Текст книги "Dead Man's Walk"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Are those the bucks that whipped you?” Caleb Cobb asked, loping up to Bigfoot.

Bes-Das, a short man with greasy hair and broken teeth, began to talk to the Colonel in Pawnee. Cobb listened and shook his head.

“No, we’d have to ford this damn buffalo herd to go after them,” he said. “I doubt many of these boys could resist shooting buffalo instead of Comanches. By the time we got to the Indians we’d be out of ammunition and we’d probably get slaughtered. Anyway, I doubt they’d sit there and wait for us to arrive, slow as we are.”

“Can’t we shoot some buffalo, Colonel?” Falconer asked. “We’d have meat for awhile.”

“No, wait till we cross this river,” Caleb said. “Half these wagons will probably sink, anyway—if we load them with buffalo roasts we’ll just end up feeding buffalo roasts to the turtles.”

Call was surprised at the Indians. Why did they just sit there, with a force more than one hundred strong advancing toward them? The scalps on the lance were probably those of Rip Green, Longen, and the man called Bert. Did the red men think so little of the whites’fighting ability that they didn’t feel they had to retreat, even when outnumbered by a huge margin?

Slowly, more and more of the riders and wagoneers came up to the ridge and sat watching the buffalo herd. A few of the young men wanted to charge down and start killing buffalo, but Colonel Cobb issued a sharp command and they all stayed where they were.

Shadrach and Bigfoot stood apart, talking to the scouts Bes-Das and Alchise. They were watching the Comanches, who sat on the opposite hill as the great brown herd surged across the Brazos. Below them the Irish dog was barking and leaping at the buffalo, but the buffalo paid him no attention. Now and then he could see the dog nip at the heels of a straggling cow, but the cow would merely kick at him or make a short feint before trotting on with the herd.

“It’s way too many buffalo for old Jeb,” Caleb said, smiling at the sight of his dog’s frustration. “One at a time he can get their attention, but right now they don’t think no more of him than a gnat.”

Then he pulled a spyglass out of his saddlebag and put it to his eye. He studied the Comanches for awhile, and something that he saw gave him a start.

“Kicking Wolf is there,” he said, turning to Falconer as if he were delivering an important piece of news. Call remembered that he had heard the name before—someone, Bigfoot maybe, had suspected that it was Kicking Wolf who had shot the Major’s runaway horse, on the first march west.

“Sorry, I ain’t heard the name,” Captain Falconer said. Though watchful of the Indians, he was more interested in the buffalo, a species of game he had never killed, though hunting was his passion. Now as many as a million animals were right in front of him, but the Colonel had ordered him to hold off until they crossed the river. In his baggage he had a fine sporting rifle, made by Holland and Holland in London—it was all he could do to keep from racing back to his baggage wagon to get it.

“Buffalo Hump is the killer, Kicking Wolf is the thief,” the Colonel said. “He’s the best horse thief on the plains. He’ll have every horse and mule we’ve got before we cross the Red River, unless we watch close.” He paused and extracted a cigar from his shirt pocket, as he studied the situation.

“If I had to choose who I’d have to harass me I might pick Buffalo Hump,” the Colonel said. “If I couldn’t whip him, he’d just kill me. It might be bloody, but it would be final. If I went up against Kicking Wolf, the first time I took a nap I’d be afoot.

“There’s places off north of here where I’d rather be dead than be afoot,” he added. “Ever drunk horse piss?”

He looked at Call and Gus, when he asked the question.

“No sir,” Gus said. “I never have and I don’t plan to, either.”

“I drunk it once—I was traveling with Zeb Pike,” the Colonel said. “We kept a horse alive just so we could drink its piss. I was so goddamn thirsty it tasted like peach nectar. When we finally came to water we ate the horse.”

To Call’s embarrassment his horse stretched itself and began to piss, just as the Colonel spoke. The yellow stream that splashed on the ground didn’t smell much like peach nectar, though.

“What will we do about our red neighbors, Billy?” Caleb asked. “Here we are and there they are, with a lot of goddamn buffalo in between.”

