Lonesome Dove Part 89

"Howdy, Captain," Pea Eye said, embarra.s.sed by his own emotion. "You just missed Deets, I guess."

Call saw that Pea Eye was wounded and out of his head. There was blood on his chest from a shoulder wound, the sun had blotched his body, and his feet were swollen the size of a cow's bladder and cut to shreds.

"Is Gus dead?" Call asked, afraid to hear the answer. Though he knew Gus's penchant for trouble, it was a shock to see Pea Eye in such a state.

Pea Eye had been thinking of Deets, who had kindly walked him through the night. He was embarra.s.sed to be naked, and he found it hard to turn his mind back to where he could deal with the question the Captain had asked him.

"The creek's up, it's why I lost my clothes," he said.

Call untied his slicker from his saddle and covered Pea Eye with it. Pea Eye immediately felt better. He tried to b.u.t.ton the slicker so his dingus wouldn't show, but his fingers shook and Dish Boggett finally did it for him.

"Is Gus dead?" Call asked again.

Pea Eye let his mind turn slowly. Then he remembered that Gus had been sitting with two guns in his hands, not saying a word, when he waded into the river. He had had that bad wound in his leg.

"The creek was up when I left him," Pea Eye said. "I had to swim down past the Indians and I lost all my gear. Gus kept my pistol."

"Where was this?" Call asked.

"Up north, Captain," Pea Eye said. "We dug a cave in a riverbank. That's all I know."

"But he wasn't dead when you left him?"

"No, he sent me off," Pea said. "He said he wanted you to lope on up there and help him with those Indians."

Dish Boggett could not adjust to the fact that Pea Eye was naked and all scarred up. They had had such a peaceful time of it that he had lost the sense that they were in dangerous country.

"What was that about Deets?" he asked.

"Helped me," Pea said simply. "Are we going after Gus, Captain? We had a hard time getting one of them arrows out and his leg was giving him pain."

"You're going to the wagon," Call said. "You need some grub. How many Indians were there?"

Pea tried to think. "A bunch jumped us," he said. "About twenty, I guess. Gus shot a few."

Call and Dish had to lift him; all strength seemed to have left him, now that he knew he was safe. Dish had to hold him on his horse as they rode back, for Pea Eye had so little strength he could not even grip the saddle horn.

The crew, which had been in high spirits and drunk on their own celebrity-for weren't they the first men to bring a Texas herd across the Yellowstone?-sobered up immediately when they saw the condition Pea Eye was in.

"Why, h.e.l.lo, boys," Pea said, when he was helped off the horse. They all gathered around to greet him, and Bert and Needle Nelson helped him down. Po Campo had some coffee ready. Pea reached out for a cup, once they had him propped against the wagon, but his hands were too shaky to hold it. Po fed him a little with a spoon, and between one sip and the next, Pea slid from his position and pa.s.sed out. He collapsed so quickly that no one even caught him.

"Is he dead?" Newt asked, anxious.

"No, just tuckered out," Call said.

He was filling his saddlebags with ammunition, glad that he had got new shoes on the mare.

"He said Deets helped him," Dish Boggett said. The way Pea said it had unnerved him. Deets was dead and buried, back on the Powder River.

Call didn't answer. He was pondering the question of whether to take a man with him.

"I guess he was out of his head," Dish said. "I guess that explains it."

Po Campo smiled. "The dead can help us if we let them, and if they want to," he said.

Jasper Fant, delighted not to be among the dead, looked at Po severely. "Ain't none ever helped me except my own pa," he said.

"How'd he help you?" Needle asked.

"Left me twenty dollars in his will. I bought this saddle with it and I been a cowboy ever since."

"You call yourself one, you mean," Soupy Jones said. He had poor relations with Jasper as a result of a dispute over cards.

"I'm here, ain't I?" Jasper said. "Just because you lost that hand don't mean I can't cow."

