Lonesome Dove Part 48

If there was hope for her, Lorena knew it lay with Dog Face. He was rough and crazy, but he wasn't hard like the old man. He might cuff her if she disappointed him, but he didn't beat her with hot sticks or kick her stomach like the old man did. At times she caught Dog Face looking at her in a friendly way. He was getting so he didn't like Monkey John to hurt her or even touch her. He was cautious about what he said, for the old man would flare up in an instant, but when Monkey John bothered her, Dog Face got restless and would often take his gun and leave the camp. Monkey John didn't care-he played with her roughly whether anyone was in camp or not.

One night Blue Duck rode in from one of his mysterious trips with some whiskey, which he dispensed freely both to the two white men and to the Kiowas. Blue Duck drank with them, but not much, whereas in an hour Monkey John, Dog Face and the Kiowas were very drunk. It was a hot night but they built a big campfire and sat around it, pa.s.sing the bottle from hand to hand.

Lorena began to feel frightened. Blue Duck had not so much as looked at her, but she felt something was about to happen. He had several bottles of whiskey, and as soon as the men finished one he handed them another. Monkey John was particularly sloppy when he drank. The whiskey ran out of the corners of his mouth and into his dirty beard. Once he stood up and made water without even turning his back.

"You could go off aways," Dog Face said. "I don't want to sit in your p.i.s.s."

The old man continued to make water, most of it hitting the campfire and making a spitting sound, but some splattering on the ground near where Dog Face sat.

"I could but I ain't about to," the old man said. "Scoot back if you're afraid of a little p.i.s.s."

Blue Duck spread a blanket near the fire and began to roll dice on it. The Kiowas immediately got excited. Ermoke grabbed the dice and rolled them several times. Each of the Kiowas had a try, but Monkey John scoffed at their efforts.

"Them gut eaters can't throw dice," he said.

"You better be quiet," Blue Duck said. "Ermoke wouldn't mind frying your liver."

"He tries it and I'll blow a hole in him you could catch rain water through," Monkey John said.

"Let's gamble," Blue Duck said. "I ain't had a game in a while."

"Gamble for what?" Dog Face asked. "All I got is my gun and I'd be in pretty shape without that. Or my horses."

"Put up your horses then," Blue Duck said. "You might win."

Dog Face shook his head.

"I don't know much," Dog Face said. "But I know better than to bet my dern horses. There ain't nowhere to walk to from this Canadian that a man can get to on foot."

Yet an hour later he lost his horses to Blue Duck. Monkey John lost his on the first roll. Before long Blue Duck had won all the horses, though many of the Indians were so drunk they hardly seemed to know what was happening.

Blue Duck had a heavy, square face-he kept shaking the dice in his big hand. Sometimes he would play with a strand of his s.h.a.ggy hair, as a girl would. Sometimes Lorena thought maybe she could grab a gun and shoot him-the men left their rifles laying around. But the gun hadn't worked when she tried to shoot Tinkersley, and if she tried to shoot Blue Duck and didn't kill him she would be in for it. She might be in for it anyway, though it seemed to her the men were scared of him too. Even Monkey John was cautious when Blue Duck was around. They might be glad to see him dead. She didn't try it. It was because she was so frightened of him that she wanted to, yet the same fright kept her from it.

"Well, now I've won the livestock," Blue Duck said. "Or most of it."

"Most of it, h.e.l.l, you've won it all," Monkey John said. "We're stuck on this G.o.dd.a.m.n river."

"I ain't won the girl," Blue Duck said.

"A woman ain't livestock," Dog Face said.

"This one is," Blue Duck said. "I've bought and sold better animals than her many times."

"Well, she's ours," Monkey John said.

"She's just half yours," Blue Duck reminded him. "Ermoke and his boys own a half interest."

"We was aiming to buy them out," Dog Face said.

Blue Duck laughed his heavy laugh. "By the time you raise the money, there won't be much left to buy," he said. "You'd do better to buy a goat." .

"Don't want no G.o.dd.a.m.n goat," Dog Face said. He was nervous about the turn the conversation was taking.