“Why sir, I expect they’ll leave,” Falconer said. “I can pursue them, if you prefer.”

“No, I don’t want you to pursue them,” the Colonel said. “My thinking was different. It’s almost time to make camp and prepare the grub. Maybe we ought to trot over and invite them to dinner.”

“Sir?” Captain Falconer said, not sure that he had heard the Colonel correctly.

“Invite them to dinner—I’d enjoy it,” the Colonel said. “A little parley might not hurt.”

“Well, but who would ask them?” Captain Falconer asked.

“How about Corporal Call and his companero?” the Colonel said. “It would give the Corporal a chance to live up to his promotion. Just tear up a sheet and wrap it around a rifle barrel. Comanches respect the white flag, I guess. Send Bes-Das with them, to make the introductions. I expect they know Bes-Das.”

Gus felt his legs begin to quiver, as they had that day near the western mountains, when he stood near the patch of ground soaked with Josh Corn’s blood. The Colonel had looked right at him, when he gave the duty of Call and his companero.Captain Falconer had gone back to the wagons to find a sheet. The Indians were still sitting on the opposite hill. The long ridge where the Rangers sat soon filled up with men—the whole expedition arranged itself along the ridge to watch the great spectacle below. There was no end to the column of buffalo, either north or south. They moved toward the river and curled out of it like the body of a great snake whose head and tail were hidden. Among the crowd of Rangers, merchants, blacksmiths, whores, and adventurers Call suddenly noticed John Kirker, the scalp hunter who had left them on the Rio Grande. His large colleague, Glanton, was not with him. Kirker had a rifle across the cantle of his saddle—while everyone else watched the buffalo, he watched the Indians.

“You mean we’re supposed to just ride over and talk to them?” Gus asked. It was a shock to him to realize that he had been ordered to approach the Comanches. He felt that he had been foolish to hop out of the sick wagon so soon. He should have nursed his sore ankle another week at least, but some of the Rangers had been chiding him for malingering and he had started traveling horseback sooner than he should have.

“That’s what Colonel Cobb said,” Call answered. “I don’t know how we’re going to get through them buffalo, though. They’re thick.”

“I don’t want to go through them,” Gus said. “I don’t want to go. Buffalo Hump stuck a lance in me once, he might poke it clear through me this time.”

“No, we’ll be under a flag of truce,” Call reminded him. “He won’t bother you.”

“He ain’t holding up no white sheet,” Gus said. “Why would a white sheet matter to a Comanche?”

“If you’re scared you should just go on back and marry that girl,” Call said. “Unpack dry goods all your life. I aim to stay with rangering and be a captain myself, someday.”

“I aim to be a captain too, unless it means drinking horse piss,” Gus said. “I don’t intend to get caught in no place so dry that I’d need to drink horse piss.”

“Well, you might—the Colonel did,” Call said. “That damn Kirker is here—did you notice?”

“He slipped in while you were off on the chase,” Gus said. “I understand he’s a friend of Colonel Cobb.”

“I deplore traveling with a man who hunts scalps,” Call said. “I don’t know why the Colonel would be his pard.”

“Comanche Indians hunt scalps,” Gus pointed out.

“No, they take them in war,” Call said. “Kirker hunts them for money. I think Bes-Das is ready. Let’s go.”

WATCHED BY THE WHOLE expedition, Call and Gus followed Bes-Das down the ridge toward the buffalo herd. Bigfoot came behind. No one had ordered Bigfoot to come, or not to come—he joined the parley because he wanted a closer look at the Comanches than he had been able to get during the rainy day on the Brazos. Bes-Das held his rifle high, the white sheet fluttering in the wind.

Across the valley, the eight Comanches waited. They had become as still as statues. The only movement was the fluttering of the three scalps on Buffalo Hump’s lance.

