Lonesome Dove (52 page)

Aus Frank resumed his walk, and Augustus followed along, amused at the strange turns life took. Soon they came down into the valley of the Canadian. Augustus was amazed to see an enormous pyramid of buffalo bones perhaps fifty yards from the water. The bones were piled so high, it seemed to him Aus Frank must have a ladder to use in his piling, though he saw no sign of one. Down the river a quarter of a mile there was another pyramid, just as large.

“Well, Aus, I see you’ve been busy,” Augustus said. “You’ll be so rich one of these days some bank will come along and rob you. Who do you sell these bones to?”

Aus Frank ignored the question. While Augustus watched, he pushed his wheelbarrow up to the bottom of the pyramid of bones and began to throw the bones as high as possible up the pyramid. Once or twice he got a leg bone or thigh bone all the way to the top, but most of the bones hit midway and stuck. In five minutes the big wheelbarrow was empty. Without a word Aus Frank took the wheelbarrow and started back across the prairie.

Augustus decided to rest while the old man worked. Such camp as there was was rudimentary. Aus had dug a little cave in one of the red bluffs south of the river, and his gear was piled in front of it. There was a buffalo gun and a few pots and pans, and that was it. The main crossing was a mile downriver, and Augustus rode down to inspect it before unsaddling. There were horse tracks galore, but not those he was looking for. He saw five pyramids of bones between the crossing and Aus Frank’s camp, each containing several tons of bones.

Back at the camp, Augustus rested in the shade of the little bluff. Aus Frank continued to haul in bones until sundown. After pitching his last load up on the pyramid, he wheeled the barrow to his camp, turned it over and sat on it. He looked at Augustus for two or three minutes without saying anything.

“Well, are you going to invite me for supper or not?” Augustus asked.

“Never should have arrested me,” Aus Frank said. “I don’t like that goddamn bank.”

“You didn’t stay in jail but four hours,” Augustus reminded him. “Now that I’ve seen how hard you work, I’d say you probably needed the rest. You could have studied English or something. I see you’ve learned it finally.”

“I don’t like the goddamn bank,” Aus repeated.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Augustus suggested. “You’re just lucky you didn’t get shot on account of that bank. Me and Call were both fine shots in those days. The thicket was the only thing that saved you.”

“They cheated me because I couldn’t talk good,” Aus Frank said.

“You got a one-track mind, Aus,” Augustus said. “You and half of mankind. How long you been up here on the Canadian river?”

“I come five years,” Aus said. “I want a store.”

“That’s fine, but you’ve outrun the people,” Augustus said. “They won’t be along for another ten years or so. I guess by then you’ll have a helluva stock of buffalo bones. I just hope there’s a demand for them.”

“Had a wagon,” Aus Frank said. “Got stole. Apaches got it.”

“That so?” Augustus said. “I didn’t know the Apaches lived around here.”

“Over by the Pecos,” Aus said. “I quit the mountains. Don’t like snow.”

“I’ll pass on snow myself, when I have the option,” Augustus said. “This is a lonely place you’ve settled in, though. Don’t the Indians bother you?”

“They leave me be,” Aus said. “That one you’re hunting, he’s a mean one. He kilt Bob. Built a fire under him and let him sizzle.

“He don’t bother me, though,” he added. “Kilt Bob and let me be.”

“Bob who?”

“Old Bob, that I was in the mountains with,” Aus said.

“Well, his burning days are over, if I find him,” Augustus said.

“He’s quick, Blue Duck,” Aus said. “Has some Kiowas with him. They ate my dog.”

“How many Kiowas?” Augustus asked.

“It was a big dog,” Aus said. “Killed two wolves. I had a few sheep once but the Mexicans run them off.”

“It’s a chancy life out here on the plains,” Augustus said. “I bet you get a nice breeze in the winter, too.”

“Them Kiowas ate that dog,” Aus repeated. “Good dog.”

“Why ain’t Blue Duck killed you?” Augustus asked.

“Laughs at me,” Aus said. “Laughs at my bones. He says he’ll kill me when he gets ready.”

“How many Kiowas does he run around with?” Augustus asked again. The old man was evidently not used to having anyone to talk to. His remarks came out a little jerky.

“Six,” Aus Frank said.

“Who’s over at the Walls?” Augustus asked.

The old man didn’t answer. Darkness had fallen, and Augustus could barely see him sitting on his wheelbarrow.

“No beaver in this river,” Aus Frank said after several minutes.

“No, a beaver would be foolish to be in this river,” Augustus said. “There ain’t a tree within twenty miles, and beavers like to gnaw trees. You should have stayed up north if you like beavers.”

“I’d rather gather these bones,” the old man said. “You don’t have to get your feet wet.”

“Did you get to Montana when you was a beaverman?”