"Let's gamble some more," Blue Duck said, shaking the dice at Ermoke. "Bet me your half interest in the woman. If you win I'll let you have your horses back."

Ermoke shook his head, looking at Lorena briefly across the campfire.

"No," he said. "We want the woman."

"Come on, let's gamble," Blue Duck said, a threatening tone in his voice. All the Kiowas looked at him. The two white men kept quiet.

The Kiowas began to argue among themselves. Lorena didn't understand their gabble, but it was clear some wanted to gamble and some didn't. Some wanted their horses back. Ermoke finally changed his mind, though he kept looking across the fire at her. It was as if he wanted her to know he had his plans for her, however the game turned out.

All the Kiowas finally agreed to gamble except one, the youngest. He didn't want it. He was skinny and very young-looking, no more than sixteen, but he was more interested in her than the rest. Sometimes, in the Kiowa camp, he had two turns, or even three. The older men laughed at his appet.i.te and tried to distract him when he covered her, but he ignored them.

Now he balked. He didn't look up, just kept his eyes down and shook his head. The Kiowas yelled at him but he didn't respond. He just kept shaking his head. He didn't want to risk his interest in her.

"That d.a.m.n chigger's holding up the game," Blue Duck said to Ermoke. He stood up and walked a few steps into the darkness. In a minute, they heard him making water. The Kiowas were still drinking whiskey. Now Ermoke was in the mood to gamble, and he reached over and shook the young man, trying to get him to agree, but the young man looked sullenly at the ground.

Suddenly there was a shot, startling them all, and the young man flopped backwards. Blue Duck stepped back into the firelight, a rifle in his hands. The Indians were speechless. Blue Duck sat down, the rifle across his lap, and rattled the dice again. The young Indian's feet were still in the light, but the feet didn't move.

"By G.o.d, life's cheap up here on the G.o.dd.a.m.n Canadian," Monkey John said.

"Cheap, and it might get cheaper," Blue Duck said.

Then the gambling started again. The dead boy was ignored. In a few minutes Blue Duck had won her back-not only what the Indians owned but what the white men owned too. Dog Face didn't want to play, but he also didn't want to die. He played and lost, and so did Monkey John.

"I think you're a G.o.dd.a.m.n cheat," Monkey John said, drunk enough to be reckless. "I think you cheated me out of our horses, and now you've cheated us out of this woman."

"I don't want the woman," Blue Duck said. "You men can have her back as a gift, and your horses too, provided you do me one favor."

"I bet it's a h.e.l.l of a big favor," Dog Face said. "What do you want us to do, attack a fort?"

Blue Duck chuckled. "There's an old man following me," he said. "He went west, but he'll be coming along one of these days. I want you to kill him.

"Hear that, Ermoke?" he added. "You can have your horses back, and the woman too. Just kill that old man. I hear he's coming down the river."

"I'd like to know who you hear it from?" Monkey John asked.

"He's been following me ever since I stole the woman," Blue Duck said. "He ain't no tracker, though. He went off across the Quitaque. But now he's figured it out and he'll be coming."

"By G.o.d, he must want her bad, to come all this way," Monkey John said.

"Kill him tomorrow," Blue Duck said, looking at Ermoke. "Take some of the horses and go find some help."

Ermoke was drunk and angry. "We do it," he said. "Then we take the woman."

"The h.e.l.l you will," Dog Face said. "We're in on this and she's half ours, and you ain't taking her nowhere."

"You shut up, or I'll kill you like I killed that chigger," Blue Duck said.

"You get some help," he said again, looking at Ermoke. "I doubt you five can kill that old man."

"h.e.l.l, what is he?" Monkey John said. "Five against one's nice odds."

"These five can't shoot," Blue Duck said. "They can whoop and holler, but they can't shoot. That old man can."

"That makes a difference," Dog Face agreed. "I can shoot. If he gets past Ermoke, I'll finish him."

"Somebody better settle him," Blue Duck said. "Otherwise you'll all be dead."

