Larry McMurtry - Comanche Moon

If a log was in the way of a wagon, Finch could dismount and remove it without assistance; but of course that skill was useless on the llano, where there were few obstructions to free travel. With no logs to clear away, Finch's usefulness as a ranger was much diminished. The fact was, Finch was not entirely right in the head. Once he formed a notion that pleased him, he wrapped his mind around it like a chain.

"Now hush about that hog, Finch," Neely Dickens said. He was a little embarrassed for his friend. Anybody could see they weren't likely to encounter a pig.

"We're in dry country," Call said. "We better decide which river to make for." "I vote for the good old Brazos," Long Bill said. "The Brazos ain't far from my home and my Pearl." Call walked off a little distance, hoping Augustus would follow. He considered Captain Scull derelict, for simply walking off from his command. The fact that he had split the command between himself and Augustus didn't seem very sensible, either. Though he and Augustus were good friends, they had a way of disagreeing about almost everything. As soon as he said they ought to make for the Brazos, Gus would argue that they were closer to the Pecos. Fear of disagreement had prompted him to walk off. He didn't want to start off his captaincy by quarrelling in front of the boys.

Augustus, though, once he came and joined Call, proved hesitant. Though he was pleased for a few minutes to be a captain, the responsibility of it quickly came to seem overwhelming. What if he gave an order and it proved to be the wrong order? All the men might die. Woodrow's first remark had been correct: surviving was what they had to think of.

They had only one day's food, and little water.

The very emptiness of the plain was daunting. One direction might be no better than another.

"Which way do you think we ought to go?" Woodrow asked--Augustus opened his mouth to answer and then realized he didn't know what to say. The weight of command had suddenly become very heavy. He had no idea which way they ought to go.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Woodrow asked.

"You've been talking ever since I've known you, why'd you suddenly dry up?" "Because I don't know how to be a captain--at least I'm man enough to admit it," Augustus said.

"What do you think we ought to do, if you know so much?" "I don't know so much," Call said.

"I've taken orders the whole time I've been a ranger. Why would I know any more than you do?" "Because you're a studier, Woodrow," Augustus said. "You've been reading in that book about Napoleon for years. Me, I'm mainly just a whorer." He took one more look at the landscape, and then turned to his friend.

"All right," he said. "I'll try to captain if you'll help. I favor trying to strike the Red River. I expect the Pecos is closer but there's little game on the Pecos.

If we go that way we'd probably have to eat the horses. We've got those extra mules. I say we eat the mules, if we have to, and make for the Red. There's plentiful deer along the Red." To Gus's relief, Woodrow Call smiled, a rare thing in general, Woodrow being mainly solemn, but especially rare considering the hard circumstances they faced.

"The Red was my thinking too," Call said.

"Is it?" Augustus said, relieved.

Usually Woodrow took the opposite view, just because it was opposite, as far as he could tell.

Both of them turned for a moment and looked at the camp, fifty yards away. All the rangers were looking at them, waiting to see if they would quarrel.

"The boys depend on us now," Call said.

"It's up to us to get them home." "I just hope we don't run into a big bunch of Comanches," Augustus said. "A big bunch of Comanches could probably finish us." "One of us will have to scout, and the other stay with the troop," Call said.

"I agree," Gus said.

"It's a big thing we're taking on," Call said. "We need to keep our heads and do it right." "We'll get these boys home," Augustus said, proud but a little nervous. He looked once more at Woodrow, to be sure they were still agreed on the directions.

"So the Red River it is?" he said.

"Yes, and let's get started," Call said.

"The Red River it is."

Famous Shoes was surprised to see that Big Horse Scull could walk so well. Usually he could easily walk off and leave any white man, but he did not walk off and leave Scull.

When they camped the first night the man did not seem tired, nor did he insist on the large wasteful fires that the whites usually made when the nights were cold. Their fire was only a few sticks, with just enough flame to singe the prairie chicken Scull had hit with a rock. The clouds blew away and the stars above them were very clear, as they divided the skinny bird, which was old and tough.

Famous Shoes had begun to realize that Scull was a very unusual man. They had walked all day at a fast clip, yet Scull did not seem tired and did not appear to want sleep.

Famous Shoes yawned and grew sleepy but Scull merely kept chewing his tobacco and spitting out the juice. Famous Shoes thought Scull might be some form of witch or possessed person. He was not a comfortable man to be with. There was something in him like the lightning, a small lightning but still apt to flash at any moment. Famous Shoes did not enjoy being with a man who flashed like lightning, causing unquiet feelings, but there was not much he could do about it.

"Do you know this Ahumado?" Scull asked.

"No," Famous Shoes said, very startled by the question. They were pursuing Kicking Wolf, not Ahumado.

"No one knows Ahumado," he added. "I only know where he lives." "Somebody must know him," Scull said. He had begun to think of walking to Mexico, to kill Ahumado, the man who had shot him and also Hector. The thought of a lone strike had only occurred to him that day. Once he had wanted to take cannons to Mexico, to blast Ahumado out of the Yellow Cliffs. But now that he was alone on the prairie, with only the tracker for company, Inish Scull felt that it was time for a turning.

Commanding men was a tiresome chore, one he had done long enough. He might do it again, once the great civil conflict came, but now he had the desire to cast off all that had gone before and go into Mexico alone. The remote parts of the world haunted him: Africa, the Arctic, the great peaks of Asia.

He didn't want merely to go back to Austin, to Inez, to the rangers. He wanted an adventure, and one he could pursue alone.

"A military unit is a fine thing when it works," he said. "But it usually don't work. A solitary feat of arms is better, if the foe is worthy. This Kicking Wolf ain't much of a foe, though I grant that he's a brilliant thief. But I doubt that he's much of a killer--the two skills don't go together." Famous Shoes didn't know what to make of that comment. There were plenty of dead Texans and Mexicans and Indians who were dead because of Kicking Wolf--theirthe families considered him killer enough. If Scull wanted to fight someone who killed better than Kicking Wolf, he should not have passed up Buffalo Hump, a man who could kill plenty well.

He didn't comment. It was night, a good time for napping. If they wanted to catch Kicking Wolf and get the Buffalo Horse back, they would need to be up walking plenty early.

"This fellow Ahumado's been a notable bandit for a long time," Scull said. "Somebody must have some information about him." Famous Shoes kept quiet. Ahumado was a bad, cruel man; even to talk of him was bad luck. Ahumado worked very bad tortures on the people he caught. In Famous Shoes' view it was unwise even to think of a man that bad. The old people of Mexico thought Ahumado could pick up thoughts out of the air. If Scull kept talking about him, or even thinking about him, Ahumado might pick the thoughts out of the air and come north looking for them.