"Oh, shut your trap, Jasper," Dish said. He had had enough of Jasper and Soupy and felt that the whole question of Pea and Deets had been treated too brusquely. After all, the first words Pea had said was that they had just missed Deets. Dish didn't want to admit it, but he had been scared of ghosts all his life, and didn't like to think that any were wandering around. It would just make night herding more nerve-racking, even if the ghost in question was one that might be friendly to him.

Then someone noticed that Captain Call was leaving. He took an extra rifle from the wagon and got the slicker that he had lent Pea, covering Pea with a blanket.

"Just move the stock on north," he said. "Be alert. I'm going to get Gus."

The thought of him leaving sent a ripple of apprehension through the camp. Though independent to a man in some respects, the outfit was happier in all respects when Captain Call was around. Or if not the Captain, then Gus. Only a few hours earlier, they had felt c.o.c.ky enough to take on an army. After all, they were the conquerors of the Yellowstone. But now, watching the Captain catch a horse for Gus to ride back on, they all felt daunted. The vast plain was beautiful, but it had reduced Pea Eye to a scarred wreck. And the Indians had Gus holed up somewhere. They might kill him and the Captain too. All men were mortal, and they felt particularly so. A thousand Indians might come by nightfall. The Indians might fall on them as they had fallen on Custer.

Call had no time to soothe the men with elaborate instructions. If Gus was badly wounded, he would weaken rapidly, and every hour counted. Arriving ten minutes too late would be as bad as ten days, or a year, for that matter. Besides, the almost beseeching way the men looked at him was irritating. Sometimes they acted as if they would forget how to breathe if he or Gus wasn't there to show them. They were all resourceful men-he knew that, if they didn't-and yet at certain times they became like children, wanting to be led. All his adult life, he had consented to lead, and yet occasionally, when the men seemed particularly dumbstruck, he wondered why he had done it.

He and Augustus had discussed the question of leaders.h.i.+p many times.

"It ain't complicated," Augustus maintained. "Most men doubt their own abilities. You don't. It's no wonder they want to keep you around. It keeps them from having to worry about failure all the time."

"They ain't failures, most of them," Call pointed out. "They can do perfectly well for themselves."

Augustus chuckled. "You work too hard," he said. "It puts most men to shame. They figure out they can't keep up, and it's just a step or two from that to feeling that they can't do nothing much unless you're around to get them started.

"It don't take on me, which is lucky," he added. "I don't care how hard you work, or where you go."

"I'd like to see something that could put you to shame," Call said.

"My p.e.c.k.e.r's done it a few times," Augustus said.

Call wondered what he meant by that, but didn't ask.

When he was packed, he mounted at once, and rode over to Dish Boggett. "You're in charge," he said. "Trail on north. I'll be back when I can."

Dish paled at the thought of so much responsibility. He had enough worries as it was, what with Pea Eye talking of ghosts.

The Captain looked angry, which made the men better reconciled to the fact that he was leaving. All of them feared his angers. But once he left, before he and the mare were even out of sight, their mood of relief changed back to one of apprehension.

Jasper Fant, so cheerful only an hour before, sank the fastest. "Good lord," he said. "Here we are in Montana and there's Indians and bears and it's winter coming on and the Captain and Gus both off somewhere. I'll be surprised if we don't get ma.s.sacred."

For once Soupy Jones didn't have a word to say.

95.

AUGUSTUS KEPT HIS PISTOL c.o.c.kED ALL NIGHT, once Pea Eye left. He watched the surface of the river closely, for the trick he hoped might work for Pea could also work for the Indians. They might put a log in the water and float down on him, using the log for cover. He tried to look and listen closely, a task not helped by the fact that he was shaking and feverish.

He expected the Indians to come sliding out of the water like big snakes, right in front of him, but none came, and as his fever mounted he began to mumble. From time to time he was half aware that he was delirious, but there was nothing he could do about it, and anyway he preferred the delirium to the tedium of waiting for the Indians to attack. One minute he would be trying to watch the black water, the next he would be back at Clara's. At times he saw her face vividly.