The Kiowas stood up and drug the dead boy away. Lorena heard them arguing in the darkness. Blue Duck sat where he was, his rifle across his lap; he seemed half asleep.

Monkey John got up and came over to her. "Who is this old man?" he asked. "You got a husband?"

Lorena stayed in her silence. It infuriated Monkey John. He grabbed her by the hair and cuffed her, knocking her over. Then he grabbed a stick of wood and was about to beat her with it when Dog Face intervened.

"Put it down," he said. "You've beat her enough."

"Let her answer me then," Monkey John said. "She can talk. Duck says so."

Dog Face picked up his rifle. Monkey John still had the stick.

"You'd pull a gun on me over a wh.o.r.e?" Monkey John said.

"I ain't gonna shoot you but I'll break your head if you don't let her be," Dog Face said.

Monkey John was too drunk to listen. He charged Dog Face and swung the stick at him but Dog Face wasn't as drunk. He hit Monkey John with the barrel of his rifle. The old man went loop-legged and dropped his stick. Then he dropped, too, falling on the stick.

"I'd have let him beat her," Blue Duck said.

"I ain't you," Dog Face said.

In the night Lorena tried to sort it out in her mind. She had been hungry so much, tired so much, scared so much, that her mind didn't work well anymore. Sometimes she would try to remember something and couldn't-it was as if her mind and memory had gone and hidden somewhere until things were better. Dog Face had given her an old blanket; otherwise she would have had to sleep on the ground in what was left of her clothes. She wrapped the blanket around her and tried to think back over the talk. It meant Gus was coming-it was Gus Blue Duck wanted the Kiowas to kill. She had almost forgotten he was following her, life had gotten so hard. The Kiowas had been sent to kill him, so Gus might never arrive. It was hard to believe that Gus would get her out-the times when she had known him had been so different from the hard times. She didn't think she would ever get out. Blue Duck was too bad. Dog Face was her only chance, and Dog Face was scared of Blue Duck. Sooner or later Blue Duck would give her to Ermoke or someone just as hard. If that was going to happen it was better that her mind had gone to hide.

In the gray dawn she saw the Kiowas leave. Blue Duck talked to them in Indian talk and gave them some bullets to kill Gus with. He woke Dog Face and shook Monkey John more or less awake. "If he gets past Ermoke, you two kill him," he said. Then he left.

Monkey John looked awful. He had a b.l.o.o.d.y lump on his head, and a hangover. He had slept with his face in the dirt all night and an ant had stung him several times, leaving one eye swollen nearly shut. He got to his feet but he could hardly stand.

"How's he think I can shoot?" he asked Dog Face. "I can't see but from one eye, and it's the wrong eye."

"Put some mud on it, it's just ant bites," Dog Face said. He was cleaning his gun.

56.

AUGUSTUS WAS A LITTLE put out with himself for doing such a poor job of tracking. He had gambled on Blue Duck heading west, when in fact he had crossed the Red and gone straight north. It was the kind of gamble Call would never take. Call would have tracked all the way, or let Deets track. The country near the Canadian was rough and broken, and he dropped south to where the plains flattened out. He wanted to spare his horse as much as possible.

He rode east all morning, a bad feeling in his heart. He had meant to catch Blue Duck within a day, but he hadn't. The renegade had out-traveled him. It would have been rough on Lorie, such traveling. He should have borrowed Call's mare, but the thought hadn't occurred to him until too late. By this time Lorie could be dead, or ruined. He had helped recover several captives from the Comanches in his rangering days, and often the recovery came too late if the captives were women. Usually their minds were gone and they were only interested in dying, which they mostly did once they got back to people who would let them die.

He was thinking about Lorie when the Indians broke for him. Where they had hidden he didn't know, for he was in the center of a level plain. He first heard a little cutting sound as bullets zipped into the gra.s.s, ten yards from his horse. Later, the sound of bullets cutting gra.s.s was more distinct in his memory than the sounds of shots. Before he really heard the shots he had his horse in a dead run, heading south. It seemed to him there were ten or twelve Indians, but he was more concerned with outrunning them than with getting a count. But within minutes he knew he wasn't going to be able to outrun them. He had pushed his horse too hard and soon was steadily losing ground.