As the four horses approached the great moving mass of buffalo, they began, to show some anxiety. Their nostrils flared and they tried to turn back—it was with difficulty that Call kept his little bay in check. Gus was having trouble too, made worse by the fact of his sore ankle. Bes-Das, the broken-toothed Pawnee, whacked his mount with a rifle twice and the horse settled down. Bigfoot kept a tight rein on his grey mount—the smell of the thousands of animals affected men and horses alike; the dust they raised was as thick as any sandstorm.

“We’ll never get through them—they’re too thick,” Gus said. “They’ll trample us for sure.”

“Go quick,” Bes-Das said, turning his horse parallel to the herd. “Go with the buffalo.”

As Call and Gus kept close, the Pawnee slipped into the buffalo herd, moving in only a few feet and letting the horse turn in the same direction as the herd was going. Moving steadily over, giving ground and turning toward the river if there was no room between animals, Bes-Das was soon halfway across the herd.

“That’s the way, just keep a strong rein and ease on through,” Bigfoot said. Soon he was in the thick of the herd—Bes-Das was almost to the other side.

“Go on, you’re next,” Call said to Gus.

“I ain’t next, you go,” Gus said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Nope,” Call said. “I’m the corporal and I’m telling you to go. If I leave you behind you might claim your ankle’s hurt and get shot for desertion.”

“Why, hell … you don’t trust your own partner,” Gus said, so irritated that he immediately kicked his horse and slipped into the buffalo. In fact he had thought of finding an excuse to wait; he didn’t want to ride into the herd, and even more, he didn’t want to ride up to Buffalo Hump’s war party. But he was not going to let Woodrow Call slight his courage, either. He had always supposed he had as much guts as the next man; but his nerves had been somewhat affected by the bloody events of the first march, and were still not under perfect control. He felt sure, though, that he could match Woodrow Call ability for ability, and beat him at most contests. He could see farther, for one thing, though being in the middle of a buffalo herd didn’t give him much opportunity to test his vision. All he could see was the brown animals all around him. None of them seemed too interested in him or his horse, and he soon found that he could use the Bes-Das technique as well as Bigfoot or the Pawnee scout. Once he let his horse step too close to the horns of a young bull, but the horse turned just in time. In ten minutes he was almost across the herd—Bes-Das and Bigfoot were there waiting. He didn’t know where Woodrow Call was—slipping through the buffalo required all his attention. He was only twenty yards from being free of the herd when suddenly buffalo all around him began to swerve and jump. Gus’s horse jumped too, almost unseating him. All the buffalo on the far side of the herd were lowering their heads and acting as if they wanted to butt. Gus was thrown over the saddle horn, onto the horse’s neck, but just managed to hang on and regain his seat. He saw Bes-Das and Bigfoot laughing and felt rather annoyed—what was so funny about his nearly getting thrown and trampled?

He spurred through the last few animals and turned to see what had caused the commotion—all he could see was a large badger, snapping at a buffalo cow. The badger was so angry he had foam on his mouth—the buffalo were giving ground, too. Woodrow Call’s horse was pitching with him, agitated by the snorting buffalo cow that was faced off with the badger. Woodrow hung on and made it through.

“Why would anything as big as a buffalo shy at a badger?” Gus asked, when he rode up to Bigfoot. “A buffalo could kick a badger halfway to China.”

“That badger bluffed ‘em,” Bigfoot said. “He’s so mad he’s got ‘em convinced he’s as big as they are, and twice as mean.”

“I wonder if they’re mad?” Call said, looking at the Comanches, who sat without moving on the hill above them.

“If they are we’d be easy pickings,” Bigfoot said. “We’d never get back through them buffalo quick enough to get away, and the troop couldn’t get through quick enough to save us, either.”

Call looked up at the Indians and back across the valley, at the body of the expedition. He wished Bigfoot had not made the last comment. The buffalo herd they had just slipped through was like a moving wall, separating them from the safety of the troop. All the Cornanches would have to do would be to trot down the hill and kill them with lances or arrows. The thought made him feel wavy, and without strength.

