why he hadn't. It was the kind of lapse he had been subject to all his life: things that were clearly dangerous didn't worry him enough.

He tried to swallow his regrets and concentrate on finding her: after all, it had happened, and why he had let it no longer particularly mattered. Blue Duck was a name from their past. Having him show up in their midst fifteen years later had thrown his reasoning off.

The second day he stopped tracking altogether, since it was plain Blue Duck was heading for the Staked Plains. That took in a lot of territory, of course, but Augustus thought he knew where Blue Duck would go: to an area north and west of the Palo Duro Canyon-it was there he had always retreated to when pursued.

Once Call and he had sat on the western edge of the great canyon, looking across the brown waterless distances to the west. They had finally decided to end their pursuit there while they had a fair chance of getting back alive. It wasn't Indians they feared so much as lack of water. It had been midsummer and the plains looked seared, what grass there was, brown and brittle. Call was frustrated; he hated to turn back before he caught his man.

"There's got to be water out there," Call said. "They cross it, and they can't drink dirt."

"Yes, but they know where it is and we don't," Augustus pointed out. "They can kill their horses getting to it-they got more horses. But if we kill ours it's a dern long walk back to San Antonio.

That afternoon he crossed the Clear Fork of the Brazos and passed a half-built cabin, abandoned and empty. It was a vivid enough reminder of the power of the Comanches-their massacres caused plenty of settlers to retreat while they still had legs to retreat on. Call and he had watched through the Fifties as the line of the frontier advanced only to collapse soon after. The men and women who came up the Trinity and the Brazos were no strangers to hardship-but hardship was one thing, terror another. The land was spacious and theirs for the taking, but land couldn't cancel out fear-a fact that Call never understood. It annoyed him that the whites gave up and retreated.

"I wish they'd stick," he said many times. "If they would, there'd soon be enough of them to beat back the Indians."

"You ain't never laid in bed all night with a scared woman," Augustus said. "You can't start a farm if you've got to live in a fort. Them that starts the farms have got to settle off by themselves, which means they're easy to cut off and carve up."

"Well, they could leave the women for a while," Call said. "Send for them when it's safe."

"Yes, but a man that goes to the trouble to take a wife don't generally want to go off and leave her," Augustus pointed out. "It means doing the chores all by yourself. Besides, without a wife handy you won't be getting no kids, and kids are a wonderful source of free labor. They're cheaper than slaves by a damn sight."

They had argued the point for years, but fruitlessly, for Call had no sympathy for human weakness. Augustus put it down to a lack of imagination. Call could never imagine what it was like to be scared. They had been in tight spots, but usually that meant action, and in battles things happened too fast for fear to paralyze the mind of a man like Call. He couldn't imagine what it was like to go to bed every night scared that you and your family would feel the knives of the Comanches before sunrise.

That night Augustus stopped to rest his horse, making a cold camp on a little bluff and eating some jerky he had brought along. He was in the scrubby post-oak country near the Brazos and from his bluff could see far across the moonlit valleys.

It struck him that he had forgotten emptiness such as existed in the country that stretched around him. After all, for years he had lived within the sound of the piano from the Dry Bean, the sound of the church bell in the little Lonesome Dove church, the sound of Bol whacking the dinner bell. He even slept within the sound of Pea Eye's snoring, which was as regular as the ticking of a clock.

But here there was no sound, not any. The coyotes were silent, the crickets, the locusts, the owls. There was only the sound of his own horse grazing. From him to the stars, in all directions, there was only silence and emptiness. Not the talk of men over their cards, nothing. Though he had ridden hard he felt strangely rested, just from the silence.

The next day he found the carcass of Lorie's mare. By the end of the day he was out of the scrub. When he crossed the Wichita he angled west. He had not seen Blue Duck's tracks in two days but he didn't care. He had always had confidence in his instincts and felt he knew where the man would stop. Possibly he was bound for Adobe Walls, one of the Bents' old forts. This one, on the Canadian, had never been much of a success. The Bents had abandoned it, and it became a well-known gathering place for buffalo hunters, as well as for anyone crossing the plains.

It was spring-what few buffalo were left would be moving north, and what buffalo hunters were left would be gathered at the old fort, getting ready for a last hide harvest. Buffalo hunters were not known to be too particular about their company; though Blue Duck and his men had picked off plenty of them over the years, the new crop would probably overlook that fact if he turned up with a prize like Lorena.

Also, there were still renegade bands of Kiowas and Comanches loose on the plains. The bands were supposedly scattered-at least that was the talk in south Texas-and the trade in captives virtually dead.

But Augustus wasn't in south Texas anymore, and as he rode through the empty country he had plenty of time to consider that maybe the talk hadn't been all that accurate-talk often wasn't. The bands were doomed, but they might last another year or two, whereas he was advancing into their country in the here and now. He wasn't afraid for himself, but he was afraid for Lorena. Blue Duck might be dealing with some renegade chief with a taste for white women. Lorena would put a nice cap on a career largely devoted to stealing children.

If Blue Duck intended to trade her to an Indian, he would probably take her farther west, through the region known as the Quitaque, and then north to a crossing on the Canadian where the Comanches bad traded captives for decades. Nearby was the famous Valley of Tears, spoken of with anguish by such captives as had been recovered. There the Comancheros divided captives, mothers being separated from their children and sold to different bands, the theory being that if they were isolated they would be less likely to organize escapes.

As he moved into the Quitaque, a parched country where shallow red canyons stretched west toward the Palo Duro, Augustus would see little spiraling dust devils rising from the exposed earth far ahead of him. During the heat of the day mirages in the form of flat lakes appeared, so vivid that a time or two he almost convinced himself there was water ahead, although he knew there wasn't.

He decided to head first for the big crossing on the Canadian. If there was no sign of Blue Duck there he could always follow the river over to the Walls. He crossed the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River-plenty of prairie dogs were in evidence, too-and rode west to the edge of the Palo Duro. Several times he saw small herds of buffalo, and twice rode through valleys of bleached bones, places where hunters had slaughtered several hundred animals at a time. By good luck he found a spring and spent the night by it, resting his horse for the final push.

Late the next day he came into the breaks of the Canadian, a country of shallow, eroded gullys. He could see where the river curved east, across the plains. He rode east for several miles, hoping to cross Blue Duck's tracks. He didn't, which convinced him he had guessed wrong in coming so far west. The man had probably gone directly to the Walls and pitched Lorena into the laps of a bunch of buffalo hunters.

Before he had time to lament his error, though, Augustus saw a sight which took his mind off it completely. He saw a speck moving across the plains north, toward the river. At first he thought it might be Blue Duck, but if so he was traveling without Lorena-there was only one speck. His horse saw the speck too. Augustus drew his rifle in the case the speck turned out to be hostile. He loped toward it only to discover an old man with a dirty white beard, pushing a wheelbarrow across the plains. The wheelbarrow contained buffalo bones. And as if that wasn't unusual enough, Augustus found that he even knew the man.

His name was Aus Frank, and he had started as a mountain man, trapping beaver. He had once kept a store in Waco but for some reason got mad and robbed the bank next to his store-the bank had thought they were getting along with him fine until the day he walked in and robbed them. Augustus and Call were in Waco at the time, and though Call was reluctant to bother with bank robbers-he felt bankers were so stupid they deserved robbing-they were persuaded to go after him. They caught him right away, but not without a gun battle. The battle took place in a thicket on the Brazos, where Aus Frank had stopped to cook some venison. It went on for two hours and resulted in no injuries; then Aus Frank ran out of ammunition and had been easy enough to arrest. He cursed them all the way back to Waco and broke out of jail the day they left town. Augustus had not heard of him since-yet there he was wheeling a barrow full of buffalo bones across the high plains.

He didn't seem to be armed, so Augustus rode right up to him, keeping his rifle across his saddle. The old robber could well have a pistol hidden in the bones, though unless his aim had improved, he was not much of a threat even if he did.

"Hello, Aus," Augustus said, as he rode up. "Have you gone in the bone business, or what?"

The old man squinted at him for a moment, but made no reply. He kept on wheeling his barrow full of bones over the rough ground… Tobacco drippings had stained his beard until most of it was a deep brown.

"I guess you don't remember me," Augustus said, falling in beside him. "I'm Captain McCrae. We shot at one another all afternoon once, up on the Brazos. You was in one thicket and me and Captain Call was in the next one. We pruned the post oaks with all that shooting, and then we stuck you in jail and you crawled right out again."

"I don't like you much," Aus Frank said, still trundling. "Put me in the goddamn jail."

"Well, why'd you rob that bank?" Augustus said. "It ain't Christian to rob your neighbors. It ain't Christian to hold a grudge, neither. Wasn't you born into the Christian religion?"

"No," Aus Frank said. "What do you want?"

"A white girl," Augustus said. "Pretty one. An outlaw carried her off. You may know him. His name is Blue Duck."

Aus Frank stopped the wheelbarrow. He needed to spit and leaned over and spat a large mouthful of tobacco juice directly into the hole of a red-ant bed. The ants, annoyed, scurried about in all directionS.

Augustus laughed. Aus Frank had always been an original. In Waco, as he remembered, he had caused controversy because he never seemed to sleep. The lantern in his store would be on at all hours of the night, and the man would often be seen roaming the streets at three in the morning. Nobody knew what he was looking for, or if he found it.

"Now that's a new trick," Augustus said. "Spitting on ants. I guess that's all you've got to do besides haul bones."

Aus Frank resumed his walk, and Augustus followed along, amused at the strange turns life took. Soon they came down into the valley of the Canadian. Augustus was amazed to see an enormous pyramid of buffalo bones perhaps fifty yards from the water. The bones were piled so high, it seemed to him Aus Frank must have a ladder to use in his piling, though he saw no sign of one. Down the river a quarter of a mile there was another pyramid, just as large.

"Well, Aus, I see you've been busy," Augustus said. "You'll be so rich one of these days some bank will come along and rob you. Who do you sell these bones to?"

Aus Frank ignored the question. While Augustus watched, he pushed his wheelbarrow up to the bottom of the pyramid of bones and began to throw the bones as high as possible up the pyramid. Once or twice he got a leg bone or thigh bone all the way to the top, but most of the bones hit midway and stuck. In five minutes the big wheelbarrow was empty. Without a word Aus Frank took the wheelbarrow and started back across the prairie.

Augustus decided to rest while the old man worked. Such camp as there was was rudimentary. Aus had dug a little cave in one of the red bluffs south of the river, and his gear was piled in front of it. There was a buffalo gun and a few pots and pans, and that was it. The main crossing was a mile downriver, and Augustus rode down to inspect it before unsaddling. There were horse tracks galore, but not those he was looking for. He saw five pyramids of bones between the crossing and Aus Frank's camp, each containing several tons of bones.

Back at the camp, Augustus rested in the shade of the little bluff. Aus Frank continued to haul in bones until sundown. After pitching his last load up on the pyramid, he wheeled the barrow to his camp, turned it over and sat on it. He looked at Augustus for two or three minutes without saying anything.

"Well, are you going to invite me for supper or not?" Augustus asked.

"Never should have arrested me," Aus Frank said. "I don't like that goddamn bank."

"You didn't stay in jail but four hours," Augustus reminded him. "Now that I've seen how hard you work, I'd say you probably needed the rest. You could have studied English or something. I see you've learned it finally."

"I don't like the goddamn bank," Aus repeated.

"Let's talk about something else," Augustus suggested. "You're just lucky you didn't get shot on account of that bank. Me and Call were both fine shots in those days. The thicket was the only thing that saved you."

"They cheated me because I couldn't talk good," Aus Frank said.

"You got a one-track mind, Aus," Augustus said. "You and half of mankind. How long you been up here on the Canadian river?"

"I come five years," Aus said. "I want a store."

"That's fine, but you've outrun the people," Augustus said. "They won't be along for another ten years or so. I guess by then you'll have a helluva stock of buffalo bones. I just hope there's a demand for them."

"Had a wagon," Aus Frank said. "Got stole. Apaches got it."

"That so?" Augustus said. "I didn't know the Apaches lived around here."

"Over by the Pecos," Aus said. "I quit the mountains. Don't like snow."

"I'll pass on snow myself, when I have the option," Augustus said. "This is a lonely place you've settled in, though. Don't the Indians bother you?"

"They leave me be," Aus said. "That one you're hunting, he's a mean one. He kilt Bob. Built a fire under him and let him sizzle.

"He don't bother me, though," he added. "Kilt Bob and let me be."

"Bob who?"

"Old Bob, that I was in the mountains with," Aus said.

"Well, his burning days are over, if I find him," Augustus said.

"He's quick, Blue Duck," Aus said. "Has some Kiowas with him. They ate my dog."

"How many Kiowas?" Augustus asked.

"It was a big dog," Aus said. "Killed two wolves. I had a few sheep once but the Mexicans run them off."

"It's a chancy life out here on the plains," Augustus said. "I bet you get a nice breeze in the winter, too."

"Them Kiowas ate that dog," Aus repeated. "Good dog."

"Why ain't Blue Duck killed you?" Augustus asked.

"Laughs at me," Aus said. "Laughs at my bones. He says he'll kill me when he gets ready."

"How many Kiowas does he run around with?" Augustus asked again. The old man was evidently not used to having anyone to talk to. His remarks came out a little jerky.

"Six," Aus Frank said.

"Who's over at the Walls?" Augustus asked.

The old man didn't answer. Darkness had fallen, and Augustus could barely see him sitting on his wheelbarrow.

"No beaver in this river," Aus Frank said after several minutes.

"No, a beaver would be foolish to be in this river," Augustus said. "There ain't a tree within twenty miles, and beavers like to gnaw trees. You should have stayed up north if you like beavers."

"I'd rather gather these bones," the old man said. "You don't have to get your feet wet."

"Did you get to Montana when you was a beaverman?"

Augustus waited several minutes for a reply, but the old man never answered. When the moon came up, Augustus saw that he had fallen asleep sitting on his wheelbarrow, his head fallen over in his arms.

Augustus was tired and hungry. He lay where he was, thinking about food, but making no effort to get up and fix any, if there was any to be fixed. While he was thinking he ought to get up and eat, he fell asleep.

Deep in the night a sound disturbed him, and he came awake and drew his pistol. It was well on toward morning-he could tell that by the moon-but the sound was new to him.

Cautiously he turned over, only to see at once that the source of the sound was Aus Frank. He had risen in the night and collected another load of buffalo bones. Now he was heaving them up on the pyramid. The sound that had awakened Augustus was the sound of bones, clicking and rattling as they slid down the sides of the pyramid.

Augustus holstered his pistol and walked over to watch the old man.

"You're an unusual fellow, Aus," he said. "I guess you just work night and day. You should have partnered up with Woodrow Call. He's as crazy about work as you are. The two of you might own the world by now if you'd hooked up."

Aus Frank didn't respond. He had emptied the wheelbarrow, and he pushed it up the slope, away from the river.

Augustus caught his horse and rode east. On his way he saw Aus Frank again, working under the moonlight. He had plenty to work with, for the plain around was littered with buffalo bones. It looked as if a whole herd had been wiped out, for a road of bones stretched far across the plain.

He remembered when he had first come to the high plains, years before. For two days he and Call and the Rangers had ridden parallel to the great southern buffalo herd-hundreds of thousands of animals, slowly grazing north. It had been difficult to sleep at night because the horses were nervous around so many animals, and the sounds of the herd were constant. They had ridden for nearly a hundred miles and seldom been out of sight of buffalo.

Of course they had heard that the buffalo were being wiped out, but with the memory of the southern herd so vivid, they had hardly credited the news. Discussing it in Lonesome Dove they had decided that the reports must be exaggerated-thinned out, maybe, but not wiped out. Thus the sight of the road of bones stretching over the prairie was a shock. Maybe roads of bones were all that was left. The thought gave the very emptiness of the plains a different feel. With those millions of animals gone, and the Indians mostly gone in their wake, the great plains were truly empty, unpeopled and ungrazed.

Soon the whites would come, of course, but what he was seeing was a moment between, not the plains as they had been, or as they would be, but a moment of true emptiness, with thousands of miles of grass resting unused, occupied only by remnants-of the buffalo, the Indians, the hunters. Augustus thought they were crazed remnants, mostly, like the old mountain man who worked night and day gathering bones to no purpose.

"No wonder you never worked out in Waco, Aus," he said, speaking as much to himself as to the old man. Aus Frank was not in a talkative mood, or a listening mood either. He had filled his wheelbarrow and was heading back to camp.

"I'm going to the Walls to kill that big renegade for you," Augustus said. "Need anything?"

Aus Frank stopped, as if thinking it over.

"I wisht they hadn't killed that dog," he said. "I liked that dog. It was them Kiowas that killed it, not the Mexicans. Six Kiowas."

"Well, I got six bullets," Augustus said. "Maybe I'll send the rascals where your dog went."

"Them Kiowas shot Bob's horse," Aus added. "That's how come they caught him. Built a fire under him and cooked him. That's their way."

Then he lifted his wheelbarrow full of bones and walked off toward the Canadian river.

The light was just coming, the plains black in the distance, the sky gray where it met the land. Though dawn was his favorite hour, it was also an hour at which Augustus most keenly felt himself to be a fool. What was it but folly to be riding along the Canadian River alone, easy pickings for an outlaw gang, and hungry to boot? A chain of follies had put him there: Call's abrupt decision to become a cattleman and his own decision, equally abrupt, to try and rescue a girl foolish enough to be taken in by Jake Spoon. None of it was sensible, yet he had to admit there was something about such follies that he liked. The sensible way, which he had pursued once or twice in his life, had always proved boring, usually within a few days. In his case it had led to nothing much, just excessive drunkenness and reckless card playing. There was more enterprise in certain follies, it seemed to him.

As the sun lit the grass, he rode east along the road of buffalo bones.

55.

MONKEY JOHN HATED IT that she wouldn't talk. "By God, I'll cut your tongue out if you ain't gonna use it," he said once, and he knocked her down and sat on her, his big knife an inch from her face, until Dog Face threatened to shoot him if he didn't let her be. Lorena expected him to do it. He was the worst man she had ever known, worse even than Ermoke and the Kiowas, though they were bad enough. She shut her eyes, expecting to feel the knife, but Dog Face cocked his pistol and Monkey John didn't cut her. He continued to sit on her chest though, arguing with Dog Face about her silence.

"What do you care if she talks?" Dog Face said. "I wouldn't talk to you either, you goddamn old runt."

"She can talk, goddamn her," Monkey John said. "Duck said she talked to him."

"It's her business if she don't want to talk," Dog Face insisted. He was a thin scarecrow of a man, but he had crazy eyes, and Monkey John never pushed him too far.

"By God, we bought her," Monkey John said. "Give all them hides for her. She oughta do what we say."

"You get your damn money's worth," Dog Face said. "Most of them hides was mine anyway.

"You old runt," he added.

Monkey John was old and short. His hair was a dirty white and he was under five feet, but that didn't keep him from being mean. Twice he had grabbed sticks out of the fire and beat her with them. There was nothing she could do but curl up as tight as she could. Her back and legs were soon burned and bruised and she knew Monkey John would do worse than that if he ever got her alone long enough, but Dog Face owned half of her and he stuck close to be sure his investment didn't get too damaged.

Though she had seen Dog Face and Monkey John give Blue Duck the skins in trade for her, it seemed they weren't full owners, for whenever the Kiowas showed up, every two or three days, they drug her off to their camp for their share, and the two white men didn't try to stop them. There was no love lost between the white men and the Kiowas, but both sides were too afraid of Blue Duck to get into it with one another.

Blue Duck was the only man of the bunch who seemed to take no interest in her. He had stolen her to sell, and he had sold her. It was clear that he didn't care what they did to her. When he was in camp he spent his time cleaning his gun or smoking and seldom even looked her way. Monkey John was bad, but Blue Duck still scared her more. His cold, empty eyes frightened her more than Monkey John's anger or Dog Face's craziness. Blue Duck had scared the talk completely out of her. She had never been much for talk, but her silence in the camp was different from her old silence. In Lonesome Dove she had often hidden her words, but she could find them if she needed them; she had brought them out quick enough when Jake came along.

Now speech had left her; fear took its place. The two white men talked constantly of killing. Blue Duck didn't talk about it, but she knew he could do it whenever it pleased him. She didn't expect to live to the end of any day-only the fact that the men weren't tired of her yet kept her alive. When they did tire they would kill her. She thought about how it would happen but couldn't picture it in her mind. She only hoped it wasn't Blue Duck that finally did it. She was so dirty and stank so that it seemed strange the men would even want to use her, but of course they were even dirtier and stank worse. They camped not far from a creek, but none of the men ever washed. Monkey John told her several times what he would do to her if she tried to run away-terrible things, on the order of what Blue Duck had threatened, on the morning after he kidnapped her, only worse if possible. He said he would sew her up with rawhide threads so tight she couldn't make water and then would watch her till she burst.

Lorena tried to shut her mind when he talked like that. She knew the trick of not talking, and was learning not to hear. At night she wondered sometimes if she could just learn to die. She wanted to, and imagined how angry they would be if they woke up one morning and she was dead so they could get no more from her.

But she couldn't learn that trick. She thought of being dead, but she didn't die, and she didn't try to escape either. She didn't know where she was, for the plains stretched around, empty and bare, as far as she could see. They had horses and they would catch her and do something to her, or else give her to the Kiowas. Monkey John threatened that too, describing what the Kiowas would do if they got the chance. At night that was mostly what the men talked about-what the Indians did to people they caught. She believed it. Often with the Kiowas she felt a deep fright come over her. They did what they wanted with her but it wasn't enough-she could see them looking at her after they finished, and the looks made her more scared even than the things Monkey John threatened. The Kiowas just looked, but there was something in their looks that made her wish she could be dead and not have to think about it.

Blue Duck came and went. Some days he would be there at the camp, sharpening his knife. Other days he would ride off. Sometimes the Kiowas went with him, other days they sat around their camp doing nothing. Monkey John swore at them, but the Kiowas didn't listen. They laughed at the old man and gave him looks of the sort they gave Lorena. It wasn't only women they could do things to.

One day the Kiowas found a crippled cow, left by some herd. The cow had a split hoof and could barely hobble along on three legs. The Kiowas poked it with their lances and got it in sight of camp. Then one hit it in the head with an ax and the cow fell dead. The Kiowas split open the cow's stomach and began to pull out her guts. They sliced off strips of the white guts and squeezed out what was in them, eating it greedily. That's what he said he'd do to me, Lorena thought. Pull out my guts like that cow.

"Look at them dern gut eaters," Dog Face said. "I'd be derned if I'd eat guts raw."

"You might if you was hungry," Monkey John said.

"They ain't hungry, they got the whole cow," Dog Face pointed out.

If there was hope for her, Lorena knew it lay with Dog Face. He was rough and crazy, but he wasn't hard like the old man. He might cuff her if she disappointed him, but he didn't beat her with hot sticks or kick her stomach like the old man did. At times she caught Dog Face looking at her in a friendly way. He was getting so he didn't like Monkey John to hurt her or even touch her. He was cautious about what he said, for the old man would flare up in an instant, but when Monkey John bothered her, Dog Face got restless and would often take his gun and leave the camp. Monkey John didn't care-he played with her roughly whether anyone was in camp or not.

One night Blue Duck rode in from one of his mysterious trips with some whiskey, which he dispensed freely both to the two white men and to the Kiowas. Blue Duck drank with them, but not much, whereas in an hour Monkey John, Dog Face and the Kiowas were very drunk. It was a hot night but they built a big campfire and sat around it, passing the bottle from hand to hand.

Lorena began to feel frightened. Blue Duck had not so much as looked at her, but she felt something was about to happen. He had several bottles of whiskey, and as soon as the men finished one he handed them another. Monkey John was particularly sloppy when he drank. The whiskey ran out of the corners of his mouth and into his dirty beard. Once he stood up and made water without even turning his back.

"You could go off aways," Dog Face said. "I don't want to sit in your piss."

The old man continued to make water, most of it hitting the campfire and making a spitting sound, but some splattering on the ground near where Dog Face sat.

"I could but I ain't about to," the old man said. "Scoot back if you're afraid of a little piss."

Blue Duck spread a blanket near the fire and began to roll dice on it. The Kiowas immediately got excited. Ermoke grabbed the dice and rolled them several times. Each of the Kiowas had a try, but Monkey John scoffed at their efforts.

"Them gut eaters can't throw dice," he said.

"You better be quiet," Blue Duck said. "Ermoke wouldn't mind frying your liver."

"He tries it and I'll blow a hole in him you could catch rain water through," Monkey John said.

"Let's gamble," Blue Duck said. "I ain't had a game in a while."

"Gamble for what?" Dog Face asked. "All I got is my gun and I'd be in pretty shape without that. Or my horses."

"Put up your horses then," Blue Duck said. "You might win."

Dog Face shook his head.

"I don't know much," Dog Face said. "But I know better than to bet my dern horses. There ain't nowhere to walk to from this Canadian that a man can get to on foot."

Yet an hour later he lost his horses to Blue Duck. Monkey John lost his on the first roll. Before long Blue Duck had won all the horses, though many of the Indians were so drunk they hardly seemed to know what was happening.

Blue Duck had a heavy, square face-he kept shaking the dice in his big hand. Sometimes he would play with a strand of his shaggy hair, as a girl would. Sometimes Lorena thought maybe she could grab a gun and shoot him-the men left their rifles laying around. But the gun hadn't worked when she tried to shoot Tinkersley, and if she tried to shoot Blue Duck and didn't kill him she would be in for it. She might be in for it anyway, though it seemed to her the men were scared of him too. Even Monkey John was cautious when Blue Duck was around. They might be glad to see him dead. She didn't try it. It was because she was so frightened of him that she wanted to, yet the same fright kept her from it.

"Well, now I've won the livestock," Blue Duck said. "Or most of it."

"Most of it, hell, you've won it all," Monkey John said. "We're stuck on this goddamn river."

"I ain't won the girl," Blue Duck said.

"A woman ain't livestock," Dog Face said.

"This one is," Blue Duck said. "I've bought and sold better animals than her many times."

"Well, she's ours," Monkey John said.

"She's just half yours," Blue Duck reminded him. "Ermoke and his boys own a half interest."

"We was aiming to buy them out," Dog Face said.

Blue Duck laughed his heavy laugh. "By the time you raise the money, there won't be much left to buy," he said. "You'd do better to buy a goat."

"Don't want no goddamn goat," Dog Face said. He was nervous about the turn the conversation was taking.

"Let's gamble some more," Blue Duck said, shaking the dice at Ermoke. "Bet me your half interest in the woman. If you win I'll let you have your horses back."

Ermoke shook his head, looking at Lorena briefly across the camp fire.

"No," he said. "We want the woman."

"Come on, let's gamble," Blue Duck said, a threatening tone in his voice. All the Kiowas looked at him. The two white men kept quiet.

The Kiowas began to argue among themselves. Lorena didn't understand their gabble, but it was clear some wanted to gamble and some didn't. Some wanted their horses back. Ermoke finally changed his mind, though he kept looking across the fire at her. It was as if he wanted her to know he had his plans for her, however the game turned out.

All the Kiowas finally agreed to gamble except one, the youngest. He didn't want it. He was skinny and very young-looking, no more than sixteen, but he was more interested in her than the rest. Sometimes, in the Kiowa camp, he had two turns, or even three. The older men laughed at his appetite and tried to distract him when he covered her, but he ignored them.

Now he balked. He didn't look up, just kept his eyes down and shook his head. The Kiowas yelled at him but he didn't respond. He just kept shaking his head. He didn't want to risk his interest in her.

"That damn chigger's holding up the game," Blue Duck said to Ermoke. He stood up and walked a few steps into the darkness. In a minute, they heard him making water. The Kiowas were still drinking whiskey. Now Ermoke was in the mood to gamble, and he reached over and shook the young man, trying to get him to agree, but the young man looked sullenly at the ground.

Suddenly there was a shot, startling them all, and the young man flopped backwards. Blue Duck stepped back into the firelight, a rifle in his hands. The Indians were speechless. Blue Duck sat down, the rifle across his lap, and rattled the dice again. The young Indian's feet were still in the light, but the feet didn't move.

"By God, life's cheap up here on the gaddamn Canadian," Monkey John said.

"Cheap, and it might get cheaper," Blue Duck said.

Then the gambling started again. The dead boy was ignored. In a few minutes Blue Duck had won her back-not only what the Indians owned but what the white men owned too. Dog Face didn't want to play, but he also didn't want to die. He played and lost, and so did Monkey John.

"I think you're a goddamn cheat," Monkey John said, drunk enough to be reckless. "I think you cheated me out of our horses, and now you've cheated us out of this woman."

"I don't want the woman," Blue Duck said. "You men can have her back as a gift, and your horses too, provided you do me one favor."

"I bet it's a hell of a big favor," Dog Face said. "What do you want us to do, attack a fort?"

Blue Duck chuckled. "There's an old man following me," he said. "He went west, but he'll be coming along one of these days. I want you to kill him.

"Hear that, Ermoke?" he added. "You can have your horses back, and the woman too. Just kill that old man. I hear he's coming down the river."

"I'd like to know who you hear it from?" Monkey John asked.

"He's been following me ever since I stole the woman," Blue Duck said. "He ain't no tracker, though. He went off across the Quitaque. But now he's figured it out and he'll be coming."

"By God, he must want her bad, to come all this way," Monkey John said.

"Kill him tomorrow," Blue Duck said, looking at Ermoke. "Take some of the horses and go find some help."

Ermoke was drunk and angry. "We do it," he said. "Then we take the woman."

"The hell you will," Dog Face said. "We're in on this and she's half ours, and you ain't taking her nowhere."

"You shut up, or I'll kill you like I killed that chigger," Blue Duck said.

"You get some help," he said again, looking at Ermoke. "I doubt you five can kill that old man."

"Hell, what is he?" Monkey John said. "Five against one's nice odds."

"These five can't shoot," Blue Duck said. "They can whoop and holler, but they can't shoot. That old man can."

"That makes a difference," Dog Face agreed. "I can shoot. If he gets past Ermoke, I'll finish him."

"Somebody better settle him," Blue Duck said. "Otherwise you'll all be dead."

The Kiowas stood up and drug the dead boy away. Lorena heard them arguing in the darkness. Blue Duck sat where he was, his rifle across his lap; he seemed half asleep.

Monkey John got up and came over to her. "Who is this old man?" he asked. "You got a husband?"

Lorena stayed in her silence. It infuriated Monkey John. He grabbed her by the hair and cuffed her, knocking her over. Then he grabbed a stick of wood and was about to beat her with it when Dog Face intervened.

"Put it down," he said. "You've beat her enough."

"Let her answer me then," Monkey John said. "She can talk. Duck says so."

Dog Face picked up his rifle. Monkey John still had the stick.

"You'd pull a gun on me over a whore?" Monkey John said.

"I ain't gonna shoot you but I'll break your head if you don't let her be," Dog Face said.

Monkey John was too drunk to listen. He charged Dog Face and swung the stick at him but Dog Face wasn't as drunk. He hit Monkey John with the barrel of his rifle. The old man went loop-legged and dropped his stick. Then he dropped, too, falling on the stick.

"I'd have let him beat her," Blue Duck said.

"I ain't you," Dog Face said.

In the night Lorena tried to sort it out in her mind. She had been hungry so much, tired so much, scared so much, that her mind didn't work well anymore. Sometimes she would try to remember something and couldn't-it was as if her mind and memory had gone and hidden somewhere until things were better. Dog Face had given her an old blanket; otherwise she would have had to sleep on the ground in what was left of her clothes. She wrapped the blanket around her and tried to think back over the talk. It meant Gus was coming-it was Gus Blue Duck wanted the Kiowas to kill. She had almost forgotten be was following her, life had gotten so hard. The Kiowas had been sent to kill him, so Gus might never arrive. It was hard to believe that Gus would get her out-the times when she had known him had been so different from the hard times. She didn't think she would ever get out. Blue Duck was too bad. Dog Face was her only chance, and Dog Face was scared of Blue Duck. Sooner or later Blue Duck would give her to Ermoke or someone just as hard. If that was going to happen it was better that her mind had gone to hide.

In the gray dawn she saw the Kiowas leave. Blue Duck talked to them in Indian talk and gave them some bullets to kill Gus with. He woke Dog Face and shook Monkey John more or less awake. "If he gets past Ermoke, you two kill him," he said. Then he left.

Monkey John looked awful. He had a bloody lump on his head, and a hangover. He had slept with his face in the dirt all night and an ant had stung him several times, leaving one eye swollen nearly shut. He got to his feet but he could hardly stand.

"How's he think I can shoot?" he asked Dog Face. "I can't see but from one eye, and it's the wrong eye."

"Put some mud on it, it's just ant bites," Dog Face said. He was cleaning his gun.

56.

AUGUSTUS WAS A LITTLE put out with himself for doing such a poor job of tracking. He had gambled on Blue Duck heading west, when in fact he had crossed the Red and gone straight north. It was the kind of gamble Call would never take. Call would have tracked all the way, or let Deets track.

The country near the Canadian was rough and broken, and he dropped south to where the plains flattened out. He wanted to spare his horse as much as possible.

He rode east all morning, a bad feeling in his heart. He had meant to catch Blue Duck within a day, but he hadn't. The renegade had out-traveled him. It would have been rough on Lorie, such traveling. He should have borrowed Call's mare, but the thought hadn't occurred to him until too late. By this time Lorie could be dead, or ruined. He had helped recover several captives from the Comanches in his rangering days, and often the recovery came too late if the captives were women. Usually their minds were gone and they were only interested in dying, which they mostly did once they got back to people who would let them die.

He was thinking about Lorie when the Indians broke for him. Where they had hidden he didn't know, for he was in the center of a level plain. He first heard a little cutting sound as bullets zipped into the grass, ten yards from his horse. Later, the sound of bullets cutting grass was more distinct in his memory than the sounds of shots. Before he really heard the shots he had his horse in a dead run, heading south. It seemed to him there were ten or twelve Indians, but he was more concerned with outrunning them than with getting a count. But within minutes he knew he wasn't going to be able to outrun them. He had pushed his horse too hard and soon was steadily losing ground.

There was plenty of ground to lose, too. He had hoped for a creek or a bank or a gully-something he could get down into and make his stand-but he was on the flat prairie as far as the eye could see. He contemplated turning and trying to charge through them; if he killed three or four they might get discouraged. But if there was even one man among them with any sense they'd just shoot the horse, and there he'd be.

He glimpsed something white on the prairie slightly to the east and headed for it-it turned out just to be more buffalo bones, another place where a sizable herd of animals had been slaughtered. As Augustus raced through the bones he saw a wallow, a place where many buffalo had laid down and rolled in the dirt. It was only a slight depression on the plain, not more than a foot deep, but he decided it was the best he was going to get. The Indians were barely a minute behind him. He jumped down, pulled his rifle and cartridge rolls clear of the horse and dropped them in the buffalo wallow. Then he drew his knife, wrapped the bridle reins tightly around one hand, and jabbed the knife into the horse's neck, slashing the jugular vein. Blood poured out and the horse leaped and plunged desperately but Augustus held on, though sprayed with blood. When the horse fell, he managed to turn him so that the horse lay across one end of the wallow, his blood pumping out into the dust. Once the horse tried to rise, but Augustus jerked him back and he didn't try again.

It was a desperate trick, but the only one he could think of that increased his chances-most horses shied from the smell of fresh blood. He needed the horse for a breastworks anyway and could have shot him, but he had saved a bullet, and the blood smell might work for him.

As soon as he was sure the horse was beyond rising, he picked up his rifle. The Indians were shooting, though still far out of effective range. Again he heard the zing of bullets cutting the prairie grass. Augustus rested the rifle barrel across the dying horse's withers and waited. The Indians were yelling as they raced down on him-one or two carried lances, but those were mainly for show, or to puncture him with if they caught him alive.

Sure enough, when they were fifty or sixty yards away, their horses caught the first whiffs of fresh blood, still pumping from the torn throat of the dying horse. They slowed and began to rear and shy, and as they did, Augustus started shooting. The Indians were dismayed; they flailed at the horses with their rifles, but the horses were spooked. Two stopped dead and Augustus immediately shot their riders. He could have asked for no better target than an Indian stopped fifty yards away on a horse that wouldn't move. The two men dropped and lay still. Augustus replaced the two cartridges and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The blood had bought him a chance-without it he would have been overrun and killed, no matter how fast or well he had shot. Now the Indians were trying to force their horses into a charge, but it wasn't working-the horses kept swerving and shying. Some tried to circle to the south, and when they turned, Augustus shot two more.Then one Indian did a gallant thing-he threw a blanket over his horse's head and got the confused horse to charge blind. The man seemed to be the leader; at least he carried the longest lance. He charged at the wallow, rifle in one hand, lance in the other, though when he tried to lever the rifle with one hand he dropped it. Augustus almost laughed, but the Indian kept up the charge with only a lance, a brave thing. Augustus shot him when he was no more than thirty feet away; he let him get that close in hopes of grabbing his horse. The Indian fell dead, but the horse shied away and Augustus didn't feel he could afford to chase him.

The remaining Indians were discouraged. Five Indians were dead, and the battle not five minutes old. Augustus replaced his cartridges and killed a sixth as the Indians were retreating. He might have got one or two more, but decided against risking long shots when his situation was so chancy. There might be more Indians available nearby, though he considered it unlikely. Probably they had charged with all they had-in which case he had killed half of them.

With no shooting to do for a little while, Augustus took stock of the situation and decided the worst part of it was that he had no one to talk to. He had been within a minute or two of death, which could not be said to be boring, exactly-but even desperate battle was lacking in something if there was no one to discuss it with. What had made battle interesting over the years was not his opponents but his colleagues. It was fascinating, at least to him, to see how the men he had fought with most often reacted to the stimulus of attack.