Augustus waited several minutes for a reply, but the old man never answered. When the moon came up, Augustus saw that he had fallen asleep sitting on his wheelbarrow, his head fallen over in his arms.

Augustus was tired and hungry. He lay where he was, thinking about food, but making no effort to get up and fix any, if there was any to be fixed. While he was thinking he ought to get up and eat, he fell asleep.

Deep in the night a sound disturbed him, and he came awake and drew his pistol. It was well on toward morning—he could tell that by the moon—but the sound was new to him.

Cautiously he turned over, only to see at once that the source of the sound was Aus Frank. He had risen in the night and collected another load of buffalo bones. Now he was heaving them up on the pyramid. The sound that had awakened Augustus was the sound of bones, clicking and rattling as they slid down the sides of the pyramid.

Augustus holstered his pistol and walked over to watch the old man.

“You’re an unusual fellow, Aus,” he said. “I guess you just work night and day. You should have partnered up with Woodrow Call. He’s as crazy about work as you are. The two of you might own the world by now if you’d hooked up.”

Aus Frank didn’t respond. He had emptied the wheelbarrow, and he pushed it up the slope, away from the river.

Augustus caught his horse and rode east. On his way he saw Aus Frank again, working under the moonlight. He had plenty to work with, for the plain around was littered with buffalo bones. It looked as if a whole herd had been wiped out, for a road of bones stretched far across the plain.

He remembered when he had first come to the high plains, years before. For two days he and Call and the Rangers had ridden parallel to the great southern buffalo herd—hundreds of thousands of animals, slowly grazing north. It had been difficult to sleep at night because the horses were nervous around so many animals, and the sounds of the herd were constant. They had ridden for nearly a hundred miles and seldom been out of sight of buffalo.

Of course they had heard that the buffalo were being wiped out, but with the memory of the southern herd so vivid, they had hardly credited the news. Discussing it in Lonesome Dove they had decided that the reports must be exaggerated—thinned out, maybe, but not wiped out. Thus the sight of the road of bones stretching over the prairie was a shock. Maybe roads of bones were all that was left. The thought gave the very emptiness of the plains a different feel. With those millions of animals gone, and the Indians mostly gone in their wake, the great plains were truly empty, unpeopled and ungrazed.

Soon the whites would come, of course, but what he was seeing was a moment between, not the plains as they had been, or as they would be, but a moment of true emptiness, with thousands of miles of grass resting unused, occupied only by remnants—of the buffalo, the Indians, the hunters. Augustus thought they were crazed remnants, mostly, like the old mountain man who worked night and day gathering bones to no purpose.

“No wonder you never worked out in Waco, Aus,” he said, speaking as much to himself as to the old man. Aus Frank was not in a talkative mood, or a listening mood either. He had filled his wheelbarrow and was heading back to camp.

“I’m going to the Walls to kill that big renegade for you,” Augustus said. “Need anything?”

Aus Frank stopped, as if thinking it over.

“I wisht they hadn’t killed that dog,” he said. “I liked that dog. It was them Kiowas that killed it, not the Mexicans. Six Kiowas.”

“Well, I got six bullets,” Augustus said. “Maybe I’ll send the rascals where your dog went.”

“Them Kiowas shot Bob’s horse,” Aus added. “That’s how come they caught him. Built a fire under him and cooked him. That’s their way.”

Then he lifted his wheelbarrow full of bones and walked off toward the Canadian River.

The light was just coming, the plains black in the distance, the sky gray where it met the land. Though dawn was his favorite hour, it was also an hour at which Augustus most keenly felt himself to be a fool. What was it but folly to be riding along the Canadian River alone, easy pickings for an outlaw gang, and hungry to boot? A chain of follies had put him there: Call’s abrupt decision to become a cattleman and his own decision, equally abrupt, to try and rescue a girl foolish enough to be taken in by Jake Spoon. None of it was sensible, yet he had to admit there was something about such follies that he liked. The sensible way, which he had pursued once or twice in his life, had always proved boring, usually within a few days. In his case it had led to nothing much, just excessive drunkenness and reckless card playing. There was more enterprise in certain follies, it seemed to him.

As the sun lit the grass, he rode east along the road of buffalo bones.

55

MONKEY JOHN HATED IT that she wouldn’t talk. “By God, I’ll cut your tongue out if you ain’t gonna use it,” he said once, and he knocked her down and sat on her, his big knife an inch from her face, until Dog Face threatened to shoot him if he didn’t let her be. Lorena expected him to do it. He was the worst man she had ever known, worse even than Ermoke and the Kiowas, though they were bad enough. She shut her eyes, expecting to feel the knife, but Dog Face cocked his pistol and Monkey John didn’t cut her. He continued to sit on her chest though, arguing with Dog Face about her silence.

“What do you care if she talks?” Dog Face said. “I wouldn’t talk to you either, you goddamn old runt.”

