Текст книги "Dead Man's Walk"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

When Buffalo Hump mounted, he made a speech in which he warned all the braves to leave Gun-In-The-Water alone. He himself would kill Gun-In-The-Water.

Kicking Wolf didn’t like the speech much. He rode off in the middle of it, in a hurry to have a look at the women. Perhaps one of them would be as pretty as the Mexican girl, or even prettier. He wanted to be the first to see the women, so he would get the best. Maybe he would find one who smelled better than his wife.

THE HORSES SMELLED THE Indians first. Call was about to throw the sidesaddle on Lady Carey’s black gelding, when the gelding began to nicker and jump around. Gus’s bay did the same, and even the mules acted nervous. Lady Carey’s tent had been folded and packed —they were all about ready to start the day’s ride. Emerald was brushing her white mule; she brushed the mule faithfully, every morning.

Call scanned the horizon to the east, but saw nothing unusual— just the bright edge of the rising sun. Lady Carey still had a teacup in her hand. Willy was eating bacon. Mrs. Chubb was trying to wash his ears, pouring water out of a little canteen onto a sponge that she kept with her, just for the purpose of washing Willy. Wesley Buttons had his boots off—he was prone to cramps in his feet, and liked to rub his toes for awhile in the morning, before he put his boots on. If he took a bad cramp with the boot on, he would have to hop around in pain until the cramp eased.

Matilda Roberts walked her mare around in circles. The mare was skittish in the mornings, with a tendency to crow-hop. Matilda was no bronc rider; she liked to walk off as much of the mare’s nervousness as she could. Twice already, the mare had thrown her; once she had narrowly missed landing on a barrel cactus, which was all the more reason to walk the mare for awhile.

Gus McCrae and Long Bill had walked off from camp a little ways, meaning to relieve themselves. Long Bill was much troubled by constipation, whereas Gus’s bowels tended to run too freely. They had formed the habit of answering nature’s call together— they could converse about various things, while they were at it. One of the things Gus had on his mind was whores; now that he was eating better and not having to walk until he dropped, his sap had risen. A subject of intense speculation between himself and Long Bill was whether Matilda Roberts intended to take up her old profession, now that they were back in Texas—and if so, when? Gus was hoping she would resume it sooner, rather than later. He was of the opinion that anytime would be a good time for Matilda to start being a whore again, even if he and Long Bill were her only customers.

“Well, but Lady Carey might not approve,” Long Bill speculated, as he squatted. “Matty might want to wait until we’re shut of all these English folks.”

“But that won’t be till Galveston,” Gus said. “Galveston’s a far piece yet. I would like a whore a lot sooner than Galveston.”

Long Bill had no comment—he noticed, as he squatted, that there was commotion back at the camp. Woodrow Call and Lady Carey were standing together, looking to the east. Long Bill could see that Call had his rifle. Matty had come back to stand near the others. Long Bill felt a strong nervousness take him—the nervousness clamped his troubled bowels even tighter.

“Something’s happening,” he said, abruptly pulling his pants up. “This ain’t no time for us to be taking a long squat.”

The two hurried back to camp, guns in their hands. It seemed a peaceful morning, but maybe it wasn’t going to be as peaceful as it looked.

“Here’s Gus, he’s got the best eyes,” Call said.

Lady Carey went to her saddlebag, and pulled out a small brass spyglass.“Help me look, Corporal McCrae,” she said. “Corporal Call thinks there’s trouble ahead, and so does my horse.”

Lady Carey looked through her telescope, and Gus did his best to scan the horizons carefully with his eyes, but all he saw was a solitary coyote, trotting south through the thin sage. He, too, had begun to feel nervous—he didn’t fully trust his own eyes. He remembered, again, how completely the Comanches had concealed themselves the day they killed Josh and Zeke.

Emerald walked over, leading her white mule.

“The wild men are here, my lady,” she said, calmly.

“Yes, I believe they are,” Lady Carey said. “I believe I smell them. Only they’re so wild I can’t see them.”

Then they all heard a sound—a high sound of singing. Buffalo Hump, in no hurry, walking his horse, appeared on the distant ridge, the sun just risen above him. He was singing his war song. As the little group watched, the whole raiding party slowly came into view. All the braves were singing their war songs, high pitched and repetitive. Gus counted twenty warriors—then he saw the twenty-first, Kicking Wolf, somewhat to the side. Kicking Wolf was on foot, and he was not singing. His silence seemed more menacing than the war songs of the other braves.