The dawn broke sunny. Bad as he felt, Augustus still enjoyed seeing the sun. It helped clear his head and stirred him to thoughts of escape. He was sick of the little cold cave under the riverbank. He had thought to wait there for Call, but the more he considered, the more he felt it to be a bad plan. Call's arrival was days away, and dependent on Pea getting through. If Pea didn't get through-and the chances were good that he wouldn't-then Call might not even start to look for him for another week.

As a student of wounds, he knew just by looking at his leg that he was in trouble. The leg was yellowish, with black streaks striping the yellow. Blood poisoning was a possibility. He knew that if he didn't get medical attention within the next few days his chances were slim. Even waiting for nightfall might be folly.

If the Indians caught him in the open, his chances would be equally slim, of course, but it took no deliberation to know that if he had to choose, and he did, he would prefer the active to the pa.s.sive course.

As soon as the sun was well up he eased out of the cave and stood up. The bad leg throbbed. Even to touch his toes to the ground hurt. The waters were rapidly receding. Fifty yards to the east, a game trail led up the creek bank. Augustus decided to use the carbine he had taken off the Indian boy as a crutch. He cut the stirrups off the saddle and lashed one over each end of the rifle, then padded one end of his rude crutch with a piece of saddle leather. He stuffed one pistol under his belt, holstered the other, took his rifle and a pocketful of jerky, and hobbled across along the bank to the animal trail.

He edged cautiously out of the riverbed, but saw no Indians. The broad plain was empty for miles. The Indians had left. Augustus wasted no time in speculation. He started at once, hobbling southeast toward Miles City. He hoped he had not more than thirty or forty miles to go before he struck the town.

He was not used to the crutch and he made poor time. When occasionally he forgot and set his bad foot to the ground, the pain was almost enough to make him pa.s.s out. He was weak, and had to stop every hour or so to rest. In the hot sun, sweat poured out of him, though he felt cold and feared a chill. Two or three miles from where he started, he crossed the tracks of a sizable herd of buffalo-they were probably the reason the Indians had left. With winter coming, buffalo were more important to the warriors than two white men, though probably they meant to return and finish off the whites once the hunt was over.

All day he persevered, dragging himself along. He stopped less frequently, because he found it hard to get started once he stopped. Rest was seductive, made more so by his tendency to improve the situation through imagination. Maybe the herd had moved north faster than he calculated. Maybe Call would show up the next day and save him the painful business of dragging along with his crutch.

Yet he hated waiting almost as much as he hated the traveling. His habit had been to go and meet whatever needed to be met, not to wait idly for what might approach.

What was approaching now was death, he knew. He had faced it before and overridden its motion with his own. To sit and wait for it gave it too many advantages. He had seen many men die of wounds, and had watched the turning of their spirits from active desire to live to indifference. With a bad wound, the moment indifference took over, life began to subside. Few men rose out of it: most lost all impulse toward activity and ended by offering death at least a halfhearted welcome.

Augustus didn't intend to do that, so he struggled on. When he took his rests he took them standing up, leaning on the crutch. It took less will to get started if one was standing up.

He hobbled over the plain through the long afternoon and twilight, finally collapsing sometime in the night. His hand slipped off the crutch and he felt it falling from him. In stooping to reach for it, he fell face down, unconscious before he hit the ground. In his dreams he was with Lorena, in the tent on the hot Kansas plains. He longed for her to cool him somehow, touch him with her cool hand, but though she smiled, she didn't cool him. The world had become red, as though the sun had swollen and absorbed it. He felt as if he were lying on the surface of the red sun as it looked at sunset when it sank into the plain.

When he got his eyes open the sun was white, not red, and directly above him. He heard a spitting sound, such as a human would make, and his hand went to the pistol at his belt, thinking the Indians had come. But when he turned his head, it was a white man he saw: a very old, small white man in patched buckskins. The old man had a tobacco-stained beard and a bowie knife in his hand. A spotted horse grazed nearby. The old man was just squatting there, watching. Augustus kept his hand on his gun, but didn't draw it-he didn't know if he had the strength to draw it.