Pea Eye, for example, was mostly concerned with not running out of bullets. He was extremely conservative in his choice of targets, so conservative that he often spent a whole engagement sighting at people but never pulling the trigger.

"Could have wasted a shell," he said, if someone pointed this out to him. It was true that when he did shoot he rarely missed, but that was because he rarely shot at anything over thirty yards away.

Call was interesting to observe in a battle too. It took a fight to bring out the fighter in him, and a fighter was mostly what he was. Call was a great attacker. Once the enemy was sighted, he liked to go after them, and would often do so in defiance of the odds. He might plan elaborately before a battle, but once it was joined his one desire was to close with the enemy and destroy him. Call had destruction in him and would go on killing when there was no need. Once his blood heated, it was slow to cool. Call himself had never been beaten for good-only death could accomplish that-and he reasoned that if an enemy was alive he wasn't beaten either-not for good.

Augustus knew that reasoning wasn't accurate-men could get enough of fighting and turn from it. Some would do almost anything to avoid the fear it produced.

Deets understood that. He would never fire on a fleeing man, whereas Call would pursue a man fifty miles and kill him if the man had attacked him. Deets fought carefully and shrewdly-he would have known the trick about fresh blood. But Deets's great ability was in preventing ambushes. He would seem to feel them coming, often a day or two early, when he could have had no particular clues. "How'd you know?" they would ask him and Deets would have no answer. "Just knew," he said.

The six remaining Indians had retreated well beyond rifle range, but they weren't gone. He could see them holding council, but they were three hundred yards away and the heat waves created a wavery mirage between him and them.

Unless there were more Indians, Augustus didn't consider that he was in a particularly serious situation. It was hot and the blowflies were already buzzing over the horse blood, but those were trivial discomforts. He had filled his canteen that morning, and the Canadian was no more than ten miles to the north. More than likely the Indians would decide they had missed their big chance and go away. They might try to get him at night, but he didn't plan to be there. Come dark he would head for the river.

All afternoon the six Indians stayed where they were. Occasionally they would fire a shot his way, hoping to get lucky. Finally one rode off to the east, returning about an hour later with a white man who set up a tripod and began to shoot at him with a fifty-caliber buffalo gun.

That was an inconvenient development. Augustus had to hastily dig himself a shallow hole on the other side of the horse, where the blood and the blowflies were worse. They were not worse, though, than the impact of a fifty-caliber bullet, several of which hit the horse in the next hour. Augustus kept digging. Fortunately the man was not a par ticularly good shot-many of the bullets sang overhead, though one or two hit his saddle and ricocheted.

Once when the buffalo hunter was reloading, Gus took a quick shot at him, raising his barrel to compensate for the range. The shot missed the white man but wounded one of the Indian horses. The horse's scream unnerved the shooter, who moved his tripod back another fifty yards. Augustus kept low and waited for darkness, which was only another hour away.

The shooter kept him pinned until full dark-but as soon as it was too dark to shoot, Augustus yanked his saddle loose from the dead mount and walked west, stopping to take what bullets he could salvage from the men he had killed. None had many, but one had a fairly good rifle, and Augustus took it as insurance. He hated carrying the saddle, but it was a shield of sorts; if he got caught in open country it might be the only cover he would have.

While he was going from corpse to corpse collecting ammunition, he was startled to hear the sudden rattle of shots from the east. That was puzzling. Either the Indians had fallen to fighting among themselves or someone else had come on the scene. Then the shots ceased and he heard the sound of running horses-the Indians leaving, most probably.

This new development put him in a quandary. He was prepared for a good hard walk to the river, carrying a heavy saddle, but if there were strangers around they might be friendly, and he might not have to carry the saddle. Possibly the scout for a cattle herd had stumbled into the little group of hostiles, though the main trail routes lay to the east.

At any rate, he didn't feel he should ignore the possibility, so he turned back toward the shooting. There was still a little light in the sky, though it was dark on the ground. From time to time Augustus stopped to listen and at first heard nothing: the plains were still.

The third time he stopped, he thought he heard voices. They were faint, but they were white, an encouraging sign. He went cautiously toward them, trying to make as little noise as possible. It was hard to carry a saddle without it creaking some, but he was afraid to put it down for fear he could not find his way back to it in the dark. Then he heard a horse snort and another horse jingle his bit. He was getting close. He stopped to wait for the moon to rise. When it did, he moved a little closer, hoping to see something. Instead he heard what sounded like a subdued argument.

"We don't know how many there is," one voice said. "There could be five hundred Indians around here, for all we know."

"I can go find them," another voice said. It was a girlish voice, which surprised him.

"You hush," the first voice said. "Just because you can catch varmints don't mean you can sneak up on Indians."

"I could find 'em," the girlish voice insisted.

"They'll find you and make soup of you if you ain't lucky," was the reply.

"I don't think there's no five hundred," a third voice said. "I don't think there's five hundred Indians left in this part of the country."

"Well, if there was even a hundred, we'd have all we could do," the first voice pointed out.

"I'd like to know who they were shooting at when we rode up," the other man said. "I don't believe it was buffalo, though I know it was a buffalo gun."

Augustus decided he wouldn't get a better opportunity than that, so he cleared his throat and spoke in the loudest tones he could muster without actually shouting.

"They were shooting at me," he said. "I'm Captain McCrae, and I'm coming in."

He took a few steps to the side when he said it, for he had known men to shoot from reflex when they were frightened. Nothing was more dangerous than walking into the camp of a bunch of men who had their nerves on edge.

"Don't get nervous and shoot, I'm friendly," he said, just as he saw the outline of their horses against the sky.

"I hate this walking around in the dark," he added loudly-not that it was much of an observation. It was designed to keep the strangers from getting jumpy.

Then he saw four people standing by the horses. It was too dark to tell much about any of them, but he dumped the saddle on the ground and went over to shake hands.

"Howdy," he said, and the men shook hands, though none of them had yet said anything. The surprise of his appearance had evidently left them speechless.

"Well, here we are," Augustus said. "I'm Augustus McCrae and I'm after an outlaw named Blue Duck. Have you seen any sign of the man?

"No, we just got here," one of the men said.

"I know about him, though," July said. "My name is July Johnson. I'm sheriff from Fort Smith, Arkansas, and this is my deputy, Roscoe Brown."

"July Johnson?" Augustus asked.

"Yes," July said.

"By God, that's a good one," Augustus said. "We were expecting you down in Lonesome Dove, and here you are practically in Kansas. If you're still after Jake Spoon, you've missed him by about three hundred miles."

"I have more urgent business," July said rather solemnly.

To Augustus he seemed young, although it was hard to tell in the dark. Mainly it was his voice that seemed young.

"I see you brought family," Augustus said. "Most lawmen don't travel with their children. Or did you pick up these two sprats along the way?"

Nobody answered. They simply stood, as if the question was too complicated for an answer.

"Did the Indians kill your horse?" July asked.

"No, I killed him," Augustus said. "Used him for a fort. There ain't much to hide behind on these plains. I heard shooting. Did you kill any more of them bucks?"

"Don't think so," July said. "I might have hit the buffalo hunter. We never expected to find Indians."

"I killed six this afternoon," Augustus said. "I think there was twelve to begin with, not counting the buffalo hunter. I expect they work for Blue Duck. He stole a woman and I'm after him. I think he sent them bucks to slow me down."

"I hope there ain't too much of a bunch," Roscoe said. "I never kilt one before."

In fact he had never killed anyone before, or even given the possibility much thought. Sudden death was not unknown in Fort Smith, but it was not common, either. It had been a big shock when the Indians turned their guns on them and began to shoot at them. Not until he saw July draw his rifle and start firing did it dawn on him that they were under attack. He had hastily drawn his pistol and shot several times-it had not affected the Indians but it angered July.

"You're just wasting bullets, they're way out of pistol range," he said. But then the Indians ran, so it didn't matter so much.

"What's your plan, Mr. Johnson?" Augustus asked politely. "If your business is urgent you might not want to slow down long enough to help me catch this Blue Duck."

That was true. July didn't want to slow down at all until he found Elmira. If he had been alone, he would have traveled twenty hours a day and rested four. But he was hardly alone. Roscoe was nervous as a cat and spent all day talking about his worries. Joe didn't complain, but the hard traveling had worn him out and he rode along in a doze most of the time and slept like a dead thing when they stopped.

The only one who didn't suffer from the pace was Janey, who mainly walked. July had to admit that she was unusually helpful. When they stopped, she did whatever chores there were to do without being asked. And she was always up and ready to leave when he was, whereas Joe and Roscoe were so sluggish in the morning that it took them half an hour just to get their horses saddled.

Now, out of the blue, a Texas Ranger had showed up-one of the very ones who had partnered with Jake Spoon. He was afoot and a long way from help, and they couldn't just ride off and leave him. Besides, there were hostile Indians around, which made the whole situation more worrisome.

"I haven't planned, very much," July said honestly. "Seems like every time I make a plan something happens to change it."

"Well, life's a twisting stream," Augustus said. "Speaking of which, the Canadian river ain't but a short way to the north. Them bucks are probably camped somewhere on it."

"What would you advise?" July asked. "You know the country."

"It's a steep-banked river," Augustus said. "If we have to fight Indians we'd be in a lot better position there than out on this plain."

"You say the man stole a woman?" July asked.

"Yes," Augustus said. "A girl who was traveling with us."

"We best go on to the river, I guess," July said. "You can ride with me and Roscoe can tote your saddle."

"If this boy ain't armed, maybe he'd like a rifle," Augustus said. "One of them bucks I shot had a pretty good Winchester, and this boy looks old enough to shoot."

He handed the rifle to Joe, who was so stunned by the gift that he could barely say thank you. "Is it loaded already?" he asked, rubbing the smooth stock with one hand.

"You dern right it's loaded," Augustus said. "Just make sure you shoot one of them, and not one of us."

He climbed up behind July and they all rode north. Joe felt intensely proud, now that he was armed. He kept one hand on the stock of the rifle, expecting that any minute the Indians might attack.

But the ride to the river was uneventful. It seemed they had not been riding long before they saw the silver band of the river in the moonlight. July stopped so abruptly that Joe almost bumped into his horse. He and Mr. McCrae were looking at something downriver. At first Joe couldn't see anything to look at, but then he noticed a tiny flame of light, far downriver.

"That'd be them," Augustus said. "I guess they ain't worried about us, or they wouldn't be so bold with their campfire. They don't know it, but the wrath of the Lord is about to descend upon them. I dislike bold criminals of whatever race, and I believe I'll go see that they pay their debts."

"I'd best go with you," July said. "You don't know how many there are."

"Let's go make camp," Augustus said. "Then we'll think it out."

They rode upriver a mile, stopping where the mouth of a canyon sloped down to the riverbed.

"This is as good as we'll get," Augustus said. "What I'd like is the loan of a horse for the night. I'll have him back by breakfast, and maybe a few others to boot."

"You want to go at them alone?" July asked.

"It's my job," Augustus said. "I doubt there's many of them. I just hope Blue Duck is there."

Roscoe could not believe what he was hearing. He felt very scared as it was, and yet this stranger was preparing to ride off by himself.

"Why, there could be ten of them," he said. "Do you think you could kill ten men?"

"They're easier to scare at night," Augustus said. "I expect I'll just run most of them off. But I do intend to kill Mr. Duck if I see him. He's stole his last woman."

"I think I ought to go," July said. "I could be of some help. Roscoe can stay here with the young ones."

"No, I'd rather you stay with your party, Mr. Johnson," Augustus said. "I'd feel better about it in my mind. You've got an inexperienced deputy and two young people to think about. Besides, you said you had urgent business. These things are chancy. You might stop a bullet and never get your business finished."

"I think I ought to go," July said. It was in his mind that Ellie could even be in the camp. Somebody could have stolen her as easily as the Texas woman. The whiskey traders wouldn't have put up much fight. Of course, it wasn't likely she was there, but then what was likely anymore? He felt he ought to have a look, at least.

In any case, the man could use help, and it should be no great risk to leave Roscoe and the young ones in camp for a few hours. They all needed the rest.

Augustus realized he could probably use help, since he didn't know how many men he was facing. However, he didn't have a high opinion of the average man's ability as a fighter. The majority of men couldn't fight at all and even most outlaws were the merest amateurs when it came to battle. Few could shoot well, and even fewer had any mind for strategy.

The problem was that Blue Duck was evidently one of the few who could think. He had planned the theft of Lorena perfectly. Also, he had survived twenty years or more in a rough country, at a rough game, and could be expected to be formidable, if he was around.

But probably he wasn't there. Probably he had sold the woman and left, sending a few Kiowas down the trail to take care of whoever came along. It would likely just be a matter of shooting down two or three renegade buffalo hunters who had been too lazy to find honest work once the herds petered out.

Augustus was undecided as to whether he would be better off by himself or with a country sheriff from Arkansas. All he knew about the sheriff was that Jake Spoon had run from him, which wasn't much to go on. The young man had had no experience with plains fighting and perhaps not much with any fighting. There was no telling if he could even take care of himself in a scrape. If he couldn't, he would be better left-but then, who would know until the fighting started?

"What happens to us if you two both get kilt?" Roscoe asked. It was a question that loomed large in his mind.

"Head back southeast as fast as you can," Augustus said. "Once you make it down below the Red River you'll probably be all right. If you go east a ways you ought to run into some herds."

"Why, we'll be back," July said. "I ought to go help Captain McCrae, but we'll be back."

Augustus didn't feel right about it, but he made no further effort to stop July Johnson. They let the horses rest for an hour, then put Augustus's saddle on Roscoe's big gelding, and left. When they rode up on the ridge above the river they saw again the little spark of light to the east, and made for it.

"If it ain't prying, what is this urgent business you're on?" Augustus asked.

July was hesitant about answering. Roscoe and Joe had both looked at him strangely as he left, and the look bothered him. It was as if both of them were his children-both looked to him for care. Only Janey seemed comfortable being left on the Canadian.

"Well, sir, it's my wife," July said. "She's gone from home. It might be that she got stolen too."

Augustus felt that was interesting. They were both chasing women across the plains. He said no more. A man whose wife had left was apt to be sore about it and touchy. He changed the subject at once.

"It was your brother Jake shot?" he asked.

"Yes," July said. "I guess it was accidental, hut I've got to take him back. Only I'd like to find Elmira first."

They rode in silence for seven or eight miles over broken country. Augustus was thinking what a curious man Jake Spoon was, that he would let a woman be stolen and just go on playing cards, or whatever he was doing.

Every time they topped a ridge and saw the tiny flame of the campfire, July tried to calm himself, tried to remind himself that it would be almost a miracle if Elmira were there. Yet he couldn't help hoping. Sometimes he felt so bad about things that he didn't know if he could keep going much longer without knowing where she was.

Finally, with the camp not more than a mile away, Augustus drew rein. He dismounted to listen. In the still night, on the open plain, voices could carry a ways, and he might be able to get a sense of how many they were up against.

July dismounted, too, and waited for Augustus to tell him what the plan was. They were oniy a hundred yards from the river, and while they were listening they heard something splash through the water downstream from where they stood.

"It could be a buffalo," July whispered. "We seen a few."

"More likely a horse," Augustus said. "Buffalo wouldn't cross that close to camp."

He looked at the young man, worried by the nervousness in his voice. "Have you done much of this kind of thing, Mr. Johnson?" he asked.

"No," July admitted. "I ain't done none. About the worst we get in Arkansas are robbers."

"Let's walk our horses a little closer," Augustus said. "Don't let 'em whinny. If we can get within a hundred yards of their camp we're in good shape. Then I favor charging right into them. They'll hear us before they see us, which will scare them, and we'll be on them before they have time to think. Use your handgun and save your rifle-this'll be close-range work. If there's any left, we'll turn and make a second run at them."

"We mustn't trample the women," July said.

"We won't," Augustus said. "Have you ever killed?"

"No," July said. "I've never had to."

I wish you'd stayed with your party, Augustus thought, but he didn't say it.

57.

DOG FACE WAS DYING, and he knew it. A bullet had hit a rib and turned downward into his gut. The bullet hadn't come out, and nobody was trying to get it out, either. He lay on a saddle blanket in his death sweat, and all Blue Duck wanted to know was how many men there had been in the party that shot him.

"Three horses," one of the Kiowas said, but Dog Face couldn't remember if it had been two or three.

"It was gettin' dark," he said. One whole side of his body was wet with blood. He wanted to see the girl, but Blue Duck squatted by his side, blocking his view.

"You never hit McCrae?" he asked.

"He forted up behind his horse," Dog Face said. "I might have put one in him. I don't know."

"We'll kill him tomorrow," Monkey John said. "He ain't got no horse and maybe he's crippled."

"I doubt it," Blue Duck said. "I expect tomorrow he'll walk in and finish the rest of you, unless he does it tonight."

"I hurt bad," Dog Face said. "Go on and shoot me."

Blue Duck laughed. "You won't catch me wasting a bullet on you," he said. "Monkey can cut your damn throat if he wants to."

But Monkey wouldn't come near him. Monkey John was worried, and so were the Kiowas. They all kept cocking and uncocking their pistols. They asked for whiskey, but Blue Duck wouldn't give them any.

Dog Face looked at the girl. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. Blue Duck went and saddled his horse. When he came back to the fire he kicked the girl. He kicked her several times, until she fell over and lay curled up.

"What'd she do?" Dog Face asked.

Blue Duck walked over and kicked him in the side, causing him to scream with pain and roll off the blanket.

"Mind your own goddamn business," Blue Duck said.

"You gonna leave?" Monkey John asked nervously.

"That's right," Blue Duck said. "I aim to look for a better crew. The whole bunch of you couldn't kill one man. You never even attacked that second bunch. It was probably just a cowboy or two."

Dog Face tried to roll back on his blanket, but his strength was gone. The Kiowas had already taken his gun and divided his ammunition among themselves, so he couldn't even shoot himself. He had a razor in his pack and might have managed to cut his own throat, but his pack was on the other side of the fire and he knew he would never be able to crawl to it.

Blue Duck kicked Lorena twice more. "You ain't worth selling," Blue Duck said. "The Kiowas can have you."

"What about me?" Monkey John asked. "What about my half interest?"

"I won back your half interest," Blue Duck said. "I won the Kiowas' half too."

"Then how come you're giving her to the goddamn Kiowas?" Monkey John said. "Give her to me."

"No, I want them to carve her up," Blue Duck said. "It might put some spirit in them, so they can go out tomorrow and run that old Ranger to ground."

"Hell, I'm as mean as they are," Monkey John said. "I can finish him, if he comes around here."

Blue Duck mounted. "You ain't half as mean as they are," he said. "And if McCrae comes around here you better step quick or you'll be plugged. He got Ermoke, and Ermoke was three times the fighter you are."

He opened his pack, took out a bottle of whiskey and pitched it to the Indians. Then he said something to them in their language and rode away toward the river.

Lorena lay where she had fallen, listening to Dog Face moan. With each breath he let out a throaty moan. His wound had bloody bubbles on it. Lorena got up on her hands and knees and vomited from fear. The Kiowas were all looking at her as they drank. She wanted to run but felt too weak. Anyway, they would soon catch her if she ran. She crawled away from the vomit and sank back, too tired and scared to move. Monkey John sat back from the fire, clutching his rifle. He didn't even look at her-he wouldn't help her. She was just in for it.

"Help her, Monkey," Dog Face said weakly.

"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 organs into 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. Lorena had her face in her arms, but she could still hear him moan and gurgle for breath. She wished he would die-it shouldn't take so long just to die.

She expected any minute they would fall on her, but they didn't. What they had done to Dog Face put them in a good mood, and they passed around the whiskey bottle.

Monkey John was probably as scared as she was. He sat silently by the fire, his rifle in his hands, pulling at his dirty beard. Once in a while the Kiowas would jabber at him in their own language, but he didn't answer.

Lying with her face almost on the ground, she was the first to hear the horses-only she didn't really know what it was, or take any hope from it. It was something running-maybe Blue Duck was coming back to reclaim her.

The Kiowas, singing and drinking, two with bloody knives still in their hands, didn't hear the running, but Monkey John suddenly heard it. He jumped to his feet and raised his rifle, but before he could fire she heard a gun go off in the darkness and Monkey John dropped the rifle and slumped to a sitting position, his mouth open as if he were about to say something.

Lorena saw that, and just as she saw it the two horses raced right over Monkey John without touching him and were into the Kiowas. One Kiowa screamed, a sound more hopeless and frightening even than the scream of Dog Face. Before she thought about it being Gus, she saw him yank his horse almost down right in the middle of the Kiowas. He shot the one that screamed and then the two that held the knives, shooting from his horse right into their chests. Another Kiowa grabbed the lance with Dog Face's scalp on it, but Gus shot him before he could lift it. He shot another just as the man was picking up his rifle. The last Kiowa fled into the darkness, and Gus turned his horse after him. "Finish any that ain't finished," he said to the other man. But that man had barely dismounted before there was a shot in the darkness. He stood by his horse listening. There was another shot, and then the sound of a horse loping back. Lorena thought it was over but Monkey John shot with his pistol at the man standing by the fire. He missed completely and the man slowly raised his own pistol, but before he could fire Gus rode back into the firelight and shot with his rifle, knocking Monkey John back into the pack.

Then Gus turned her over and was holding her in his arms, his rifle still in one hand.

"Where's Blue Duck, Lorie?" he asked. "Was he here tonight?"

Lorena had a hard struggle to get her mind back to Blue Duck. She had stopped talking, and though she wanted to talk, the words wouldn't come. She stared at Gus and began to cry but she couldn't get out an answer to the question.

"Was he here tonight?" Gus asked again. "Just answer that and I won't bother you no more until you feel better."

Lorena nodded. Blue Duck had been there. It was all she could do.

Gus stood up. "Go back to your party," Gus said to the other man. "Go now."

"I didn't shoot a one," the other man said. "You shot the whole bunch."

"It ain't important," Augustus said. "I can't leave this girl and she ain't in shape to travel fast. Go back to your party. If Lorie can ride we'll come when we can."

"Did you kill the one that ran off?" July asked.

"Yes," Augustus said. "A man can't outrun a horse. You get along. There's a dangerous man loose along this river and I doubt that deputy of yours can handle him."

What if I can't, either? July thought, looking down at Dog Face. He had managed to pull his genitals out of his mouth, and still lay breathing. Looking at the pool of blood he lay in, July felt his stomach start to come up. He turned away to keep from vomiting.

"I'll tidy up these dead," Augustus said. "I know this is a shock to you, Mr. Johnson. It's different from a barroom scrape in Arkansas. But you got to choke it down and get back to your people."

"Are you going to kill him?" July asked, referring to Dog Face.

"Yes, if he don't travel soon," Augustus said.

Before July was over the second ridge, he heard the gun again.

58.

"RECKON WE'LL HEAR IT when they fight?" Joe asked.

"We won't hear it much," Roscoe said. "That campfire was way off. Anyway, maybe it's just cowboys and there won't be no fight."

"But we saw Indians," Joe said. "I bet it's them."

"It might be them," Roscoe admitted. "But maybe they just kept running."

"I hope they didn't run this direction," Joe said. He hated to admit how scared he was, but he was a good deal more scared than he could remember being before in his life. Usually when they camped he was so glad to be stopped he just unrolled his blanket and went to sleep, but though he unrolled his blanket as usual, he didn't go to sleep. It was the first time he had been separated from July on the whole trip, and he was surprised at how much scarier it felt. They had been forbidden to build a fire, so all they could do was sit in the dark. Of course it wasn't cold, but a fire would have made things more cheerful.

"I guess July will kill 'em," he said several times.

"That Texas Ranger done killed six," Roscoe said. "Maybe he'll kill 'em and July can save his ammunition."

Joe held his new rifle. Several times he cocked the hammer and then eased it back down. If the Indians came, he hoped they'd wait for daylight, so he'd have a better chance for a shot.

Janey sat off by herself. She had seen the Indians first and had run back to tell July. Roscoe hadn't believed her at first, but July had. He had got off several shots once the Indians started firing.

Roscoe felt bothered by the fact that there were no more trees. All his life he had lived amid trees and had given little thought to what a comfort they were. Trees had been so common that it was a shock to ride out on the plains and discover that there was a part of earth where there weren't any. Occasionally they might see a few along the rivers, but not many, and those were more bushes than trees. You couldn't lean against them, which was a thing he liked to do. He had got so he could even sleep pretty well leaning against a tree.

But now July had left him on a river where there wasn't even a bush. He would have to sleep flat out on the ground or else sit up all night. The sky was pale with moonlight, but it didn't provide enough light to see well by. Soon Roscoe began to get very nervous. Everywhere he looked he began to see things that could have been Indians. He decided to cock his pistol, in case some of the things were Indians.

When he cocked his pistol, Joe cocked his rifle. "Did you see one?" he asked.

"It might have been one," Roscoe said.

"Where?" Janey asked.

When Roscoe pointed, she immediately went running off toward it. Roscoe could hardly believe his eyes-but she had always been a wild girl.

"It was just a bush," Janey said, when she came back.

"You better be glad of that," he said. "If it had been an Indian you'd have got scalped."

"Reckon they've had the fight yet?" Joe asked. "I'll be glad when they get back."

"It might be morning before they get back," Roscoe said. "We better just rest. The minute July gets back he'll wanta go on looking for your mother."

"I guess she's found Dee," Joe said. "She likes Dee."

"Then how come she married July, dern it?" Roscoe asked. "It was the start of all this, you know. We'd be back in Arkansas playing dominoes if she hadn't married July."

Every time Roscoe tried to think back along the line of events that had led to his being in a place where there was no trees to lean against, he strayed off the line and soon got all tangled up in his thinking. It was probably better not to try and think back down the line of life.

"I can't get to sleep for nothin'," Joe said.

Roscoe was glad he hadn't had to go with the other men. He remembered how weak he had felt that afternoon when he realized it was bullets that were hitting in the grass around him. It had sounded like bees sounded in the leaves, but of course it was bullets.

While he was thinking about it he nodded for a few minutes-it seemed like a few minutes-asleep with his gun cocked. He had a little dream about the wild pigs, not too frightening. The pigs were not as wild as they had been in real life. They were just rooting around a cabin and not trying to harm him, yet he woke in a terrible fright and saw something incomprehensible. Janey was standing a few feet in front of him, with a big rock raised over her head. She was holding it with both hands-why would she do such a thing at that time of night? She wasn't making a sound; she just stood in front of him holding the rock. It was not until she flung it that he realized someone else was there. But someone was: someone big. In his surprise, Roscoe forgot he had a pistol. He quickly stood up. He didn't see where the rock went, but Janey suddenly dropped to her knees. She looked around at him. "Shoot at him," she said. Roscoe remembered the pistol, which was cocked, but before he could raise it, the big shadow that Janey had thrown the rock at slid close to him and shoved him-not a hard shove, but it made him drop the pistol. He knew he was awake and not dreaming, but he didn't have any more strength than he would have had in a dream in terms of moving quick. He saw the big shadow standing by him but he had felt no fear, and the shadow didn't shove him again. Roscoe felt warm and sleepy and sat back down. It was like he was in a warm bath. He hadn't had too many warm baths in his life, but he felt like he was in one and was ready for a long snooze. Janey was crawling, though-crawling right over his legs. "Now what are you doing?" he said, before he saw that her eyes were fixed on the pistol he had dropped. She wanted the pistol, and for some reason crawled right over his legs to get to it. But before she got to it the shadow came back. "Why, you're a fighter, ain't you?" the shadow man said. "If I wasn't in such a hurry I'd show you a trick or two." Then he raised his arms and struck down at her; Roscoe couldn't see if it was with an ax or what, but the sound was like an ax striking wood, and Janey stopped moving and lay across his legs. "Joe?" Roscoe said; he had just remembered that he had made Joe stop cocking and uncocking his rifle so he could get to sleep.

"Was that his name?" the shadow man said. Roscoe knew it must be a man, for he had a heavy voice. But he couldn't see the man's face. He just seemed to be a big shadow, and anyway Roscoe couldn't get his mind fixed on it, or on where Joe was or when July would be back, or on anything much, he felt so warm and tired. The big shadow stood astraddle of him and reached down for his belt but Roscoe had let go all concern, he felt so tired. He felt everything would have to stop for a while; it was as if the darkness itself was pushing his eyelids down. Then the warm sleep took him.

July found them an hour later, already stiff in death. He had raced as fast as he could over the rough country, not wanting to take the time to follow the river itself but too unsure of his position to go very far from it. From time to time he stopped, listening for shots, but the dark plains were quiet and peaceful, though it was on them that he had just seen the most violent and terrible things he had ever witnessed in his life. The only sound he heard was the wind singing over the empty miles of grass; in the spring night the wind sang gently.

July had never felt so inadequate. He was not even sure he could find his way back to where they had left the others. He was a sheriff, paid to fight when necessary, but nothing in his experience had prepared him for the slaughter he had just witnessed. Captain McCrae had killed six men, whereas he had not even fired his gun when the old bandit was aiming at him. It had all seemed so rapid, all those deaths in a minute or two. Captain McCrae had not seemed disturbed, whereas he felt such confusion he could scarcely think. He had met rough men in Arkansas and backed several of them down and arrested them, but this was different: the dying buffalo hunter had had nothing but a patch of blood between his legs. Death and worse happened on the plains.

When he saw the canyon where he had left his party he stopped to listen but heard nothing. It made him fearful, for Joe's horse would always whinny at his. But this time there was no whinny and he saw no horses. He dismounted and walked slowly down the canyon. Maybe they had forgotten to hobble the horses and they had grazed away. Roscoe was forgetful in such matters.

"Roscoe?" he said, when he came in sight of the camp.

He could see the three forms on the ground as if asleep, but he knew they weren't asleep because Janey lay across Roscoe's legs.

The only sound in the camp was the sound of flies buzzing on blood.

July didn't want to see it. He knew he had to, but he didn't want to.

He felt a terrible need to turn things back, all the way back to the time when he and Roscoe and Joe and Elmira had all been in Arkansas. He knew it could never be. Something had happened which he would never be free of. He had even lost the chance to stay and die with his people, though Captain McCrae had offered him that chance. "I'd feel better in my mind if you'd stay with your party," he had said.

He had not stayed, but when he had gone, he hadn't fought, either. He had done nothing but ride twice over the same stretch of prairie, while death had come to both camps. He had no doubt that if he had stayed with Roscoe and the children, it would have come to him too. The man who had killed them must be a fighter on the order of Captain McCrae.

For a time, July did not go into the camp. He couldn't. He stood and listened to the flies buzz over them. He didn't want to see what had been done to them. Now, when he did find Elmira, it would only be to tell her that her son was dead. And if lie lived to return to Fort Smith it would be without Roscoe Brown, a loyal man who had never asked for much.

The strange girl who could catch rabbits would catch no more rabbits.

After a time, July took his knife and began to dig graves. He climbed out of the canyon and dug them on the plain. Digging with a knife was slow work, but it was the only digging tool he had. The loose dirt he threw out with his hands. He was still digging at sunup, yet the graves were pitifully shallow affairs. He would have to do better than that, or the coyotes would get the corpses. Once in a while he looked down at the bodies. Joe lay apart from the other two, sprawled on his blanket as if asleep.

July began to gather rocks to pile on the graves. There were plenty along the canyon, though some had to be pried out of the dirt. While he was carrying one, he saw two riders far across the plain, black dots in the bright sunlight. His horse whinnied, eager for company.

When Augustus rode up with Lorena, the Arkansas sheriff was still digging. Augustus rode over to the canyon edge and looked down.

"More dead to tidy up," he said, dismounting. He had given Lorena Roscoe's horse, which had an easy gait, and was riding on the best of the Indian ponies, a skinny paint.

"It's my fault," July said. "If I'd done what you said, maybe they'd be alive."

"And maybe you'd be dead and I'd have had to tidy you up," Augustus said. "Don't be reviling yourself. None of us is such fine judges of what to do."

"You told me to stay," July said.

"I know I did, son," Augustus said. "I'm sure you wish you had. But yesterday's gone on down the river and you can't get it back. Go on with your digging and I'll tidy up."

He turned to Lorena and helped her down. "You stay here, darling," he said.

But when he started down the canyon, Lorena followed him. She didn't want Gus to be far away.

"No, I don't want you to go down there and see this mess," Augustus said. "Sit right here, where you can watch me. I won't be out of sight."

He turned to July. "Sit with her," he said. "She don't have much to say right now. Just sit with her, Mr. Johnson."

July stopped his work. The woman didn't look at him. Her sad eyes were fixed on Captain McCrae as he made his way down the canyon. Her legs were black and blue and there was a yellowing bruise on one cheek. She didn't turn her head or look at him at all.

"My name is July Johnson," he said, to be polite, but the woman didn't appear to hear.

Augustus went quickly to the camp and tied each body in a blanket. Blue Duck had been so confident of his victims that he hadn't even bothered to shoot. The deputy and the girl had been knifed, ripped open from navel to breastbone. Evidently it hadn't been enough for the girl, because her head had been smashed in too. So had the boy's, probably with the butt of the rifle Gus had given him. The deputy had been castrated as well. Using saddle strings, Gus tied the blankets as tightly around them as he could. It was strange that three such people had been on the Canadian, but then, that was the frontier-people were always wandering where they had no business being. He himself had done it and got away with it-had been a Ranger in Texas rather than a lawyer in Tennessee. The three torn specimens he was tying into their shrouds had not been so lucky.

He carried the bodies up to the prairie, laid them in their shallow graves and helped July pile rocks on the graves, a pitiful expedient that wouldn't deter the varmints for long. In the other camp he had merely laid the buffalo hunters and the dead Kiowas in a line and left them.

"I guess he took Joe's horse," July said.

"Yes, and his life," Augustus said. "I'm sure he had more interest in the horse."

"If you're going after him I'd like to try and help," July said.

"I got nothing to go after him on," Augustus said. "He's better mounted than us, and this ain't no place to go chasing a man who's got you out-horsed. He's headed for the Purgatory this time, I bet."

"The what?" July asked.

"It's a river up in Colorado," Augustus said. "He's probably got another gang there. We best let him go this time."

"I hate to," July said. He had begun to imagine confronting the man and shooting him down.

"Son, this is a sad thing," Augustus said. "Loss of life always is. But the life is lost for good. Don't you go attempting vengeance. You've got more urgent business. If I ever run into Blue Duck I'll kill him. But if I don't, somebody else will. He's big and mean, but sooner or later he'll meet somebody bigger and meaner. Or a snake will bite him or a horse will fall on him, or he'll get hung, or one of his renegades will shoot him in the back. Or he'll just get old and die."

He went over and tightened the girth on his saddle.

"Don't be trying to give back pain for pain," he said. "You can't get even measures in business like this. You best go find your wife."

July looked across the river at the unending prairie. If I find her she'll hate me worse now, he thought.

Augustus watched him mount, thinking how young he looked. He couldn't be much over twenty. But he was old enough to have found a wife and lost her-not that it took long to lose one, necessarily.

"Where is this Adobe Walls place?" July asked.

"It ain't far down the river," Augustus said, "but I'd pass by it if I were you. Your wife ain't there. If she went up the Arkansas I'd imagine she's up in Kansas, in one of the towns."

"I would hate to miss her," July said.

If she's at Adobe Walls, you'd do better to miss her, Augustus thought, but he didn't say it. He shook hands with the young sheriff and watched him mount and ride across the river. Soon he dipped out of sight, in the rough breaks to the north. When he reappeared on the vast plain, he was only a tiny speck.

Augustus went to Lorena. He had spent most of the night simply holding her in his arms, hoping that body heat would finally help her stop trembling and shaking. She had not said a word so far, but she would look him in the face, which was a good sign. He had seen women captives too broken even to raise their eyes.

"Come on, Lorie," he said. "Let's take a little ride."

She stood up obediently, like a child.

"We'll just ride over east a ways and see if we can find us some shade," Augustus said. "Then we'll loll around for a couple of weeks and let Call and the boys catch up with us. They'll be coming with the cattle pretty soon. By then I expect you'll be feeling better."

Lorena didn't answer, but she mounted without help and rode beside him all day.

59.

CALL EXPECTED Gus to be back in a day or two. Maybe he'd have the girl and maybe he wouldn't, but it was not likely he'd be gone long. Gus was a hard traveler and usually overtook whoever he was after promptly, arrested them or dispatched them, and got back.

For a day or two he didn't give Gus's absence much thought. He was irritated with Jake Spoon for having been so troublesome and undependable, but then, he partly had himself to blame for that. He should have set Jake straight before they left Lonesome Dove-informed him in no uncertain terms that the girl wasn't coming.

When the third day passed and Gus wasn't back, Call began to be uneasy. Augustus had survived so much that Call didn't give his safety much thought. Even men accustomed all their lives to sudden death didn't expect it to happen to Gus McCrae. The rest of them might fall by the wayside, their mortality taking gentle or cruel forms, but Gus would just go on talking.

Yet five days passed, and then a week, and he didn't return. The herd crossed the Brazos without incident, and then the Trinity, and there was still no Gus.

They camped west of Fort Worth and Call allowed the men to go into town. It would be the last town they would see until they hit Ogallala, and it might be that some of them wouldn't live to hit Ogallala. He let them go carouse, keeping just the boys, to help him hold the herd. Dish Boggett volunteered to stay, too-he still had his thoughts on Lorena and was not about to leave camp while there was a chance that Gus would bring her back.

"Dern, he's behaving like a deacon," Soupy said. "I expect to hear him preach a sermon any day."

