Larry McMurtry - Comanche Moon

We don't even own the horses we're riding.

All we own are our guns and our clothes." "And the saddles," he added. "We do own our saddles." The comment depressed Augustus to an unusual degree. He liked to think of himself as prosperous, or at least prospectively prosperous--but the fact was he was just short of being a pauper. All he owned was three guns, a fairly well made saddle, and some clothes.

He had no house, no land, no wife, no livestock. He had ridden all day in the blazing sun, through thorny country, threatened by dangerous bovines and possibly even wild Indians, andfor what? A paltry salary that would scarcely see him through a month of whoring and imbibing.

"I say we quit the rangers," he said abruptly. "There's a fortune in cattle down here in this brush and we're letting fools like that one beat us to it." "If you want to get rich ranching you'll have to work as hard as that fellow Fogg--I doubt myself that you'd enjoy working that hard," Call said.

He rode over to where Denton Fogg was working --smoke rose from a brand he had just slapped on a large yearling.

"Do you know a man named Richard King?

Captain King?" Call asked.

"I know him," Fogg said, but did not continue --he moved on to the next yearling while the iron was still hot enough to impress a brand.

"Well, would you know where we could find him?" Call asked. "The Governor thought he might advance us the cattle we need." At that Denton Fogg stopped dead. He looked at Call for a moment and smiled--he even slapped his leg, in amusement.

"Dick King, give up a thousand cattle?" he said. "Dick King didn't get what he's got by giving away cattle." "He wouldn't be giving them, sir," Call said, trying his best to curb his impatience. "The state will pay him. I'd appreciate it if you would just tell me where I can find him." "I don't keep up with Dick King," Denton Fogg said, still amused. "There's a fellow in Lonesome Dove that knows him. You might ask him." Before he had quite worked through his amusement, he was off to the nearest branding fire, to select a fresh iron.

"Is Lonesome Dove a place?" Call asked. "I confess I'm not familiar with it." "You don't seem to be familiar with anything, Captain," Denton Fogg told him. "This is branding season--e cattleman who's got any sense is off branding every animal he can get his rope on. Dick King's branding, like the rest of us. I wish I had as many cattle as he does, but I don't, and I never will if I have to stand here all day giving directions to Texas Rangers.

Just go due south to the Rio Grande and turn left. You'll eventually come to Lonesome Dove.

There's a man there named Wanz who might know where Dick King and his men are branding." "Let's go," Call said to the troop. "That man's too busy branding cattle to bother with us." "The fool, I'd arrest him if there was a jail nearby," Augustus said.

"No, he's not a criminal, let's go," Call said. For a moment he keenly missed Long Bill Coleman. Though not a professional tracker, such as Famous Shoes, Long Bill had a good instinct for routes, and what they needed just then was to hold a true route south, to the Rio Grande.

But it was more than Bill's usefulness that Call missed--the man had been reassuring company, and a frontiersman whose opinion was always useful to have. The thought that he would never have it again made Call low spirited, for a time. If they were lucky enough to strike another ranch house he meant to try and hire an old vaquero to guide them through the brush.

"I've a notion to go back and marry that fellow's sister-in-law," Augustus said.

"Being married to her would be better than having this goddamn brush scratch your eyes out." "It's odd to be travelling without Billy Coleman, ain't it?" Call said. "It's the first time since we took up rangering that Billy ain't been along." Augustus started to agree, but before he could speak memory rose in him so powerfully that he choked on his ^ws. There was no more Long Bill to ride with. Memories of the missions they had been on together passed through his mind in a vivid parade; but then, to his dismay, the parade was interrupted by images of Clara. One second he would be remembering the tall, lanky man, white with dust, on their march as captives across the Jornada del Muerto--but then it would be Clara smiling, waiting for him on the back porch of the Forsythe store in her pretty gingham dress; Clara laughing, teasing, kissing. She had grown a little fuller in the bosom over the years, but otherwise she had been the same girl, from the moment in the muddy street when he had kissed her for the first time until he had bidden her goodbye, in the morning mist, behind the same store, only a few weeks ago. Clara hadn't gone where Bill was. It had already occurred to him that, life being the dangerous business that it was, she might be a widow someday; but, by then, his own life might have ended, or he might be in jail or in a war somewhere; anyway, even if Clara were once more to be free, she might turn him down again, as she just had.

"Why would the man hang himself, Woodrow?" Augustus asked, trying to force his mind back to the original topic.

"I know it's best not to think about it, but I can't stop thinking about it," he went on. "There are times at night when I'd give a year's wages just to ask Billy one question." "Well, but he's gone where wages don't help you," Call said. "The best thing is just to try and do the job we have to do." "I doubt we can do this job--where are we going now?" Gus asked.

"To the Rio Grande," Call replied.

"To the Rio Grande and then what--is Captain King a fish?" Gus asked.

"No, but there's a town there where we might be able to find him," Call said. "At least I guess it's a town." "Well, if it's a town, is it on a map --does it have a name?" Gus asked, impatiently. "Is it on this side of the river, or is it an island or what?" "It's probably a town," Call said.

"There's a saloon there owned by a man named Wanz--I think he's a Frenchman." "Oh, if it's got a saloon, let's go," Augustus said. "In fact, let's hurry.

We'll give the saloon a thorough inspection-- then we'll worry about Captain King. What's the name of this place?" "Lonesome Dove--t's its name," Call said.

The captives, three men and a woman, were brought in a little after sunrise, in an oxcart.

Mu@noz, the bandit Ahumado had assigned to do the job Tudwal once did, ambushed them in their fine coach three days to the east. All their finery, rings, watches, and the like he put in a little sack, for Ahumado to inspect. The first thing the old man did, before he so much as glanced at the captives, was take the sack from Mu@noz and carry it to his blanket. He emptied the sack and carefully inspected every item before he turned his attention to the prisoners, all of whom were large and fleshy, as hidalgos and their women tend to be, and all of whom, with good reason, were terrified.

Scull watched the proceedings from his cage, shielding his eyes with his hands. On days when they tied him to the skinning post his vision became a blur--he could distinguish motion and outlines but not much else. The rains had stopped and the sun was blinding, but Ahumado only now and then tied him to the skinning post. Often he would be left for three or four days in his cage--when free to shade his eyes, his vision gradually cleared.

Also, to his puzzlement, Ahumado instructed the women to feed him well. Every day he was given tortillas, frijoles, and goat meat. Ahumado himself ate no better. Scull suspected that the old man wanted to build him up for some more refined torture later, but that was just a guess and not one that impeded his appetite.

Live while you're alive, Bible and sword, he told himself. He observed that from time to time the Black Vaquero was racked with coughing, now and then bringing up a green pus. It was enough to remind Scull that the old bandit was mortal too. He might yet die first.