There was plenty of ground to lose, too. He had hoped for a creek or a bank or a gully-something he could get down into and make his stand-but he was on the flat prairie as far as the eye could see. He contemplated turning and trying to charge through them; if he killed three or four they might get discouraged. But if there was even one man among them with any sense they'd just shoot the horse, and there he'd be.

He glimpsed something white on the prairie slightly to the east and headed for it-it turned out just to be more buffalo bones, another place where a sizable herd of animals had been slaughtered. As Augustus raced through the bones he saw a wallow, a place where many buffalo had laid down and rolled in the dirt. It was only a slight depression on the plain, not more than a foot deep, but he decided it was the best he was going to get. The Indians were barely a minute behind him. He jumped down, pulled his rifle and cartridge rolls clear of the horse and dropped them in the buffalo wallow. Then he drew his knife, wrapped the bridle reins tightly around one hand, and jabbed the knife into the horse's neck, slashing the jugular vein. Blood poured out and the horse leaped and plunged desperately but Augustus held on, though sprayed with blood. When the horse fell, he managed to turn him so that the horse lay across one end of the wallow, his blood pumping out into the dust. Once the horse tried to rise, but Augustus jerked him back and he didn't try again.

It was a desperate trick, but the only one he could think of that increased his chances-most horses shied from the smell of fresh blood. He needed the horse for a breastworks anyway and could have shot him, but he had saved a bullet, and the blood smell might work for him.

As soon as he was sure the horse was beyond rising, he picked up his rifle. The Indians were shooting, though still far out of effective range. Again he heard the zing of bullets cutting the prairie gra.s.s. Augustus rested the rifle barrel across the dying horse's withers and waited. The Indians were yelling as they raced down on him-one or two carried lances, but those were mainly for show, or to puncture him with if they caught him alive.

Sure enough, when they were fifty or sixty yards away, their horses caught the first whiffs of fresh blood, still pumping from the torn throat of the dying horse. They slowed and began to rear and shy, and as they did, Augustus started shooting. The Indians were dismayed; they flailed at the horses with their rifles, but the horses were spooked. Two stopped dead and Augustus immediately shot their riders. He could have asked for no better target than an Indian stopped fifty yards away on a horse that wouldn't move. The two men dropped and lay still. Augustus replaced the two cartridges and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The blood had bought him a chance-without it he would have been overrun and killed, no matter how fast or well he had shot. Now the Indians were trying to force their horses into a charge, but it wasn't working-the horses kept swerving and shying. Some tried to circle to the south, and when they turned, Augustus shot two more. Then one Indian did a gallant thing-he threw a blanket over his horse's head and got the confused horse to charge blind. The man seemed to be the leader; at least he carried the longest lance. He charged at the wallow, rifle in one hand, lance in the other, though when he tried to lever the rifle with one hand he dropped it. Augustus almost laughed, but the Indian kept up the charge with only a lance, a brave thing. Augustus shot him when he was no more than thirty feet away; he let him get that close in hopes of grabbing his horse. The Indian fell dead, but the horse shied away and Augustus didn't feel he could afford to chase him.

The remaining Indians were discouraged. Five Indians were dead, and the battle not five minutes old. Augustus replaced his cartridges and killed a sixth as the Indians were retreating. He might have got one or two more, but decided against risking long shots when his situation was so chancy. There might be more Indians available nearby, though he considered it unlikely. Probably they had charged with all they had-in which case he had killed half of them.

With no shooting to do for a little while, Augustus took stock of the situation and decided the worst part of it was that he had no one to talk to. He had been within a minute or two of death, which could not be said to be boring, exactly-but even desperate battle was lacking in something if there was no one to discuss it with. What had made battle interesting over the years was not his opponents but his' colleagues. It was fascinating, at least to him, to see how the men he had fought with most often reacted to the stimulus of attack.