Needle Nelson took a more charitable view. "He's just in love," he said. "He don't want to go trashing around with us."

"By God, he'll wish he had before we hit Nebraska," Jasper Fant said. "You don't see me waiting. I'd like to drink a couple of more bottles of good whiskey before I have to cross any more of them cold rivers. They got neal cold rivers up north, I hear. Some of them even got ice in them, I guess."

"If I was to see a chunk of ice in a river, I'd rope it and we could use it to water our drinks," Bert Borum said.

Bert was inordinately proud of his skill with a rope, the men thought. He was indeed quick and accurate, but the men were tired of hearing him brag on himself and were constantly on the lookout for things he could rope that might cause him to miss. Once Bert had silenced them for a whole day by roping a coyote on the first throw, but they were not the sort of men to keep silent long.

"Go rope that dern bull, if you're so good at roping," Needle Nelson said, referring to the Texas bull. The bull seemed to resent it when the cowboys sat in groups-he would position himself fifty yards away and paw the earth and bellow. Needle was in favor of shooting him but Call wouldn't allow it.

"I can rope the son of a bitch fast enough," Bert said. "Getting the rope off would be the problem."

"Getting you buried would be the problem if you was to rope that bull," Dish said. The fact that he chose to restrain himself and not get drunk in Fort Worth increased his sense of superiority somewhat, and many of the crew had had about all of Dish's sense of superiority as they could take, particularly since he was restraining himself for love of a young woman who clearly didn't give a hoot about him.

"If you're so in love, why didn't you go bring her back and leave Gus here?" Jasper asked. "Gus is a damn sight more entertaining than you are, Dish."

At that Dish turned and jumped him but Call soon broke it up. "If you want to fight, collect your wages first," he said.

The Rainey boys were feeling grownup and wanted Newt to talk the Captain into letting them go to town. "I wanta try a whore," Ben Rainey said.

Newt declined to make the request.

"Just ask him," Ben said.

"I'll ask him when we get to Nebraska," Newt said.

"Yeah, and if I drown in the Red River I won't even get to try no whore," Ben said.

Call began to be very worried about Gus. It was unusual for him to be gone so long with only one man to chase. Of course, Blue Duck might have had a gang waiting, and Gus might have ridden into an ambush. He had not done any serious fighting in years. Even Pea Eye had begun to worry about him.

"Here we are all the way to Fort Worth and Gus still ain't back," Pea Eye said.

Po Campo didn't go to Fort Worth either. He sat with his back to one of the wheels of the wagon, whittling one of the little female figures he liked to carve. As he walked along during the day he kept his eye out for promising chunks of wood and, if he saw one, would pitch it in the wagon. Then at night he whittled. He would start with a fairly big chunk, and after a week or so would have it whittled into a little wooden woman about two inches high.

"I hope he comes back," Po Campo said. "I enjoy his acquaintance, although he doesn't like my cooking."

"Well, we wasn't used to eating bugs and such when you first came," Pea Eye said. "I expect he'll work up a taste for it when he comes back. It never used to take him so long to catch a bandit."

"He won't catch Blue Duck," Po Campo said.

"Why, do you know the man?" Call asked, surprised.

"I know him," Po Campo said. "There is no worse man. Only the devil is worse and the devil won't bother us on this trip."

That was surprising talk. Call looked at the old man closely, but Po Campo was just sitting by the wagon wheel, wood shavings all over his short legs. He noticed Call's look and smiled.

"I lived on the llano once," he said. "I wanted to raise sheep but I was foolish. The wolves killed them and the Comanches killed them and the weather killed them. Then Blue Duck killed my three sons. After that I left the llano."

"Why don't you think Gus will catch him?" Call asked.

Po Campo considered the question. Deets was sitting near him. He loved to watch the old man whittle. It seemed miraculous to Deets that Po could take a plain chunk of wood and make it into a little woman figure. He watched to see if he could figure out how it happened, but so far he had not been able to. Po Campo kept turning the wood in his hand, the shavings dropping in his lap, and then finally it would be done.

"I didn't like the horse Captain Gus took," Po Campo said. "He won't catch Blue Duck on that horse. Blue Duck always has the best horse in the country-that's why he always gets away."

"He don't have the best horse in this country," Call said. "I do."

"Yes, that's true, she is a fine mare," Po said. "You might catch up with him but Captain Gus won't. Blue Duck will sell the woman. Captain Gus might get her back if the Indians don't finish him. I wouldn't make a bet."

"I'd make one, if I had money," Deets said. "Mister Gus be fine."

"I didn't think there was much left in the way of Indians," Call said.

"There are young renegades," Po said. "Blue Duck always finds them. Some are left. The llano is a big place."

That was certainly true. Call remembered the few times they had ventured on it. After a day or two the men would grow anxious because of the emptiness. "There's too much of this nothing," Pea said. He would say it two or three times a day, like a refrain, as the mirages shimmered in the endless distances. Even a man with a good sense of direction could get lost with so few surface features to guide him. Water was always chancy.

"I miss Gus," Pea Eye said. "I get to expecting to hear him talk and he ain't here. My ears sort of get empty."

Call had to admit that he missed him too, and that he was worried. He had had at least one disagreement a day with Gus for as many years as he could remember. Gus never answered any question directly, but it was possible to test an opinion against him, if you went about it right. More and more Call felt his absence, though fortunately they were having uneventful times-the cattle were fairly well trail-broken and weren't giving any trouble. The crew for the most part had been well behaved, no more irritable or contrary than any other group of men. The weather had been ideal, water plentiful, and the spring grass excellent for grazing.

A thought that nagged Call was that he had let Gus go off alone to do a job that was too big for him-a job they ought to have done together. Often, during the day, as he rode ahead of the herd, he would look to the northwest, hoping to see Gus returning. More and more the thought came to him that Gus was probably dead. Men simply vanished into the llano to die somewhere and lie without graves, their bones eventually scattered by varmints. Of course, Gus was a famous man, in his way. If Blue Duck had killed him he might brag, and word would eventually get back. But what if some young renegade who didn't know he was famous killed him? Then he would simply be gone.

The thought that Gus was dead began to weigh on Call. It came to him several times a day, at moments, and made him feel empty and strange. They had not had much of a talk before Gus left. Nothing much had been said. He began to wish that somehow things could have been rounded off a little better. Of course he knew death was no respecter. People just dropped when they dropped, whether they had rounded things off or not. Still, it haunted him that Gus had just ridden off and might not ride back. He would look over the cattle herd strung out across the prairie and feel it was all worthless, and a little absurd. Some days he almost felt like turning the cattle loose and paying off the crew. He could take Pea and Deets and maybe the boy, and they would look for Gus until they found him.

The crew came back from Fort Worth hung over and subdued. Jasper Fant's head was splitting to such an extent that he couldn't bear to ride-he got off his horse and walked the last two miles, stopping from time to time to vomit. He tried to get the other boys to wait on him-in his state he could have been easily robbed and beaten, as he pointed out-but his companions were indifferent to his fate. Their own headaches were severe enough.

"You can walk to China for all I care," Needle said, expressing the sentiments of the group. They rode on and left Jasper to creep along as best he could.

Po Campo had anticipated their condition and had a surprise waiting for them-a sugary cobbler made with dewberries he had picked.

"Sugar is the thing for getting over liquor," he said. "Eat a lot and then lie down for a few minutes."

"Did Jasper quit?" Call asked.

"No, he's enjoying the dry heaves somewhere between here and town," Soupy Jones allowed. "Last I heard of him he sounded like he was about to vomit up his socks."

"What's the news of Jake?" Call inquired.

The question produced a remarkable collection of black looks.

"He's a haughty son of a bitch," Bert Borum said. "He acted like he never knowed a one of us."

"He tolt me I smelled like cowshit," Needle said. "He was sitting there gambling and had some whore hanging over him."

"I wouldn't say he misses that one that got took," Soupy said.

Jasper Fant finally straggled in. Everyone was standing around grinning, though he couldn't see why.

"Something must have happened funnier than what I been doing," he said.

"A lot of things are funnier than vomiting," Pea Eye said.

"Jasper missed the cobbler, that's the laugh," Allen O'Brien said, not feeling too frisky himself. "I used to be better at hangovers, back in Ireland. Of course, then I had one every day," he reflected. "I had more practice."

When Jasper realized he had missed a dewberry cobbler, one of his favorite dishes, he threatened to quit the outfit, since they were so ungrateful. But he was too weak to carry out his threat. Po Campo forced him to eat a big spoonful of molasses as a headache cure, while the rest of the crew got the herd on the move.

"I guess the next excitement will be the old Red River," Dish Boggett said, as he took the point.

60.

JUST AS THE WORLD had been drying out nicely and the drive becoming enjoyable, in Newt's view, it suddenly got very wet again. Two days before they hit the Red River low black clouds boiled out of the northwest like smoke off grease. It was spninglike and fair in the morning, but before it was even afternoon the world turned to water.

It rained so hard for two hours that it was difficult even to see the cattle. Newt moped along on Mouse, feeling chilled and depressed. By this time, they were on a rolling plain bare of trees. There was nothing to get under except the sky. They made a wet camp and Po Campo poured hot coffee down them by the gallon, but it still promised to be a miserable night. Po and Deets, the acknowledged experts on weather, discussed the situation and admitted they didn't know when it might stop raining.

"It probably won't rain a week," Po Campo said, which cheered nobody up.

"Dern, it better not rain no week," Jasper said. "Them rivers will be like oceans."

That night they all herded, not because the cattle were particularly restless but because it was drier on a horse than on the sopping ground. Newt began to think it had been a mistake to leave Lonesome Dove if it was going to be so wet. He remembered how dry and clear the days had been there. He and Mouse stumbled through the night somehow, though before morning he was so tired he had lost all interest in living.

The next day was no better. The skies were like iron, and Mr. Gus wasn't back. He had been gone a long time, it seemed, and so had Lorena. Dish Boggett grew increasingly worried and took to confiding in Newt now and then. Newt respected his feelings, whereas the other hands were distinctly callous when it came to Dish's feelings.

"Because of Jake we lost 'em both, I guess," Dish said. "Jake is a goddamn bastard."

It was painful to Newt to have to think of Jake that way. He still remembered how Jake had played with him when he was a little child, and that Jake had made his mother get a lively, merry look in her eyes. All the years Jake had been gone, Newt had remembered him fondly and supposed that if he ever did come back he would be a hero. But it had to be admitted that Jake's behavior since his return had not been heroic at all. It bordered on the cowardly, particularly his casual return to card playing once Lorena had been stolen.

"If she's alive and Gus gets her back, I still aim to marry her," Dish said, as rain poured off his hat in streams.

"Dern, we should be herding fish," he said, a little later, holding the point nonetheless, though he hardly felt like it. If Lorena was indeed dead, he meant to stay clear of other women and grieve for her for a lifetime.

It was still raining when they came to the low banks of the Red River. The river was up somewhat, but it was still not a very wide channel or a very deep one. What worried Call was the approach to it-over a hundred yards of wet, rusty-colored sand. The Red was f amous for its quicksands.

Deets sat with him, looking at the river thoughtfully. It had long represented the northern boundary of their activity. The land beyond the rusty sands was new to them.

"Do you think we ought to wait and let it go down?" Call asked.

"It ain't going down," Deets pointed out. "Still raining."

Dish came over to watch as Deets probed for a crossing, several times checking his horse and moving to the side to seek firmer footing.

"I guess this will spoil Jasper's digestion," he said, for Jasper's sensitivity on the subject of rivers was becoming more pronounced. "We bogged sixty head of Mr. Pierce's cattle in this very river, although that was over toward Arkansas. I must have had a hundred pounds of mud on my clothes before we got them out."

Deets put his horse into the surging water and was soon across the channel, but had to pick his way across another long expanse of sand before he was safely on the north bank. Evidently he didn't like the crossing, because he waved the others back with his hat and loped away downriver. He was soon out of sight in the rain, but came back in an hour with news of a far better crossing downstream. By then the whole crew was nervous, for the Red was legendary for drowning cowboys, and the fact that they had nothing to do but sit and drip increased general anxiety.

But their fears were unfounded. The rain slowed and the sun broke through as they were easing the cattle across the mud flats toward the brownish water. Deets had found a gravel bar that made the entrance to the river almost as good as a road. Old Dog led the herd right in and was soon across and grazing on the long wet grass of the Oklahoma Territory. Five or six of the weaker cows bogged as they were coming out, but they were soon extracted. Dish and Soupy took off their clothes and waded into the mud and got ropes on the cows, and Bert Borum pulled them out.

The sight of the sun put the men in high spirits. Hadn't they crossed the Red River and lived to tell about it? That night the Irishman sang for hours, and a few of the cowboys joined in-they had gradually learned a few of the Irish songs.

Sometimes Po Campo sang in Spanish. He had a low, throaty voice that always seemed like it was about to die for lack of breath. The songs bothered some of the men, they were so sad.

"Po, you're a jolly fellow, how come you only sing about death?" Soupy asked. Po had a little rattle, made from a gourd, and he shook it when he sang. The rattle, plus his low throaty voice, made a curious effect.

The sound could make the hairs stand upon Pea Eye's neck. "That's right, Po. You do sing sad, for a happy man," Pea Eye observed once, as the old man shook his gourd.

"I don't sing about myself," Campo said. "I sing about life. I am happy, but life is sad. The songs don't belong to me."

"Well, you sing them, who do they belong to?" Pea asked.

"They belong to those who hear them," Po said. He had given Deets one of the little women figures he whittled-Deets was very proud of it, and kept it in the pocket of his old chaps.

"Don't give none of them to me," Pea Eye said. "They're too sad. I'll get them nervous dreams."

"If you hear them, they belong to you," Po said. It was hard to see his eyes. They were deep-set anyway, and he seldom took his bigbrimmed hat off.

"I wish we had a fiddle," Needle said. "If we had a fiddle, we could dance."

"Dance with who?" Bert asked. "I don't see no ladies."

"Dance with ourselves," Needle said.

But they didn't have a fiddle-just Po Campo shaking his rattle and the Irishman singing of girls.

Even on a nice clear night the sad singing and the knowledge that there were no ladies was enough to make the men feel low. They ended up talking of their sisters, those that had them, most nights.

Call heard little of the talk or the singing, for he continued to make his camp apart. He thought it best. If the herd ran, he would be in a better position to head it.

Gus's absence depressed him. It could only mean that something had gone wrong, and they might never find out what.

One night, cleaning his rifle, he was startled by the sound of his own voice. He had never been one to talk to himself, but as he cleaned the gun, he had been having, in his head, the conversation with Gus that there had not been time to have before Gus left. "I wish you'd killed the man when you had a chance," he said. "I wish you'd never encouraged Jake to bring that girl."

The words had just popped out. He was doubly glad he was alone, for if the men had heard him they would have thought him daft.

But no one heard him except the Hell Bitch, who grazed at the end of a long rope. Every night he slipped one end of the rope beneath his belt and then looped it around his wrist, so there would be no chance of her taking fright and suddenly jerking loose from him. Call had become so sensitive to her movements that if she even raised her head to sniff the air he would wake up. Usually it was no more than a deer, or a passing wolf. But the mare noticed, and Call rested better, knowing she would watch.

61.

AUGUSTUS FIGURED THAT two or three days' ride east would put them in the path of the herds, but on the second day the rains struck, making travel unpleasant. He cut Lorena a crude poncho out of a tarp he had picked up at the buffalo hunter's camp, but even so it was bad traveling. The rains were chill and it looked like they might last, so he decided to risk Adobe Walls-the old fort offered the only promise of shelter.

They got there to find the place entirely deserted and most of the buildings in ruins.

"Not enough buffalo," Augustus said. "It wasn't two years ago that they had that big fight here, and now look at it. It looks like it's been empty fifty years." The only signs of life were the rattlesnakes, of which there were plenty, and mice, which explained the snakes. A few owls competed with the snakes for the mice.

They found a room whose roof was more-or-less intact, and whose fireplace even worked once Augustus poked loose an owl's nest. He broke up the remains of an old wagon to make a fire.

"This weather'll slow Call up," Augustus said. "I expect they all think we're dead by now."

Lorena still had not spoken. She found her silence hard to give up-it seemed her best weapon against the things that could happen. Talk didn't help when things were worst-no one was listening. If the Kiowas had got to do what they would have liked to do, she could have screamed her voice out and no one would have heard.

Gus was perfectly patient with her silence. He didn't seem to mind it. He just went on talking as if they were having a conversation, talking of this and that. He didn't talk about what had happened to her but treated her as he always had in Lonesome Dove.

Though she didn't talk, she couldn't stand to have Gus out of her sight. At night she rolled in his blanket with him-it was only then that she felt warm. But if he stood up to do some errand she watched him, and if the errand took him outside she got up and went out too.

The second day the rains still poured. Gus poked around the fort to see if he could find anything useful and came across a large box of buttons.

"There was a woman here during that fight, I recollect," he said. "I gress she took off so fast she left her button box."

There were all sizes of buttons-it gave Augustus an idea. He had a pack of cards in his saddlebags, which he quickly produced. "Let's play a few hands," he said. "The buttons can be our money." He spread a blanket near the fireplace and sorted the buttons into piles according to size. There were some large horn buttons that must have been meant for coats.

"Them'll be our fifty-dollar gold pieces," he said. "These here will be tens and these little ones can be fives. This is a high-stakes game we're playing."

"Don't you cheat, Gus," Lorena said suddenly. "If you cheat I won't give you no pokes."

Augustus was so pleased to hear her talk that tears came into his eyes. "We're just playing for buttons, honey," he said.

For the first hand or two Lorena made mistakes-she had forgotten what the cards meant. But it quickly came back to her and she played avidly, even laughing once when she won a hand. But the playing soon tired her-it seemed anything tired her if she did it long. And she still trembled at the least thing.

When Gus saw that she was tiring he made a pallet for her by the fireplace and sat by her while she napped. Her bruises were healing. She was much thinner than she had been when Blue Duck took her away-her cheeks had hollowed. Outside, the rain pelted the long prairies. The roof had a leak in one corner and a little stream of water dripped down one wall.

They stayed in the Walls for two days, comfortably out of the wet. That first evening, by good luck, Augustus happened to see a deer grazing just outside the wagon yard. That night they had venison and Lorena ate with real appetite for the first time.

"Eat like that, and you'll soon be the most beautiful woman in Texas again," Augustus said.

Lorena said nothing. That night she woke up crying and shaking. Augustus held her and crooned to her as if she were a child. But she didn't go back to sleep. She lay on the pallet, her eyes wide open. An hour or two before dawn the rain stopped, and soon a bright sun shone above the wet prairie.

"I wish we could stay here," Lorena said, when she saw Gus making preparations to leave.

"We might not last long if we did," Augustus said. "Every mangy renegade that's left loose knows about this place. If a bunch of them showed up at once we'd be in trouble."

Lorena understood that, but she didn't want to go. Lying on the pallet and playing cards for buttons was fine, so long as it was just Gus who was there. She didn't want to see other men, for any reason at all. She didn't want them to see her. There was a strong feeling within her that she should stay hidden. She wanted Gus to hide her.

"I don't want them," she said, looking at Gus.

"You won't have to have 'em," Augustus said. "I'll see you're let be. But we can't stay here. Game's skimpy and there's no telling who'll come along."

Lorena began to cry when she got on her horse. She could no longer control her tears. They were apt to come at any time, though, like talk, they did no good. Things happened, no matter how hard you cried.

"Now, Lorie, don't you fret no more than you have to," Augustus said. "We'll get over to where the cowboys are and then we'll be fine. You'll get to San Francisco yet."

Lorena had almost forgotten what San Francisco was. Then she remembered: a place with boats, where it was cool. It was where Jake had promised to take her. Jake had gone out of her mind so completely, while she was confused, that it was strange to think of him. It was like thinking of someone who had died.

"Where is Jake?" she asked.

"I don't know," Augustus said. "He wanted to come with me but I didn't want to put up with the scamp."

They rode until the afternoon, keeping close to the Canadian, which was high from the rains. Toward evening they topped a ridge and saw a surprising sight: four great herds of cattle, spread as far as one could see across the plain.

"River's stopped 'em," Augustus said. "They're all waiting for it to go down."

The cowboys were still a mile or more away, but Lorena began to shake at the sight of them. They were just more men.

"They won't hurt you, honey," Augustus said. "Likely they'll be more scared of you than you are of them. Most of them's probably forgot what a woman looks like."

Lorena fell back into her silence. She had nowhere else to go.

As they approached the nearest herd, a man galloped out to meet them.

"My lord, it's the man from Yale college, the one who read that Latin on my sign," Augustus said. "I recognize the horse. It's that nice bay we stole back from old Pedro just before he died."

Lorena didn't look at the man.

Wilbarger was as surprised as Augustus. He had seen two riders and supposed they were scouts for yet another herd. "By God, McCrae, you're a surprise," he said. "I thought you was three weeks behind me, and here you are attacking from the west. How far back is your herd, or do you have one?"

"As you can see, I ain't brought a cow," Augustus said. "Call may still have a herd of them if he ain't lost them or just turned them loose."

"If he would do that he's a fool, and he didn't act like a fool," Wilbarger said. "He wouldn't trade me that mare."

He tipped his hat to Lorena. "I don't believe I've met the young lady," he said.

"This is Miss Lorena Wood," Augustus said. "She had the misfortune to be abducted. Now I've abducted her back. We're short of grub and would like to purchase some if you have any to spare."

Wilbarger glanced once more at Lorena, who sat with her head down.

"I am not such a scoundrel as to sell grub," he said. "You're welcome to come to camp and eat with my tough bunch, if you can stand them."

"I doubt we could," Augustus said quietly. "We're both shy."

"Oh, I see," Wilbarger said, glancing at Lorena again. "I'm damn glad you don't have a herd. You'd think there'd be room enough for everybody on these plains, but as you can see, the view is crowding up. I was going to try a crossing today but I've decided to wait for morning."

He was silent a moment, considering the problem of their shyness.

"We're about to eat," he said. "It's a free country, so my advice to you would be to make camp where you choose. I'll borrow a pot from our cook and bring you some grub once you get settled."

"I'm much obliged," Augustus said. "Noticed a tree in these parts?"

"No, sir," Wilbarger said. "If there was a tree in these parts I'd be sitting under it."

They made camp on the plain. Wilbarger was as good as his word. In an hour he returned with a small pack mule. Besides an ample pot of beefsteak and beans he brought a small tent.

"I scarcely use this tent," Wilbarger said, dropping it by their campfire. "You're welcome to borrow it. The young lady might like a little privacy."

"I guess it's your training in Latin that's give you such good manners," Augustus remarked. "The sky's unpredictable and we would enjoy a tent."

"I also brought a bottle," Wilbarger said. "I seem to remember you're a drinking man."

As soon as the tent was up, Lorena went in. Gus spread her a pallet and she sat where she could watch him through the open flap. The men sat outside and drank.

"Had an easy trip?" Augustus asked.

"No, sir," Wilbarger said. "My foreman died, south of Fort Worth. I have another herd somewhere ahead of me, but I can't leave to go check on it. I don't know that I'll ever see it again, although I may."

"What'd he die off?" Augustus asked. "It's a healthy climate down that way."

"He died of a horse falling over backwards on him," Wilbarger said. "He would test the broncs."

"Foolish," Augustus said. "A grown man ought to have sense enough to seek gentle horses."

"Many don't," Wilbarger pointed out. "That mare Captain Call wouldn't trade me didn't look that gentle, yet he's a grown man."

"Grown, but not what you'd call normal," Augustus said. "I put it down to lack of education. If he'd been trained in Latin he'd most likely have let you have that horse."

"Do you consider yourself normal, then?" Wilbarger asked.

"Certainly," Augustus said. "I never met a soul in this world as normal as me."

"And yet here you sit, far out on the naked plain, with a shy woman you had to rescue," Wilbarger pointed out. "How many skunks did you have to kill in order to rescue her?"

"A passel," Augustus said. "I got the peons but the jefe got away. A bandit named Blue Duck, whom I'd advise you to give a wide berth unless you're skilled in battle."

"You think he's around? I've heard of the scamp."

"No, I think he's headed for the Purgatory River," Augustus said. "But then, I underestimated him once, which is why the lady got abducted. I'm out of practice when it comes to figuring out bandits."

"She's a little peaked, that girl," Wilbarger said. "You ought to take her back to Fort Worth. There's not much in the way of accommodations or medical care north of here."

"We'll ease along," Augustus said. "Where shall I return this tent?"

"I have business in Denver, later in the year," Wilbarger said. "That's if I live, of course. Send it over to Denver, if you have a chance. I don't use the dern thing much, but I might next winter, if I'm still out where it's windy."

"I'm enjoying this whiskey," Augustus said. "A man is foolish to give up the stable pleasure of life just to follow a bunch of shitting cattle."

"You have a point, and it's a point I've often taxed myself with," Wilbarger said. "If you're such a normal boy then how come you done it?"

"Unfinished business in Ogallala, Nebraska," Augustus said. "I'd hate to grow old without finishing it."

"I see," Wilbarger said. "Another shy lady who must have got abducted."

They drank until the bottle was empty.

"If you had two, I wish you'd brought two," Augustus said. "I need to get back in practice drinking."

"Well, if we don't get across that goddamn river tomorrow, I'll see if I can rustle up another one," Wilbarger said, standing up. "I seldom get conversation like yours. I can't figure out if I like it or not, but I will admit it's conversation, which is more than can be had in my camp.

He mounted his horse and was about to ride away.

"I'll send the cook over with some breakfast," he said. "By the way, you didn't cross the path of a young sheriff from Arkansas, did you? He's up this way somewhere, and I've been worried about him."

"You must be referring to July Johnson," Augustus said. "We left him four days ago. He was headed on north."

"Well, he had a funny crew with him. I was just a little uneasy," Wilbarger said. "I found him a likable man, but inexperienced."

"He's got more experience now," Augustus said. "Blue Duck killed his crew."

"Killed all three of them?" Wilbarger asked, startled. "I even offered that young boy a job."

"He should have took it," Augustus said. "We buried them west of here."

"That Duck must be a hard son of a bitch," Wilbarger said.

He sat on his horse a moment, looking into the night. "I had a feeling young Johnson was inexperienced," he said, and trotted off.

The next morning Wilbarger's old cook came over with some breakfast. It was a fine morning, the sun up and the plains well dried out. Augustus stepped out of the tent, but Lorena was content to look through the flaps.

"This is like living in a hotel, Lorie," Augustus said. "We got people toting us meals as fast as we can eat them."

At that point the cook got careless and the little pack mule took a kick at him which barely missed.

"He's getting tired of making this trip," the cook said.

"Or it could just be the company he's tired of," Augustus suggested. "I'd buy him if he was for sale. I've always got along with mules."

"This mule ain't for sale," the cook said, looking the camp over. "I wisht all I had to do was live in a tent."

Without further ado, he turned and went back.

When he was gone, Lorena came out and sat in the bright sun. While they ate, Wilbarger's cowboys began to move the herd toward the river.

"That Wilbarger is a curious man," Augustus said. "He's bluntspoken, but I guess he'll do."

Before noon all the herds had crossed and the wagon and remuda of the last one was just moving out of sight to the north.

"We might as well cross while the crossing's good," Augustus said. "It could come another rain."

He folded the tent, which was awkward to carry on a horse. His horse didn't like it and tried to pitch, but Augustus finally got him settled down. The river had gone down some, and they crossed without difficulty and made camp on a long ridge about two miles to the north of it.

"Now then, we ought to be set," Augustus said, once he had the tent secured. "I imagine the boys will be along in a week or so."

Lorena didn't care if they never came along, but she was glad they had the tent. It was scarcely up before rain clouds boiled again out of the northwest.

"Let her rain, we're ready," Augustus said, taking the box of buttons from his saddlebag. "I guess it won't stop us from playing cards."

Wilbarger had thoughtfully let them have some coffee and a side of bacon, and with those provisions and the tent and the buttons, they passed a week. A little of the hollowness left Lorena's cheeks, and her bruises healed. She still slept close to Augustus at night and her eyes still followed him when he went out to move the horses or do some errand. Once or twice on pretty evenings they rode over to the river. Augustus had rigged a fishing line out of some coarse thread they had found in Adobe Walls. He bent a needle for a hook and used tadpoles for bait. But he caught no fish. Whenever he went to the river, he stripped off and bathed.

"Come in, Lorie," he said several times. "A bath won't hurt you."

Finally she did. She had not washed in a long time, and it felt good. Gus was sitting on a rock not far away, letting the sun dry him. The water was rapid, and she didn't wade in too deep. She was surprised to see how white her skin looked, once the dirt was all washed off. The sight of her own brown legs and white belly surprised her so that she began to cry. Once the crying started, she couldn't stop it-she cried as if she would never stop. Gus noticed and walked over to help her out of the river, for she was just standing there sobbing, the water up to her thighs.

Gus didn't reprimand her. "I 'spect the best thing is for you to cry it out, Lorie," he said. "You just remember, you got a long time to live."

"They shouldn't have took me," Lorena said, when she stopped crying. She got her rag of a dress and went back to the tent.

62.

ONCE THEY HIT the Territory, Newt began to worry about Indians. He was not alone in his worrying. The Irishman had heard so much about scalping that he often tugged at his own hair as if to reassure himself that it wouldn't come off easily. Pea Eye, who spent most of his time sharpening his knife or making sure he had enough ammunition, was astonished that the Irishman had never seen a scalped person. During Pea's years as a Ranger they were always finding scalped settlers, and, for that matter, several of his friends had been scalped.

The Spettle boys, who were slowly becoming more talkative, confided in Newt that they would run away and go home if they weren't afraid of getting lost.

"But you have to drive the horses," Newt pointed out. "The Captain hired you."

"Didn't know we was coming where the Indians were," Bill Spettle said.

For all the talk, they saw neither Indians nor cowboys for days on end. They saw no one-just an occasional wolf or coyote. It seemed to Newt that the sky got bigger and the country emptier every day. There was nothing to see but grass and sky. The space was so empty that it was hard to imagine that there might ever be towns in it, or people.

The Irishman particularly found the huge emptiness disturbing. "I guess we left the people," he said often. Or, "When's the next people?"

Nobody was quite sure when to expect the next people. "It's too bad Gus ain't here," Pea Eye said. "Gus would know. He's an expert on where places is at."

"Why, there's nothing north of here," Dish said, surprised that anyone would think otherwise. "You have to go east a ways to get into the towns."

"I thought we was going to strike Ogallala," Needle reminded him.

"I don't say we won't," Dish said. "That's up to the Captain. But if it ain't no bigger than Dodge, it wouldn't take much to miss it."

Po Campo had become a great favorite with the men because of the tastiness of his cooking. He was friendly and kind to everyone, and yet, like the Captain, he kept apart. Po just did it in a different way. He might sing to them in his throaty voice, but he was a man of mystery, a strange man, walking all day behind the wagon, and at night whittling his little women. Soon each of the cowboys had been given one of the carvings.

"To remind you of your sisters," Po said.

A day and a half before they reached the Canadian the rains started again. At the sight of the great gray clouds forming in the west, morale immediately sank and the men untied their slickers, resigned to a long, cold, dangerous night.

The storm that struck them half a day from the Canadian was of a different intensity because of the lightning. By midafternoon, Newt, who was as usual with the drags, became conscious of rumblings and flashing far on the west. He saw Deets conferring with the Captain, though it was hard to imagine what advice might help. They were out in the middle of the plain, far from any shelter.

All through the late afternoon lightning flickered in the west. As the sun was setting Newt saw something he had never seen: a bolt of lightning shot south to north, bisecting the setting sun. The bolt seemed to travel the whole length of the western horizon-the crack that came with it was so sharp that Newt almost expected to see the sun split in half, like a big red melon.

After that bolt, the clouds rolled down on the group like a huge black herd, snuffing out the afterglow in five minutes. The remuda became restless, and Newt rode over to help Pete Spettle, but a bolt of lightning struck so close by that his horse went into a violent fit of pitching and promptly threw him. He had kept a tight grip on the reins and the horse didn't break free, but Newt had a time calming him enough that he could remount. Claps of thunder were almost constant by then, and so loud that they made his head ring. The herd was stopped, the cowboys spread around it in as tight a ring as possible.

Just as Newt mounted, a bolt of lightning struck the edge of the herd not a hundred feet from where the Captain rode. A numberof cattle instantly fell, as if clubbed by the same club. It was as if a portion of the wall of cattle had broken and fallen to earth like so many bricks.

A second later the cattle were running. They broke west in a mass and surged through the riders as if they weren't there, although Dish,, the Captain and Deets were all trying to turn them. The rain came almost as the cattle began to move. Newt spurred and tried to reach the head of the herd, which was nearer him than anyone. He saw a long line of lightning curl down and strike, but the cattle didn't stop. He heard the clicking of thousands of horns as the cattle bumped one another. Again he saw the bluish light rolling on the tips of the cattle's horns, and was glad when the wall of rain came. He rushed to it with relief. Rain was just wet-it didn't scare him, and he knew that if it rained hard enough the lightning would finally stop.

The cattle ran for many miles, but soon the storm was to the east of them and he had only the rain and darkness to contend with. As he had done before, he plodded along much of the night beside the cattle. Occasionally he would hear the shout of another cowboy, but it was too dark and rainy to see anything. The length of such nights was a torment. A hundred times, or a thousand, he would look in what he thought was an easterly direction, hoping to see the grayness that meant dawn. But all directions were equally black for what seemed like twenty hours.

When dawn did come, it was a low and gloomy one, the sky heavily overcast. Newt, with Dish, the Irishman and Needle Nelson, was with a large portion of the herd, perhaps a thousand cattle. No one was quite sure where the rest of the herd was. The cattle were too tired to be troublesome, so Dish loped off to look and was gone what seemed like half a day. When he finally came back, Deets was with him. The main herd was six or seven miles east.

"How many did the lightning hit?" Newt asked, remembering the sight of the cattle falling dead.

"Thirteen," Dish said. "That ain't the worst, though. It kilt Bill Spettle. Knocked him right off his horse. They're burying him now."

Newt had been feeling very hungry, but the news took his appetite. He had been chatting with Bill Spettle not two hours before the storm began. Bill was beginning to be rather talkative, after hundreds of miles of silence.

"They say it turned him black," Dish remarked. "I didn't see it."

Newt was never to see where Bill Spettle was buried. When they rejoined the main herd it was on the move, the grave somewhere behind on the muddy plain. No one knew quite what to say to Pete Spettle, who had somehow held the remuda together all night. He was holding it together still, though he looked weary and stunned.

The men were all starving, so Call allowed them to stop for a quick feed, but only a quick one. It was looking like rain again. He knew the Canadian was near and he wanted to cross it before more rains came; otherwise they might be trapped for a week.

"Ain't we gonna rest?" Jasper asked, appalled that they were required to keep driving after such a night.

"We'll rest north of the river," Call said.

Deets had been sent to find a crossing, but came back almost before he had left. The Canadian was only four miles away, and there was a crossing that had obviously been used by many herds.

"We all gonna have to swim," he said, to Jasper's consternation.

"I just hope we don't have to swim it in a dern rainstorm," Dish said, looking at the heavy clouds.

"I don't see what difference it makes," Needle said. "It can get just so wet, and if you're swimming you're bound to be wet."

"It oughta quit raining, it's rained enough," Pea Eye said, but the heavens ignored him.

Call was more worried than he let on. They had already lost a boy that day-another boy hastily buried, who would never see his home again. He had no wish to risk any more, and yet the river had to be crossed. He loped up to look at the crossing and satisfied himself that it was safe. The river was high, but it wasn't a wide river-they wouldn't need to swim far.

He rode back to the herd. Many of the men had changed into their dry clothes while he was gone, a wasteful effort, with the river coming up.

"You best strip off when we get to the river or you'll just get those clothes wet too," Call said. "Wrap your clothes up good in your slickers so you'll have something dry to put on when we get across."

"Ride naked?" Jasper asked, shocked that such a thing would be required of him. Northern travel was proving even worse than he had thought it would be. Bill Spettle had been so stiffened when they found him that they had not been able to straighten him out properly-they had just wrapped him in a bedroll and stuck him in a hole.

"Well, I'd rather be naked a spell than to have to travel in wet duds, like we done all last night," Pea Eye said.

When they approached the river, the herd was held up so the men could strip off. It was so chilly that Newt got goosebumps all over his body when he undressed. He wrapped his clothes and tied them high on his saddle, even his boots. The sight of all the men riding naked would have been amusing if he hadn't been so tired and nervous about the crossing. Everyone looked white as a fish belly, except their hands and faces, which were brown.

"Good lord, we're a bunch of beauties," Dish said, surveying the crew. "Deets is the best-looking of the lot, at least he's one color. The rest of us is kind of brindled."

Nobody expected weather conditions to get worse, but it seemed that in plains weather there was always room for surprises. A squall blew up as they were starting the cattle into the water, and by the time Old Dog was across the twenty yards of swimming water, Dish on one side of him and Call on the other, the gray sky suddenly began to spit out little white pellets. Dish, who was out of the saddle, hanging onto his saddle strings as his horse swam, saw the first pellets plunking into the water and jerked with fear, for he assumed they were bullets. It was only when he looked up and had a small hailstone peck at his cheek that he realized what was happening.

Call, too, saw the hail begin to pepper the river. At first the stones were small, and he wasn't too worried, for he had seen fleeting hail squalls pass in five minutes.

But by the time he and Dish hit the north shore and regained their wet saddles, he realized it was more than a squall. Hailstones were hitting all around him, bouncing off his arms, his saddle, his horse-and they were getting larger by the minute. Dish came riding over, still naked, trying to shelter his face and head with one arm. Hailstones were falling everywhere, splashing into the river, bouncing off the backs of the cattle and plunking into the muddy banks.