“She can talk, goddamn her,” Monkey John said. “Duck said she talked to him.”

“It’s her business if she don’t want to talk,” Dog Face insisted. He was a thin scarecrow of a man, but he had crazy eyes, and Monkey John never pushed him too far.

“By God, we bought her,” Monkey John said. “Give all them hides for her. She oughta do what we say.”

“You get your damn money’s worth,” Dog Face said. “Most of them hides was mine anyway.

“You old runt,” he added.

Monkey John was old and short. His hair was a dirty white and he was under five feet, but that didn’t keep him from being mean. Twice he had grabbed sticks out of the fire and beat her with them. There was nothing she could do but curl up as tight as she could. Her back and legs were soon burned and bruised and she knew Monkey John would do worse than that if he ever got her alone long enough, but Dog Face owned half of her and he stuck close to be sure his investment didn’t get too damaged.

Though she had seen Dog Face and Monkey John give Blue Duck the skins in trade for her, it seemed they weren’t full owners, for whenever the Kiowas showed up, every two or three days, they drug her off to their camp for their share, and the two white men didn’t try to stop them. There was no love lost between the white men and the Kiowas, but both sides were too afraid of Blue Duck to get into it with one another.

Blue Duck was the only man of the bunch who seemed to take no interest in her. He had stolen her to sell, and he had sold her. It was clear that he didn’t care what they did to her. When he was in camp he spent his time cleaning his gun or smoking and seldom even looked her way. Monkey John was bad, but Blue Duck still scared her more. His cold, empty eyes frightened her more than Monkey John’s anger or Dog Face’s craziness. Blue Duck had scared the talk completely out of her. She had never been much for talk, but her silence in the camp was different from her old silence. In Lonesome Dove she had often hidden her words, but she could find them if she needed them; she had brought them out quick enough when Jake came along.

Now speech had left her; fear took its place. The two white men talked constantly of killing. Blue Duck didn’t talk about it, but she knew he could do it whenever it pleased him. She didn’t expect to live to the end of any day—only the fact that the men weren’t tired of her yet kept her alive. When they did tire they would kill her. She thought about how it would happen but couldn’t picture it in her mind. She only hoped it wasn’t Blue Duck that finally did it. She was so dirty and stank so that it seemed strange the men would even want to use her, but of course they were even dirtier and stank worse. They camped not far from a creek, but none of the men ever washed. Monkey John told her several times what he would do to her if she tried to run away—terrible things, on the order of what Blue Duck had threatened, on the morning after he kidnapped her, only worse if possible. He said he would sew her up with rawhide threads so tight she couldn’t make water and then would watch her till she burst.

Lorena tried to shut her mind when he talked like that. She knew the trick of not talking, and was learning not to hear. At night she wondered sometimes if she could just learn to die. She wanted to, and imagined how angry they would be if they woke up one morning and she was dead so they could get no more from her.

But she couldn’t learn that trick. She thought of being dead, but she didn’t die, and she didn’t try to escape either. She didn’t know where she was, for the plains stretched around, empty and bare, as far as she could see. They had horses and they would catch her and do something to her, or else give her to the Kiowas. Monkey John threatened that too, describing what the Kiowas would do if they got the chance. At night that was mostly what the men talked about—what the Indians did to people they caught. She believed it. Often with the Kiowas she felt a deep fright come over her. They did what they wanted with her but it wasn’t enough—she could see them looking at her after they finished, and the looks made her more scared even than the things Monkey John threatened. The Kiowas just looked, but there was something in their looks that made her wish she could be dead and not have to think about it.

Blue Duck came and went. Some days he would be there at the camp, sharpening his knife. Other days he would ride off. Sometimes the Kiowas went with him, other days they sat around their camp doing nothing. Monkey John swore at them, but the Kiowas didn’t listen. They laughed at the old man and gave him looks of the sort they gave Lorena. It wasn’t only women they could do things to.

One day the Kiowas found a crippled cow, left by some herd. The cow had a split hoof and could barely hobble along on three legs. The Kiowas poked it with their lances and got it in sight of camp. Then one hit it in the head with an ax and the cow fell dead. The Kiowas split open the cow’s stomach and began to pull out her guts. They sliced off strips of the white guts and squeezed out what was in them, eating it greedily. That’s what he said he’d do to me, Lorena thought. Pull out my guts like that cow.

“Look at them dern gut eaters,” Dog Face said. “I’d be denied if I’d eat guts raw.”

“You might if you was hungry,” Monkey John said.

“They ain’t hungry, they got the whole cow,” Dog Face pointed out.

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, passing 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 piss.”

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 piss.”

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 shaggy 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, hell, you’ve won it all,” Monkey John said. “We’re stuck on this goddamn 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 goddamn 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 appetite 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 damn 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 God, life’s cheap up here on the goddamn 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 goddamn 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 hell 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 God, 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 hell 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.