Comanche Moon (40 page)

"We're in a hurry to rescue our captain," he said. "We couldn't wait for a bunch of money to be gathered up. Don't you even trust the state of Texas?" "Nope, not the state and not Ed Pease, either," Denton Fogg replied. "I wouldn't give either one of them a cow. But I will sell cattle for cash on the barrelhead. Come back with the money and I can have a thousand head ready for delivery within the week." With that he walked off and picked a hot iron out of the branding fire.

"The fool, I feel like shooting him," Augustus said.

"We can't shoot a man just because he doesn't want to give away his cattle," Call said-- he was not without skepticism about the state's willingness to pay for the cattle.

"Well, he's out here branding ever cow he can catch," Augustus pointed out, "Who said he could take these cattle?" "I guess that's just how you build up a ranch," Call said. "The cattle belong to the man who gets to them first." "Hell, we could be ranchers ourselves then," Gus said. "We could hire a few ropers and buy some branding irons and get to work. Pretty soon we'd be big livestock men too." "Where'd we put the cattle once we branded them?" Call asked. "We don't own any land.

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.

That was not a thought likely to bring comfort to the fat new captives. As soon as Ahumado had inspected the booty he had the four prisoners lined up in the center of the camp. He did not speak to them or question them; he just made them stand there, through the hot hours of a long day. The people of the village stared at them, as they went about their work.

Vaqueros or pistoleros who rode in from time to time stared at them.

Scull judged the captives to be gentry of some sort--theirthe dusty garments had once been expensive. Provincial gentry, perhaps, but still from a far higher sphere than the peasants who peopled the camp. The prisoners were used to being pampered; they spent their lives sitting, eating, growing fatter. They were unaccustomed, not merely to being prisoners, but to being required to stand up at all. They were too scared to move, and yet they longed to move. They were offered neither food nor drink. Mu@noz, a thin man with a pocked face, was clearly proud of his catch. He stood close to them, waiting for Ahumado's order. The standing was a torture in itself, Scull observed. In the afternoon the woman, desperate, squatted and made water; she was well concealed behind heavy skirts but still Mu@noz laughed and made a crude joke.

Later the three men made water where they stood, in their pants.

Scull watched Ahumado--he wanted to know what the old man would do with his prize catches.

The old skinner, Goyeto, sat beside him, clicking his finely sharpened knives, one of them the knife that had taken off Scull's eyelids.

A little before sundown, trembling with fatigue, the woman passed out. She simply fell facedown--in a faint, Scull supposed.

Ahumado did not react. Mu@noz had just filled his plate with food; he went on eating.

A few minutes later the three men were prodded at knifepoint to the edge of the pit of snakes and scorpions and pushed in. The bottom of the pit was in darkness by this time. The captives had no idea how deep the pit was. They were merely led to the edge of a hole and pushed off the edge. All of them screamed as they fell, and two of them continued screaming throughout the night. One of the men screamed that his leg was broken. He pleaded and pleaded but no one listened. The peasants in the camp made tortillas and sang their own songs. Scull decided that the third captive must have broken his neck in the fall--there were only two voices crying out for help.

In the morning, when Ahumado and Goyeto went to look in the pit, Scull heard the old skinner complaining.

"I thought you were going to let me skin one of them," he said.

Ahumado ignored the complaint--he usually ignored Goyeto, who complained often. He stood on the edge of the pit, looking down at the captives and listening to them beg him and plead with him; then he returned to his blanket.

When an old woman brought Scull a little coffee and two tortillas, he asked her about the men in the pit. He had noticed several of the women peeking in.

"Is one of the men dead?" he asked.

"S@i, dead," the old woman said.

The woman who fainted lay through the night in the place she had fallen. It had grown cold; Scull noticed that someone had brought her a blanket during the night. She was not tied. After the sun had been up awhile the woman rose and hobbled hesitantly over to one of the little campfires. The poor women of the camp made a place for her and gave her food. She thanked them in a low voice. The women did not respond, but they allowed her to sit by the fire.

Ahumado took no further interest in her. A week later, when all three of the men in the pit were dead, the woman was still there, unmolested, eating with the women of the camp.

When Blue Duck saw that his father was angry, he thought it might be because of the captive woman. The woman, who was young and frail, had been found dead that morning; but in fact she had been sickly when they took her. There had been some beating and raping but not enough to kill her. She had been sick all along, spitting blood night after night on the trail--now she had died of her sickness, which was not his doing or his fault.

As a chief, Buffalo Hump had always been touchy about the matter of captives; he expected to control the disposal of all captives. He might order them tortured or killed, he might sell them into slavery with another tribe, or he might let them live and even on occasion treat them well. The fate of a captive brought to Buffalo Hump's camp depended on reasoning Blue Duck did not understand. Even though he felt blameless in the matter of the dead woman, he was also scared. Everyone feared Buffalo Hump's anger, andwith good reason.

The ^ws his father said, though, shocked him. They were not what he had expected, not at all.

"You should have left Famous Shoes alone, as I ordered," Buffalo Hump said. "Now you have to leave the tribe. You can take five horses but you cannot come back to my camp again. If you do I will kill you myself." At first Blue Duck could not believe his father meant what he was saying. Was he going to banish him from the tribe because of a little foolery with a Kickapoo tracker? The Kickapoo had not even been harmed. Blue Duck had fought bravely on the great raid, killing several Texans in close combat. No young warrior had done better on the great raid, or fought more bravely.