"What will we do, Captain?" Dish asked. "They're getting bigger. Reckon they'll beat us to death?"

Call had never heard of anyone being killed by hailstones, but he had just taken a hard crack behind the ear from a stone the size of a pullet egg. Yet they couldn't stop. Two of the boys were in the river, swimming, and the cattle were still crossing.

"Get under your horse if it gets worse," he said. "Use your saddle for cover."

"This horse would kick me to death, if I was to try that," Dish said. He quickly unsaddled and used his saddle blanket for immediate shelter.

Newt didn't know what was happening when the first hailstones hit. When he saw the tiny white pellets bouncing on the grass he assumed he was at last seeing snow.

"Look, it's snowing," he said excitedly to Needle Nelson, who was near him.

"It ain't snow, it's hail," Needle said.

"I thought snow was white," Newt said, disappointed.

"They're both white," Needle said. "The difference is, hail is harder."

Within a few minutes, Newt was to find out just how hard. The sky began to rain balls of ice-small at first, but then not so small.

"By God, we better get in that river," Needle said. He had a large hat and was trying to hide under it, but the hailstones pounded his body.

Newt looked around for the wagon, but couldn't see it, the hail was so thick. Then he couldn't see Needle, either. He spurred hard and raced for the river, though he didn't know what he was supposed to do once he got there. As he ran for the river, he almost trampled Jasper, who had dismounted and made a kind of tent of his slicker and saddle-he was crouching under it in the mud.

It was hailing so thickly that when they did reach the river Mouse jumped off a six-foot bank, throwing Newt. Again, he managed to hang onto his reins, but he was naked, and hailstones were pounding all around him. When he stood up he happened to notice that Mouse made a kind of wall. By crouching close under him Newt avoided most of the hailstones-Mouse absorbed them. Mouse wasn't happy about it, but since he had taken it upon himself to jump off the bank, Newt didn't feel very sorry for him.

He crouched under the horse until the hailstorm subsided, which was not more than ten minutes after it began. The muddy banks of the Canadian were covered with hailstones, and so were the plains around them. The cattle and horses crunched through the hail as they walked. Isolated stones continued to plop down now and then, bouncing off the ones already there.

Newt saw that the cattle had crossed the wild Canadian, the river that had scared everybody, without much help from the cowboys, who were scattered here and there, naked, crouched under their saddles or, in some cases, their horses. It was a funny sight; Newt was so glad to be alive that suddenly he felt like laughing. Funniest of all was Pea Eye, who stood not thirty yards away, up to his neck in the river, with his hat on. He was just standing there calmly, waiting for the hail to stop.

"How come you got in the water?" Newt asked, when Pea waded out.

"It's fine protection," Pea said. "It can't hail through water."

It was amazing to Newt to see the plains, which had been mostly brown a few minutes before, turned mostly white.

The Irishman walked up leading his horse and kicking hailstones out of the way. He began to pick up the hailstones and throw them in the river. Soon several of the cowboys were doing it, seeing who could throw the farthest or make the hailstones skip across the water.

Then they saw a strange sight: Po Campo was gathering hailstones in a bucket, the two pigs following him like dogs.

"What do you reckon he expects to do with them?" Needle Nelson asked.

"I guess he'll stew 'em, probably," Pea said. "He's looking them over like he's picking peas."

"I wouldn't want to see this outfit naked tomorrow," Jasper said. "I guess we'll all be black and blue. One hit me on the elbow and I can't straighten my arm yet."

"You don't do much with it when you do straighten it," Bert remarked unsympathetically.

"Just 'cause he can't rope like you can don't mean he wouldn't like to use his arm," Pea Eye said. Everyone picked on Jasper, and once in a while Pea felt obliged to come to his defense. He swung onto his horse and froze before getting his other foot in the stirrup. He had happened to glance across the river and had spotted a horseman riding toward them. The crew on the north bank had their backs to the rider and hadn't seen him.

"Why, I swear, it's Gus," Pea Eye said. "He ain't dead at all."

They all looked, and saw the rider coming.

"How do you know it's him?" Bert wanted to know. "He's too far. It could be an Indian chief for all you know."

"I guess I know Gus," Pea said. "I wonder where he's been."

63.

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.

"'I god, I never thought you boys would start working naked," Augustus said. "I guess the minute I left camp things went right to hell. You jaybirds look like you're scattered from here to Fort Worth."

"Well, the river was deep and we ain't overloaded with dry clothes," Call said. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing much," Augustus said. "I got here last week and decided there wasn't no sense in riding south. I'd just have to turn around and come back."

"Did you ever find Lorie?" Dish asked.

"Oh, sure," Augustus said. "I found her. She's probably sitting out in front of the tent right now watching you prance around naked."

At that Dish blushed and made haste to get the rest of his clothes on, though when Gus pointed out the tent to him he saw it was too far away for Lorie to have seen anything.

At that point several of the naked cowboys on the south bank plunged into the river and swam over, so excited by Gus's return that they forgot caution.

"I swear, Gus, we near give you up," Pea Eye said. "Did you catch the bandit?"

"No, but I hope I do someday," Augustus said. "I met plenty of his friends, but he slipped by me."

"Did you get to town or what?" Dish asked. "You didn't have no tent when you rode off."

"Mr. Wilbarger loaned me that tent," Augustus said. "Lorie's feeling shy and she needs a little privacy."

"We best get the wagon across," Call said. "We can listen to Gus's story later. You boys that ain't dressed go back and help."

The sun came out, and that plus Gus's arrival put the hands in a high mood. Even Jasper, normally so worried about rivers, forgot his fear and swam right back across the Canadian to help get the wagon. They all treated swimming the river like a frolic, though they had been anxious about it for a week. Before long they had the wagon across. They had put both pigs in it but the blue shoat jumped out and swam across.

"That's an independent pig," Augustus said. "I see you still got that old cook."

"Yes, his food's right tasty," Call said. "Is the girl all right?"

"She's had an ordeal but she's young," Augustus said. "She won't forget it, but she might outlive it."

"We're a long way from any place we could leave her," Call said.

"Oh, I have no intention of leaving her," Augustus said. "We've got Wilbarger's tent. We'll go along with you cowboys until we hit Nebraska."

"Then what?" Call asked.

"I don't know, we ain't there yet," Augustus said. "What's the word on Jake?"

"He was in Fort Worth when we passed by," Call said. "I guess he's mainly card playing."

"I met that sheriff that's after him," Augustus said. "He's ahead of us somewhere. His wife run off and Blue Duck killed his deputy and two youngsters who were traveling with him. He's got other things on his mind besides Jake."

"He's welcome to Jake, if he wants him," Call said. "I won't defend a man who lets a woman get stolen and just goes back to his cards."

"It was wisdom," Augustus said. "Blue Duck would have scattered Jake over two counties if he had run into him."

"I call it cowardice," Call said. "Why didn't you kill Blue Duck?"

"He's quick," Augustus said. "I couldn't follow him on this piece of soap I'm riding. Anyway, I had Lorie to consider."

"I hate to let a man like that get away," Call said.

"Go get him, Woodrow," Augustus said. "He's west of here, probably in Colorado. You go get him and I'll nurse these cows along until you get back. Now what's that old cook doing?"

They saw all the cowboys gathered around the wagon, which still dripped from its passage through the river.

"He likes to surprise the boys," Call said. "He's always coming up with something different."

They trotted over and saw that Po Campo had made the hailstones into a kind of candy, with the use of a little molasses. He dipped them in molasses and gave each of the hands one to lick.

"Well, señor," he said to Augustus, "I see you made it back in time for dessert."

"I made it back in time to see a bunch of naked waddies cross a river," Augustus said. "I thought you'd all turned Indian and was aiming to scalp Jasper. Where's young Bill Spettle? Has he gone into hiding?"

There was an awkward silence. Lippy, sitting on the wagon seat, stopped licking the hailstone he had been given.

"No, señor, he is buried," Po Campo said. "A victim of lightning."

"That's a pity," Augustus said. "He was young and had promise."

"It kilt thirteen head with one bolt," Pea Eye said. "You never seen such lightning, Gus."

"I seen it," Augustus said. "We had a little weather too."

Newt felt warm and happy, his clothes on and Mr. Gus back with the crew. The sky had cleared and the clouds that had caused the terrible hail were only a few wisps on the eastern horizon. In the bright sun, with the river crossed and the cattle grazing on the wet grass, and Lorena rescued, life seemed like a fine thing, though every once in a while he would remember Bill Spettle, buried in the mud a few miles back, or Sean O'Brien, way down on the Nueces-the warm sun and bright air had brought them no pleasure. Po Campo had given him a hailstone dipped in molasses and he sat licking it and feeling alternately happy and sad while the men got dressed and prepared to be cowboys again.

"Are there any more trees, or does this plain just go on to Canady?" Bert Borum asked.

"I wouldn't bet on trees for the next few months," Augustus said.

The men wondered about Lorena. Many still held her beauty in their minds. What had happened to her? What did she look like now? Hers was the most beauty many of them had seen, and now that she was near it shone fresh in memory and made them all the more anxious to see her.

Dish, especially, could not keep his eyes off the little tent. He longed for a glimpse of her and kept imagining that any minute she would step out of the tent and look his way. Surely she remembered him; perhaps she would even wave, and call him over.

Lorena knew the cowboys were near, but she didn't look out of the tent. Gus had assured her he would be back soon, and she trusted him-though sometimes when he was gone for an hour looking for game, she still got the shakes. Blue Duck wasn't dead. He might come back and get her again, if Gus didn't watch close. She remembered his face and the way he smiled when he kicked her. Gus was the only thing that kept the memories away, and sometimes they were so fresh and frightening that she wished she had died so her brain would stop working and just leave her in the quiet. But her brain wouldn't stop-only Gus could distract it with talk and card games. Only his presence relaxed her enough that she could sleep.

Now and then she peeped out and saw the wagon, with Gus standing by it. He was easy to spot because of his white hair. As long as she could spot him she didn't feel worried.

Call let the men camp-they had had a rough twenty-four hours. A big steer had crippled itself crossing the river. Bert roped it and Po Campo killed it efficiently with a sharp blow of an ax. He butchered it just as efficiently and soon had beefsteaks cooking. The smell reminded the men that they were famished-they went at the meat like wolves.

"A cow don't go far with this bunch," Augustus observed. "If you boys don't learn to curb your appetites you'll have eaten the whole dern herd before we strike the Powder River. It'll be a big joke on you, Call," he added.

"What will?" Call asked. His mind had been on Blue Duck.

"Think of it," Augustus said. "You start off to Montana with a bunch of cattle and some hungry hands. By the time you get there the hands will have et the cattle and you're back at nothing. Then the Cheyenne or the Sioux will wipe out the hands, and that'll leave you."

"What about yourself?" Call asked. "You're along."

"I'll have stopped and got married, probably," Augustus said. "It's time I started my family."

"Are you marrying Lorie, then, Gus?" Dish asked, in sudden panic. He was aware that Gus had saved Lorena from a bad fate and supposed she might be going to marry him in gratitude.

"No, Dish, I've someone else in mind," Augustus said. "Don't run your hopes up no flagpole, though. Lorie's apt to be skittish of men for the next few years."

"Hell, she always was," Needle observed. "I offered her good money twice and she looked right through me like I was a glass window or something."

"Well, you are skinny," Augustus said. "Plus you're too tall to suit a woman. Women would rather have runts, on the whole."

The remark struck the company as odd-why would women rather have runts? And how did Gus know such a thing? But then, it was a comforting remark too, for it was like Gus to say something none of them expected to hear. Those that had night guard would be able to amuse themselves with the remark for hours, considering the pros and cons of it and debating among themselves whether it could be true.

"Dern, I missed listening to you, Gus," Pea Eye said as Augustus was mounting to leave.

Call rode a little way out of camp with Augustus. A flock of cranes came in and settled on the banks of the river.

"This trip is hard on boys," Augustus said. "We've lost two already, and the young sheriff lost a boy and a girl."

They stopped for a smoke. In the distance the night guard was just going out to the herd.

"We should have stayed lawmen and left these boys at home," Augustus said. "Half of 'em will get drowned or hit by lightning before we hit Montana. We should have just gone ourselves and found some rough old town and civilized it. That's the way to make a reputation these days."

"I don't want a reputation," Call said. "I've had enough outlaws shoot at me. I'd rather have a ranch."

"Well, I got to admit I still like a fight," Augustus said. "They sharpen the wits. The only other thing that does that is talking to women, which is usually more dangerous."

"Now you've ended up the caretaker of that girl," Call said. "She ain't the woman you're after."

"Nope, she ain't," Augustus said. He had been pondering that point himself. Of course, for all he knew Clara was still a happily married woman and all his thinking about her no more than idle daydreams. He had long wanted to marry her, and yet life was continually slipping other women between her and him. It had happened with his wives, earlier.

"I wish you'd been married," he said to Call.

"Why?" Call asked.

"I'd like your thoughts on the subject, that's why," Augustus said. "Only you ain't got no experience, so you can't be no help."

"Well, I never come close," Call said. "I don't know why."

"No interest," Augustus said. "Also, you ain't never figured yourself out, and you don't like to take chances."

"I could argue that," Call said. "I've taken my share of chances, I guess."

"In battle, not in love," Augustus said. "Unless you want to call what you done with Maggie taking a chance."

"Why do you always want to talk about that?" Call said.

"Because it was as close as you ever came to doing something normal," Augustus said. "It's all I've got to work with. Here you've brought these cattle all this way, with all this inconvenience to me and everybody else, and you don't have no reason in this world to be doing it."

Call didn't answer. He sat smoking. The Irishman had begun to sing to the herd.

"Since you know so much about me, have you got any suggestions?" he asked.

"Certainly have," Augustus said. "Take these cattle over to the nearest cow town and sell 'em. Pay off whatever boys is still alive."

"Then what?"

"I'll go deal with the ladies for a while," Augustus said. "You take Pea and Deets and ride up the Purgatory River until you find Blue Duck. Then either you'll kill him or he'll kill all of you."

"What about the boy?" Call asked.

"Newt can go with me and learn to be a ladies' man," Augustus said. "You won't claim him anyway, and the last boy that got near Blue Duck had his head smashed in with a rifle butt."

"Nope," Call said. "I'm primed to see Montana. If we're the first ones there we can take our pick of the land."

"You take your pick," Augustus said. "I'm in the mood to travel. Once you boys get settled I may go to China, for all you know."

And with that he rode off. Call smoked a while, feeling odd and a little sad. Jake had proved a coward and would never be part of the old crew again. Of course, he hadn't been for ten years-the old crew was mostly a memory, though Pea and Deets were still there, and Gus, in his strange way. But it was all changing.

He saw the girl come out of the tent when Gus dismounted. She was just a shape in the twilight. Gus said she wouldn't talk much, not even to him. Call didn't intend to try her. He loped a mile or two to the west and put the mare on her lead rope. The sky overhead was still light and there was a little fingernail moon.

64.

JAKE SPENT MOST of his days in a place called Bill's Saloon, a little clapboard place on the Trinity River bluffs. It was a two-story building. The whores took the top story and the gamblers and cowboys used the bottom. From the top floor there were usually cattle in sight trailing north, small herds and large. Once in a while a foreman came in for liquor and met Jake. When they found out he had been north to Montana, some tried to hire him, but Jake just laughed at them. The week after he left the Hat Creek herd had been a good week. He couldn't draw a bad card, and by the time the week was over he had a stake enough to last him a month or two.

"I believe I'll just stay," he told the foreman. "I like the view."

He also liked a long-legged whore named Sally Skull-at least that was what she called herself. She ran the whoring establishment for Bill Sloan, who owned the saloon. There were five girls but only three rooms, and with the herds coming through in such numbers the cowboys were in the place practically all the time. Sally had alarm clocks outside the rooms-she gave each man twenty minutes, after which the big alarm clocks went off with a sound like a firebell. When that happened, Sally would throw the door open and watch while the cowboys got dressed. Sally was skinny but tall, with short black hair. She was taller than all but a few of the cowboys, and the sight of her standing there unnerved most of the men so much they could hardly button their buttons. The majority of them were just boys, anyway, and not used to whorehouse customs and alarm clocks.

One or two of the bolder ones complained, but Sally was unimpressed and uncompromising.

"If you can't squirt your squirt in twenty minutes, you need a doctor, not a whore," she said.

Sally drank hard from the time she woke up until the time she passed out. She kept one of the three rooms for her own exclusive use-the one with a little porch off it. When Jake got tired of card playing he would come and sit with his feet propped up on the porch rail and watch the wagons move up and down the streets of Fort Worth. Once Sally had the alarm clocks set she would come in for a few minutes herself, with a whiskey glass, and help him watch. He had hit it off with her at once, and she let him sleep in her bed, but the bed and the privileges that went with it cost him ten dollars a day-a sum he readily agreed to, since he was on a winning streak. Once he had got his first ten dollars' worth, he felt free to discuss the arrangements.

"What if we don't do nothing but sleep?" he asked. "Is it still ten dollars?"

"Yep," Sally said.

"I can buy a dern bed for the night a sight cheaper than that," Jake pointed out.

"If it's got me in it, it ain't just a bed," Sally said. "Besides, you get to sit on the balcony all you want to, unless one of my good sweethearts is in town."

It turned out that Sally Skull had quite a number of good sweethearts, some of them so rank that Jake didn't see how she could stand them. She didn't mind mule skinners or buffalo hunters; in fact, she seemed to prefer them.

"Hell, I'm the only one of your customers that's taken a bath this year," Jake complained. "You could take up with bankers and lawyers, and the sheets wouldn't stink so."

"I like 'em muddy and bloody," Sally said. "I ain't nice, this ain't a nice place, and it ain't a nice life. I'd take a hog to bed if I could find one that walked on two legs."

Jake had seen hogs that kept cleaner than some of the men Sally Skull took upstairs, but something about her raw behavior stirred him, and he stayed with her and paid the daily ten dollars. The cowboys that came through were very poor cardplayers, so he could usually make his fee back in an hour. He tried other whores in other saloons, skinny ones and fat ones, but with them a time came when he would remember Lorena and immediately lose interest. Lorena was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and her beauty grew in his memory. He thought of her often with a pang, but also with anger, for in his view it was entirely her own fault that she had been stolen. Whatever was happening to her, it was her punishment for stubbornness. She could easily have been living with him in a decent hotel in Austin or Fort Worth.

Sally Skull had bad teeth and a thin body with no particular beauties. Her long legs were skinny as a bird's, and she had nothing that could match Lorena's fine bosom. If anyone said a wrong word to her they got a tongue-lashing that would make the coarsest man blush. If one of her girls got too sweet on a cowboy, which could always happen in her profession, Sal promptly got rid of her, shoving her out the back door of the saloon into the dusty street. "Don't get in love around me," she would say. "Go do it in the alley if you want to give it away." Once she fired three girls in one day for lazing around with the boys. For the next week she serviced most of the customers herself.

Jake decided he was crazy for taking up with Sally-she lived too raw for him. Besides the drinking and the men, she also took powders of various kinds, which she bought from a druggist. She would take the powders and lay beside him wide-eyed, not saying a word for hours. Still, he would be awakened at dawn when she pulled the cork out of the whiskey bottle she kept by the bed. After a few swigs to wake herself up, she would always want him, no matter that she had serviced twenty cowboys the night before. Sally flared with the first light-he couldn't think what he liked about her, yet he couldn't deny her, either. She made a hundred dollars a day, or more, but spent most of it on her powders or on dresses, most of which she only wore once or twice.

When the Hat Creek outfit passed through, some of the men came in and said hello to Jake, but he froze them out. It was their fault that Lorena was lost, and he had no more use for them. But tales about him were told, and they soon got back to Sally Skull.

"Why'd you let that Indian get your whore?" she asked him bluntly.

"He was a tricky bandit," Jake said. "For all I know she may have liked him. She never liked me much."

Sally Skull had green eyes, which dilated when she took her powders. She looked at him like a mean cat that was about to pounce on a lizard. Though it was barely sunup they had already been at it, and the grimy sheets were a puddle of sweat.

"She never would mind," Jake said, wishing the Hat Creek outfit had kept their mouths shut.

"I wouldn't mind you either, Jake," Sally said. "I wish I could trade places with her."

"You what?" he asked, mightily startled.

"I've went with a nigger but never an Indian," she said. "I'd like to try one."

The news about the nigger was a shock to Jake. He knew Sal was wild, but hadn't supposed she was that wild. The look on her face frightened him a little.

"You know something else? I paid that nigger," she said. "I give him ten dollars to turn whore and then he never got to spend it."

"Why not?" Jake asked.

"He bragged and they hung him from a tree," Sally said. "Wrong thing to brag about in Georgia. Some of them wanted to hang me but they didn't have the guts to hang a woman. I just got run out of town."

That night there was trouble. A young foreman gave Sally some lip when she tried to rush him off, and she shot him in the shoulder with a derringer she kept under her pillow. He wasn't hurt much, but he complained, and the sheriff took Sally to jail and kept her. Jake tried to bail her out but the sheriff wouldn't take his money. "Leave her sit," he said. Only Sally did more than sit. She bribed one of the deputies into bringing her some powders. She looked a mess, but somehow it was the mess about her that men couldn't resist. Jake couldn't, himself-somehow she could bring him to it despite her teeth and her oniony smells and the rest. She brought the deputy to it, too, and then tried to grab his gun and break jail, although if she had waited, the sheriff would have let her out in a day or two. Somehow, in fighting over the one gun, she and the deputy managed to shoot each other fatally. They died together on the cell floor in a pool of blood, both half naked.

The deputy had nine children, and his death caused an uproar against whores and gamblers, so much so that Jake thought it prudent to leave town. He searched Sally's room before he left and found six hundred dollars in a hatbox; since Sally was dead and buried, he took it. The whores who were left were so scared that they hired a buggy and came with him over to Dallas, where they soon found work in another saloon.

In Dallas Jake won some money from a soldier who reported that he had met a deputy sheriff from Arkansas. The deputy was looking for the sheriff, and the sheriff was looking for a man who had killed his brother. The soldier had forgotten all the names and Jake didn't mention that he was the man being sought. The information made him nervous, though. The sheriff from Arkansas was evidently in Texas somewhere, and might show up any time.

While he was pondering what his next move might be, a hard-looking crew showed up in the saloon where he was playing. It consisted of three brothers-the Suggs brothers. Dan Suggs was the oldest and most talkative. The younger two, Ed and Roy, were sullen and restless, always watching the doors to see who might be coming in. Dan had no interest in doors, or any apparent concern other than a need to have his whiskey glass filled rather often. All three were scragglybearded men.

"Didn't you ranger?" Dan asked, when he heard Jake's name.

"I rangered some," Jake said.

"You run with Call and McCrae, didn't you?" Dan said. "I've never met Call or McCrae but I've heard they're hard men."

It irked Jake a little that those two had such reputations. It seemed to him that he had done about as much as they had, in the rangering days. After all, he was the man who had shot one of the most famous bandits on the border.

While they talked and played cards a little, Roy Suggs kept spitting tobacco on the barroom floor. It irked Ralph, the man who owned the bar. He brought over a spittoon and put it by Roy's chair, but Roy Suggs looked at him with a cold eye and continued to spit on the floor.

"Roy will spit where he pleases," Dan said, with a mean grin.

"Spoon, how'd you like to be a regulator?" he asked a little later. "I recall from stories I've heard that you can shoot a gun."

"What is a regulator?" Jake asked. "I've not heard the term."

"Folks up in Kansas are getting tired of these Texas cattle tramping in constantly," Dan said. "They want this trail-driving business regulated."

"Regulated how?"

"Well, taxed," Dan said. "People can't go on driving cattle just anywhere. If they want to cross certain rivers at certain crossings, they've got to pay for the privilege. If they won't pay in cash, then they've got to pay in cattle."

"Is it the law in Kansas, or what?" Jake asked.

"It ain't, but some folks think it ought to be," Dan said.

"Us folks, mainly," Roy said, spitting.

"I see," Jake said. "If Call and Gus try to take some cattle across one of them rivers you're regulating, then you stop 'em and tell them they have to pay? Is that how the scheme works?"

"That's it," Dan said.

"I'd like to see you tell Woodrow Call he has to pay you money to drive cattle across a river," Jake said. "I ain't a friend of the man-he's recently treated me poorly. But unless there's a law and you can show it to him, you won't be collecting no double eagles."

"Then he'll have to suffer the consequences," Dan said.

Jake laughed. "The consequences of that would be that somebody would have to dig your grave," he said. "If Call didn't shoot you, Gus would. They ain't used to taking orders from you regulators."

"By God, then they'll learn," Roy Suggs said.

"Maybe, but you won't teach them," Jake said. "You'd be sitting dead in your saddle if you tried it." Though he was annoyed with Call and Gus, it amused him that three scraggly bandits thought they could beat them.

Dan Suggs was not pleased with the conversation, either. "I thought you might be a man with some gumption," he said. "I see I was wrong."

"I can supply enough gumption," Jake said. "But I don't ride with inexperienced men. If you think you can ride up to Call and McCrae and collect money from 'em with a few threats, then you're too inexperienced for me."

Dan was silent for a bit. "Well, they're just one bunch," he said. "There are plenty of other herds on the trail."

"That's right," Jake said. "If I was you I'd try to regulate some of the ones that ain't been led by Texas Rangers."

Roy and Ed looked at him hostilely. They didn't like hearing it suggested that they weren't up to the job. But Dan Suggs was a cooler man. After they'd played some cards and worked through a bottle of whiskey he admitted that the regulating scheme was something he'd just thought up.

"My notion was that most cowboys can't fight," Dan said. "Hell, they're just boys. Them settlers up there can't fight, neither. A lot of them might pay us to keep the beeves out of their corn patches."

"They might, but it sounds like you're speculating," Jake said. "Before I leave this here easy life to go and get shot at I'd like a little better prospect to think about."

"How about robbing banks, if the regulating don't work out?" Dan asked bluntly. "You got any objections to robbing banks?"

"It would depend on the bank," Jake said. "I wouldn't enjoy it if there was too much law stacked up against me. I'd think you'd want to pick small towns."

They talked for several hours, Roy Suggs resolutely spitting tobacco on the floor. Dan Suggs pointed out that all the money seemed to be in Kansas. If they went up there and weren't too particular about what they did they ought to be able to latch onto some of it.

Jake found the Suggs brothers unattractive. They all had cold, mean eyes, and no great affection even for one another. Roy and Ed almost got into a gunfight over a hand of cards. He offered to get them whores, for he had stayed friendly with several of the girls who had come over from Fort Worth, but the Suggs brothers weren't interested. Drinking and card playing appealed to them more.

Had it not been for the threat of July Johnson somewhere around, he would have let the Suggs brothers head for Kansas without him. He was comfortable where he was, and had no appetite for hard riding and gunfighting. But Dallas wasn't far from Fort Smith, and July Johnson might arrive any time. That was an uncomfortable thought, so uncomfortable that three days later Jake found himself riding north with the three Suggs boys and a tall black man they called Frog Lip. Jake equipped himself with a new rifle before they left. He had made the Suggs brothers no promises, and as soon as he found a nice saloon in Kansas, he meant to let them go their way.

Frog Lip owned five guns of various calibers, and spent most of his time cleaning them. He was a fine marksman. The first day out he brought down a deer at a distance Jake would have considered impossible. Frog Lip seemed to take the shot for granted. Jake had the strong feeling that the black man's guns would soon be pointed at something besides deer, but he himself didn't plan to be around to see it.

65.

JULY RODE FOR DAYS without seeing any person, or, for that matter, many signs of life except the hawks and buzzards circling in the blue prairie sky. Once he saw a wolf loping along a ridge, and at night he heard coyotes, but the only game he saw were jackrabbits, and it was mostly rabbit he ate.

He kept going north, reminding himself that it was a long way to any towns; but soon the unvarying emptiness of the country began to disturb him, and he was already disturbed enough by the deaths of the three people buried on the Canadian. He thought of them more or less all day. Waking in the gray dawn, he would have Roscoe's face in his mind; when he dreamed, it was of Roscoe and Joe and the young girl. Several times he cried at the thought of the finality of it. He had a longing to get them back in places they belonged: Fort Smith, in the case of Roscoe and Joe. He didn't know where the girl had belonged, though it wasn't in a grave on the Canadian.

What he was doing-indeed, his whole life-now seemed to him completely futile. He rode through the empty land without hope of anything, simply going on because he had to do something. As he went farther and farther onto the plains, he ceased to be able to imagine Fort Smith as a place where he might ever live and work again. What would he do if he did go back? Sit in the jail where he had worked with Roscoe? Or in the cabin where he had lived with Elmira?

July didn't see how things could get worse, since he had lost his wife and led three people to their deaths. But four days after he left Augustus, his horse went lame. Some small spiky cactus hidden by the tall prairie grass proved more deadly than a snake. A thorn worked its way far up into the horse's hoof. July had to tie the horse down to get the thorn out, and even then he was not sure he had got it all. They were three days north of the Cimarron when it happened. Water was scarce and the horse soon too lame to ride. He led the horse, taking it slow, hoping the hoof would get better, but it did no good. The horse was lamed and could put no weight on the hoof at all.

Finally, sadly feeling that he was parting with his last companion in life, July unsaddled the horse and shot him. He left his saddle but took his rifle and started walking east. The next day, from a ridge, he saw a great cloud of buzzards over the place where the horse lay. The sight made him cry.

He walked all day, hoping to cross a creek but finding none. He had a half canteen of water-not enough to get him back to the Cimarron. And he had nothing to eat. He made a dry camp and sat all night on his blanket, so wakeful he thought he would never sleep again. He sat for hours, watching the moon climb high amid the bright stars. He remembered the cold nights in their Arkansas cabin when he was a boy-how his mother piled quilts on top of him and his brothers, how peaceful it seemed under the quilts. Then it seemed like sleep was one of the most wonderful things in life.

July wondered if perhaps the sleep of death would be as good, as comforting and warming, as his boyhood slumber. He had a rifle and a pistol-one pull of the trigger would bring him all the sleep he wanted. In his five years as a lawman he had never shot anyone, though he had a reputation as a dangerous fighter. It would be a joke on everyone if the only person he ever killed was himself. He had always assumed that people who killed themselves were cowards. His own uncle had done it in a painful way, by drinking lye. His uncle had been deep in debt.

Now, as he sat and watched the moon, killing himself merely seemed sensible. His life had been ruined-surprisingly, inexplicably, swiftly, but ruined for sure. He had made wrong choices all along, and it had cost three lives. Killing himself would put him at one with Roscoe, Janey, Joe-and the horse. They had started traveling together; it would be fitting that they all ended in the same place.

He began to think about which gun to use. The barrel of the rifle gleamed in the moonlight; the pistol was heavy in its holster. He took out the pistol and slowly turned the cylinder, listening to the heavy clicks. But he didn't put it to his head. He remembered Elmira. It seemed to him he had to find her, to tell her what had happened to her son. It was true she had never seemed fond of the boy-Elmira had never seemed fond of anyone-but Joe had been her son and she might want to know.

July thought all night. Knowing that he had only to raise the pistol eased his mind a little. He had better go and find Elmira first. He wanted to explain to her that he had never meant to do whatever had caused her to run off. Once that was done, he could go off with the pistol and join his dead.

The next morning he started walking, but he didn't feel the same. He felt like he no longer belonged to life. It would not have surprised him to see a cloud of buzzards circling over him. In spirit he had gone to visit Roscoe. He finished his water that night, having walked all day through the brown wavy grass. He tried a long shot at a deer but missed. The next morning he was awakened by the cawing of crows. He looked up to see several of them flapping overhead in the early grayness. He was tired from his long day's walk and didn't get up immediately. There was nothing to get up for but the bright sun and the shimmering plains. But he kept hearing the crows, cawing and quarreling not far away. When he stood up, he saw a little grove of low trees not two hundred yards away-they weren't much, but they were trees, and the crows were resting in them.

Among the trees he found a spring-just a trickle of a spring, but it had formed a shallow pooi ten feet wide. A black snake was curled on a rock at the water's edge-it was probably what the crows were complaining about.

July spent the day by the spring. He drank, bathed, and soaked his dirty clothes, spreading them out on the grass to dry. While he rested, a big badger walked up to the spring and July shot him with his pistol. He had never eaten badger, but he ate this one and drank the spring water. Even better than food were the trees. Being in the shade again eased his spirit a little. He could look across the hot prairies for miles, from the comfort of his shade. The sun couldn't parch him while he was under the trees.

But he couldn't live forever on spring water and one badger. Besides, he had his chore to do. He waited until the cool of the evening and then set out again. The second day he crossed a wagon track coming from the south. It led him to a running creek, but he saw no wagon. The next day he saw a dust cloud, which turned out to be a small cow herd. The cowboys were mighty surprised to see a lone figure walking toward them from the west, and dumbfounded to learn that he was a sheriff from Arkansas.

"Did you come from California, or where?" the trail boss asked. He was an old white-mustached man named Johns, suspicious at first. Not many men came walking out of Texas. But July soon persuaded the old man to sell him a horse. It was the worst horse in the remuda, but it was a horse. July gave forty dollars for it. The Johns outfit had no saddle to spare, but they did give him directions. They tried to get him to stay the night with them-they had been on the trail six weeks and a stranger was a welcome novelty.

But once he was mounted, July felt a sense of hurry seize him. He ate with them, thanked them again, and left under a rising moon. Four days later, sore from riding bareback on the little sharp-spined bay, he trotted into Dodge City.

66.

LONG BEFORE THEY STRUCK the Republican River, Elmira had begun to wonder if any of it was worth it. For two weeks, when they were on the open plain, it rained, hailed, lightning flashed. Everything she owned was wet, and she didn't like feeling like a muskrat, though it didn't bother Luke and Zwey. It was cold at night. She slept on wet blankets in the hard wagon and woke up feeling more tired than when she lay down. The plains turned soggy and the wagon bogged time after time. The hides smelled and the food was chancy. The wagon was rough, even when the going was good. She bounced around all day and felt sick to her stomach. If she lost the baby in such a place, she felt she would probably die.

It occurred to her that she had taken a hard route, just to escape July Johnson. Her own folly amused her: she had once thought of herself as smart-but look at where she was. If Dee Boot could see her he would laugh his head off. Dee loved to laugh about the absurd things people did for bad reasons. The fact that she had done it because she wanted to see him would only amuse him more. Dee would tell her she ought to have gone back to Dodge and asked one of the girls to get her work.

Instead, she was driving a mule wagon across northern Kansas. They had been lucky and seen no Indians, but that could always change. Besides, it soon developed that Luke was going to be as much trouble as an Indian. It was something she knew that Zwey hadn't noticed. Zwey treated her kindly, insofar as he treated her at all. Now that he had got her to come on a trip he seemed well content. She didn't have to do anything but be there, and he was surprised when she offered to cook, which she mainly did out of boredom and because Zwey and Luke were such dirty cooks she was afraid she would get poisoned if she didn't take that chore into her own hands. Zwey exhibited no lustful intentions at all-he seemed happy just to rest his eyes on her at the end of the day.

Luke, on the other hand, was a feisty little rabbit who lost no time in making his wants known. In the early morning he would stand and relieve himself in plain sight of her, grinning and looking at her while he did it. Zwey, who slept like a rock, never noticed this strange habit.

Luke was not easy to discourage. Soon he took a new tack, which was to persuade Zwey that when they hunted the two of them ought to hunt in separate directions. It was true that game was scarce, but that wasn't the reason Luke hunted by himself. All he was hunting was Elmira. As soon as he knew that Zwey was two or three miles from the wagon, he circled back and pressed his suit. He was direct about it, too. He would tie his horse to the wagon and climb right in with her. He put his arm around her and made crude suggestions.

"No," Elmira said. "I came with Zwey. He told me I wouldn't be bothered."

"What bother?" Luke asked.

"I'm going to have a baby," she said, hoping that would discourage him.

Luke looked at her belly. "Not for a while yet," he said. "This ain't gonna take no month. It probably won't take six minutes. I'll pay you. I won good money playing cards back at the Fort."

"No," Elmira said. "I'm afraid of Zwey."

She wasn't really, but it made a handy excuse. She was more afraid of Luke, who had mean eyes-there was something crazy in his looks. He also had a disgusting habit, which was that he liked to suck his own fingers. He would do it sitting by the fire at night-suck his fingers as if they were candy.

Luke kept climbing up on the wagon and putting his hands on her, but Elmira kept saying no. She dreamed of Dee occasionally, but other than that she had no interest in men. She thought about telling Zwey that Luke was bothering her, but Zwey was not an easy man to talk to. Anyway, it might start a fight, and Luke might win, in which case her goose would be cooked. Zwey was strong but slow, and Luke didn't look like a man who would fight fair.

So when Luke snuck back and climbed onto the wagon seat, Elmira possumed. She couldn't stop his hands entirely, but she made herself into a tight little package and concentrated on driving the mules.

When Luke saw he wasn't going to change her mind with talk or the offer of money, he tried threats. Twice he cuffed her and once shoved her completely off the wagon seat. She fell hard and barely got out of way of the wagon wheel. Immediately she thought of the baby, but she didn't lose it. Luke cursed her and rode off and she climbed back up and drove the wagon.

The next day he threatened to kill Zwey if she didn't let him. "Zwey's dumb," he said. "He ain't no smarter than a buffalo. 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.

Luke smiled his mean smile. "That gun would break your shoulder if you fired it," he said.

"Yes, and what would it do to you?" she said.