Neither Bigfoot nor Bes-Das seemed concerned, though. They walked their horses slowly toward the hill, Bes-Das holding up the rifle with the white sheet on it. Call and Gus fell in behind.

“What if they don’t pay no attention to the sheet?” Call asked. He wanted to know what the procedure would be, if they had to fight.“If they come for us put as many bullets into the big one as you can,” Bigfoot said. “Always kill the biggest bull first—then kill the littlest.”

“Why the littlest?” Gus asked.

“Because the littlest is apt to be the meanest, like the badger,” Bigfoot said. “That one standing off to the right is Kicking Wolf— he’s the littlest and the meanest. You don’t want to let your horse graze off nowhere, with Kicking Wolf around. He’s so slick he can steal a horse with a man sitting on it.”

“He’s stumpy, ain’t he?” Gus said.

“Kicking Wolf always rides to the outside,” Bigfoot said. “Buffalo Hump is the hammer, but Kicking Wolf is the nail. He don’t like to be in a crowd. He’s the best shot with a rifle in the whole Comanche nation. If they go out and they’ve only got one rifle between them, they give it to him. Buffalo Hump’s old-fashioned. He still prefers the bow.”

With the Pawnee scout, Bes-Das, slightly in the lead, the party moved slowly up the hill toward the waiting Indians. Call glanced at the short, stumpy Indian on the right edge of the group and saw that he was the only Indian armed with a rifle. All the rest carried bows or lances. When they were halfway up the hill Buffalo Hump touched his mount with his heels and came down to meet them. When he was still some fifty yards away Call looked at Gus, to see if he was firm. To his surprise Gus looked nonchalant, as if he were merely riding out for a little sport with his pals.

“Here he comes, I hope he’s friendly,” Gus said. “I never expected to have to go and palaver with him, not after he stuck me with that lance.”

“Shut up—Bes-Das will do the palavering,” Bigfoot instructed. “You young boys keep your damn traps shut. It don’t take much to rub a Comanche the wrong way.”

As Buffalo Hump approached, holding his spotted pony to a slow walk, Call felt the air change. The Comanche’s body shone with grease; a necklace made of claws hung on his bare chest. Call looked at Gus, to see if he felt the change, and Gus nodded. They had entered the air of the wild men—even the smell of the Indian horses was different.

Bes-Das stopped, waiting. Buffalo Hump came on until the nose of his spotted pony was only a few feet from the nose of the Paw-nee’s black mare. Then Buffalo Hump lifted his lance and pointed first at Gus, and then at Call. Though he sat erect on his horse, the great hump was visible, rising from between his shoulders behind his neck. When he spoke his voice was so wild and angry that it was all Call could do to keep from grabbing his gun. Call met the man’s eyes for a moment—the Comanche’s eyes were like stone. Buffalo Hump lowered his lance, glanced at Bigfoot dismissively for a second, and then waited for Bes-Das to speak. Bigfoot seemed not to interest him. Bigfoot returned the favor by looking pointedly up the hill, at Kicking Wolf.

Bes-Das spoke briefly, in Comanche. Buffalo Hump raised his arm and the other Comanches trotted down the hill, to join him. He turned and spoke to his warriors for several minutes. Kicking Wolf grunted something and rode away, back to his position at the side.

“I hope he ain’t getting ready to shoot,” Gus said.

“I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut,” Bigfoot said. “We’ll get out of this with our hair if you’ll just keep quiet.”

Bes-Das listened to Buffalo Hump, who made a long speech in his thick, angry voice. Call decided then that he would do what he could to learn the Comanche language. It seemed foolish to parley with wild red men if you did not know what was being said in the discussion. He could be talking of ways to kill them, for all he knew.

When Buffalo Hump finished, Bes-Das said a few words and immediately turned his horse and began to walk him back toward the buffalo herd. Bigfoot waited a moment, as if absent-mindedly, and then turned his horse, too. Call and Gus fell in behind. Call felt so much danger in the air that it took all his self-control not to look back. A lance like the one that had pierced Gus’s hip could be singing toward them. He glanced at Gus and saw that his friend seemed perfectly firm—something had happened to toughen his attitude since they left the camp and slipped through the buffalo herd.