Pea Eye, for example, was mostly concerned with not running out of bullets. He was extremely conservative in his choice of targets, so conservative that he often spent a whole engagement sighting at people but never pulling the trigger.

"Could have wasted a sh.e.l.l," he said, if someone pointed this out to him. It was true that when he did shoot he rarely missed, but that was because he rarely shot at anything over thirty yards away.

Call was interesting to observe in a battle too. It took a fight to bring out the fighter in him, and a fighter was mostly what he was. Call was a great attacker. Once the enemy was sighted, he liked to go after them, and would often do so in defiance of the odds. He might plan elaborately before a battle, but once it was joined his one desire was to close with the enemy and destroy him. Call had destruction in him and would go on killing when there was no need. Once his blood heated, it was slow to cool. Call himself had never been beaten for good-only death could accomplish that-and he reasoned that if an enemy was alive he wasn't beaten either-not for good.

Augustus knew that reasoning wasn't accurate-men could get enough of fighting and turn from it. Some would do almost anything to avoid the fear it produced.

Deets understood that. He would never fire on a fleeing man, whereas Call would pursue a man fifty miles and kill him if the man had attacked him. Deets fought carefully and shrewdly-he would have known the trick about fresh blood. But Deets's great ability was in preventing ambushes. He would seem to feel them coming, often a day or two early, when he could have had no particular clues. "How'd you know?" they would ask him and Deets would have no answer. "Just knew," he said.

The six remaining Indians had retreated well beyond rifle range, but they weren't gone. He could see them holding council, but they were three hundred yards away and the heat waves created a wavery mirage between him and them.

Unless there were more Indians, Augustus didn't consider that he was in a particularly serious situation. It was hot and the blowflies were already buzzing over the horse blood, but those were trivial discomforts. He had filled his canteen that morning, and the Canadian was no more than ten miles to the north. More than likely the Indians would decide they had missed their big chance and go away. They might try to get him at night, but he didn't plan to be there. Come dark he would head for the river.

All afternoon the six Indians stayed where they were. Occasionally they would fire a shot his way, hoping to get lucky. Finally one rode off to the east, returning about an hour later with a white man who set up a tripod and began to shoot at him with a fifty-caliber buffalo gun.

That was an inconvenient development. Augustus had to hastily dig himself a shallow hole on the other side of the horse, where the blood and the blowflies were worse. They were not worse, though, than the impact of a fifty-caliber bullet, several of which hit the horse in the next hour. Augustus kept digging. Fortunately the man was not a particularly good shot-many of the bullets sang overhead, though one or two hit his saddle and ricocheted.

Once when the buffalo hunter was reloading, Gus took a quick shot at him, raising his barrel to compensate for the range. The shot missed the white man but wounded one of the Indian horses. The horse's scream unnerved the shooter, who moved his tripod back another fifty yards. Augustus kept low and waited for darkness, which was only another hour away.

The shooter kept him pinned until full dark-but as soon as it was too dark to shoot, Augustus yanked his saddle loose from the dead mount and walked west, stopping to take what bullets he could salvage from the men he had killed. None had many, but one had a fairly good rifle, and Augustus took it as insurance. He hated carrying the saddle, but it was a shield of sorts; if he got caught in open country it might be the only cover he would have.

While he was going from corpse to corpse collecting ammunition, he was startled to hear the sudden rattle of shots from the east. That was puzzling. Either the Indians had fallen to fighting among themselves or someone else had come on the scene. Then the shots ceased and he heard the sound of running horses-the Indians leaving, most probably.

This new development put him in a quandary. He was prepared for a good hard walk to the river, carrying a heavy saddle, but if there were strangers around they might be friendly, and he might not have to carry the saddle. Possibly the scout for a cattle herd had stumbled into the little group of hostiles, though the main trail routes lay to the east.

At any rate, he didn't feel he should ignore the possibility, so he turned back toward the shooting. There was still a little light in the sky, though it was dark on the ground. From time to time Augustus stopped to listen and at first heard nothing: the plains were still.