"When I get you you'll wish you'd give it to me," Luke said, flushing red with anger. He got on his horse and rode off.

Zwey came back well before sundown with a wild turkey he had managed to shoot. But Luke wasn't back. Elmira decided she might as well tell Zwey. She couldn't tolerate any more of Luke. Zwey was mildly puzzled that Luke wasn't there.

"I chased him off with the gun," Elmira said.

Zwey looked surprised. His mouth opened and the look spread up his big face.

"With the gun?" he asked. "Why?"

"He tried to interfere with me," Elmira said. "He tries it nearly ever day, once you go off."

Zwey pondered that information for a time. They had made a mess of cooking the turkey, but at least it was something to eat. Zwey gnawed on a big drumstick while he pondered.

"Was it he tried to marry you?" he asked.

"You can call it that, if you like," she said. "He tries to do me. I want him to let be."

Zwey said nothing more until he had finished his drumstick. He cracked the bone with his teeth, sucked at the marrow a minute and then threw the bone into the darkness.

"I guess I better kill him if he's going to act that way," he said.

"You could take him with you when you hunt, like you used to," she said. "He couldn't pester me if he's with you."

She had hardly spoken when a shot rang out. It passed between the two of them and hit the turkey, knocking it off its stick into the ashes. They both scrambled for the cover of the wagon and waited. An hour later they were still waiting. There were no more shots, and Luke didn't appear.

"I wonder why he shot the turkey," Zwey said. "It was done dead."

"He didn't shoot the turkey, he missed you," Elmira suggested.

"Well, it tore up the turkey," he said, when they came out of cover and picked up the cold bird.

That night he slept under the wagon with a cocked pistol but there was no attack. They ate cold turkey for breakfast. Two days later Luke showed up, acting as if he'd never been away.

Elmira was apprehensive, fearing a fight then and there, but Zwey seemed to have forgotten the whole business. About the time Luke rode up they spotted two or three buffalo and immediately rode off to shoot them, leaving Elmira to drive the wagon. They came back after dark with three fresh hides, and seemed in good spirits. Luke scarcely looked at her. He and Zwey sat up late, cooking slices of buffalo liver. They were both as bloody as if they'd been skinned. Elmira hated the smell of blood and kept away from them as best she could.

The next morning, before good light, she woke up gagging at the blood smell and looked up to see Luke sitting astraddle of her. He was rubbing his bloody hands over her bosom. Her stomach heaved from the smell.

Luke was fumbling with her blanket, trying to get her uncovered. When he raised up to loosen his clothes Elmira rolled on her stomach, thinking that might stop him. It did annoy him. He bent over her and she felt his hot breath at her ear.

"You're no better than a bitch dog, we'll have it that way," he said. She squeezed her legs together as tightly as she could. Luke pinched her but she kept squeezing. Then he tried to wedge a knee between her legs but he wasn't strong enough. The next thing she knew Zwey was dragging Luke over the side of the wagon. Zwey was smiling, as if he were playing with a child. He lifted Luke and began to smash his head into the wagon wheel. He did it two or three times, smashing Luke into the iron rim, and then he dropped him as if he were deadwood. Zwey didn't really seem angry. He stood by the wagon, looking at Elmira. Luke had pulled her clothes half off.

"I wish he wouldn't act that way," Zwey said. "I won't have nobody to hunt with if I kill him."

He looked down at Luke, who was still breathing, though his head and face were a pulp.

"He just keeps wanting to marry you," Zwey said. "Looks like he'd quit it."

Luke did quit, at that point. He lay in the wagon for four days, trying to get his breath through his broken nose. One of his ears had been nearly scraped off on the wheel; his lips were smashed and several of his teeth broken. His face swelled to such a point that they couldn't tell at first if his jaw was broken, but it turned out it wasn't. The first day, he could barely mumble, but he did persuade Elmira to try and sew his ear back on. Zwey was for cutting it off, since it just hung by a bit of skin, but Elmira took pity on Luke and sewed on the ear. She made a bad job of it, mainly because Luke yelped and jerked every time she touched him with the needle. When she finished, the ear wasn't quite in its right place; it set a little lower than the other and she had pulled the threads a little too tight, so that it didn't have quite the right shape. But at least it was on his head.

Zwey laughed about the fight as if he and Luke had just been two boys playing, although Luke's nose was bent sideways. Then Luke developed a fever and got chills. He rolled around in the wagon moaning and sweating. They had no medicine and could do nothing for him. He looked bad, his face swollen and black. It was strange, Elmira thought, that he would bring such punishment on himself just because he wanted to interfere with her.

There was no more danger of that. When Luke's fever broke, he was so weak he could barely turn over. Zwey went off and hunted, as he had been doing, and Elmira drove the wagon. Twice she got the wagon stuck in a creek and had to wait until Zwey found her and pulled it out. He seemed as strong as either of the mules.

They had not seen one soul since leaving the Fort. Once she thought she saw an Indian watching her from a little ridge, but it turned out to be an antelope.

It was two weeks before Luke could get out of the wagon. All that time Elmira brought him his food and coaxed him to eat it. All the passion seemed to have been beaten out of him. But he did say once, watching Zwey, "I'll kill him someday."

"You shouldn't have missed that shot you had," Elmira said, thinking to tease him.

"What shot?" he asked.

She told him about the shot that hit the turkey, and Luke shook his head.

"I never shot no turkey," he said. "I was thinking to ride off and leave you but I changed my mind."

"Who shot it then?" she asked. Luke had no answer.

She reported this to Zwey but he had forgotten the incident-he wasn't very interested.

After that, though, she grew afraid of the nights-whoever had shot the turkey might still be out there. She huddled in the wagon, scared, and spent her days wishing they would come to Ogallala.

67.

ALL THROUGH THE TERRITORY, Newt kept expecting to see Indians-the prospect was all the cowboys talked about. Dish claimed there were all manner of Indians in the Territory, and that some of them were far from whipped. The claim upset Pea Eye, who liked to believe that his Indian-fighting days were over.

"They ain't supposed to fight us no more," he said. "Gus claims the government paid 'em to stop."

"Yes, but whoever heard of an Indian doing what he was supposed to do?" Lippy said. "Maybe some of them consider that they wasn't paid enough."

"What would you know?" Jasper inquired. "When did you ever see an Indian?"

"I seen plenty," Lippy informed him. "What do you think made this hole in my stomach? An Apache Indian made that hole."

"Apache?" Dish said. "Where did you find an Apache?"

"West of Santa Fe," Lippy said. "I traded in them parts, you know. That's where I learned to play the piano."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you forget how before we come to a place that's got one," Pea Eye said. He found himself more and more depressed by the prospect of endless plains. Normally, in his traveling days, he had ridden through one kind of country for a while and then come to another kind of country. It had even been true on the trail drive: first there had been brush, then the limestone hills, then some different brush, and then the plains. But after that there had just been more and more plains, and no end in sight that he could see. Once or twice he asked Deets how soon they could expect to come to the end of them, for Deets was the acknowledged expert on distances, but this time Deets had to admit he was stumped. He didn't know how long the plains went on. "Over a thousand, I guess," he said.

"A thousand miles?" Pea said. "We'll all get old and grow beards before we get that far."

Jasper pointed out to him that at an average of fifteen miles a day it would only take them about two months to get a thousand miles. Thinking of it in terms of months proved more comforting than thinking of it in terms of miles, so Pea tried that for a while.

"When will it be a month up?" he asked Po Campo one night. Po was another much-relied-on source of information.

"Don't worry about months," Po Campo said. "Months won't bother you. I'm more worried about it being dry."

"Lord, it ain't been dry yet," Pea said. "It's rained aplenty."

"I know," Po said. "But we may come to a place where it will forget to rain."

He had long since won the affection of Gus's pigs. The shoat followed him around everywhere. It had grown tall and skinny. It annoyed Augustus that the pigs had shown so little fidelity; when he came to the camp and noticed the shoat sleeping right beside Po Campo's workplace, he was apt to make tart remarks. The fact that many of the men had come to regard Po Campo as an oracle also annoyed Augustus.

"Po, you're too short to see far, but I hear you can tell fortunes," he said one morning when he had ridden over for breakfast.

"I can tell some fortunes," Po allowed. "I don't know if I can tell yours."

"I don't want nobody to tell mine," Jasper said. "I might find out that I'm going to drown in the Republican River."

"I'd like to know mine," Augustus said. "I've had mine told a few times by old black women in New Orleans, and they always say the same thing."

"Probably they tell you that you'll never be rich and you'll never be poor," Po said, whipping at his scrambled eggs.

"That's right," Augustus said. "It's a boring fortune. Besides, I can look in my pocket and tell that much myself. I ain't rich and I ain't poor, exactly."

"What more would you like to know about your fortune?" Po Campo inquired politely.

"How many more times I'm likely to marry," Augustus said. "That's the only interesting question, ain't it? Which river I drown in don't matter to me. That's Jasper's interest. I'd just like to know my matrimonial prospects."

"Spit," Po said. "Spit in the wagon here."

Augustus walked over to the wagon and spat on the boards. The day before, Po Campo had caught six prairie-chicken hatchlings, for some reason, and they were running around in the wagon bed, chirping. Po came over and looked for a moment at Augustus's expectoration.

"No more wives for you," he said immediately, and turned back to his eggs.

"That's disappointing," Augustus said. "I've only had two wives so far, and neither of them lived long. I figured I was due one more."

"You don't really want another wife," Po said. "You are like me, a free man. The sky is your wife."

"Well, I've got a dry one then," Augustus said, looking up at the cloudless sky.

The shoat stood on its hind legs and put its front hooves on the side of the wagon. It was trying to see the hatchlings.

"I'd have turned you into bacon long since if I'd have known you were going to be so fickle," Augustus said.

"Can you tell stuff about a feller from looking at his spit?" Pea Eye asked. He had heard of fortune-tellers, but thought they usually did it with cards.

"Yes," Po Campo said, but he didn't explain.

Just as they were about to cross into Kansas, some Indians showed up. There were only five of them, and they came so quietly that nobody noticed them at first. Newt was on the drags. When the dust let up for a moment he looked over and saw the Captain talking to a small group of riders. At first he supposed them to be cowboys from another herd. He didn't think about them being Indians until the Captain came trotting over with them. "Take him," the Captain said, pointing to a steer with a split hoof who was hobbling along in the rear.

By the time it registered that they were really Indians, they had already cut off the steer and were driving it away, as the Captain sat and watched. Newt was almost afraid to look at them, but when he did he was surprised at how thin and poor they looked. The old man who was their leader was just skin and bones. He rode near enough for Newt to see that one of his eyes was milky white. The other Indians were young. Their ponies were as thin as they were. They had no saddles, just saddle blankets, and only one had a gun, an old carbine. The Indians boxed the steer out of the herd as skillfully as any cowboys and soon had him headed across the empty plain. The old man raised his hand to the Captain as they left, and the Captain returned the gesture.

That night there was much talk about the event.

"Why, they didn't look scary," Jimmy Rainey said. "I reckon we could have whipped them easy enough."

Po Campo chuckled. "They weren't here to fight," he said. "They're just hungry. When they're fighting they look different."

"That's right," Lippy said. "It don't take but a second for one to shoot a hole in your stomach. It happened to me."

Call had formed the habit of riding over with Augustus every night as he took Lorena her supper. Augustus usually camped about a mile from the herd, so it gave them a few minutes to talk. Augustus had not seen the Indians, but he had heard about the gift of the beef.

"I guess you're getting mellow in your old age," he said. "Now you're feeding Indians."

"They were just Wichitas," Call said, "and they were hungry. That steer couldn't have kept up anyway. Besides, I knew the old man," he added. "Remember old Bacon Rind?-or that's what we called him, anyway."

"Yes, he was never a fighter," Augustus said. "I'm surprised he's still alive."

"He fed us buffalo once," Call said. "It was only fair he should have a beef."

They were fifty yards from the tent, so Call drew rein. He couldn't see the girl, but he took care not to come too close. Augustus said she was spooked.

"Look how blue it is toward the sunset," Augustus said. "I've heard about what they call the Blue Mounds. I guess those must be them."

The prairie was rolling, and there were humplike rises to the north as far as they could see. Though the sky was still bright yellow with afterglow, the mounds ahead did have a bluish electric look, almost as if blue lightning had condensed over their tops.

In the dawn the Blue Mounds shimmered to the north. Augustus usually came out of the tent early so he could see the sunrise. Lorena had stopped having so many nightmares and she slept heavily, so heavily that it was hard to get her awake in the mornings. Augustus never rushed her. She had regained her appetite and put on flesh, and it seemed to him her sleeping late was healthy. The grass was wet with dew, so he sat on his saddle blanket watching Dish Boggett point the cattle into the blue distances. Dish always swung the point as close to the tent as he dared, hoping for a glimpse of Lorena, but it was a hope seldom rewarded.

When Lorena awoke and came out of the tent the herd was almost out of sight, though Lippy and the wagon were not far away. Po Campo and the two pigs were walking along looking at things, a hundred yards ahead of the wagon.

Augustus made room for Lorena on the blanket and she sat down without a word, watching the strange little man walk along with the pigs. As the sun rose, the blueness to the north diminished, and it could be seen that the mounds were just low brown hills.

"It must be that wavy grass that gives it the blue look-or else it's the air," Augustus said.

Lorena didn't say anything. She felt so sleepy that she could hardly sit up, and after a moment she leaned against Gus and shut her eyes. He put his arms around her. His arms were warm and the sun on her face was warm. Sleep had pulled at her so much lately that it seemed she was never fully awake, but it didn't matter so long as Gus was there to talk to her and sleep close beside her. If he was there she could let go and slide into sleep. He didn't mind. Often she would rest in his arms, while he held forth, talking almost to himself, for she only half heard. Only when she thought of coming to a town did she feel worried. She stayed in her sleeps as long as she could, so as not to have to worry about the towns.

Augustus stroked her hair as she lay against him. He was thinking how strange life was, that he and Lorena were sitting on a saddle blanket on the south edge of Kansas, watching Call's cattle herd disappear to the north.

One little shot during a card game in Arkansas had started things happening-things he couldn't see the end of. The shot had ended up killing more than a dentist. Sean O'Brien, Bill Spettle, and the three people who were traveling with July Johnson had lost their lives so far, and Montana nowhere in sight.

"He ought to have taken his hanging," Augustus said out loud.

Actually, Jake couldn't fairly be blamed for any of the deaths, though he could be blamed for Lorena's troubles, which were worth a hanging by Augustus's reckoning.

"Who ought?" Lorena asked. Her eyes were open but she still rested her head against Augustus's chest.

"Jake," he said. "Look at all the bad that happened since he showed up."

"He wanted to take me to town," Lorena said. "I wouldn't go. I didn't want no towns.

"I still don't want no towns," she said a little later, beginning to tremble at the thought of all the men that would be in them.

Augustus held her close and didn't try to discuss it with her. Soon she stopped trembling. Two big hawks were skimming the surface of the prairie, not far away.

"Look at them birds," Augustus said. "I'd give a passel if I could fly like that."

Lorena had an uneasy thought in her mind. Gus was holding her in his arms, as he had every day and night since he had rescued her. Yet he had not approached her, had never mentioned it. She understood it was kindness-he was letting her get well. She didn't want him to approach her, never would want any man to again. And yet it troubled her. She knew what men wanted with her. It wasn't just a bedfellow. If Gus had stopped wanting her, what did that mean? Would he take her to a town someday and say goodbye?

"My goodness, Lorie, you smell fresh as dew," he said, sniffing her hair. "It's a miracle you can keep fresh out in these raw parts."

One button had come off his shirt, and a few tufts of the white hair on his chest were sticking out. She wanted to say something, but she was afraid to. She tried to poke the little white chest hairs back under his shirt.

Augustus laughed at the tidy way she did it. "I know I'm a shameful sight," he said. "It's all Call's fault. He wouldn't let me bring my tailor on this trip."

Lorena was silent, but fear was building up in her. Gus had become too important to her. It was disturbing to think that he might leave her someday. She wanted to make sure of him, but she didn't know how to do it. After all, he had already told her there was a woman in Ogallala. She began to tremble again from her sudden fear.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Here it is, a beautiful morning, and you're sitting here shaking."

She was afraid to speak but began to cry.

"Lorie, we're an honest pair," he said. "Why don't you tell me why you're so upset?"

He seemed so friendly that it eased her mind a little. "You can have a poke," she said. "If you want one. I wouldn't charge you."

Augustus smiled. "That's neighborly of you," he said. "But why should a beauty like you drop her price? You ought to raise it, for you're getting more beautiful than ever. I ain't never seen nothing wrong with paying a toll to beauty."

"You can have one if you want one," she said, trembling still.

"What if I want five or six?" he asked, rubbing her neck with his warm hand. It relieved her-he was still the same. She could see it in his eyes.

"The truth is you want to stay clear of such doings for a while," Augustus said. "That's natural. You best take your time."

"It won't matter how much time," she said, and began to cry again. Gus held her.

"I'm glad we didn't break camp," he said. "There's a rough cloud to the north. We'd be in for a drenching. I bet them cowboys is already floating."

It suited her that it was going to rain and they would stay longer. She didn't like being too close to the cowboys. It was more restful just being with Gus. When he was there it was easier not to think of the things that had happened.

For some reason Gus was still watching the cloud, which seemed to her no worse-looking than many another cloud. But he was studying it intently.

"That's a dern funny cloud," he said.

"I don't care if it rains," Lorena said. "We got the tent."

"The funny part is, I can hear it," Augustus said. "I never heard a cloud make a noise like that before."

Lorena listened. It seemed she did hear something, but it was a long way off, and faint.

"Maybe it's the wind getting up," she said.

Augustus was listening. "It don't sound like no wind I ever heard," he said, standing up. The horses were looking at the cloud, too. They were acting nervous. The sound the brown cloud made had become a little louder, but was still far away and indefinable.

Suddenly Augustus realized what it was. "Good lord," he said. "It's grasshoppers, Lorie. "I've heard they came in clouds out on the plains, and there's the proof. It's a cloud of grasshoppers."

The horses were grazing on long lead ropes. There were no trees to tie the ropes to, so he had loosened a heavy block of soil and put the lead ropes under it. Usually that was sufficient, for the horses weren't troublesome. But now they were rolling their eyes and jerking at the ropes. Augustus grabbed the ropes-he would have to hold them himself.

Lorena watched the cloud, which came down on them faster than any rain cloud. She could plainly hear the hum of millions of insects. The cloud covered the plain in front of them from the ground far up in the air. It was blotting out the ground as if a coven were being pulled over it.

"Get in the tent," Augustus said. He was holding the terrified horses. "Get in and pile whatever you can around the bottom to keep 'em out."

Lorena ran in, and before Augustus could follow, grasshoppers covered the canvas, every inch. Augustus had fifty on his hat, though he tried to knock them off outside the tent, and more on his clothes. He backed in, hanging to the lead ropes as the horses tried to break free.

"Pull the flaps," he said, and Lorena did. Soon there was just the hole the two ropes fed through. It was dim and dark in the tent, as more and more grasshoppers covered the canvas-insects on top of insects. The hum they made as they spread over the prairie grass was so loud Lorena had to grit her teeth. As the tent got darker, she began to cry and shake-it was just more trouble and more fear, this life.

"It's all right, honey, it's just bugs," Augustus said. "Hang onto me and we'll be fine. I don't think bugs will eat canvas when they've got all this grass."

Lorena put her arms around him and shut her eyes. Augustus peeked out and saw that every inch of the lead ropes were covered with grasshoppers.

"Well, that old cook of Call's that likes to fry bugs will be happy, at least," he said. "He can fry up a damn wagonful tonight."

When the cloud of grasshoppers hit the Hat Creek outfit, they were on a totally open plain and could do nothing but watch it come, in terror and astonishment. Lippy sat on the wagon seat, his mouth hanging open.

"Is them grasshoppers?" he asked.

"Yes, but shut your mouth unless you want to choke on them," Po Campo said. He promptly crawled in the wagon and pulled his hat down and his serape close around him.

The cowboys who saw the cloud while on horseback were mostly terrified. Dish Boggett came racing back to the Captain, who sat with Deets, watching the cloud come.

"Captain, what'lI we do?" he asked. "There's millions of them. What'll we do?"

"Live through it," Call said. "That's all we can do."

"It's the plague," Deets said. "Ain't it in the Bible?"

"Well, that was locusts," Call said.

Deets looked in wonderment as the insects swirled toward them, a storm of bugs that filled the sky and covered the land. Though he was a little frightened, it was more the mystery of it that affected him. Where did they come from, where would they go? The sunshine glinted strangely off the millions of insects.

"Maybe the Indians sent 'em," he said.

"More likely they ate the Indians," Call said. "The Indians and everything else."

Newt's first fear when the cloud hit was that he would suffocate. In a second the grasshoppers covered every inch of his hands, his face, his clothes, his saddle. A hundred were stuck in Mouse's mane. Newt was afraid to draw breath for fear he'd suck them into his mouth and nose. The air was so dense with them that he couldn't see the cattle and could barely see the ground. At every step Mouse crunched them underfoot. The whirring they made was so loud he felt he could have screamed and not been heard, although Pea Eye and Ben Rainey were both within yards. Newt ducked his head into the crook of his arm for protection. Mouse suddenly broke into a run, which meant the cattle were running, but Newt didn't look up. He feared to look, afraid the grasshoppers would scratch his eyes. As he and Mouse raced, he felt the insects beating against him. It was a relief to find he could breathe.

Then Mouse began to buck and twist, trying to rid himself of some of the grasshoppers, and almost ridding himself of Newt in the process. Newt clung to the saddle horn, afraid that if he were thrown the grasshoppers would smother him. From the way the ground shook he knew the cattle were running. Mouse soon stopped bucking and ran too. When Newt risked a glimpse, all he saw was millions of fluttering bugs. Even as he raced they clung to his shirt. When he tried to change his reins from one hand to another he closed his hand on several grasshoppers and almost dropped his rein. It would have been a comfort if he could have seen at least one cowboy, but he couldn't. In that regard, running through a bug cloud wasn't much different than running in rain: he was alone and miserable, not knowing what his fate might be.

And, as in the rainstorms, his misery increased to a pitch and then was gradually replaced by fatigue and resignation. The sky had turned to grasshoppers-it seemed that simple. The other day it had turned to hailstones, now it was grasshoppers. All he could do was try and endure it-you couldn't shoot grasshoppers. Finally the cattle slowed, and Mouse slowed, and Newt just plodded along, occasionally wiping the grasshoppers off the front of his shirt when they got two or three layers deep. He had no idea how long a grasshopper storm might last.

In this case it lasted for hours. Newt mainly hoped it wouldn't go on all night. If he had to ride through grasshoppers all day and then all night, he felt he'd just give up. It was already fairly dark from the cloud they made, though it was only midday.

Finally, like all other storms, the grasshopper storm did end. The air cleared-there were still thousands of grasshoppers fluttering around in it, but thousands were better than millions. The ground was still covered with them, and Mouse still mashed them when he walked, but at least Newt could see a little distance, though what he saw wasn't very cheering. He was totally alone with fifty or sixty cattle. He had no idea where the main herd might be, or where anything might be. Dozens of grasshoppers still clung to his shirt and to Mouse's mane, and he could hear them stirring in the grass, eating what little of it was left. Most of it had been chewed off to the roots.

He gave Mouse his head, hoping he would have some notion of where the wagon might be, but Mouse seemed as lost as he was. The cattle were walking listlessly, worn out from their run. A few of them tried to stop and graze, but there was nothing left to graze on except grasshoppers.

There was a rise a mile or two to the north, and Newt rode over to it. To his vast relief, he saw several riders coming and waved his hat to make sure they saw him. The hoppers had nibbled on his clothes, and he felt lucky not to be naked.

He went back to get the cattle, and when he glanced again at the boys, they looked funny. They didn't have hats. A second later he realized why: they were Indians, all of them. Newt felt so scared he went weak. He hated life on the plains. One minute it was pretty, then a cloud of grasshoppers came, and now Indians. The worst of it was that he was alone. It was always happening, and he felt convinced it was Mouse's fault. Somehow he could never stay with the rest of the boys when there was a run. FIe had to wander off by himself. This time the results were serious, for the five Indians were only fifty yards away. He felt he ought to pull his gun, but he knew he couldn't shoot well enough to kill five of them-anyhow, the Captain hadn't shot when the old chief with the milky eye had asked for a beef. Maybe they were friendly.

Indeed, that proved the case, although they were rather smelly and a little too familiar to suit Newt. They smelled like the lard Bolivar had used on his hair. They crowded right around him, several of them talking to him in words he couldn't understand. All of them were armed with old rifles. The rifles looked in bad repair, but they would have sufficed to kill him if that had been what the Indians wanted to do. Newt was sure they would want the cattle, for they were as skinny as the first bunch of Indians.

He began to try and work out in his mind how many he could let them have without risking dishonor. If they wanted them all, of course, he would just have to fight and be killed, for he could never face the Captain if he had been responsible for the loss of fifty head. But if they could be bought off with two or three, that was different.

Sure enough, a little, short Indian began to point at the cattle. He jabbered a lot, and Newt assumed he was saying he wanted them all.

"No sabe," he said, thinking maybe some of the Indians knew Mexican. But the little short Indian just kept jabbering and pointing west. Newt didn't know what to make of that. Meanwhile the others crowded around, not being mean exactly, but being familiar, fingering his hat and his rope and his quirt, and generally making it difficult for him to think clearly. One even lifted his pistol out of its holster, and Newt's heart nearly stopped. He expected to be shot with his own gun and felt foolish for allowing it to be taken so easily. But the Indians merely passed it around for comment and then stuck it back in the holster. Newt smiled at them, relieved. If they would give him his gun back, they couldn't mean to harm him.

But he shook his head when they pointed at the cattle. He thought they wanted to take the cattle and go west. When he shook his head, it caused a big laugh. The Indians seemed to think everything he did was pretty comical. They jabbered and pointed to the west, laughing, and then, to his dismay, three of them began to whoop at the cattle and got them started west. It seemed they were just going to take them. Newt felt sick with confusion. He knew the point had been reached when he ought to draw his pistol and try to stop it, but he couldn't seem to do it. The fact that the Indians were laughing and seemed friendly made it difficult. How shoot people who were laughing? Maybe the Captain could have, but the Captain wasn't there.

The Indians motioned for him to come with them, and, very reluctantly, Newt went. He felt he ought to make a break for it, go find the cowboys and get them to help him reclaim the sixty head. Of course the Indians might shoot him if he ran, but what really stopped him was the fact that he had no idea where the rest of the boys were. He might just charge off and be lost for good.

So, with a sinking heart, he slowly followed the five Indians and the cattle. At least he wasn't deserting by doing that. He was still with the cattle, for what it was worth.

Before he had gone a mile or two he wished he had thought of another alternative. The plains had always seemed empty, and somehow, with the grass chewed off and him captured by Indians, they seemed even more empty. He began to remember all the stories he had heard about how tricky Indians were and decided these were just laughing to trick him. Probably they had a camp nearby, and when they got there they might stop laughing and butcher him and the cattle both. The surprising thing was how young they were. None of them looked army older than Ben Rainey.

Then they rode over a ridge so low it hardly seemed like a ridge, and there was the herd and the cowboys too. They were two or three miles away, but it was them-he could even see the wagon. Instead of stealing him, the Indians had just been keeping him from getting lost, for he had been angling off in the wrong direction. He realized then that the young Indians were laughing because he was so dumb he didn't even know which way his own cattle were. He didn't blame them. Now that he was safe, he felt like laughing too. He wanted to thank the Indians, but he didn't know their words. All he could do was smile at them.

Then Dish Boggett and Soupy Jones rode over to help him hurry the cattle along. Their clothes had little holes in them where the grasshoppers had nibbled through.

"It's a good thing they found you, we ain't had time to look," Soupy said. "If we'd gone on north, it would he sixty miles to water, the Indians say. Most of these cattle wouldn't make no sixty miles."

"Nor most of these men, either," Dish said.

"Did the grasshoppers hurt anybody?" Newt asked, still amazed that such a thing could happen.

"No, but they ruint my Sunday shirt," Soupy said. "Jasper's horse spooked and he got thrown and claims his collarbone might be broken, but Deets and Po don't think so."

"I hope Lorie didn't suffer," Dish said. "Their horses could have spooked. They might be afoot and a long way from grub."

"I suppose you'd like to go check on their safety?" Soupy said.

"Somebody ought," Dish said.

"Ask the Captain," Soupy said. "I expect he'll want to assign you the chore."

Dish thought otherwise. Already the Captain was looking at him as if he expected him to rush back to the point, although the cattle were moving along fine.

"You ask him, Newt," Dish said.

"Newt?" Soupy said. "Why, Newt was just lost himself. If he went looking for Gus he'd just be lost again."

"Ask him, Newt," Dish said again, with such intensity that Newt knew he had to do it. He knew it meant Dish trusted him a lot to ask such a thing of him.

The Captain was talking in sign to ten or twelve young Indians. Then the Indians went over to the herd and cut out three beeves. Newt rode over, feeling foolish. He didn't want to ask the Captain, but on the other hand he couldn't ignore Dish's request.

"Do you think I ought to go check on Mr. Gus?" Newt asked. "The boys think they might be in trouble." Call noticed how nervous the boy seemed and sensed that somebody had put him up to asking the question.

"No, we better all drive," he said. "Gus had a tent. I imagine he's happy as a badger. They're probably just sitting there playing cards."

It was what he had expected, but Newt still felt chastened as he turned back to the drags. He felt he would never learn to say the right thing to the Captain.

68.

ALMOST AT ONCE, before the group even got out of Texas, Jake had cause to regret that he had ever agreed to ride with the Suggs brothers. The first night he camped with them, not thirty miles north of Dallas, he heard talk that frightened him. The boys were discussing two outlaws who were in jail in Fort Worth, waiting to hang, and Dan Suggs claimed it was July Johnson who had brought them in. The robbers had put out the story that July was traveling with a young girl who could throw rocks better than most men could shoot.

"I'd like to see her throw rocks better than Frog can shoot," Roy Suggs said. "I guess Frog could cool her off."

Frog Lip didn't say much. He was a black man, but Jake didn't notice anyone giving him many orders. Little Eddie Suggs cooked the supper, such as it was, while Frog Lip sat idle, not even chopping wood for the fire. The horse he rode was the best in the group, a white gelding. It was unusual to see a bandit who used a white horse, for it made him stand out in a group. Frog Lip evidently didn't care.

"We oughta go get them boys out of jail," Roy Suggs said. "They might make good regulators."

"If a girl and one sheriff can take 'em, I wouldn't want 'em," Dan Suggs said. "Besides, I had some trouble with Jim once, myself. I'd go watch him hang, if I had time, damn him."

Their talk, it seemed, was mostly of killing. Even little Eddie, the youngest, claimed to have killed three men, two nesters and a Mexican. The rest of the outfit didn't mention numbers, but Jake had no doubt that he was riding with accomplished killers. Dan Suggs seemed to hate everybody he knew-he spoke in the vilest language of everyone, but his particular hatred was cowboys. He had trailed a herd once and not done well with it, and it had left him resentful of those with better luck.

"I'd like to steal a whole goddamn herd and sell it," Dan said.

"There ain't but five of us," Eddie pointed out. "It takes more than five to drive cattle."

Dan Suggs had a mean glint in his eye. He had made the remark idly, but once he thought about it, it seemed to make a great deal of sense. "We could hire a little more help," he said.

"I remember that time we tried to drive cattle," Roy said. "The Indians run off half of them, and we all nearly drowned in them rivers. Why try it agin?"

"You ain't heard the plan, so shut up," Dan said, with a touch of anger. "What we done wrong the first time was doing it honest. I'm through with honest. It's every man for himself in this country, and that's the way I like it. There ain't much law and mostly it can be outrun."

"Whose herd would you steal?" Jake asked.

"Oh, the closest one to Dodge," Dan said. "Find some herd that's just about there and steal it, maybe a day or two shy of the towns. Then we could just drive it in and sell it and be gone. We'd get all the money and none of the work."

"What about the boys who drove it all that way?" Jake asked. "They might not want to give up their profits that easy."

"We'd plant 'em," Dan said. "Shoot them and sell their cattle, and be long gone before anyone ever missed them."

"What if one run off and didn't get planted?" Roy said. "It don't take but one to tell the story, and then we'd have a posse to fight."

"Frog's got a fast horse," Dan said. "He could run down any man who escaped."

"I'd rather rob banks, myself," little Eddie said. "Then you got the money right in your hands. You don't have to sell no cows."

"Well, you're lazy, Ed," Dan said, looking at his brother as if he were mad enough to shoot him. In fact, the Suggs brothers seemed to live on the edge of fratnicidal warfare.

"What do you boys know of this Blue Duck?" Jake asked, mainly to change the subject.

"We know to let him be," Dan said. "Frog don't care for him."

"Why not?"

"Stole my horse," Frog Lip said. He didn't elaborate. They were passing a whiskey bottle around and he took his turn as if he were a white man. Whiskey had no effect on any of them except little Eddie, who turned red-eyed and wobbly after five or six turns.

Jake drank liberally, for he felt uncomfortable. He had not meant to slip into such rough company and was worried, for now that he had slipped in, he could see that it wasn't going to be any too easy to slip back out. After all, he had heard them discuss killing a whole crew of cowboys, calculating the killings as casually as they might pick ticks off a dog. He had been in much questionable company in his life, but the Suggs brothers weren't questionable. They were just hard. Moreover, the silent black man, Frog, had a very fast horse. Escaping them would need some care. He knew they didn't trust him. Their eyes were cold when they looked his way. He resolved to be very careful and make no move that might antagonize them until the situation was in his favor, which it wouldn't be until they got into the Kansas towns. With a crowd around, he might slip away.

Besides that, killing could always work two ways. Gus was fond of saying that even the meanest bad man could always run into someone meaner and quicker. Dan Suggs could easily meet a violent end, in which case the others might not care who stayed or went.

The next day they rode on to Doan's Store, on the banks of the Red River, and stopped to buy whiskey and consider their route. A trail herd was crossing the river a mile or more to the west.

"There's one we could steal, right there," little Eddie said.

"That one's barely in the Territory," Dan said. "We'd have to follow it for a month, and I ain't in the mood."

"I say we head for Arkansas first," Roy said. "We could rob a bank or two."

Jake was not listening to the palaver very closely. A party of nesters-f our wagons of them-had stopped at the store, buying supplies. They were farmers, and they had left Missouri and were planning to try out Texas. Most of the menfolk were inside the store buying supplies, though some were repairing wagon wheels or shoeing horses. Most of the womenfolk were starved-looking creatures in bonnets, but one of them was neither starved nor in a bonnet. She was a girl of about seventeen with long black hair. She sat on the seat of one of the wagons, barefoot, waiting for her folks to finish shopping.

To Jake she looked like a beauty. It occurred to him that beauties were his real calling, if he had one, and he wondered what could have possessed him to start out with a rough bunch like the Suggses, when there were beauties right there in Texas that he hadn't even met, including the one on the wagon seat. He watched her for a while and, since her folks hadn't reappeared, decided he might just stroll over and have a word with her. Already he felt a yearning for woman's talk, and he had only been gone from Dallas a little more than a day.

He had been lounging in the shade of the store, but he stood up and carefully dusted his pants.

"Are you fixing to go to church, or what?" Dan Suggs asked.

"No, but I fancy a word or two with that black-haired gal sitting there on the wagon," Jake said. "I've never talked to a woman from Missouri. I figure I might like it."

"Why wouldn't they talk like any other gals?" Roy wondered.

"I heard you was a ladies' man," Dan said, as if it were a condemnation of some sort.

"You met me in a whorehouse, why would you doubt it?" Jake said, tired of the little man's biting tone. "If I like that gal maybe I'll elope with her," he said, just to remind everyone that he was still his own man.

The closer he got to the girl, the better he liked her looks. She had fine features, and her thin, worn-out dress concealed a swelling young bosom. She realized Jake was coming her way, which agitated her a little. She looked off, pretending not to notice him.

At close range she looked younger, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen. Probably she had scarcely even had beaux, or if she had, they would only have been farm boys with no knowledge of the world. She had a curling upper lip, which he liked-it indicated she had some spirit. If she had been a whore, he would have contracted with her for a week, just on the strength of that lip and the curve of her bosom. But she was just a barefoot girl sitting on a wagon, with dust on her bare feet.

"Hello, miss," he said, when he walked up. "Going far?"

The young girl met his eye, though he could see that she was agitated that he had spoken to her.

"My name's Jake Spoon," he said. "What's yours?"

"Lou," she said, not much more than whispering the information. He did like the way her upper lip curved, and was about to say more, but before he could get the words out something slammed him in the back and his face was in the dirt. He hit the ground so hard he busted his lip.

He rolled over, wondering if somehow one of the mules had got in a kick-it wouldn't have been the first time he was surprised by a mule. But when he looked up and blinked the dust out of his eyes he saw an angry old man with a long sandy beard standing over him, gripping a ten-gauge shotgun. It was the shotgun that had knocked him down-the old fool had whacked him across the shoulder blades with it. The man must have been standing behind the wagon.

Jake's head was ringing, and he couldn't see good, though he could tell the old man was gripping the shotgun like a club-he wasn't planning to shoot. Jake got to his knees and waited until he caught his wind.

"You git," the old man said. "Don't be talking to my wife."

Jake looked up in surprise-he had assumed the old man must be her father. Though certainly a brusque greeting, it was not much more than he would have expected from a father-fathers had always been touchy when he attempted to talk to their daughters. But the girl on the wagon seat was already a wife. He looked at her again, surprised that such a fresh pullet would be married to a man who looked to be in his seventies, at least. The girl just sat there, pretty as ever, watching the scene without expression.