The recrossing of the herd went quickly—they had learned the edging technique on the first crossing and were soon almost through. Once the buffalo herd was between them and the Indians, Call felt free to look back. The air had changed again—they were in the air of safety, not the air where the quick death was.“I guess you grew your backbone again,” Call said, noting that Gus looked so cheerful that he was almost whistling.

“Yes, I ain’t scared of him now,” Gus said. “Clara wouldn’t want no coward. I kept my mind on her. We’ll be married once we get back to Austin.”

Indeed, he felt cheered by the encounter. He had looked Buffalo Hump in the eye and lived—it made him feel lucky again. He was curious, though, about one aspect of the parley.

“I wonder why he pointed that lance at us, when he first rode up?” Gus asked.

Bes-Das turned briefly, and laughed his broken-toothed laugh.

“He said you both belong to him,” he told them. “He says he will take you when he is ready—but not today. He is coming to eat supper with the Colonel, and he will bring his wives.”

“Why do we belong to him and not you and Bigfoot?” Gus asked.

“You cheated his lance,” Bes-Das told him. “He says his lance is hungry for your liver.”

“It can just stay hungry,” Gus said boldly, though the threat did make his stomach feel wavy for a moment.

“Why me, then?” Call asked. “I didn’t cheat his damn lance.”

Bes-Das laughed again.

“No, with you it’s different,” he said, smiling at Call.

“Why would it be different?” Call asked, wishing he could have understood the Indian’s talk.

“Different because you killed his son,” the Pawnee said.

CALL WAS MORE SOBERED than Gus by the news Bes-Das had delivered. He had killed the war chief’s son. Buffalo Hump might forget that he had missed Gus with his lance, but he would not forget the loss of a son. As long as the humpbacked Comanche was alive, Call knew he would have an enemy. Anytime he traveled in Comanche country, his life would depend on keeping alert. , He was silent as they rode back to camp, thinking of all the years of vigilance ahead.

Gus McCrae, though, was in high spirits. Now that he had survived, he was glad he had gone to the parley. Not only had he threaded his way through the great buffalo herd, he had faced the Comanche killer at close range and ridden away unharmed. Now he was safely back with the big troop. Buffalo Hump could threaten all he wanted to—his lance would have to go hungry. Once Clara Forsythe heard what he had done she would know she had kissed a brave man, a Ranger on whom her affections would not be wasted.

It wouldn’t be long before the news reached her, either—several of the merchants and most of the whores would soon be going back. In a town as small as Austin the news that he had been selected for a dangerous mission would soon reach the young lady in the general store.

There was a crowd around Caleb Cobb when they rode up to report. The big Irish dog was back—it sat panting at Caleb’s feet, its long tongue hanging out. John Kirker was there, sitting on a stump, his big scalping knife at his belt. Shadrach stood to one side, looking disgruntled. He had not liked the order forbidding him to shoot buffalo until they were across the Brazos. When he looked at Caleb Cobb, he glowered his displeasure.

Matilda Roberts stood with him. Lately, the old mountain man and the large whore seemed to have formed an attachment. Often, when Shadrach was out scouting, the two would be seen riding together. At night they sometimes sat together, around a little campfire of their own. No one had heard them exchange a word, and yet they were together, united in their silence. Some of the younger men had become afraid to approach Matilda—they didn’t want to risk stirring the old mountain man’s wrath. He was said to be terrible in his angers, though no one there could actually remember an occasion when Shadrach had lost his temper.

“Well, are we to have guests for supper?” Caleb Cobb asked. “Does the chief prefer to eat with a fork or with a scalping knife?”

“He will come in one hour,” Bes-Das said. “He wants to eat quick. He will leave the camp at sundown. He will bring three wives with him but no braves.”

“Well, that’s rare,” Caleb said. “Does he have any other requests, this chief?”

