Lonesome Dove Part 50

"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 d.a.m.n throat if he wants to."

But Monkey wouldn't come near him. Monkey John was worried, and so were the Kiowas. They all kept c.o.c.king and unc.o.c.king 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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."

"h.e.l.l, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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.

"h.e.l.l, 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 m.u.f.fled as the Kiowas held his head and stuffed his own b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 c.o.c.ked 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 c.o.c.k his pistol, in case some of the things were Indians.

When he c.o.c.ked his pistol, Joe c.o.c.ked 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 gra.s.s 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 c.o.c.ked. 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 c.o.c.ked, 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 c.o.c.king and unc.o.c.king 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 gra.s.s; 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 he 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 b.u.t.t 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.