That Jake had deigned to look at her again infuriated the farmer more, and he drew back the shotgun to deliver another blow.

"Hold on, mister," Jake said. One lick he might let pass, but not two. Besides, the ten-gauge was a heavy gun, and used as a club it could break a shoulder, or do worse.

When Jake spoke, the old man hesitated a second-he even glanced at the girl on the wagon seat. But at the sight of her he drew back his lips in a snarl and raised the shotgun again.

Before he could strike the second blow, Jake shot him. It surprised him as much as it did the nester, for he was not aware of having pulled his gun. The bullet caught the nester in the breast and knocked him back against the wagon. He dropped the shotgun, and as he was sliding to the ground, Jake shot again, the second shot as much a surprise to him as the first. It was as if his arm and his gun were acting on their own. But the second shot also hit the old nester in the breast. He slid to the ground and rolled partly under the wagon on top of his own shotgun.

"He never needed to hit me," Jake said to the girl. He expected her to scream, but she didn't. The shooting seemed not to have registered with her yet. Jake glanced at the nester and saw that he was stone dead, a big bloodstain on his gray work shirt. A line of blood ran down the stock of the shotgun he lay across.

Then nesters began to boil out of Doan's Store-it seemed there were twenty or thirty of them. Jake felt discouraged by the sight, for it reminded him of how people had boiled out of the saloons in Fort Smith when they discovered Benny Johnson lying dead in the mud. Now another man was lying dead, and it was just as much an accident: if the old nester had just announced himself politely as the girl's husband, Jake would have tipped his hat and walked off. But the old man had whacked him and offered to do it again-he had only shot to protect himself.

This time he was up against twenty or thirty nesters. They were grouped in front of the store as if puzzled by the situation. Jake put his gun back in its holster and looked at the girl once more.

"Tell 'em I had to do it," he said. "That old man might have cracked my skull with that gun."

Then he turned and walked back toward the Suggs brothers. He looked back once at the girl, and she smiled at him-a smile that was to puzzle him whenever he thought about it. She had not even got down from the wagon to see if her husband was dead-yet she gave him that smile, though by that time the nesters were all around the wagon.

The Suggs boys were already mounted. Little Eddie handed Jake his rein.

"I guess that's the end of that romance," Dan Suggs said.

"Dern, I just asked her name," Jake said. "I never knowed she was married."

The nesters were all grouped around the body. The girl still sat on the wagon seat.

"Let's cross the river," Dan Suggs said. "It's that or hire you a lawyer, and I say, why waste the money?"

"That store don't sell lawyers anyway," Roy Suggs remarked.

Jake mounted, but he was reluctant to leave. It occurred to him that if he went back to the nesters he might bluff his way out of it. After all, it had been self-defense-even dirt farmers from Missouri could understand that. The nesters were looking their way, but none of them were offering to fight. If he turned and rode into the Territory, he would be carrying two killings against his name. In neither case had he meant to kill, or even known the man he killed. It was just more bad luck-noticing a pretty girl on a wagon seat was where it started in this case.

But the law wouldn't look at it like that, of course. If he rode across the river with a hard bunch like the Suggses he would be an outlaw, whereas if he stayed, the nesters might try to hang him or at least try to jail him in Fort Worth or Dallas. If that happened, he'd soon be on trial for one accident or another.

It was a poor set of choices, it seemed to him, but when the Suggs brothers rode off he followed, and in fifteen minutes was across the Red River. Once he looked back and could still see the wagons grouped around the little store. He remembered the girl's last smile-yet he had killed a man before he had even seen her smile. The nesters made no pursuit.

"Them punkin' rollers," Dan Suggs said contemptuously. "If they was to follow we'd thin them out in a hurry."

Jake fell into a gloom-it seemed he could do nothing right. He hardly asked for more in life than a clean saloon to gamble in and a pretty whore to sleep with, that and a little whiskey to drink. He had no desire to be shooting people-even during his years in the Rangers he seldom actually drew aim at anyone, although he cheerfully threw off shots in the direction of the enemy. He certainly didn't consider himself a killer: in battle, Call and Gus were capable of killing ten to his one.

And yet, now Call and Gus were respectable cattlemen, looked up to everywhere they went, and he was riding with a gang of hardened outlaws who didn't care who they killed. Somehow he had slipped out of the respectable life. He had never been a churchgoer, but until recently he had had no reason to fear the law.

The Suggs brothers kept plenty of whiskey on hand, and Jake began to avail himself of it. He stayed half drunk most of the time as they rode north. Even though he had killed a man in plain sight of them, the Suggses didn't treat him with any new respect. Of course, they didn't offer one another much respect either. Dan and Roy both poured scorn on little Eddie if he slipped up in his chores or made a remark they disagreed with. The only man of the company who escaped their scorn was Frog Lip-they seldom spoke to him, and he seldom spoke, but everyone knew he was there.

They rode through the Territory without incident, frequently seeing cattle herds on the move but always swinging around them. Dan Suggs had an old pair of spyglasses he had brought back from the war, and once in a while he would stand up in his stirrups and look one of the cattle outfits over to see if they contained enemies of his, or any cowboys he recognized.

Jake watched the herds too, for he still had hope of escaping from the situation he was in. Rude as Call and Gus had treated him, they were still his compañeros. If he spotted the Hat Creek outfit he had it in mind to sneak off and rejoin them. Even though he had made another mistake, the boys wouldn't know about it and the news might never reach Montana. He would even cowboy, if he had to-it beat taking his chances with the Suggses.

He was careful not to give his feelings away though-he never inquired about the herds, and if the subject of Call and McCrae came up he made it plain that he harbored a grudge against them and would not be sorry to see them come to grief.

When they got up into Kansas they began to see the occasional settler, sod-house nesters, mostly. Jake hardly thought any of them could have enough money to be worth the trouble of robbing, but the younger Suggs brothers were all for trying them.

"I thought we was gonna regulate the settlers," Roy said one night. "What are we waiting for?"

"A nester that's got something besides a milk cow and a pile of buffalo chips," Dan Suggs said. "I'm looking for a rich one."

"If one was rich, he wouldn't be living in a hole dug out of a hill up here in Kansas," Jake said. "I slept in one of those soddies once-so much dirt leaked out of the roof during the night that I woke up dern near buried."

"That don't mean some of them couldn't have some gold," little Eddie said. "I'd like to practice regulating a little so I'd have the hang of it when we do strike the rich ones."

"All we aim to let you do is watch, anyway," Dan said. "It don't take no practice to watch."

"I've shot a nester," little Eddie reminded him. "Shot two. If they don't pay up, I might make it three."

"The object is to scare them out of their money, not shoot them," Dan said. "You shoot too many and pretty soon you've got the law after you. We want to get rich, not get hung."

"He's too young to know what he's talking about," Roy said.

"Well, I won't shoot them then, I'll just scare them," little Eddie said.

"No, that's Frog Lip's job, scaring them punkin'-eaters," Dan said. "He'll scare them a sight worse than you will."

The next day Frog Lip got his chance. They saw a man plowing beside a team of big horses. A woman and a small boy were carrying buffalo chips in a wheelbarrow and piling them beside a low sod house that was dug into a slope. Two milk cows grazed nearby.

"He can afford them big horses," Roy pointed out. "Maybe he's got money."

Dan had been about to ride past, and Jake hoped he would. He still hoped they'd hit Dodge before the Suggs boys did any regulating. He might get free of them in Dodge. Two accidents wouldn't necessarily brand him for life, but if he traveled much farther with a gun outfit like the Suggses, he couldn't expect a peaceful old age-or any old age, probably.

But Dan decided, on a whim, to go rob the farmer, if he had anything worth being robbed of.

"They usually hide their money in the chimney," he said. "Either that or they bury it in the orchard, though I don't see no orchard."

Frog Lip kept an extra pistol in his saddlebags. As they approached the farmer he got it out and stuck it in his belt.

The farmer was plowing a shallow furrow through the tough prairie grass. Seeing the riders approach, he stopped. He was a middle-aged man with a curly black beard, thoroughly sweated from his work. His wife and son watched the Suggses approach. Their wheelbarrow was nearly full of buffalo chips.

"Well, I guess you can expect a fine crop along about July, if the damn Texas cattle don't come along and eat it all up," Dan said.

The man nodded in a friendly way, as if he agreed with the sentiment.

"We're here to see you reap what you sow," Dan went on. "It'll cost you forty dollars gold, but we'll deal with the herds when they show up and your crops won't be disturbed."

"No speaken English," the man said, still smiling and nodding in a friendly way.

"Oh, hell, a damn German," Dan said. "I figured this was a waste of time. Round up the woman and the sprout, Frog. Maybe this old Dutchman married an American gal."

Frog Lip loped over and drove the woman and the boy near the farmer; he rode so close to them that if they had fallen his horse would have stepped on them. He had taken the pistol out of his belt, but he didn't need it. The woman and the boy were terrified, and the farmer too. He put his arms around his wife and child, and they all stood there, crying.

"Look at them blubber," little Eddie said. "I never seen such cowards."

"Will you shut your damn mouth?" Dan said. "Why wouldn't they be scared? I would be, in their place. But I'd like to get the woman hushed crying long enough to see if she can talk English."

The woman either couldn't or wouldn't. She didn't utter a word in any language. She was tall and skinny, and she just stood there by her husband, crying. It was plain all three of them expected to be killed.

Dan repeated his request for money, and only the boy looked as if he understood it. He stopped crying for a minute.

"That's it, sonny, it's only cash we want," Dan said. "Tell your pa to pay us and we'll help him guard his crops."

Jake hardly expected a scared boy to believe that, but the boy did stop crying. He spoke to his father in the old tongue, and the man, whose face ran with tears, composed himself a little and jabbered at the boy.

The boy turned and ran lickety-split for the sod house.

"Go with him and see what you can find, boys," Dan said. "Me and Jake can ride herd on the family, I guess. They don't look too violent."

Ten minutes later the boy came racing back, crying again, and Frog Lip and the two younger Suggses followed. They had an old leather wallet with them, which Roy Suggs threw to Dan. It had two small gold pieces in it.

"Why, this ain't but four dollars," Dan said. "Did you look good?"

"Yeah, we tore up the chimney and opened all the trunks," Roy said. "That purse was under the pallet they sleep on. They don't have a dern thing worth taking besides that."

"Four dollars to see 'em through," Dan said. "That won't help 'em much, we might as well take it." He took the two gold pieces and tossed the worn leather purse back at the man's feet.

"Let's go," he said.

Jake was glad to see it come to no worse than that, but as they were riding away Frog Lip turned and loped over to the milk cows.

"What's he aim to do, shoot the milk cows?" little Eddie asked; for Frog Lip had his pistol in his hand.

"I didn't ask him and he didn't say," Dan replied.

Frog Lip rode up beside the cows and fired a couple of shots into the air. When the cows started a lumbering run, he skillfully turned them up the slope and chased them right onto the roof of the sod house. The sod on the roof had grass still on it and looked not unlike the prairie. The cows took a few steps onto the roof and then their forequarters disappeared, as if they had fallen into a hole. Then their hindquarters disappeared too. Frog Lip reined in his horse and watched as both cows fell through the roof of the sod house. A minute later one came squeezing out the small door, and the other followed. Both cows trotted back to where they had been grazing.

"That Frog," Dan Suggs said. "I guess he just wanted to ventilate the house a little."

"All we got was four dollars," little Eddie said.

"Well, it was your idea," Dan said. "You wanted the practice, and you got it."

"He's mad because he didn't get to shoot nobody," Roy said. "He thinks he's a shooter."

"Well, this is a gun outfit, ain't it?" little Eddie said. "We ain't cowboys, so what are we then?"

"Travelers," Dan said. "Right now we're traveling to Kansas, looking for what we can find."

Frog Lip rejoined them as silently as he had left. Despite himself Jake could not conquer his fear of the man. Frog Lip had never said anything hostile to him, or even looked his way on the whole trip, and yet Jake felt a sort of apprehension whenever he even rode close to the man. In all his travels in the west he had met few men who gave off such a sense of danger. Even Indians didn't-although of course there had been few occasions when he had ridden close to an Indian.

"I wonder if them soddies will get that roof fixed before the next rain?" Dan Suggs said. "If they had had a little more cash, Frog might have left them alone."

Frog Lip didn't comment.

69.

IT TOOK JULY only a day or two to determine that Elmira was not in Dodge City. The town was a shock to him, for almost every woman in it seemed to be a whore and almost every business a saloon. He kept trying to tell himself he shouldn't be surprised, for he had heard for years that Kansas towns were wild. In Missouri, where he had gone to testify at the trial, there was much talk of Kansas. People in Missouri seemed to consider that they had gotten rid of all their riffraff to the cow towns. July quickly concluded that they were right. There might be rough elements in Missouri, but what struck him in Kansas was the absence of any elements that weren't rough. Of course there were a few stores and a livery stable or two in Dodge-even a hotel of sorts, though the whores were in and out of the hotel so much that it seemed more like a whorehouse. Gamblers were thick in the saloons and he had never seen a place where as many people went armed.

The first thing July did was buy a decent horse. He went to the post office, for he felt he owed Fort Smith an explanation as to why he had not come back. For some reason he felt a surge of optimism as he walked down the street to the post office. Now that he had survived the plains it seemed possible that he could find Ellie after all. He had lost all interest in catching Jake Spoon; he just wanted to find his wife and go home. If Peach didn't like it-and she wouldn't-she would just have to lump it. If Ellie wasn't in Dodge she would probably be in Abilene. He would soon catch up with her.

But to his surprise, the minute he stepped inside the door of the post office his optimism gave way in a flash to bitter depression. In trying to think of what he would say in his letter he remembered all that had happened. Roscoe was dead, Joe was dead, the girl was dead, and Ellie not found-maybe she too was dead. All he had to report was death and failure. At the thought of poor Roscoe, gutted and left under a little pile of rocks on the prairie, his eyes filled with tears and he had to turn and walk back out the door to keep from embarrassing himself.

He walked along the dusty street for a few minutes, wiping the tears out of his eyes with his shirtsleeve. One or two men observed him curiously. It was obvious that he was upset, but no one said anything to him. He remembered walking into the post office in Fort Worth and getting the letter that told him about Ellie. Since then, it had all been puzzlement and pain. He felt that in most ways it would have been better if he had died on the plains with the rest of them. He was tired of wandering and looking.

But he hadn't died, and eventually he turned and went back to the post office, which was empty except for an elderly clerk with a white mustache.

"Well, you're back," the clerk said. "That was you a while ago, wasn't it?"

"That was me," July admitted.

He bought an envelope, a stamp and a couple of sheets of writing paper, and the clerk, who seemed kindly, loaned him a pencil to write with.

"You can write it right here at the window," the clerk said. "We're not doing much business today."

July started, and then, to his embarrassment, began to cry again. His memories were too sad, his hopes too thin. To have to say things on paper seemed a terrible task, for it stirred the memories.

"I guess somebody died and you've got to write their folks, is that it?" the clerk said.

"Yes," July said. "Only two of them didn't have no folks." He vaguely remembered that Roscoe had a few brothers, but none of them lived around Fort Smith or had been heard of in years. He wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve again, reflecting that he had cried more in the last few weeks than he had in his whole life up to that point.

After standing there staring at the paper for a few minutes, he finally wrote a brief letter, addressed to Peach:

DEAR PEACH-

Roscoe Brown was killed by a bad outlaw, so was Joe. A girl named Janey was also kilt, I don't know much about her, Roscoe said he met her in the woods.

I don't know when I will be back-the folks can hire another sheriff if they want to, somebody has to look after the town.

Your brother-in-law,

JULY JOHNSON

He had already pretty well convinced himself that Elmira was not in Dodge City, for he had been in every public place in town and had not seen her. But since the old clerk seemed kindly, he thought he might as well ask. Maybe she had come in to mail a letter at some point.

"I'm looking for a woman named Elmira," he said. "She's got brown hair and she ain't very big."

"Ellie?" the clerk said. "Why, I ain't seen Ellie in two or three years. Seems like I heard she moved to Abilene."

"That's her," July said, encouraged again all of a sudden. Ellie had been living in Abilene before she moved to St. Jo, where he had found her. "I thought she might have come back," he added.

"No, ain't seen her," the clerk said. "But you might ask Jennie, up at the third saloon. She and Elmira used to be thick once. I think they even married the same man, if you want to call it married."

"Oh, Mr. Boot?" July asked.

"Yes, Dee Boot, the scoundrel," the clerk said.

"How could he be married to the two of them?" July asked, not sure he wanted the information but unable to stop talking to a man who could tell him something about Ellie.

"Why, Dee Boot would bed down with a possum, if the possum was female. He was a cutter with the ladies."

"Didn't he die of smallpox?" July asked.

The clerk shook his head. "Not so far as I know," he said. "He's up in Ogallala or Deadwood or somewhere, where there's lots of whores and not too much law. I imagine he's got five or six whores in his string right now. Of course he could have died, but he's my nephew and I ain't heard no news to that effect."

"Thank you for the loan of the pencil," July said. He turned and walked out. He went straight to the livery stable and got his new horse, whose name was Pete. If Elmira wasn't in Dodge she might be in Abilene, so he might as well start. But he didn't start. He rode halfway out of town and then went back to the third saloon from the post office and inquired about the woman named Jennie. They said she had moved to another bar, up the street-a cowboy was even kind enough to point out the bar. A herd had been sold that morning and was being loaded onto boxcars. July rode over and watched the work a while-slow work and made slower by the cattle's long horns, which kept getting tangled with one another as the cattle were being forced up the narrow loading chute. The cowboys yelled and popped their quirts, and the horses behaved expertly, but despite that, it seemed to take a long time to fill a boxcar.

Still, July liked the look of the cowboys-he always had, even when they got a little rowdy, as they sometimes did in Fort Smith. They were young and friendly and seemed not to have a care in the world. They rode as if they were grown to their horses. Their teamwork when the cattle misbehaved and tried to break out was interesting to see. He saw a cowboy rope a running steer by the horns and then cleverly trip it so that the steer fell heavily. When the animal rose, it showed no more fight and was soon loaded.

After watching the loading for a while he went back to the saloon where the woman named Jennie was said to work. He inquired for her at the bar, and the bartender, a skinny runt, said she was busy and asked if he wanted a whiskey. July seldom drank whiskey but he said yes, to be courteous, mainly. If he was taking up space in a bar he ought to pay for it, he figured. So he took the whiskey and sipped it until it was gone, and then took another. Soon he was feeling heavy, as if it would be difficult to walk fast if he had to, but in fact he didn't have to. Women came and went in the saloon, but the bartender who poured the whiskeys kept assuring him that Jennie would be down any minute. July kept drinking. It seemed to him that he was taking on weight in a hurry. He felt that just getting out of his chair would be more than he could do, he felt so heavy.

The bartender kept bringing whiskeys and it seemed to July he must be running up quite a bill, but it didn't worry him. Occasionally a cowboy would pass by, his spurs jingling. Some of them gave July a look, but none of them spoke to him. It was comfortable to sit in the saloon-as sheriff, he had usually avoided them unless he had business in one. It had always puzzled him how some men could spend their days just sitting in a saloon, drinking, but now it was beginning to seem less puzzling. It was restful, and the heavy feeling that came with the drinking was a relief to him, in a way. For the last few weeks he had been struggling to do things which were beyond his powers-he knew he was supposed to keep trying, even if he wasn't succeeding, but it was pleasant not to try for a little while.

Then he looked up and saw a woman standing by the table-she was skinny, like Elmira, and had stringy black hair.

"Let's get going, cowboy," she said. "You can't do nothing sitting there."

"Get going where?" he asked, taken by surprise. No one had ever called him "cowboy" before, but it was a natural mistake. He had taken off his sheriff's star for a few days-a precaution he often took in a strange town.

"I'm Jennie," she said. "Sam said you were looking for me, or have I got the wrong cowboy?"

"Oh," July said, embarrassed. He had even forgotten he was waiting for someone named Jennie.

"We could get going, even if you ain't the right cowboy," Jennie said. "If you can afford that much whiskey you can afford me. You could even buy me a drink if you felt polite."

July had never in his life bought a woman a drink, or even sat with a woman who liked to drink. Any other time such an invitation would have shocked him, but in this case it just made him feel that his manners weren't all they should be. Jennie had huge brown eyes, too large for her thin face. She was looking at him impatiently.

"Yes, have a drink," he said. "I'm running up a bill."

Jennie sat down and waved at the bartender, who immediately appeared with a bottle. "This one's drinking like a fish," he said cheerfully. "I guess it's been a long, dry trail."

July suddenly remembered why he was waiting to see the girl named Jennie.

"Did you know Ellie?" he asked. "I heard you knowed her."

It was Jennie's turn to be surprised. Elmira had been her best friend for three years, and she hardly expected a drunken young cowboy to mention her name.

"You mean Ellie Tims?" she asked.

"Yes," July said. "That's the Ellie. I was hoping you had news of her. I don't know where she is."

"Well, she moved to Missouri," Jennie said. "Then we heard she married a sheriff from Arkansas, but I didn't put no stock in that kind of rumor. I can't imagine Ellie staying married to no sheriff."

"She didn't," July said. "She run off while I was was chasing Jake Spoon, and I got three people killed since I started looking for her."

Jennie looked at the young man more closely. She had noticed right off that he was drunk, but drunks were an everyday sight and she had not looked close. The man seemed very young, which is why she had taken him for a cowboy. They were mostly just boys. But this man didn't have the look of a cowboy once she looked close. He had a solemn face and sad eyes, the saddest she had looked into for a while. On the basis of the eyes he was an unlikely man for Ellie to have married-Ellie liked her laughs. But then people often did unlikely things.

"Are you a sheriff?" she asked, sipping the whiskey Sam had poured.

"I was," July said. "I'm most likely going to have to give it up."

"Why do that?" Jennie asked.

"I ain't a good fighter," July said. "I can crack a drunk on the head and get him to jail, but I ain't really a good fighter. When we rode into that camp, the man with me killed six or seven men and I never killed a one. I went off and left Roscoe and the others and they got killed before I could get back. It was only Jake Spoon I went to catch, but I made a mess of it. I don't want to be a sheriff now."

He had not expected such words to rush out-he had suddenly lost control of his speech somehow.

Jennie had not expected it either. She sipped her whiskey and watched him.

"They say Ellie left on a whiskey boat," July said. "I don't know why she would have done it, but that's what they say. Roscoe thought a bear might have got her, but they didn't see no tracks."

"What's your name?" Jennie asked.

"July Johnson," he said, glad that she was no longer looking at him quite so impatiently.

"It sounds like Ellie to me," Jennie said. "When Ellie gets enough of a place, she jumps in the first wagon and goes. I remember when she went to Abilene I didn't have no idea she was even thinking of leaving, and then, before it was even time to go to work, she had paid some mule skinners to take her, and she was gone."

"I got to find her," July said simply.

"You come to the wrong town, mister," Jennie said. "She ain't in Dodge."

"Well, then I'll have to keep looking," July said.

He thought of the empty plains, which it seemed to him he had been lucky to get across. There seemed only the smallest chance that Ellie would have been so lucky.

"I fear she's dead," he said.

"She's hunting Dee, I'd say," Jennie said. "Did you know Dee?"

"Why, no," July said. "I was told he died of smallpox."

Jennie chuckled. "Dee ain't dead," she said. "He's in Ogallala. There's a gambler sitting right over there who seen him not two months ago."

"Where?" July asked, and Jennie pointed to a pudgy man in a white shirt and black coat who sat alone at a table, shuffling cards.

"That's Webster Witter," Jennie said. "He keeps up with Dee Boot. I used to but I quit."

"Why?" July asked. He sensed that it was a rather loose-tongued question, but the fact was, his tongue was out of control and behaving ever more loosely.

"It's like trying to keep up with a tumbleweed," Jennie said. "Dee wears out one town and then he's off to another. I ain't that way. I like to settle in. I been here in Dodge five years already and I guess this is where I'll stay."

"I don't know why she married me," July said. "I ain't got any idea about it."

Jennie looked at him for a bit. "Do you always drink like this?" she asked.

"No, I seldom drink," July said. "Though I do like toddy in the winter."

Jennie looked at him a while. "You ought to stop worrying about Ellie, mister," she said. "No man's ever been able to stop Ellie for long, not even Dee."

"She married me," July said. He felt he had to insist on that point.

"Well, I married Dee once, myself," Jennie said. "I just did it because he was good-looking. That and the fact that I was mad at somebody else. Ellie and me are a lot alike," she added.

July just looked at her sadly. Jennie sighed. She had not expected to encounter such misery in the middle of the afternoon.

"You're right good-looking," she said. "I expect that explains it. If I were you I'd start getting over it."

"I got to find her," July said. "I got to tell her about little Joe. He got killed on the Canadian."

"She oughtn't to had him," Jennie said. "I told her not to. I wouldn't have one for anything. I've had offers, too."

July drank two more whiskeys but had little more to say.

"Well, the bar's getting rich but I ain't," Jennie said. "Don't you want a little fun, to take your mind off it?"

It seemed to July that he was not so much sitting in the chair as floating in it. The world seemed kind of watery to him, but it was all right because he was easily able to float.

Jennie giggled, looking at him. "You sure are drunk, Mister Johnson," she said. "Let's go have a little fun. I always liked stealing Ellie's boys and here I've got a chance to steal her husband."

The way she giggled made July feel happy suddenly. He had not heard a woman giggle in a long time. Ellie never giggled. So he got up and followed Jennie up the stairs, walking carefully so as not to embarrass himself. He got upstairs all right, but before they could get to Jennie's room he began to feel wrong. His stomach began to float higher than he was. It began to float right out of his mouth.

Jennie had kept a close eye on him, and she quickly guided him to the outside stairs. July knelt down on the little landing and vomited over the edge. The next thing he knew he was lying flat on the landing, still vomiting. From time to time he quit vomiting and just lay there, but then he would start again, his body heaving upward like a bucking horse. He held to the rail of the landing with one hand so he wouldn't accidentally heave himself over. It was a bright day, the Kansas sun beating down, but July felt like he was in darkness. Cowboys rode up and down the street below him-once in a while one would hear him vomiting and look up and laugh. Wagons went by, and the drivers didn't even look up. Once, while he was resting two cowboys stopped and looked at him.

"I guess we ought to rope him and drag him to the graveyard," one said. "He looks dead to me."

"Hell, I wish all I had to do was lay on them stairs and vomit," the other cowboy said. "It beats loading them longhorns."

July lay face down for a long time. The heaves finally diminished, but from time to time he raised his head and spat over the edge, to clear his throat. It was nearly sundown before he felt like sitting up, and then it was only to sit with his back against the building. He was high enough that he could see over the main street and the cattle pens and west to where the sun was setting, far off on the plain. It was setting behind a large herd of cattle being held a mile or two from town. There were thousands of cattle, but only a few cowboys holding them-he could see the other cowboys racing for town. The dust their running horses kicked up was turned golden by the sun. No doubt they were just off the trail and couldn't wait for a taste of Dodge-the very taste he had just vomited up. The last sunlight filtered through the settling dust behind the cowboys' horses.

July sat where he was until the afterglow was just a pale line on the western horizon. The white moon shone on the railroad ties that snaked out of town to the east. He felt too weak to stand up, and he sat listening to the sounds of laughter that came from the saloon behind him.

When he finally stood up he was indecisive. He didn't know if he should go in and thank Jennie, or just slip away and continue the search for Elmira. He had an urge to just ride on out into the dark country. He didn't feel right in a town anymore. The crowds of happy cowboys just made him feel more lonesome somehow. On the plains, with nobody in sight, he wasn't reminded so often of how cut off he felt.

He decided, though, that politeness required him to at least say goodbye to Jennie. As he stepped back in the door, a cowboy came out of her room, looking cheerful, and went clumping down the stairs. A moment later Jennie came out too. She didn't notice July standing there. To his astonishment she stopped and lifted her skirts, so that he saw her thin legs, and more. There was a smear of something on one thigh and she hastily wet her fingers with a little spit and wiped it off. Just then she noticed July, who wished he had not bothered to come through the door. He had never seen a woman do such an intimate thing and the shock was so strong he thought his stomach might float up again.

When Jennie saw him she was not very embarrassed. She giggled again and lowered her skirts. "Well, you got a free look but I won't count it," she said. "I guess you didn't die."

"No," July said.

Jennie looked closely at him as if to make sure he was all right. She had a poor complexion, but he liked her frank brown eyes.

"What about the fun?" she said. "You lost out this afternoon."

"Oh," July said, "I'm not much fun."

"I guess you wouldn't be, after vomiting up your stomach," Jennie said. "I can't wait, though, mister. Three herds came in today, and there's a line of cowboys waiting to fall in love with me." She looked down the stairs; the noise from the saloon was loud.

"It's what I did with Ellie," July said. Meeting her friend Jennie had made his life clearer to him, suddenly. He was as simple as the cowboys-he had fallen in love with a whore.

Jennie looked at him a moment. She had come out of her room briskly, prepared for more business, but something in July's eyes slowed her down. She had never seen eyes with so much sadness in them-to look at him made her heart drop a little.

"Ellie was tired of this business," she said. "It was the buffalo hunters made her decide to quit. I guess you just come along at the right time."

"Yes," July said.

They were silent, looking at one another, Jennie reluctant to go down into the well of noise, July not ready to go out the door and head for the livery stable.

"Don't you want to quit?" he asked.

"Why, are you going to fall in love with me too?" Jennie asked, in her frank way.

July knew he could if he wasn't careful. He was so lonely, and he didn't have much control.

"Don't you want to quit?" he asked again.

Jennie shook her head. "I like to see the boys coming in," she said. "People are always coming in, here in Dodge. The cowboys are nicer than the buffalo hunters, but even the buffalo hunters was people."

She thought a moment. "I couldn't sit around in a house all day," she said. "If someone was ever to marry me I expect I'd run off, too. The time I get blue is the winter-there ain't no people coming in."

July thought of Ellie, sitting in the cabin loft all day, dangling her legs-no people came in at all except him and Joe, and Roscoe once in a while when they caught a catfish. Hearing Jennie talk put his life with Ellie in a very different light.

"You ought to go on back home," Jennie said. "Even if you catch her it won't do no good."

July feared it wouldn't, but he didn't want to go back. He just stood there. Something in his manner made Jennie suddenly impatient.

"I got to go," she said. "If you ever do find Ellie, tell her I still got that blue dress she gave me. If she ever wants it back she'll have to write."

July nodded. Jennie gave him a final look, half pitying, half exasperated, and hurried on down the stairs.

July felt sad when she left. He had the feeling that an opportunity had been missed, though he didn't know what kind of opportunity. The streets were full of cowboys going from one saloon to the next. There were horses tied to every hitch rail.

He went to the livery stable and saddled his new horse. The old man who ran the stable was sitting with his back against a barrel of horseshoe nails, drinking now and then from a jug he had between his legs. July paid him, but the old man didn't stand up.

"Which outfit are you with?" the old man asked.

"I'm with myself," July said.

"Oh," the man said. "A small outfit. This is a funny time of night to be starting out, ain't it?"

"I guess it is," July said, but he started anyway.

70.

ONCE THEY GOT WEST, beyond the line of the grasshopper plague, the herd found good grass, the skies stayed clear for nearly two weeks, and the drive went the smoothest it had gone. The cattle settled down and moved north toward the Arkansas without stampedes or other incidents, except for one-a freak accident that cost Newt his favorite horse, Mouse.

Newt wasn't even riding Mouse when the accident occurred. He had traded mounts for the day with Ben Rainey. The day's work was over and Ben had ridden into the herd with Call's permission to cut out a beef for the cook. He rode up to a little brindled cow, meaning to take her yearling calf, and while he was easing the calf away from her the cow turned mean suddenly and hooked Mouse right back of the girth. She was a small cow with unusually sharp horns, and her thrust was so violent that Mouse's hindquarters were lifted off the ground. Ben Rainey was thrown, and had to scramble to keep from being hooked himself. Soupy Jones saw it happen. He loped in and soon turned the mad cow, but the damage was done. Mouse was spurting blood like a fountain from his abdomen.

"Get Deets," Soupy said. Deets was the best horse doctor in the outfit, though Po Campo was also good. Both men came over to look at the wound and both shook their heads. Newt, on the other side of the herd, saw people waving at him, and loped over. When he saw Mouse gushing blood he felt faint, from the shock.

"I don't know what went wrong with her," Ben Rainey said, feeling guilty. "I wasn't doin' nothing to her. She just hooked the horse. Next thing I knew she was after me. She has them little sharp twisty horns."

Mouse's hind legs were quivering.

"Well, you better put him down," Call said, looking at Newt. "He's finished."

Newt was about to take the reins when Dish Boggett intervened. "Oh, now, Captain," he said quietly, "a feller oughtn't to have to shoot his own horse when there's others around that can do it as well." And without another word he led the bleeding horse a hundred yards away and shot him. He came back, carrying the saddle. Newt was very grateful-he knew he would have had a hard time shooting Mouse.

"I wish now we'd never traded," Ben Rainey said. "I never thought anything would happen."

That night there was much discussion of the dangers of handling cattle. Everyone agreed there were dangers, but no one had ever heard of a small cow hooking a horse under the girth before and killing it. Newt traded shifts with the Irishman and then traded again with his replacement, four hours later. He wanted to be in the dark, where people couldn't see him cry. Mouse had never behaved like other horses, and now he had even found a unique way to die. Newt had had him for eight years and felt his loss so keenly that for the first time on the drive he wished it wouldn't get light so soon.

But the sun came up beautifully, and he knew he would have to go in to breakfast. He rubbed the tear streaks off his face as best he could and was about to head for the wagon when he saw Mr. Gus standing outside his little tent, waving at him. Newt rode over. As he passed the open flap of the tent he saw Lorena sitting on a pallet just inside. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and she looked very beautiful.

Augustus had made a fire of buffalo chips and was complaining about it. "Dern, I hate to cook with shit," he said. "I hear you lost your pony."

"Yes. Ben was riding him. It wasn't his fault, though," Newt said.

"Get down and drink a cup of coffee to cut the grief," Augustus said.

As he was drinking the coffee, Lorena came out of the tent. To Newt's surprise, she smiled at him-she didn't say anything, but she smiled. It was such a joy that he immediately started feeling better. All the way from Texas he had been worrying secretly that Lorena would blame him for her kidnap. After all, he had been supposed to watch her the night she got taken. But she obviously bore him no grudge. She stood in front of the tent, looking at the beautiful morning.

"I've got so I like this looking far," she said. Augustus handed her a cup of coffee and she held it in both hands, the smoke drifting in front of her face. Newt was sure he had never seen anyone as beautiful as her-that he was getting to share breakfast with her was like a miracle. Dish or any of the other boys would give their spurs and saddles to be doing what he was doing.

She sat down in front of the tent and blew on her coffee until it was cool enough to drink. Newt drank his and felt a lot better. Poor Mouse was lost, but it was a wonderful day, and he was enjoying the rare privilege of having breakfast with Mr. Gus and Lorena. Across the plain they could see the herd, strung out to the north. The wagon and the remuda were a mile behind them. Po Campo, a tiny dot on the plain, walked well behind the wagon.

"That old cook is a sight," Augustus said. "I guess he plans to walk all the way to Canada."

"He likes to watch the grass," Newt explained. "He's always finding stuff. He'll cook most anything he picks up."

"Does he cook grass?" Lorena asked, interested. She had never seen Po Campo close up but was intrigued by the sight of the tiny figure walking day after day across the great plain.

"No, but he cooks things like grasshoppers once in a while," Newt said.

Lorena laughed-a delightful sound to Newt.

As she blew on her coffee, she looked at Gus. She had spent many hours looking at him since he had rescued her. It was comfortable traveling with him, for he never got angry or scolded her, as other men had. In the weeks when she trembled and cried, he had expressed no impatience and made no demands. She had become so used to him that she had begun to hope the trip would last longer. It had become simple and even pleasant for her. No one bothered her at all, and it was nice to ride along in the early summer sun, looking at the miles and miles of waving grass. Gus talked and talked. Some of what he said was interesting and some of it wasn't, but it was reassuring that he liked to talk to her.

It was enough of a life, and better than any she had had before. But she could not forget the other woman Gus had mentioned. The other woman was the one thing he didn't talk about. She didn't ask, of course, but she couldn't forget, either. She dreaded the day when they would come to the town where the other woman lived, for then the simple life might end. It wouldn't if she could help it, though. She meant to fight for it. She had decided to tell Gus she would marry him before they got to the town.

Never before had she given any thought to marrying a man. It had not seemed a likely thing. She had had enough of the kind of men who came into the saloons. Some of them wanted to marry her, of course-young cowboys, mostly. But she didn't take that seriously. Gus was different. He had never said he wanted to marry her, but he was handier than most at complimenting her on her beauty. He complimented her still, almost every day, telling her she was the most beautiful woman on the plains. They got along well; they didn't quarrel. To her, it all said that he might want to marry her, when they stopped. She was glad he had waved the boy over for breakfast. The boy was harmless, even rather sweet and likable. If she was friendly to the boy, it might make Gus think better of her as a wifeto-be. Though he had still not approached her, she felt him stirring when they slept close at night, and she meant to see that he did approach her before they got to Ogallala. She meant to do what she could to make him forget the other woman.

When Newt rode back to the herd he practically floated over the ground, he felt so happy. The death of Mouse was forgotten in the pleasure of remembering Lorena. She had smiled at him as he was mounting to leave.