“Yes,” Bes-Das said. “He wants you to give him a rifle.”.

Caleb chuckled. “A rifle to kill us with,” he said. “I sure hope he likes the cooking, when he tastes it—if he don’t find it tasty he might scalp Sam.”

Black Sam had become Caleb Cobb’s personal cook. The Colonel was so partial to rabbit that Sam had stuffed a cage of fat rabbits into one of the supply wagons. The Colonel didn’t like large game— Sam trapped quail for him, and kept him fed with small, succulent bunnies.

“Well, if he’s coming so soon, the chef will have to hurry,” Caleb said. “Falconer, you like to shoot. Lope down and kill a couple of buffalo calves. Take the liver and sweetmeats and leave the rest. Call and McCrae will escort you—their horses are already used to thebufs.”

Falconer started for the wagon, to get his fine gun, but the Colonel stopped him with an impatient wave.

“You don’t need that damn English gun just to shoot two calves,” he said. “Shoot ‘em with your pistol, or let Corporal Call do it.”

Call was disconcerted, as they rode down to the herd, to see John Kirker following, only a few yards to the rear. Call rode on for a bit and then decided he couldn’t tolerate the man’s presence. He nodded at Gus, and the two of them turned to face the scalp hunter.

“You weren’t told to come,” Call informed Kirker. “I’d prefer it if you’d go back.”

“I don’t work for no army and I won’t be told what to do by no one,” Kirker said. “Caleb Cobb can pretend he’s a colonel if he wants to. He don’t tell me what to do and neither do you, you damn pups.”

“You weren’t told to come,” Call repeated. He was trying to be calm, though he felt his anger rising.

“There’s Indians around buffalo,” Kirker said. “They crawl in with them and shoot from under their bellies. I got business to tend to—I don’t care if that murdering humpback is coming to eat. Get out of my way.”

“Tell him, Captain,” Call said, turning to Falconer, but Falconer ignored the request.

“Last time you rode with us you scalped some Mexicans,” Gus remarked.

Kirker brought the rifle up and looked at them coolly, his thin lip twisted in a kind of sneer.

“I despise young fools,” he said. “If you don’t like my trade have at me and do it now. I might get a scalp before sundown if I’m active.”

Kirker spoke with the same insolence with which he had confronted Bigfoot and Shadrach, back on the Rio Grande.

Gus found the man’s insolence intolerable. To Call’s surprise, he yanked one of the big pistols out of his belt and whacked Kirker right across the forehead with it. The lick made a dull sound—a mule kicking a post made such a sound. Kirker was knocked backward, off his horse. He lay still for a moment, curled on the ground, but his eyes were open.

Call leapt down and took Kirker’s pistol, as the man struggled to his feet. Kirker reached for his big knife, but before he could pull it Call clubbed his arm with his musket—then he clubbed him twice more.

“Whoa, Woodrow,” Gus said, alarmed by the look in Call’s eye and the savage force of his clubbing. He himself had been angry enough to knock Kirker off his horse with a pistol, but the one hard lick satisfied him. The man’s forehead was split open—he was streaming blood. It was enough, at least, to teach him respect. But Woodrow Call had no interest in respect. He was swinging to kill.

“He’s a friend of the Colonel’s—we don’t need to kill him,” Gus said, leaping down, as did black Sam, who had come along to select the cuts. Call swung a third time, at the man’s Adam’s apple—only the fact that Sam grabbed at the barrel and partially broke the force of the swing saved Kirker—even so the man went down again, rolling and clawing at his throat, trying to get air through his windpipe. Gus and Sam together managed to hold Call and keep him from smashing the man’s head with the musket.

Falconer, who didn’t like the scalp hunter either, turned for a moment, to look at the fallen man.

“Disarm him,” he said. “He’s got guns in his boots. If we leave him anything to shoot he’ll try to kill us all, once he gets his wind.”

Call was remembering the filthy, fly-bitten scalps, hanging from the man’s saddle; he also remembered Bigfoot’s contention that some of them were the scalps of Mexican children.