"Them was Blood Indians," the old man said. "It beats all that they didn't get you. You got enough of them."

"Five is all," Augustus said, raising himself to a sitting position. He didn't like to talk lying down.

"Seven I heard," the old man said. "I get along with the Bloods and the Blackfeet too. Bought lots of beaver from them in the beaverin' days."

"I'm Augustus McCrae," Augustus said.

"Hugh Auld," the visitor said. "Down Miles City they call me Old Hugh, although I doubt I'm eighty yet."

"Was you meaning to stab me with that knife?" Augustus asked. "I'd rather not shoot you unnecessarily."

Old Hugh grinned and spat again. "I was about to have a go at cutting off that rotten leg of yours," he said. "Before you come to, I was. That leg's ruint, but I might have a h.e.l.l of a time cutting through the bone without no saw. Besides, you might have woke up and give me trouble."

"'Spect I would have," Augustus said, looking at the leg. It was no longer black-striped-just black.

"We got to take it off," Old Hugh said. "If that rot gets in the other leg you'll lose both of them."

Augustus knew the old man was right in everything he said. The leg was rotting, but a bowie knife was no instrument for taking it off.

"How far is Miles City?" he asked. "I guess they've got a sawbones there."

"Two, last time I went to town," Old Hugh said. "Both drunkards."

"You forgot to inform me of the distance," Augustus said.

"Forty miles and a fraction," Hugh said. "I don't believe you could have walked it."

Augustus used the crutch to pull himself up. "I might fool you," he said, though it was just pride talking. He knew quite well he couldn't have walked it. Just getting to his feet left him nauseous.

"Where'd you come from, stranger?" the old man asked. He rose to his feet but did not exactly straighten up. His back was bent. To Augustus he seemed scarcely five feet tall.

"I was setting a deadfall and let it fall on me," Old Hugh explained cheerfully. "Some Blood warriors found me. They thought it was funny, but my back never did straighten out."

"We all have misfortunes," Augustus said. "Could I borrow your horse?"

"Take it, only don't kick him," Old Hugh said. "If you kick him he'll buck. I'll follow along as best I can in case you fall off."

He led the spotted horse over and helped Augustus mount. Augustus thought he might pa.s.s out, but managed not to. He looked at Old Hugh.

"You sure you get along with these Indians?" he asked. "I'd be embarra.s.sed if you came to any trouble on my account."

"I won't," Old Hugh said. "They're off stuffing themselves with fresh buffalo meat. I was invited to join 'em but I think I'll poke along after you, even though I don't know where you come from."

"A little fart of a town called Lonesome Dove," Augustus said. "It's in south Texas, on the Rio Grande."

"Dern," the old man said, clearly impressed by the information. "You're a traveling son of a b.i.t.c.h, ain't you?"

"Does this horse have a name?" Augustus asked. "I might need to speak to him."

"I been calling him Custer," Old Hugh said. "I done a little scouting for the General once."

Augustus paused a minute, looking down at the old trapper. "I got one more favor to ask you," he said. "Tie me on. I ain't got strength enough to mount again if I should fall."

The old man was surprised. "I guess you've learned some tricks, with all your traveling," he said. He fixed a rawhide loop around Augustus's waist and made it tight to the cantle.

"Let's go, Custer," Augustus said, giving the horse rein and remembering not to kick him.

Five hours later, as the sun was setting, he nudged the exhausted horse over a slope north of the Yellowstone and saw the little town of Miles City four or five miles to the east.

When he got to town it was nearly dark. He stopped in front of what appeared to be a saloon but found he could not dismount. Then he remembered that he was tied on. He couldn't untie the knots in the rawhide, but managed to draw his pistol and fire in the air. The first shot seemed to go unnoticed, but when he fired twice more several men came to the door of the saloon and looked at him.