It was not lost on the cowboys that Newt had secured a rare invitation. As he loped back to the drags, many heads were turned his way. But the drive had started, and no one got much of a chance to question him until that evening, when they were all getting their grub.

Dish, the friend who had relieved him of the burden of killing his own horse, was the most curious.

"Did you get to see Lorie?" Dish asked point-blank. He still felt such love for Lorie that even speaking her name caused him to feel weak sometimes.

"I seen her, she was drinking coffee," Newt said.

"Yes, she always took coffee in the morning," Lippy said, demonstrating a familiarity with Lorena's habits that offended Dish at once.

"Yes, and I'm sure you spied on her every opportunity you got," he said hotly.

"It didn't take no spying, she took it right in the saloon," Lippy said. "It was watch or go blind."

He was aware, as all the hands were, that Dish was mighty in love, but Dish was not the first cowboy to fall in love with a whore, and Lippy didn't feel he had to make too many concessions to the situation.

"Dish don't allow low types like us the right even to look at the girl," Jasper remarked. He had met with nothing but rejection at the hands of Lorena, and was still bitter about it.

"I bet Newt got a good look," Soupy said. "Newt's getting to an age to have an eye for the damsels."

Newt kept silent, embarrassed. He would have liked to brag a little about his visit, perhaps even repeat one of the remarks Lorena had made, but he was aware that he couldn't do so without causing Dish Boggett to feel bad that it wasn't him who had got the visit.

"Is Lorie still pretty or has all this traveling ruint her looks?" Needle Nelson asked.

"As if it could," Dish said angrily.

"She's real pretty still," Newt said. "Mr. Gus did most of the talking."

"Oh, Gus always does the most of it," Pea Eye said. "If they'd just pitch their tent a little closer, we could all hear it. Gus has a loud voice."

"I wouldn't care to listen," Dish said. It rankled him continually that Gus had all of Lorena's company, day after day.

"I never seen such a jealous bug as you are, Dish," Jasper said.

Call had eaten quickly and left with Deets-the Arkansas was only a few miles away and he wanted to have a look at the crossing. They loped up to the river through the long prairie dusk and sat on the riverbank awhile. Even in the moonlight they could see that the current was strong.

"I've always heard the Arkansas was swift," Call said. "Did you try it?"

"Oh yes," Deets said. "It took me down aways."

"It comes out of the same mountains as the Rio Grande," Call said. "Just a different side."

"Reckon we'll ever get back, Captain?" Deets asked. He had not planned to ask, but at mention of the Rio Grande he felt a sudden homesickness. He had been back and forth across the Rio Grande for so many years that it made him sad to think he might never see it again. The Rio Grande was shallow and warm, and no trouble to cross, whereas the farther north they went, the colder and swifter the rivers became.

Call was surprised by the question. "Why, some of the boys will be going back, I guess," he said. "I doubt that I'll return myself," he added, and hoped that Deets wouldn't want to go either. He relied on Deets too much. None of the other hands had his judgment.

Deets said no more about it, but his heart was heavy with a longing for Texas.

Call looked up the river toward Colorado. "That dern bandit's up there somewhere," he said. "I wish Gus had got him."

Deets could tell by the grim way the Captain was looking toward the mountains that he wished he could go after the man. Pursuit was what he and the Captain did best, and now he was wishing he could pursue Blue Duck.

Thinking to turn the Captain's mind from the outlaw, Deets mentioned something he had considered keeping to himself. It was something he had noticed the day before while scouting to the east a few miles.

"Wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Jake is around," he said.

"Jake?" Call asked. "Why would he be around?"

"Might not be him, but his horse is around," Deets said. "I crossed the track yesterday. It was that pacing horse he come home on."

"I'll swear," Call said. "Are you sure about the horse?"

"Oh, yes," Deets said. "I know the track. Four other horses with him. I guess Mr. Jake could have sold the horse."

"I doubt he would," Call said. "Jake likes a pacer."

He thought the information over as they trotted back toward the herd. He had meant it when he told Gus he wanted no more to do with Jake Spoon. Jake had only come back to Lonesome Dove to use them for support, and no doubt he would try to do it again if he got in trouble. This time it would probably be worse trouble, too. Once a man like Jake-who had got by on dash and little else all his life-started sliding, he might slide faster and faster.

"Oh, well," Call said, "we ain't far from Dodge. He may just be looking for a summer of gambling. Keep your eye out, though," he added. "If you strike his track again, let me know."

Deets went on back to camp, but Call stopped a mile away and staked his mare. He considered riding over to see Gus and passing on the news, but decided it could wait until morning. News of Jake might disturb the girl. If he was right, and Jake was just headed for Dodge, there was nothing to worry about.

He sat up much of the night, listening to the Irishman sing to the cattle. As he was listening, a skunk walked between him and the mare. It nosed along, stopping now and then to scratch at the dirt. Call sat still and the skunk soon went on its way. The Hell Bitch paid it no mind. She went on quietly grazing.

71.

"I'LL BE GLAD to get to Dodge," Jake said. "I'd like a bath and a whore. And a good barber to shave me. There's a barber there named Sandy that I fancy, if nobody ain't shot him."

"You'll know tomorrow, I guess," Dan Suggs said. "I've never liked barbers myself."

"Dan don't even like whores," Roy Suggs said. "Dan's hard to please."

Jake was cheered by the thought that Dodge was so close. He was tired of the empty prairie and the sullen Suggses, and was looking forward to jolly company and some good card games. He had every intention of wiggling loose from the Suggses in Dodge. Gambling might be his ticket. He could win a lot of money and tell them he'd had enough of the roving life. They didn't own him, after all.

It was a sunny day, and Jake rode along happily. Sometimes he got a lucky feeling-the feeling that he was meant for riches and beautiful women and that nothing could keep him down for long. The lucky feeling came to him as he rode, and the main part of it was his sense that he was about to get free of the Suggs brothers. They were hard men, and he had made a bad choice in riding with them, but nothing very terrible had come of it, and they were almost to Dodge. It seemed to him he had slid into bad luck in Arkansas the day he accidentally shot the dentist, and now he was about to slide out of it in Kansas and resume the kind of enjoyable life he felt he deserved. Frog Lip was riding just in front of him, and he felt how nice it would be not to have to consort with such a man again. Frog Lip rode along silently, as he had the whole trip, but there was menace in his silence, and Jake was ready for lighter company-a whore, particularly. There were sure to be plenty of them in Dodge.

In the afternoon, though, Dan Suggs, the man who was hard to please, saw something he liked: a herd of about twenty-five horses being driven south by three men. He rode over to a ridge and inspected the horses through his spyglasses. When he came back he had a pleased look on his face. At the sight of it Jake immediately lost his lucky feeling.

"It's old Wilbarger," Dan said. "He's just got two hands with him."

"Why, I've heard of him," Jake said. "We returned some of his horses to him, out of Mexico. Pedro Flores had them. I never met Wilbarger myself."

"I've met him, the son of a bitch," Dan said. "I rode for him once."

"Where's he goin' with them horses, back to Texas?" Roy asked.

"He's probably sold his lead herd in Dodge and has got another bunch or two headed for Denver. He's taking his boys some fresh mounts."

Wilbarger and his horses were soon out of sight, but Dan Suggs made no move to resume the trip to Dodge.

"I guess Dan's feeling bloody," Roy said, observing his brother.

"I thought Wilbarger was rough," little Eddie said.

"He is, but so am I," Dan Suggs said. "I never liked the man. I see no reason why we shouldn't have them horses."

Roy Suggs was not greatly pleased by his brother's behavior. "Have 'em and do what with 'em?" he asked. "We can't sell 'em in Dodge if Wilbarger's just been there."

"Dodge ain't the only town in Kansas," Dan said. "We can sell 'em in Abilene."

With no further discussion, he turned and rode southwest at a slow trot. His brothers followed. Jake sat for a moment, his lucky feeling gone and a sense of dread in its place. He thought maybe the Suggs brothers would forget him and he could ride on to Dodge, but then he saw Frog Lip looking at him. The black man was impassive.

"You coming?" he asked-the first time on the whole trip that he had spoken to Jake directly. There was an insolence in his voice that caused Jake to flare up for a moment despite himself.

"I guess if you watch you'll find out," Jake said, bitter that the man would address him so.

Frog Lip just looked at him, neither smiling nor frowning. The insolence of the look was so great that for a moment Jake contemplated gunplay. He wanted to shoot the look off the black man's face. But instead he touched his horse lightly with the spurs and followed the Suggs brothers across the plain. He felt angry-the barber and the whore he had been looking forward to had been put off. Soon he heard the black man's horse fall in behind him.

Dan Suggs traveled at a leisurely pace; they didn't see Wilbarger or his horses again that day. When they spotted a spring with a few low trees growing by it, Dan even stopped for a nap.

"You don't want to steal horses in the daytime," he remarked when he awoke. "It works better at night. That way you can put it off on Indians, if you're lucky."

"We better pull the shoes off these horses then," Roy Suggs said. "Indians don't use horseshoes much."

"You're a stickler for details, ain't you?" Dan said. "Who's gonna track us?" He lay back in the shade and put his hat over his eyes.

"Wilbarger might, if he's so rough," little Eddie said.

Dan Suggs just chuckled.

"Hell, I thought we come up here to rob banks and regulate settlers," Jake said. "I don't remember hiring on to steal horses. Stealing horses is a hanging crime, as I recall."

"I never seen such a bunch of young ladies," Dan said. "Everything's a hanging crime up here in Kansas. They ain't got around to making too many laws."

"That may be," Jake said. "Horse stealing don't happen to be my line of work."

"You're young, you can learn a new line of work," Dan said, raising up on an elbow. "And if you'd rather not learn, we can leave you here dead on the ground. I won't tolerate a shirker." With that he put his hat back over his face and went to sleep.

Jake knew he was trapped. He could not fight four men. The Suggs brothers all took naps, but Frog Lip sat by the spring all afternoon, cleaning his guns.

Late in the afternoon Dan Suggs got up and took a piss by the spring. Then he lay down on his belly and had a long drink of water. When he got up, he mounted his horse and rode off, without a word to anyone. His brothers quickly mounted and followed him, and Jake had no choice but to do the same. Frog Lip, as usual, brought up the rear.

"Dan's feeling real bloody," little Eddie said.

"Well, he gets that way," Roy said. "I hope you don't expect me to preach him a sermon."

"He don't want them horses," little Eddie said. "He wants to kill that man."

"I doubt he'll turn down free horses, once he has them," Roy said.

Jake felt bitter that the day had turned so bad. It was his bad luck again-he couldn't seem to beat it. If Wilbarger had been traveling even half a mile further west, they would never have seen him and his horses, and they would be in Dodge, enjoying the comforts of the town. On that vast plain, spotting three men and some horses was a mere accident-as much a matter of luck as the bullet that killed Benny Johnson. Yet both had happened. It was enough to make a man a pessimist, that such things had started occurring regularly.

They soon struck Wilbarger's trail and followed it west through the sunset and the long dusk. The trail led northwest toward the Arkansas, easy to follow even in the twilight. Dan Suggs never slowed. They struck the river and swam it by moonlight. Jake hated to ride sopping wet, but was offered no choice, for Dan Suggs didn't pause. Nobody said a word when they came to the river; nobody said one afterward. The moon was well over in the west before Dan Suggs drew rein.

"Go find them, Frog," he said. "I doubt they're far."

"Do I shoot or not?" the black man asked.

"Hell, no, don't shoot," Dan said. "Do you think I'd ride all this way and swim a river just to miss the fun? Come on back when you find 'em."

Frog Lip was back in a few minutes.

"We nearly rode into them," he said. "They're close."

Dan Suggs had been smoking, but he quickly put his smoke out and dismounted.

"You hold the horses," he said to little Eddie. "Come on once you hear the shooting."

"I can shoot as good as Roy," little Eddie protested.

"Hell, Roy couldn't hit his foot if it was nailed to a tree," Dan said. "Anyway, we're gonna let Jake shoot them-he's the man with the reputation."

He took the rifle and walked off. Jake and the others followed. There was no sign of a campfire, no sign of anything but plains and darkness. Though Frog Lip had said the men were close, it seemed to Jake they walked a long time. He didn't see the horses until he almost bumped into one. For a moment he thought of trying to grab a horse and run away bareback. The commotion would warn Wilbarger, and maybe one or two of the Suggs boys would get shot. But the horse quickly stepped away from him and the moment passed. He drew his pistol, not knowing what else to do. They had found the horses, but he didn't know where the camp was. Frog Lip was near him, watching, Jake supposed.

When the first shot came, he didn't know who fired it, though he saw a flash from a rifle barrel. It seemed so far away that he almost felt it must be another battle. Then gunfire flared just in front of him, too much to be produced by three men, it seemed. So much shooting panicked him for a second and he fired twice into the darkness, with no idea of what he might be shooting at. He heard gunfire behind him-it was Frog Lip shooting. He began to sense running figures, although it was not clear to him who they were. Then there were five or six shots close together, like sudden thunder, and the sound of a running horse. Jake could see almost nothing-once in a while he would think he saw a man, but he couldn't be sure.

"Frog, did you get him?" he heard Dan Suggs ask.

"No, he got me, damn him," he heard the black man say.

"I swear I put three into him but he made it to that horse anyway," Dan said. "You alive, Roy?"

"I'm alive," Roy Suggs said, from back near the horse herd.

"Well, what are you doing over there?" Dan wanted to know. "The damn fight was over here."

"We want the horses, don't we?" Roy asked, anger in his voice.

"I wanted that goddamn Wilbarger worse," Dan said. "What about you, Spoon?"

"Not hurt," Jake said.

"Hell, you and Roy might as well have stayed in Dodge, for all the good you are in the dark," Dan said.

Jake didn't answer. He was just glad he had not been forced to shoot anybody. It seemed ridiculous, attacking men in the dark. Even Indians waited until sunup. He took some hope from the fact that Frog Lip claimed to have been hit, though how anybody knew where to shoot was a mystery to him.

"Where's that goddamn kid?" Dan asked. "I told him to bring them horses. Old Wilbarger's getting away. Where'd you get hit, Frog?"

Frog Lip didn't answer.

"Goddamn the old son of a bitch," Dan said. "I guess he's killed Frog. Go get Eddie, Roy."

"You told him to come, I guess he'll come," Roy said.

"You best go get him unless you think you're bulletproof," Dan said in a deadly voice.

"I ain't going if Wilbarger's out there," Roy said. "You won't shoot me neither-I'm your brother."

There were two more shots, so close that Jake jumped.

"Did I get you?" Dan asked.

"No, and don't shoot no more," Roy said, in a surprised voice. "Why would you shoot at me?"

"There ain't nobody else around to shoot at except Jake, and you know his reputation," Dan said sarcastically.

They heard horses coming. "Boys?" little Eddie called out.

"No, mostly girls here tonight," Dan said. "Are you waiting for election day or what? Bring the goddamn horses."

Little Eddie brought them. The dawn was behind him, very faint but coming. Soon it was possible to make out the results of the battle. Wilbarger's two men were dead, still in their blankets. One was Chick, the little weasel Jake remembered seeing the morning they brought the horses in from Mexico. He had been hit in the neck by a rifle bullet, Frog Lip's, Dan said. The bullet had practically torn his head loose from his body-the corpse reminded Jake of a dead rabbit, perhaps because Chick had rabbitlike teeth, exposed now in a stiff grimace.

The other dead man was just a boy, probably Wilbarger's wrangler.

Of Wilbarger himself, there was no sign.

"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 beaded with sweat.

"Who shot Frog?" little Eddie asked in surprise.

"Why, that damn Wilbarger, who else?" Dan said. He had no more than glanced at Frog Lip-he was scanning the plains with his spyglass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cowman. But the plains were empty.

"I never thought anybody would get Frog," little Eddie said, unnerved by what he saw.

Dan Suggs was snarling with frustration. He glared at his brothers as if they were solely responsible for Wilbarger's escape.

"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.

"Frog, I guess this was your unlucky day," he said. "I guess we better just shoot you."

Frog Lip didn't answer. He didn't move or even blink his eyes.

"Shoot him and let's go," Dan said, looking at little Eddie.

"Shoot Frog?" little Eddie said, as if he had not heard quite right.

"Yes, Frog's the one with the slug in his gut," Dan said. "He's the one that needs to finish up dying. Shoot him and let's ride."

"I hate to shoot Frog," little Eddie said in a dazed tone.

"I guess we'll just leave him for the buzzards then, if you're so squeamish," Dan said. He removed the rifle from the Negro's hand and took the big pistol out of his belt.

"Ain't you gonna let him keep his guns?" Roy asked.

"Nope," Dan said. "He won't need 'em, but we might."

With that he mounted and rode over to look at the horse herd they had captured.

"You shoot him, Roy," little Eddie said. "I hate to."

"No, Dan's mad at me anyway," Roy said. "If I do something he ordered you to do, I'll be the one shot."

With that he mounted and rode off too. Jake walked over to his horse, feeling that it had been a black day when he met the Suggses.

"Would you like to shoot him, Jake?" little Eddie asked. "I've known him all my life."

"I wouldn't care to," Jake said. He remembered how insolent Frog Lip had been only the day before, and how he had wanted to shoot him then. It had been a rapid turnabout. The man lay on the ground, dying of a cruel wound, and none of the men he rode with even wanted to put him out of his misery.

"Well, damn," little Eddie said. "Nobody's much help."

He shrugged, drew his gun, and without another word walked over and shot Frog Lip in the head. The body jerked, and that was that.

"Get his money," Dan Suggs yelled. "I forgot to."

Little Eddie went through the dead man's bloody pockets before he mounted.

Jake had supposed they might try to go after Wilbarger, since he was wounded, but Dan Suggs turned the horse herd north.

"Ain't we going after that man?" Roy asked.

"I couldn't track an elephant and neither could you," Dan said. "Frog was our tracker. I shot Wilbarger three times, I expect he'll die."

"I thought we was going to Abilene," little Eddie said. "Abilene ain't this way."

Dan sneered at his brother. "I wish Wilbarger had shot you instead of Frog," he said. "Frog was a damn sight better hand."

Jake thought maybe he had seen the last of the killing. He felt it could be worse. The shooting had all been in pitch-darkness. Wilbarger hadn't seen him. He couldn't be connected with the raid. It was luck, of a sort. If he could just get free of the Suggses, he wouldn't be in such hopeless trouble.

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. Looking back on it, it seemed to him that he had been remarkably lucky to survive as long as he had in such a rough place, where killing was an everyday affair. No man's luck lasted forever, and the very fact that he had fallen in with the Suggses suggested that his was about exhausted.

He resolved to bend his wits to getting out while the getting was possible. The death of Frog Lip made the task easier, for, as Dan said, Frog Lip was the only tracker in the crowd. If he could just manage to get a good jump, somehow, he might get away. And if he did he wouldn't stop until he hit the Mississippi.

With his mind made up, he felt cheerful-it always gave a man a lift to escape death. It was a beautiful sunny day and he was alive to see it. With any luck at all, he had seen the end of the trouble.

His good mood lasted two hours, and then something occurred which turned it sour. It seemed as if the world was deserted except for them and the horses, and then to his surprise he saw a tent. It was staked under a single tree, directly ahead of them. Near the tent, two men were plowing with four mules. Dan Suggs was riding ahead of the horse herd, and Jake saw him lope off toward the settlers. He didn't think much about it-he was watching the tent to see if any women were around. Then he heard the faint pop of a shot and looked up to see one of the settlers fall. The other man was standing there, no gun in his hand, nothing. He stood as if paralyzed, and in a second Dan Suggs shot him too. Then he trotted over to the tent, got off his horse and went inside.

Jake hardly knew what to think. He had just seen two men shot in the space of seconds. He had no idea why. By the time he got near the tent Dan Suggs had drug a little trunk outside and was rifling it. He pitched the clothes which were in the trunk out on the grass. His brothers rode over to join the fun, and were soon holding up various garments, to see if they fit. Jake rode over too, feeling nervous. Dan Suggs was clearly in a killing mood. Both farmers lay dead on the grass near their mule team, which was quietly grazing. Both had bullet boles in their foreheads. Dan had shot them at point-blank range.

"Well, they didn't have much but a watch," Dan said, holding up a fine-looking silver pocket watch. "I guess I'll take the watch."

His brothers found nothing of comparable value, although they searched the tent thoroughly. While they were looking, Dan started a fire with some coal oil he had found and made some coffee.

"I tell you, let's hang 'em," he said, strolling over to look at the dead men. Both were in their forties, and both had scraggly beards.

Roy Suggs looked puzzled. "Why would you want to hang them?" he asked. "They're already dead."

"I know, but it's a shame to waste that tree," Dan said. "It's the only tree around. What's a tree good for if not to hang somebody from?"

The thought made little Eddie giggle, a nervous giggle.

"Dan, you beat all," he said. "I never heard of hanging dead men."

Nonetheless Dan meant it. He put ropes around both the dead men's necks and had his brothers drag them to the tree and hoist them up. It was not a large tree, and the dead men's feet were only a few inches off the ground. Jake was not called on to help, and he didn't.

When the men were hung, twisting at the end of the ropes, Dan Suggs stood back to study the effect, and evidently didn't like it. His brothers were watching him nervously-it was plain from his face that he was still in an angry mood.

"These goddamn sodbusters," he said. "I hate their guts and livers."

"Well, that's fine, Dan," Roy said. "They're dead enough."

"No, they ain't," Dan said. "A goddamn sodbuster can never be dead enough to suit me."

With that he went over and got the can of coal oil he had used to start the fire. He began to splash it on the hanged men's clothes.

"What's that for?" little Eddie asked. "You've already shot 'em and hung 'em."

"Yes, and now I intend to burn them," Dan said. "Any objections from you schoolteachers?" He looked at all three of them, challenge in his angry eyes. No one said a word. Jake felt sickened by what was happening, but he didn't try and stop it. Dan Suggs was crazy, there was no doubt of that, but his craziness didn't affect his aim. The only way to stop him would be to kill him, a risky business in broad daylight.

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.

"Dan, you beat all," little Eddie repeated several times. He giggled often-he was unnerved. Roy Suggs methodically tore the tent apart and poked through all the men's meager belongings, hoping to find valuables.

"They didn't have nothing," he said. "I don't know why you even bothered to kill them."

"It was their unlucky day, same as it was Frog's," Dan said. "We'll miss Frog, the man could shoot. I wish I had that damn Wilbarger here, I'd cook him good."

After drinking some more coffee, Dan Suggs mounted up. The two farmers, the trunks of their bodies blackened, still hung from the tree.

"Don't you intend to bury them?" Jake asked. "Somebody's gonna find them, you know, and it could be the law."

Dan Suggs just laughed. "I'd like to see the law that could take me," he said. "No man in Kansas could manage it, and anyway I fancy seeing Nebraska."

He turned to his brothers, who were dispiritedly raking through the settlers' clothes, still hoping to find something worth taking.

"Get them mules, boys," Dan said. "No sense in leaving good mules."

With that he rode off.

"He's bloody today," Roy said, going over to the mules. "If we run into any more sodbusters, it's too bad for them."

Jake's happy mood was gone, though the day was as sunny as ever. It was clear to him that his only hope was to escape the Suggses as soon as possible. Dan Suggs could wake up feeling bloody any day, and the next time there might be no sodbusters around to absorb his fury, in which case things could turn really grim. He trotted along all day, well back from the horse herd, trying to forget the two blackened bodies, whose shoes had still been smoldering when they left.

72.

DEETS FOUND WILBARGER by backtracking his horse. The horse, with dried blood on the saddle and crusted in its mane, was waiting for them on the north bank of the Arkansas. Several times, as they were bringing the cattle to the crossing, the horse started to swim over to them, but turned back. Deets crossed first, ahead of Old Dog, and recognized the horse even before he hit the bank. It was the big bay Wilbarger had ridden into Lonesome Dove several months before.

He rode up and caught the horse easily-but then, what looked to be a simple cattle crossing turned out to be anything but simple. Dish Boggett's horse, which had crossed many rivers calmly and easily, took fright in midstream and very nearly drowned Dish. The horse went crazy in the water, and if Dish hadn't been a strong swimmer, would have pawed him under. Even then it might have happened if Deets had not dashed back into the water and fought the horse off long enough for Dish to get ashore.

The trouble opened a gap in the line of cowboys and some three hundred cattle veered off and began to swim straight downstream. The line of cattle broke, and in no time there were pockets of cattle here and there, swimming down the Arkansas, paying no attention to the riders who tried to turn them. Newt got caught beside such a bunch, and after swimming two hundred yards downstream with them, ended up on the same bank he had started out on.

Eventually the herd split into five or six groups. Augustus came over to help, but there was not much he could do. Most of the cattle went back to the south bank, but quite a few swam far downstream.

"Looks like your herd's floating away, Woodrow," Augustus said.

"I know, I'm surprised that it ain't hailing or shooting lightning bolts at us," Call said. Though the scattering was annoying, he was not seriously disturbed, for the river was fairly shallow and the banks rather low where they were crossing. It would only take a little more time to restart the cattle that had gone back to the south bank. Fortunately no cattle were bogged, and this time no cowboys drowned.

"Good lord," Augustus said, as Deets came up leading the bay. "Where's Mister Wilbarger, that he could afford to let his horse run loose?"

"Dead, I fear," Call said. "Look at the blood on that horse's mane."

"Hell, I liked Wilbarger," Augustus said. "I'd be right sorry if he's dead. I'll go have a look."

"Who'll watch the girl while you're gone?" Call asked.

Augustus stopped. "You're right," he said. "It might make her uneasy if I just ride off. Maybe Deets better go have the look."

"It could be Indians, you know," Call said. "I think you better move her a little closer to the wagon."

Deets didn't come back until midafternoon, by which time the herd was a few miles north of the Arkansas.

"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.

"You're supposed to be able to smell Indians," he said to Augustus. "Do you smell any?"

"No," Augustus said. "I just smell a lot of cowshit. I expect my smeller will be ruined forever before this trip is over by smelling so much cowshit."

"It don't mention buffalo in the Bible," Augustus remarked.

"Well, why should it?" Call said.

"It might be that a buffalo is a kind of ox, only browner," Augustus said. "Ox are mentioned in the Bible."

"What got you on the Bible?" Call asked.

"Boredom," Augustus said. "Religious controversy is better than none."

"If there's mad Indians around, you may get more controversy than you bargained for," Call said.

Lorena heard the remark-she was riding behind them. Mention of Indians brought back memories and made her nervous.

Finally they saw Deets, coming along the river from the southeast. It was clear from the dried sweat on his horse that he had ridden hard.

"They didn't get Deets, whoever they are," Augustus said.

"I found the man," Deets said, drawing rein. "He's shot."

"Dead?" Call asked.

"Dying, I 'spect," Deets said. "I couldn't move him. He's hit three times."

"How far away?"

"About ten miles," Deets said. "I got him propped up, but I couldn't bring him."

"Did he say much?" Augustus asked.

"He wants to see you, if you're not too busy," Deets said. "He said if you were busy don't make the trip."

"Why would I be that busy?" Augustus asked.

Deets looked at him. "He's real polite, that gentleman," he said. "I guess he thinks he might be dead before you get there."

"Oh, I see-the man don't want to put nobody out," Augustus said. "I'll go anyway. I admire his conversation."

"Change horses," Call said to Deets, and Deets loped off. He was trying to decide who they ought to take, and finally decided just to take Pea Eye, Deets and the boy. The boy could watch the horses, if there was trouble. It meant leaving the herd, but there was no help for it. There was good grazing and the herd looked peaceful. Dish and the rest of the crew ought to be about to handle it.

"Was it Indians got him?" he asked, when Deets returned.

Deets shook his head. "White men," he said. "Horsethieves."

"Oh," Call said. "Murdering horsethieves, at that." But it relieved his mind, for horsethieves wouldn't attack an outfit as large as theirs.

Augustus dropped back to explain matters to Lorena. She looked at him with worry in her eyes.

"Now, Lorie, you relax," he said. "It wasn't Indians, after all."

"What was it then?" she asked.

"The man who loaned us this tent got shot," he said. "He's in a bad way, it appears. We're going to see if we can help him."

"How long will it take?" Lorena asked. It was already late afternoon-it meant a night without Gus, and she had not had to face one since he rescued her.

"I don't know, honey," he said. "A few days, maybe, if we go after the horsethieves that shot him. If there's a chance to get them we'll try. Call won't let a horsethief off, and he's right."

"I'll go," Lorena said. "I can keep up. We don't need the tent."

"No," Augustus said. "You stay with the wagon-you'll be perfectly safe. I'll ask Dish to look after you."

Lorena began to shake. Maybe Gus was doing it because he was tired of her. Maybe he would never come back. He might slip off and find the woman in Nebraska.

To her surprise, Gus read her mind. He smiled his devilish smile at her. "I ain't running for the bushes, if that's what you think," he said.

"There ain't no bushes," she pointed out. "I just don't want you to go, Gus."

"I got to," Augustus said. "A man's dying and he asked for me. We're kind of friends, and think what would have happened when the grasshoppers hit if we hadn't had this tent to hide in. I'll be back, and I'll see that Dish looks after you in the meantime."

"Why him?" she asked. "I don't need him. Just tell him to leave me be."

"Dish is the best hand," Augustus said. "Just because he's in love with you don't mean he couldn't be helpful if a storm blew up or something. It ain't his fault he's in love with you. He's smitten, and that's all there is to it."

"I don't care about him," Lorena said. "I want you to come back."

"I will, honey," he said, checking the loads in his rifle.

Dish could hardly believe his luck when Augustus told him to take Lorena her meals and look after her. The thought that he would be allowed to go over to the tent made him a little dizzy.

"Do you think she'll speak to me?" he asked, looking at the tent. Lorena had gone inside and pulled the flaps, though it was hot.

"Not today," Augustus said. "Today she's feeling sulky. If I was you I'd sing to her."

"Sing to Lorie?" Dish said, incredulous. "Why, I'd be so scared I'd choke."

"Well, if you require timid women there's not much I can do for you," Augustus said. "Just keep a good guard at night and see she don't get kidnapped."

Call hated to leave the herd, and most of the cowboys hated it that he was leaving. Though it was midsummer, the skies clear, and the plains seemingly peaceful, most of the hands looked worried as the little group prepared to leave. They sat around worrying, all but Po Campo, who was singing quietly in his raspy voice as he made supper. Even Lippy was unnerved. He was modest in some matters and had just returned from walking a mile, in order to relieve his bowels in private.

"If you see any bushes, bring one back with you," he said to the mounted men. "If we had a bush on two I wouldn't have to walk so far just to do my business."

"I don't know why you're so modest," Augustus said. "Go over and squat behind a cow. You got a hole in your stomach anyway."

"I wish we'd brought the pia-ner," Lippy said. "A little pia-ner music would go good right now."

Call put Dish in charge of the outfit, meaning that he suddenly had two heavy responsibilities-Lorena and the herd. It left him subdued, just thinking about it. If anything should happen to the girl or the herd he'd never be able to hold up his head again.

"Ease 'em along," Call told Dish. "Bert can scout ahead and make sure there's water."

If Dish felt subdued, Newt felt nothing but pride to have been selected for the trip. He could tell some of the other hands were envious, particularly the Rainey boys, but it was the Captain's order, and no one dared say a word. When he saw the Captain put two boxes of rifle shells into his saddlebag he felt even prouder, for it meant he might be expected to fight. The Captain must have decided he was grown, to bring him on such a trip. After all, only the original Hat Creek outfit-the Captain and Mr. Gus, Pea and Deets-were going along, and now he was included. Every few minutes, as they rode east, he put his hand on his pistol to reassure himself that it was still there.

They got back to Wilbarger a little after sundown, before the plains had begun to lose the long twilight. He had reached the Arkansas before collapsing, and lay under the shade of the bank on a blanket Deets had left him. He was too weak to do more than raise his head when they rode up; even that exhausted him.

"Well, you just keep turning up," he said to Augustus, with a wan smile. "I've been lying here trying not to bleed on this good blanket your man left me."

Augustus stooped to examine him and saw at once there was no hope.

"I've bled so much already I expect I'm white as snow," Wilbarger said. "I'm a dern mess. I took one in the lung and another seems to have ruint my hip. The third was just a flesh wound."

"I don't think we can do anything about the lung," Call said.

Wilbarger smiled. "No, and neither could a Boston surgeon," he said.

He raised his head again. "Still riding that mare, I see," he said. "If I could have talked you out of her I probably wouldn't be lying here shot. She'd have smelled the damn horsethieves. I do think she's a beauty."

"How many were there?" Call asked. "Or could you get a count?"

"I expect it was Dan Suggs and his two brothers, and a bad nigger they ride with," Wilbarger said. "I think I hit the nigger."

"I don't know the Suggses," Call said.

"They're well known around Fort Worth for being murdering rascals," Wilbarger said. "I never expected to be fool enough to let them murder me. It's humbling. I lived through the worst war ever fought and then got killed by a damn sneaking horsethief. That galls me, I tell you."

"Any of us can oversleep," Augustus said quietly. "If you was to lie quiet that lung might heal."

"No sir, not likely," Wilbarger said. "I saw too many lung-shot boys when we were fighting the Rebs to expect that to happen. I'd rather just enjoy a little more conversation."

He turned his eyes toward the Hell Bitch and smiled-the sight of her seemed to cheer him more than anything.

"I do admire that mare," he said. "I want you to keep that mean plug of mine for your troubles. He's not brilliant, but he's sturdy."

He lay back and was quiet for a while, as the dusk deepened.

"I was born on the Hudson, you know," he said, a little later. "I fully expected to die on it, but I guess the dern Arkansas will have to do."

"I wish you'd stop talking about your own death," Augustus said in a joking tone. "It ain't genteel."

Wilbarger looked at him and chuckled, a chuckle that brought up blood. "Why, it's because I ain't genteel that I'm bleeding to death beside the Arkansas," he said. "I could have been a lawyer, like my brother, and be in New York right now, eating oysters."

He didn't speak again until after it was full dark. Newt stood over with the horses, trying not to cry. He had scarcely known Mr. Wilbarger, and had found him blunt at first, but the fact that he was lying there on a bloody blanket dying so calmly affected him more than he had thought it would. The emptiness of the plains as they darkened was so immense that that affected him too, and a sadness grew in him until tears began to spill from his eyes. Captain Call and Mr. Gus sat by the dying man. Deets was on the riverbank, a hundred yards away, keeping watch. And Pea Eye stood with Newt, by the horses, thinking his own thoughts.

"How long will it take him to die?" Newt asked, feeling he couldn't bear such a strain for a whole night.

"I've seen boys linger for days," Pea Eye said quietly-he had always thought it impolite to talk about a man's death within his hearing. Gus's joke had shocked him a little.

"But then sometimes they just go," he added. "Go when they're ready, or even if they ain't. This man's lost so much blood he might go over pretty soon."

Call and Augustus knew there was nothing to do but wait, so they sat beside Wilbarger's pallet, saying little. Two hours passed with no sound but Wilbarger's faint breathing.

Then, to Call's surprise, Wilbarger's hand reached out and clutched him for a moment.

"Let's shake, for the favors you've done me," Wilbarger said weakly. When Call had given him a handshake, Wilbarger reached for Augustus, who shook his hand in turn.

"McCrae, I'll give you credit for having written a damn amusing sign," he said. "I've laughed about that sign many a time, and laughing's a pleasure. I've got two good books in my saddlebags. One's Mister Milton and the other's a Virgil. I want you to have them. The Virgil might improve your Latin."

"I admit it's rusty," Augustus said. "I'll apply myself, and many thanks."

"To tell the truth, I can't read it either," Wilbarger said. "I could once, but I lost it. I just like to look at it on the page. It reminds me of the Hudson, and my schooling and all. Now and then I catch a word."

He coughed up a lot of blood and both Call and Augustus thought it was over, but it wasn't. Wilbarger was still breathing, though faintly. Call went over and told Pea Eye and Newt to start digging the grave-he wanted to get started after the horsethieves as soon as it was light enough to track. Restless, he walked over and helped Deets keep watch.

To Augustus's surprise, Wilbarger raised his head. He had heard the digging. "Your friend's efficient, ain't he?" he said.

"Efficient," Augustus agreed. "He likes to chase horsethieves too. Seems like we're always having to get your horses back, Wilbarger. Where do you want 'em delivered this time?"

"Oh, hell, sell 'em," Wilbarger said, in shaky tones. "I'm done with the cow business, finally. Send the money to my brother, John Wilbarger, Fifty Broadway, New York City."

He coughed again. "Keep the tent," he said. "How's the shy young lady?"

"She's improved," Augustus said.

"I wish we'd met sooner, McCrae," Wilbarger said. "I enjoy your conversation. I hope you'll bury my man Chick and that boy that was with us. I wish now I'd never hired that boy."

"We'll tend to it," Augustus said.

An hour later, Wilbarger was still breathing. Augustus stepped away for a minute, to relieve himself, and when he came back Wilbarger had rolled off the blanket and was dead. Augustus rolled him on his back and tied him in the blanket. Call was down by the river, smoking and waiting. He looked up when Augustus approached.

"He's gone," Augustus said.

"All right," Call said.

"He said he was traveling with a man and a boy," Augustus said.

"Let's go, then," Call said, standing up. "We won't have to backtrack him, we can just look for the buzzards."

Augustus was troubled by the fact that he could find nothing with which to mark Wilbarger's grave-the plains and the riverbank were bare. He gave up and came to the grave just as Pea Eye and Deets were covering the man with dirt.

"If he had a family and they cared to look, they'd never find him," Augustus said.

"Well, I can't help it," Call said.

"I know something," Deets said, and to everyone's surprise mounted and loped off. A few minutes later he came loping back, with the skull of a cow buffalo. "I seen the bones," he said.