“Don’t be beating nobody to death—not here,” Sam said. “Colonel Cobb, he’ll hang you. He hangs folks all the time.”

With difficulty, Call made himself mount and ride on to the herd. When they left, Kirker was on his knees, spitting blood.

“You yanked that pistol quick,” Falconer said, to Gus. “I think I’ll make you my corporal. You could make a fine pistolero.”

“Thank you, the fellow was rude,” Gus said. “Do you think the Colonel will let me be a corporal?”

Though he didn’t much like Falconer, the man’s words filled him with relief. He felt he had caught up with Call again, in terms of rank. He also felt that he was staunch again, and could fight when a fight was required. The weak feeling that had troubled him since his first glimpse of Buffalo Hump wasn’t there anymore—or at least, not there steadily. He might die, but at least he could fight first, and not simply pass his days shaking at the expectation of slaughter.

They rode on to the herd, quickly shot two fat calves, and took their livers and sweetmeats, as instructed. Sam was deft at the cutting. He had brought a sack to put the meat on, and knotted it deftly once he was finished.

“I’ll kill some big meat tomorrow,” Falconer said, as they rode back toward camp. “Once we get across the river the Colonel won’t mind.”

“These buffalo be gone tomorrow,” Sam said.

“Gone—what do you mean—there’s thousands of them,” Falconer said, in surprise.

“They be gone tomorrow,” Sam said—he did not elaborate.

When they passed the spot where the fight with Kirker had occurred there was no trace of the man, though the grass was spotted with blood from his broken forehead.

“I hope I broke his damn arm, at least,” Call said.

Nobody else said anything for a bit. They rode up to the troop in silence, Sam carefully holding his sack of meat.

“Sam knows where to cut into a buffalo calf,” Gus remarked. “You might give us lessons, next time we have an opportunity. I could slide around on one for an.hour and not know when I had come to the liver.”

“Just watch me, next time,” Sam said. “Buffalo liver tastes mighty good.”

GENERAL PHIL LLOYD, IN his youth one of the heroes of the Battle of New Orleans, was so impressed by the news that Buffalo Hump was coming to supper that he made his manservant, Peedee, scratch around amid his gear until he found a clean coat. It was wrinkled, true, but it wasn’t spotted and stained with tobacco juice, or beef juice, or any of the other substances General Lloyd was apt to dribble on himself in the course of a day’s libations.

“I might be getting dressed up for nothing,” he informed Caleb Cobb. “There’s a hundred men, at least, right here in this camp, who would like to shoot that rascal’s lights out. Why would he come?”

“Oh, he’ll come, Phil,” Caleb Cobb said. “He wants to show off his wives.”

Looking around the camp, Call decided that he agreed with the General. Most of the Rangers, and not a few of the merchants and common travelers, had lost friends or family members to the Comanches; some of the lost ones had died by Buffalo Hump’s own hand. There were mutterings and curses as the time for his arrival approached. Several of the more radical characters were for hanging Caleb Cobb—he ought never to have issued the invitation, many Rangers felt. Sam had to hurry his cooking, but when the smell of the sizzling liver wafted through the camp it added to the general discontent. Why should a killer get to dine on such delicacies, while most of them were making do with tough beef?

“He’ll come,” Gus said. “It would take more than this crowd to scare him away.”

Like Call, he had begun to doubt the competence of the military leadership. General Lloyd, who had been drunk the whole trip and unconscious for most of it, had his servant pin more than a dozen medals on the front of his blue coat.

“He must have won them medals for drinking, he don’t do nothing else,” Gus observed.

While the liver was sizzling and the sweetbreads simmering in a small pot with some onions and a little wild barley Sam had managed to locate, Caleb Cobb, noting the mood of surliness among the men, told Falconer to round up the malcontents and assemble them. Falconer liked nothing better than ordering men to do things they didn’t want to do—he had a little black quirt that he popped against his leg; he circled the camp, popping the quirt against his leg and forcing the men to stroll over to Caleb Cobb’s tent.