Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove

"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.

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.