"It's better than nothing," Augustus said as he sat the skull on the grave. Of course, it wasn't much better than nothing-a coyote would probably just come along and drag the skull off, and Wilbarger too.

Deets had found Wilbarger's rifle, and offered it to Augustus.

"Give it to Newt," Augustus said. "I got a rifle."

Newt took the gun. He had always wanted a rifle, but at the moment he couldn't feel excited. It was such a strain, people always dying. He had a headache, and wanted to cry or be sick or go to sleep-he didn't know which. It was such a strain that he almost wished he had been left with the wagon, although being selected to go had been his greatest pride only a few hours before.

Augustus, riding beside him, noticed the boy's downcast look. "Feeling poorly?" he asked.

Newt didn't know what to say. He was surprised that Mr. Gus had even noticed him.

"You've been on too many burying parties," Augustus said. "Old Wilbarger had a sense of humor. He'd laugh right out loud if he knew he had the skull of a buffalo cow for a grave marker. Probably the only man who ever went to Yale College who was buried under a buffalo skull."

How he died hadn't been funny, Newt thought.

"It's all right, though," Augustus said. "It's mostly bones we're riding over, anyway. Why, think of all the buffalo that have died on these plains. Buffalo and other critters too. And the Indians have been here forever; their bones are down there in the earth. I'm told that over in the Old Country you can't dig six feet without uncovering skulls and leg bones and such. People have been living there since the beginning, and their bones have kinda filled up the ground. It's interesting to think about, all the bones in the ground. But it's just fellow creatures, it's nothing to shy from."

It was such a startling thought-that under him, beneath the long grass, were millions of bones-that Newt stopped feeling so strained. He rode beside Mr. Gus, thinking about it, the rest of the night.

73.

AS SOON AS HE HAD the herd well settled, Dish decided to see if there was anything he could do for Lorena. It had been months since the afternoon in Lonesome Dove when he had got so drunk, and in all that time he had not even spoken to her. He was out of practice-in fact, had never been in practice, though that was not his fault. He would cheerfully have talked to Lorena all day and all night, but she didn't want it and they had never exchanged more than a few words. His heart was beating hard, and he felt more fearful than if he were about to swim a swift river, as he approached her tent.

Gus had set up the tent before he left, but it was supper time, so Dish got a plate of beef for Lorena's supper. He took his responsibilities so seriously that he had tried to pick out the best piece, in the process holding up the line and irritating the crew, none of whom were the least impressed with his responsibilities.

"That gal don't need beefsteak, she can just eat you if she's hungry, Dish," Jasper said. "I expect you'd make about three good bites for a woman like her."

Dish flared up at Jasper's insulting tone, but he had the plate in his hand and was in no position to fight.

"I'll settle you when I come back, Jasper," he said. "You've provoked me once too often."

"Hell, you better run for the border, then, Jas," Soupy Jones said. "With a top hand like Dish after you, you won't stand a chance."

Dish had to mount holding the plate, which was awkward, but no one offered to help.

"Why don't you walk?" Po Campo suggested. "The tent is not very far."

That was true, but Dish preferred to ride, which he did, managing not to spill any of Lorena's food. She was sitting just inside the tent, with the flaps open.

"I'm come with some food," Dish said, still on his horse.

"I'm not hungry," Lorena said. "I'll wait till Gus gets back."

It seemed to Dish that she was as grudging in her tone as ever. He felt foolish sitting on a horse holding a plate of beefsteak, so he dismounted.

"Gus is after them horsethieves," he said. "He might not be back for a day or two. I'm supposed to look after you."

"Send Newt," Lorena said.

"Well, he went, too," Dish said.

Lorena came out of the tent for a moment and took the plate. Dish was paralyzed to be so close to her after so many months. She went right back into the tent. "You don't need to stay," she said. "I'll be all right."

"I'll help you with the tent in the morning," he said. "Captain said we're to ease on north."

Lorena didn't answer. She closed the flaps of the tent.

Dish walked back toward the campfire, but he stopped about halfway and staked his horse. He didn't want to go back to camp, even to eat, for he would just have to box Jasper Fant if he did. It was full dusk, but to his irritation Lippy spotted him and came walking over.

"Did you get a good look at her, Dish?" Lippy asked.

"Why, yes," Dish said. "I delivered her supper, if you don't mind."

"Is she still as beautiful?" Lippy asked, remembering their days together at the Dry Bean, when she had come down toward noon every day. He and Xavier would both wait for her and would feel better just watching her walk down the stairs.

"Why, yes," Dish said, not wanting to discuss it, though at least Lippy had spoken respectfully.

"Well, that Gus, he would end up with her," Lippy said. "Gus is too sly for the girls."

"I'd like to know what you mean by that," Dish said.

"I seen him trick her once," Lippy said, remembering the extraordinary wager he had witnessed. "He offered to cut the cards for a poke and he won. Then he paid her fifty dollars anyway. And he paid me ten not to tell Jake. He didn't pay me nothing not to tell you, though, Dish," Lippy added. It occurred to him suddenly that Gus might consider that they had breached their bargain.

"Fifty dollars?" Dish said, genuinely astonished. He had never heard of such extravagance in his life. "Did he actually pay it?"

"Well, he give me the ten," Lippy said. "I imagine he give Lorie the fifty, too. Gus ain't cheap, he's just crazy."

Dish remembered the night before he had hired on with the Hat Creek outfit, when Gus had lent him two dollars for the same purpose on which he had apparently spent fifty. There was no figuring the man out.

"You oughtn't to blabbed," he told Lippy.

"I ain't told nobody else," Lippy said, realizing himself that he shouldn't have blabbed.

Lippy soon went back to the wagon, subdued by his own indiscretion, but not before assuring Dish that the story would go no further.

Dish unsaddled his horse and got his bedroll. He lay on the blanket all night, his head on his saddle, thinking of Lorie, wondering if his chance with her would ever come.

The Kansas sky was thickly seeded with stars. He listened to the Irishman sing the sad songs that seemed to soothe the cattle. He spent the whole night thinking about the woman in the tent nearby, imagining things that might happen when they finally came to Montana and were through with the trail. He didn't sleep, or want to sleep, for there was no telling when he would get a chance to spend another night close to her. His horse grazed nearby on the good grass, which grew wet with dew as the morning came.

Dish saddled a little before sunup and rode out to look at the herd, which was perfectly peaceful. Then he went to the wagon, ignoring Jasper and Soupy, who were as insolent as ever. He wanted to teach them both a lesson, but couldn't afford the time. The herd had to be set moving, and somebody would have to hold the point. It was a ticklish problem, for he couldn't hold the point and help Lorie too. He fixed a plate for Lorena and just grabbed a hunk of bacon for himself.

"Why, look at him, he's taking her breakfast," Jasper said. "Dish, you're so good at toting food, you ought to work in a hotel."

Dish ignored this sally and walked over to the tent with the plate of food. He was hoping she would be in a talking mood. All night, as he had lain awake, he had thought of things he might say to her, things that would make her see how much he loved her or convince her how happy he could make her. If he could just get her talking for five minutes he might have the opportunity to change everything.

But when he walked up to the tent, Lorena was already standing outside it, buttoning her shirt. She turned and he stopped and blushed, fearful that he had ruined everything by approaching at the wrong time. All the speeches he had practiced in the night left him at once.

"I brought your breakfast," he said.

Lorena saw that he was embarrassed, although she had only had the top button to go on her shirt. It was just a second of awkwardness, but it brought back memories of her old life and reminded her how it had once pleased her to embarrass men. They might pay her, but they could never really get their money's worth, for being embarrassed. She had only to look them in the eye for it to happen-it was her revenge. It didn't work on Gus, but there were precious few like Gus.

"I'll take down the tent while you eat," Dish said.

Lorena sat on her saddle and ate. It took Dish only a few minutes to roll up the tent and carry it to the wagon. Then he came back and saddled her horse for her.

"I've got to ride the point," he said. "Just follow along with the wagon. Lippy and the cook will look after you. If you need anything, send for me."

"I need Gus," Lorena said. "I wish he hadn't left. Do you think he'll come back?"

"Oh, why, of course he will," Dish said. It was the friendliest she had ever talked to him, though it was about Gus.

"I get shaky," she said. "Gus knows why. I hope he gets back tonight."

"It depends on how big a start the horsethieves had," Dish said.

The day passed, and there was no sign of Gus. Lorena rode close to the wagon. Every few minutes Lippy turned and looked back at her as if he had never seen her before. Almost every time he did, he tipped his hat, which was even filthier than it had been when he worked in the saloon. Lorena didn't acknowledge him-she remembered how he had always tried to look up her skirts when she came downstairs. She just rode along, watching the horizon to see if she could spot Gus returning. The horizon shimmered so that it would have been hard to see Gus in any case.

They crossed a little creek about noon. There were a few scraggly bushes growing along the line of the creek. Lorena didn't pay them much attention, but Po Campo did. When the herd had moved on, he came walking over to her, his sack half full of wild plums.

"These plums are sweet," he said, handing her a few.

She dismounted and ate the plums, which indeed were sweet. Then she walked over and washed her face in the creek. The water was green and cold.

"Snow water," Po Campo said.

"I don't see no snow," she said.

"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.

"I've been finding onions," Po said. "That's good. I'll put them in the beans."

I wish you'd find Gus, she thought, but of course that was impossible. They rode into the dusk, but Gus did not return. Soon after the herd was bedded, Dish came and unrolled the little tent. He could tell from Lorena's face that she was sad. She had unsaddled, and she sat by her saddle in the grass. It pained him to see her look so alone and so tired. He tried to think of something to say that might cheer her up, but words had deserted him again. They always seemed to desert him just when he needed them most.

"I guess those horsethieves had a big start on them," he said.

"He could be dead," Lorena said.

"No, not Gus," Dish said. "He's had lots of experience with horsethieves. Besides, he's got the Captain with him. They're expert fighters."

Lorena knew that. She had seen Gus kill the Kiowas and the buffalo hunters. But it didn't ease her fears. She would have to lie in the tent all night, worrying. A bullet could hit anyone, she knew-even Gus. If he didn't come back, she would have no hope of protection.

"Well, I'll always help, if you'll let me," Dish said. "I'll do about anything for you, Lorie."

Lorena knew that already, but she didn't want him to do anything for her. She didn't answer, and she didn't eat, either. She went into the tent and lay awake all night while Dish Boggett sat nearby, keeping watch. It seemed to him he had never felt so lonely. The mere fact that she was so close, and yet they were separate, made the loneliness keener. When he had just thrown his blanket down with the boys, he didn't imagine her so much, and he could sleep. Now she was just a few yards away-he could have crept up to the tent and heard her breathing. And yet it seemed he would never be able to eliminate those few yards. In some way Lorie would always be as distant from him as the Kansas stars. At times he felt that he had almost rather not be in love with her, for it brought him no peace. What was the use of it, if it was only going to be so painful? And yet, she had spoken to him in a friendly voice only that day. He couldn't give up while there was a chance.

He lay awake all night with his head on his saddle, thinking of Lorie-not sleeping, nor even wanting to.

74.

WHEN THEY FOUND Wilbarger's man Chick and the boy who had been traveling with them, there wasn't much left to bury. The coyotes and buzzards had had a full day at them. As they rode toward the little knoll where the buzzards swarmed, they passed a fat old badger carrying a human hand-a black hand at that. Newt was stunned-he assumed they would shoot the badger and get the hand back so it could be buried, but no one seemed concerned that the badger had someone's hand.

"He had a hand," he pointed out to Pea Eye.

"Well, whoseever it was won't be using it no more, and that old badger had to work for it with all them dern buzzards around," Pea Eye said. "A hand is mostly just bone, anyway."

Newt didn't see what that had to do with it-it was still a human hand.

"Yes, that's interesting," Augustus said. "That old badger made a good snatch and got himself a few bones. But the ground will get his bones too, in a year or two. It's like I told you last night, son. The earth is mostly just a boneyard.

"But pretty in the sunlight," he added.

It was a fine, bright day, but Newt didn't feel fine. He wanted to go catch up with the badger and shoot him, but he didn't. There seemed to be hundreds of buzzards on the knoll. Suddenly a big coyote ran right out of the midst of them, carrying something-Newt couldn't see what.

"I guess the buzzards outnumber the coyotes in these parts," Augustus said. "Usually the buzzards have to wait until they get through."

When they rode up on the knoll, the smell hit them. A few of the buzzards flew off, but many stood their ground defiantly, even continuing to feed. Captain Call drew rein, but Augustus rode up to them and shot two with his pistol. The rest reluctantly flew off.

"You like to eat, see how you like being eaten," he said to the dead buzzards. "There's that bad black man. Wilbarger did get him."

The smell suddenly got to Newt-he dismounted and was sick. Pea Eye dug a shallow grave with a little shovel they had brought. They rolled the remains in the grave and covered them, while the buzzards watched. Many stood on the prairie, like a black army, while others circled in the sky. Deets went off to study the thieves' tracks. Newt had vomited so hard that he felt lightheaded, but even so, he noticed that Deets didn't look happy when he returned.

"How many are we up against?" Call asked.

"Four," Deets said. "Just four."

"Hell, there's five of us," Augustus said. "There's less than one apiece of the horsethieves, so what are you so down about?"

Deets pointed to a horse track. "Mr. Jake is with them," he said. "That's his track."

They all looked at the track for a moment.

"Well, they're horsethieves and murderers," Augustus reminded them. "They could have stolen Jake's horse-they could have even murdered him for it."

Deets was silent. They could speculate all they wanted-he knew. A different man would have resulted in a different track. Mr. Jake tended to ride slightly sideways in the saddle, which the track showed. It was not just his horse-it was him.

The news hit Call hard. He had stopped expecting anything of Jake Spoon, and had supposed they would travel different routes for the rest of their lives. Jake would gamble and whore-he always had. No one expected any better of him, but no one had expected any worse, either. Jake hadn't the nerve to lead a criminal life, in Call's estimation. But there was his track, beside the tracks of three killers.

"Well, I hope you're wrong," he said to Deets.

Deets was silent. So, for once, was Augustus. If Jake was with the killers, then there was no hope for him.

"I wish he'd had the sense to stay with Lorie," Augustus said. "She might have aggravated him some, but she wouldn't have led him to this."

"It's his dern laziness," Call said. "Jake just kind of drifts. Any wind can blow him."

He touched the mare and rode on-he didn't need Deets in order to follow the tracks of nearly thirty horses. He put the mare into a slow lope, a gait she could hold all day if necessary.

Newt rode beside Pea Eye, who appeared to be solemn too. "Do you think it's Jake?" Newt asked.

"I can't read a dern track," Pea Eye said. "Never could. But Deets can read 'em easier than I could read a newspaper. I guess it's Jake. It'd be a pity if it's us that has to hang him," he added, a little later.

"We couldn't," Newt said, startled. It had not dawned on him that Jake could have put himself in that bad a position.

Pea Eye looked at him, an unhappy expression on his face. It was unusual for Pea to change expressions. Usually he just looked puzzled.

"The Captain would hang you, if he caught you with a stolen horse," Pea Eye said. "So would Gus."

A few hours later they came upon the dead settlers, still hanging, shreds of charred clothes clinging to their bodies. A coyote was tug ging at the foot of one of them, trying to pull the body down. It ran when the party approached. Newt wanted to be sick again, but had nothing in his stomach. He had never expected to see anything more awful than the buzzard-torn bodies they had buried that morning, and yet it was still the same day and already there was a worse sight. It seemed the farther they went through the plains, the worse things got.

"Those boys are bad ones, whoever they are," Augustus said. "Hung those poor bastards and burned them too."

Call had ridden in for a closer look. "No," he said. "Shot 'em, then hung 'em, then burned them."

They cut the men down and buried them in one grave.

"Hell, gravediggers could make a fortune in these parts," Augustus said. "Pea, you ought to buy you a bigger spade and go in business."

"No, I'll pass, Gus," Pea Eye said mildly. "I'd rather dig wells."

Call was thinking of Jake-that a man who had ridden with them so long could let such a thing happen. Of course he was outnumbered, but it was no excuse. He could have fought or run, once he saw the caliber of his companions.

Deets had ridden on, to evaluate the trail. They overtook him a few hours later. His face was sad.

"They're close," he said. "Stopped at a creek."

"Probably stopped to baptize one another," Augustus said. "Did you see 'em, or just smell 'em?"

"I seen 'em," Deets said. "Four men."

"What about Jake?" Call asked.

"He's one," Deets said.

"Are they just watering the stock, or have they camped?" Call wanted to know.

"They're camped," Deets said. "They killed somebody in a wagon and he had whiskey."

"More work for the gravediggers," Augustus said, checking his rifle. "We better go challenge them before they wipe out Kansas."

Pea Eye and Newt were left with the horses. Deets led Call and Augustus on foot for a mile. They crept up the crest of a ridge and saw Wilbarger's horses grazing three or four miles away on the rolling prairie. Between them and the horse herd was a steep banked creek. A small wagon was stopped on the near bank, and four men were lounging on their saddle blankets. One of the men was Jake Spoon. The corpse of the man who had been driving the wagon lay some fifty yards away. The men on the blankets were amusing themselves by shooting their pistols at the buzzards that attempted to approach the corpse. One man, annoyed at missing with his pistol, picked up a rifle and knocked over a buzzard.

"They're cocky, I'd say," Call said. "They don't even have a guard."

"Well, they've killed the whole population of this part of the country except us, and we're just wandering through," Augustus said.

"Let's wait awhile," Call said. "When they're good and drunk we'll come along the creek bed and surprise 'em."

Augustus watched for a few minutes. "I hope Jake makes a fight," he said.

"He can't fight, and you know it," Call said.

"The point is, I'd rather shoot him than hang him," Augustus said.

"I wouldn't relish hanging him," Call said. "But there he is."

He walked back and explained the situation to Pea Eye and Newt. There was nothing they need do except bring the horses fast when they heard shooting.

"Jake with them?" Pea Eye asked.

"He's there," Call said. "It's a bad situation, but he put himself in it."

They waited until late afternoon, when the sun was angling down toward the horizon. Then, walking a wide circle to the east, they struck the creek a mile below where the men were camped and walked quietly up the creek bed. The banks were high and made a perfect shelter. They saw three horses watering at the creek, and Call feared the animals would give them away, but the horses were not alarmed.

Soon they heard the faint talk of the men-they were still lounging on their saddle blankets.

Call, in the lead, crept a little closer.

"Let's stay the night," he heard a man say. "I'm too full of liquor to be chousing horses in the dark."

"It'll sober you up," another voice said. "It's cooler traveling at night."

"Why travel?" the first man said. "Some more wagons might come along and we could rob 'em. It's easier than banks."

"Eddie, you're as lazy as Jake," the second voice said. "Neither one of you pulls your weight in this outfit."

"I'd have to be quick to beat you at killing people, Dan," little Eddie said.

Call and Augustus looked at one another. Dan Suggs was the name Wilbarger had mentioned-he had called his killers accurately.

Jake was lying on his saddle blanket feeling drunk and depressed. Dan Suggs had shot the old man driving the wagon at a hundred yards' distance, without even speaking to him. Dan had been hiding in the trees along the creek, so the old man died without even suspecting that he was in danger. He only had about thirty dollars on him, but he had four jugs of whiskey, and they were divided equally, although Dan claimed he ought to have two for doing the shooting. Jake had been drinking steadily, hoping he would get so drunk the Suggses would just go off and leave him. But he knew they wouldn't. For one thing, he had eight hundred dollars on him, won in poker games in Fort Worth, and if Dan Suggs didn't know it, he certainly suspected it. They wouldn't leave him without robbing him, or rob him without killing him, so for the time being his hope was to ride along and not rile Dan.

He had been lying flat down, for he felt very weary, but he raised up on his elbow to take another swig from the jug, and he and little Eddie saw the three men at the same moment: three men with leveled rifles, standing on the riverbank with the sun at a blinding angle right behind them. Jake had taken off his gun belt-he couldn't rest comfortably with it on. Little Eddie had his pistol on and grabbed for it, but a rifle cracked and a bullet took him in the shoulder and kicked him back off the saddle blanket.

Dan and Roy Suggs were sitting with their backs to the creek, each with a jug between their legs. They were caught cold, their rifles propped on their saddles well out of reach.

"Sit still, boys," Call said, as soon as the crack of the shot died. Deets, who had the best angle, had shot little Eddie.

Dan Suggs leaped to his feet and turned to see the bright sun glinting on three rifle barrels.

"Who are you?" he asked. "We're horse traders, so hold your damn fire."

He realized it would be suicide to draw and decided a bluff was his best chance, though the shock, plus the whiskey he had just drunk, made him unsteady for a moment. It was a moment too long, for a black man with a rifle stepped behind him and lifted his pistol. Roy Suggs was sitting where he was, his mouth open, too surprised even to move. Little Eddie lay flat on his back, stunned by his shoulder wound.

Augustus took little Eddie's pistol as he stepped over him, and in a moment had Roy's. Deets got the rifles. Call kept his gun trained right on Dan Suggs, who, because of the sun, still could not see clearly whom he faced.

Deets, with a downcast look, picked up Jake's gun belt.

"Why, Deets, do you think I'd shoot you?" Jake asked, though he knew too well where he stood, and if he had moved quicker would have shot, whatever the cost. A clean bullet was better than a scratchy rope, and his old partners could shoot clean when they wanted to.

Deets, without answering, removed the rifle from Jake's saddle scabbard.

"Get your boots off, boys," Call said, coming closer.

"Goddamned if we will," Dan Suggs said, his anger rising. "Didn't you hear me? I told you we were horse traders."

"We're more persuaded by that dead fellow over there," Augustus said. "He says you're murderers. And Mr. Wilbarger's good horses says you're horsethieves to boot."

"Hell, you don't know what you're talking about," Dan Suggs said. He was genuinely furious at having been taken without a shot, and he used his anger to try and carry the bluff.

"I bought these horses from Wilbarger," he said. "I gave him thirty dollars apiece."

"You're a black liar," Augustus said calmly. "Take off your boots, like Captain Call said. It's time to collect the boot guns."

Dan Suggs stood quivering, for it galled him to be caught and galled him more to be coolly given orders, even if it was Augustus McCrae who was giving them. Besides, he had a derringer in his right boot, and knew it was his last hope. One of his brothers was shot and the other too drunk and too stunned to take in what was happening.

"I'll be damned if I'll go barefoot for you or any man," Dan said.

Augustus drew his big dragoon Colt and jammed the barrel into Dan's stomach.

"You can keep your socks, if you're that refined," he said.

Call quickly knelt behind Dan Suggs and got the derringer.

"Just ask Jake if we didn't buy these horses," Dan said. "Jake's a friend of yours, ain't he?"

"Did you buy that old man?" Call asked. "Did you buy them two farmers you burned? Did you buy Wilbarger and his man and that boy?"

Little Eddie sat up. When he saw that his shirt was drenched with blood, his face went white. "I'm bleeding, Dan," he said.

Jake looked at Call and Augustus, hoping one or the other of them would show some sign of concern, but neither would even look at him. Call covered Roy Suggs while Deets tied his hands with his own saddle strings. Augustus stood calmly, the barrel of the big Colt still stuck into Dan Suggs's stomach. Dan's face was twitching. Jake could see he longed to go for his gun-only he had no gun. Jake thought Dan might go anyway, his whole frame was quivering so. He might go, even if it meant getting shot at point-blank range.

"This gun leaves a hole the size of a tunnel, Mr. Suggs," Augustus said. "If you'd like to land in hell with a tunnel through you, just try me."

Dan quivered, his eyes popping with hatred. When Deets came over with some rawhide strings he snarled at him, baring his teeth. "Don't you tie me, nigger boy," he said. "I'll not forget you if you do."

"You're dying to try it, ain't you?" Augustus said. "Go on. Try it. See what you look like with a tunnel through your ribs."

Dan held back, though he shook and snarled, while Deets tied him securely.

"Tie Jake," Call said, when Dan was secure. Augustus grinned and put the Colt back in its holster.

"I guess you ain't as hard as you talk, Mr. Suggs," he said.

"You sneaking son of a bitch, who do you think you are?" Dan said.

"Deets don't need to tie me," Jake said. For a moment his spirits rose, just from the sound of Gus's voice. It was Call and Gus, his old compañeros. It was just a matter of making them realize what an accident it had been, him riding with the Suggs. It was just that they had happened by the saloon just as he was deciding to leave. If he could just get his head clear of the whiskey he could soon explain it all.

Little Eddie could not believe that he was shot and his brother Dan tied up. He was white and trembling. He looked at Dan in disbelief.

"You said there wasn't a man in Kansas that could take you, Dan," Eddie said. "Why didn't you fight?"

Augustus went over and knelt by little Eddie, tearing his shirt so he could look at the wound.

"You oughtn't to listened to your big brother, son," he said. "He was plumb easy to catch. This is just a flesh wound-the bullet went right through."

Call went over to Jake. Deets seemed hesitant to tie him, but Call nodded and covered Jake with his rifle while Deets tied his hands. As he was doing it Pea Eye and Newt came over the hill with the horses.

"Call, he don't need to tie me," Jake said. "I ain't done nothing. I just fell in with these boys to get through the Territory. I was aiming to leave them first chance I got."

Call saw that Jake was so drunk he could barely sit up.

"You should have made a chance a little sooner, Jake," Augustus said. "A man that will go along with six killings is making his escape a little slow."

"I had to wait for a chance, Gus," Jake said. "You can't just trot off from Dan Suggs."

"You shut your damn mouth, Spoon," Dan Suggs said. "These friends of yours are no more than rank outlaws. I don't see no badges on them. They got their damn gall, taking us to jail."

Pea Eye and Newt stopped and dismounted. Newt saw that Jake was tied like the rest.

"Saddle these men's horses," Call said to the boy. Then he walked off toward the nearest trees.

"Where's he going?" Roy Suggs asked, finding his voice at last.

"Gone to pick a tree to hang you from, son," Augustus said mildly. He turned to Dan Suggs, who looked at him with his teeth bared in a snarl. "I don't know what makes you think we'd tote you all the way to a jail," Gus said.

"I tell you we bought them horses!" Dan said.

"Oh, drop your bluff," Augustus said. "I buried Wilbarger myself, not to mention his two cowboys. We buried them farmers and we'll bury that body over there. I imagine it's all your doings, too. Your brothers don't look so rough, and Jake ain't normally a killer."

Augustus looked at Jake, who was still sitting down. "What's the story on that one, Jake?" he asked.

"Why, I merely said hello to a girl," Jake said. "I didn't know she was anybody's wife, and the old bastard knocked me down with a shotgun. He was gonna do worse, too. It was only self-defense. No jury will hang you for self-defense."

Augustus was silent. Jake got to his feet awkwardly, for his hands were tied behind him. He looked at Pea Eye, who was standing quietly with Deets.

"Pea, you know me," Jake said. "You know I ain't no killer. Old Deets knows it too. You boys wouldn't want to hang a friend, I hope."

"I've done a many a thing I didn't want to do, Jake," Pea Eye said.

Jake walked over to Augustus. "I ain't no criminal, Gus," he said. "Dan's the only one that done anything. He shot that old man over there, and he killed them farmers. He shot Wilbarger and his men. Me and the other boys have killed nobody."

"We'll hang him for the killings and the rest of you for the horse theft, then," Augustus said. "Out in these parts the punishment's the same, as you well know.

"Ride with an outlaw, die with him," he added. "I admit it's a harsh code. But you rode on the other side long enough to know how it works. I'm sorry you crossed the line, though."

Jake's momentary optimism had passed, and he felt tired and despairing. He would have liked a good bed in a whorehouse and a nice night's sleep.

"I never seen no line, Gus," he said. "I was just trying to get to Kansas without getting scalped."

Newt had saddled the men's horses. Call came back and took the ropes off the four saddles.

"We're lucky to have caught 'em by the trees," he said. Newt felt numb from all that he had seen.

"Have we got to hang Jake too?" he asked. "He was my ma's friend."

Call was surprised by the remark. Newt was surprised too-it had just popped out. He remembered how jolly Jake had been, then-it was mainly on Jake's visits that he had heard his mother laugh. It puzzled him how the years could have moved so, to bring them from such happy times to the moment at hand.

"Yes, he's guilty with the rest of them," Call said. "Any judge would hang him."

He walked on, and Newt put his cheek for a moment against the warm neck of the horse he had just saddled. The warmth made him want to cry. His mother had been warm too, in the years when they first knew Jake. But he couldn't bring any of it back, and Jake was standing not twenty yards away, weaving from drink, his hands tied, sad-looking. Newt choked back his feelings and led the horses over.

The men had to be helped onto the horses because of the way their hands were tied. Little Eddie had lost a lot of blood and was so weak he could barely keep his seat.

"I'll lead yours, Jake," Newt said, hoping Jake would realize he meant it as a friendly gesture. Jake had several days' stubble on his face and looked dirty and tired; his eyes had a dull look in them, as if he merely wanted to go to sleep.

Call took the rein of Dan Suggs's horse, just in case Dan tried something-though there was little he could try. Augustus walked behind and Pea Eye led the other two horses. Deets went ahead to fix the nooses-he was good with knots.

"Dan, ain't you gonna fight?" little Eddie kept asking. He had never seen his brother tied up and could not quite believe it. That Dan had been outsmarted and taken without a battle shocked him more than the fact that he himself was about to be hung.

"Shut up, you damn whining pup," Dan said. "If you'd been standing guard this wouldn't have happened."

"You never told him to," Roy Suggs said. He too was in a daze, the result of shock and whiskey, but it annoyed him that Dan would try to put the blame on little Eddie.

"Well, do I have to do everything?" Dan said. He was watching, hoping to get Call to relax a minute-he meant to kick the horse and try to run over him. It might startle everyone long enough that he could jump the horse down into the creek bed, where he would be hard to hit. He had said what he had merely to distract the crowd, but it didn't work. Call kept the horse under tight control and in no time they came to the tree with the four dangling nooses.

It took a while for Deets to fix the knots to his satisfaction. The twilight began to deepen into dusk.

Jake tried to get his mind to work, but it wouldn't snap to. He had the feeling that there ought to be something he could say that would move Call or Gus on his behalf. It made him proud that the two of them had caught Dan Suggs so easily, although it had brought him to a hard fix. Still, it cut Dan Suggs down to size. Jake tried to think back over his years of rangering-to try and think of a debt he could call in, or a memory that might move the boys-but his brain seemed to be asleep. He could think of nothing. The only one who seemed to care was the boy Newt-Maggie's boy, Jake remembered. She had fat legs, but she was always friendly, Maggie. Of all the whores he had known, she was the easiest to get along with. The thought crossed his mind that he ought to have married her and not gone rambling. If he had, he wouldn't be in such a fix. But he felt little fear; just an overpowering fatigue. Life had slipped out of line. It was unfair, it was too bad, but he couldn't find the energy to fight it any longer.

Deets finally got the nooses done. He mounted and rode behind each man, to carefully set the knots. Little Eddie submitted quietly, but Dan Suggs shook his head and struggled like a wildcat when Deets came to him.

"Nigger boy, don't you get near me," he said. "I won't be hung by no black nigger."

Call and Augustus had to grab his arms and hold him steady. Dan dug his chin into his chest, so that Deets had to grab his hair and pull his head back to get the rope around his neck.

"You're a fool, Suggs," Augustus said. "You don't appreciate a professional when you see one. Men Deets hangs don't have to dance on the rope, like some I've seen."

"You're yellowbellies, both of you, or you would have fought me fair," Dan Suggs said, glaring down at him. "I'll fight you yet, barehanded, if you'll just let me down. I'll fight the both of you right now, and this nigger boy too."

"You'd do better to say goodbye to your brothers," Call said. "I expect you got them into this."

"They're not worth a red piss and neither are you," Dan said.

"I'll say this for you, Suggs, you're the kind of son of a bitch it's a pleasure to hang," Augustus said. "If guff's all you can talk, go talk it to the devil."

He gave Dan Suggs's horse a whack with a coiled rope and the horse jumped out from under him. When Dan's horse jumped, little Eddie's bolted too, and in a moment the two men were both swinging dead from the limb.

Roy Suggs looked pained. A brother dangled on either side of him. "I ought to have been second," he said. "Little Eddie was the youngest."

"You're right and I'm sorry," Augustus said. "I never meant to scare that boy's horse."

"That horse never had no sense," Roy Suggs remarked. "If I was little Eddie I would have got rid of him long ago."

"I guess he waited too long to make the change," Augustus said. "Are you about ready, sir?"

"Guess so, since the boys are dead," Roy Suggs said. "Right or wrong, they're my brothers."

"It's damn bad luck, having a big brother like Dan Suggs, I'd say," Augustus said.

He walked over to Jake and put a hand on his leg for a moment.

"Jake, you might like to know that I got Lorie back," he said.

"Who?" Jake asked. He felt very dull, and for a second the name meant nothing to him. Then he remembered the young blond whore who had been so much trouble. She had put him off several times.

"Why, Lorie-have you had so many beauties that you've forgotten?" Augustus said. "That damn outlaw took her away."

To Jake it seemed as remote as his rangering days-he could barely get his mind back to it. Call walked over. Now that they were about it he felt a keen sorrow. Jake had ridden the river with them and been the life of the camp once-not the steadiest boy in the troop, but lively and friendly to a fault.

"Well, it'll soon be dark," he said. "I'm sorry it's us, Jake-I wish it had fallen to somebody else."

Jake grinned. Something in the way Call said it amused him, and for a second he regained a bit of his old dash.

"Hell, don't worry about it, boys," he said. "I'd a damn sight rather be hung by my friends than by a bunch of strangers. The thing is, I never meant no harm," he added. "I didn't know they was such a gun outfit."

He looked down at Pea Eye and Deets, and at the boy. Everyone was silent, even Gus, who held the coiled rope. They were all looking at him, but it seemed no one could speak. For a moment, Jake felt good. He was back with his old compañeros, at least-those boys who had haunted his dreams. Straying off from them had been his worst mistake.

"Well, adiós, boys," he said. "I hope you won't hold it against me."

He waited a moment, but Augustus seemed dumbstruck, holding the rope.

Jake looked down again and saw the glint of tears in the boy's eyes. Little Newt cared for him, at least.

"Newt, why don't you take this pony?" he said, looking at the boy. "He's a pacer-you won't find no easier gait. And the rest of you boys divide what money's in my pocket."

He smiled at the thought of how surprised they would be when they saw how much he had-it was that lucky week in Fort Worth he had to thank for it.

"All right, Jake, many thanks," Newt said, his voice cracking.

Before he got the thanks out, Jake Spoon had quickly spurred his pacing horse high back in the flanks with both spurs. The rope squeaked against the bark of the limb. Augustus stepped over and caught the swinging body and held it still.

"I swear," Pea Eye said. "He didn't wait for you, Gus."

"Nope, he died fine," Augustus said. "Go dig him a grave, will you, Pea?"

They buried Jake Spoon by moonlight on the slope above the creek and, after some discussion, cut down Roy Suggs and little Eddie, plus the old man Dan Suggs had killed, a drummer named Collins with a wagonful of patent medicines. There was a good lantern in the wagon, which, besides the medicines, contained four white rabbits in a cage. The old man had run a medicine show, evidently, and did a little magic. The wagon contained a lot of cheaply printed circulars which advertised the show.

"Headed for Denver, I guess," Call said.

Dan Suggs they left hanging. Augustus took one of the circulars and wrote "Dan Suggs, Man Burner and Horse Thief" on the back of it. He rode over and pinned the sign to Dan Suggs's shirt.

"That way if a lawman comes looking for him he'll know he can quit the search," Augustus said.

They rounded up Wilbarger's horses and unhitched the two mules that had been pulling the little wagon. Augustus wanted to take the white rabbits, but the cage was awkward to carry. Finally Deets put two in his saddlebags, and Augustus took the other two. He also sampled the patent medicines and took several bottles of it.

"What do you think it will cure, Gus?" Pea Eye asked.

"Sobriety, if you guzzle enough of it," Augustus said. "I expect it's just whiskey and syrup."

The wagon itself was in such poor repair that they decided to leave it sit. Call broke up the tailgate and made a little marker for Jake's grave, scratching his name on it with a pocketknife by the light of the old man's lantern. He hammered the marker into the loose-packed dirt with the blunt side of a hatchet they had found in the wagon. Augustus trotted over, bringing Call his mare.

"I'm tired of justice, ain't you?" he asked.

"Well, I wish he hadn't got so careless about his company," Call said. "It was that that cost him."

"Life works out peculiar," Augustus said. "If he hadn't talked you into making this trip, we wouldn't have had to hang him today. He could be sitting down in Lonesome Dove, playing cards with Wanz."

"On the other hand, it was gambling brought him down," Call said. "That's what started it."

Deets and Pea Eye and Newt held the little horse herd. Newt was leading the horse Jake had left him. He didn't know if it was right to get on him so soon after Jake's death.

"You can ride the pacing pony," Deets said. "Mister Jake meant you to have it."

"What will I do with his saddle?" Newt asked. "He didn't say anything about the saddle."

"It's better than that old singletree of yours," Pea Eye said. "Take it-Jake's through with it."

"Don't neither of you want it?" Newt asked. It bothered him to take it, for Jake hadn't mentioned it.

"Oh, no," Deets said. "Saddle goes with the horse, I guess."

Nervous and a little reluctant, Newt got on Jake's horse. The stirrups were too long for him, but Deets got down and quickly adjusted them. As he was finishing the lacing, Call and Augustus rode by. Deets took the bridle off Newt's other horse and turned him, still saddled, into the horse herd. No one seemed to have anything to say.

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.