Call looked around for a gully or a ridge that might provide them some cover, but there was nothing—only the few sage bushes. They had camped on the open plain. The Comanches held the high ground, and had the sun behind them, to boot. They were four fighting men against twenty-one, and Wesley Buttons couldn’t shoot. Even if he had been a reliable shot, the Comanches could in any case easily overrun them, if they chose to charge. Four men, four women, and a boy would not look like much opposition to a raiding party, singing for death and torture. Call wondered if the English party knew what Comanches did to captives; he wondered if he ought to tell Lady Carey, and Emerald, and Mrs. Chubb how to shoot themselves fatally, if worse came to worst. Bigfoot’s instructions about putting the pistol to the eyeball came back to him as he watched the Comanches. No doubt Bigfoot had known exactly what he was talking about, but would the English lady, the nanny, and the Negress be capable of performing such an act? Would Matilda Roberts, for that matter?, Lady Carey stood watching the Indians calmly. As always, she was dressed only in black, and wore her three veils. She did not seem frightened, or even disturbed.

“What do you think, Corporal Call?” she asked. “Can we whip them?”

“Likely not, ma’am,” Call said. “They beat us when we had nearly two hundred men. I don’t know why they wouldn’t beat us now that we’ve only got four.”

“It’s interesting singing, isn’t it?” Lady Carey said. “Not so fine as opera, but interesting, nonetheless. I wonder what it means, that singing?”

“It means death to the whites,” Gus said. “It means they want our hair.”

“Well, they may want it, but they can’t have it,” young Willy said.

“I need my hair, don’t I, Mamma?”

“Of course you do, Willy,” Lady Carey said. “And you shall keep it, too—Mamma will see to that. Corporal Call, will you saddle my horse?”

“I will, but I don’t think we can outrun them, ma’am,” Call said.

“No, we won’t be running,” Lady Carey said. “I think the best thing would be for me to try my singing. I will be leading us through these Comanches, gentlemen. I’ll be mounted, but I want the rest of you to walk and lead your mounts. Saddle my horse, Corporal Call—and don’t look at me. None of you must look at me now, until I say you may.”

“Well, but why not, ma’am?” Gus asked—he was puzzled by the whole proceedings.

“Because I intend to disrobe,” Lady Carey said. “I shall disrobe, and I shall sing my best arias—besides that, I shall need my fine snake, Elphinstone. Emerald, could you bring him?”

Calmly, not hurrying, Lady Carey began to sing scales, as she undressed. She let her voice rise higher and higher, moving up an octave and then another, until her high notes were higher than any that came from the Comanches. Emerald took the boa from its basket on the mule, and let it drape about her shoulders as Lady Carey undressed.

“I think, Willy, you should mount your pony,” Lady Carey said. “The rest of you walk. Matilda, would you take my clothes and carry them for me? I shall want them, of course, once we have dispersed these savages. You haven’t saddled my horse yet, Corporal Call. Please cinch him carefully, so he won’t jump—I’ve got to be a regular Lady Godiva this morning, and I don’t want any trouble from this black beast.”

Call saddled the horse and handed the reins to Matilda, along with his pistol. He had no belief that anything they could do would get them through the Comanches. Lady Carey could undress if she wanted—Buffalo Hump would kill them anyway.

He kept his eyes down, as Lady Carey undressed—so did Long Bill, and Wesley Buttons. They had come to like Lady Carey—to revere her, almost—and were determined not to offend her modesty, though they were much confused by the undressing.

Gus, though, could not resist a peep. So normal did she seem that he had almost forgotten that she was a leper, until he caught the first glimpse of black, eroded flesh as she turned to hand a garment to Matilda. Her neck and breasts were black; bags of yellowing skin hung from her shoulders. Gus was so startled that he almost lost his breakfast. He didn’t look at Lady Carey again, though he did notice that her legs, which were very white, did not seem to be affected by the disease, except for a single dark spot on one calf.

“Oh Lord,” he said—but no one else was looking, and no one heard him.

Lady Carey kept on her hat, and the three veils that hid her face. She also kept on her fine black boots. Matilda looked at Lady Carey’s body, and felt bad—the English lady had been nicer to her even than her own mother. To see her young body blackened and yellowish from disease made Matilda feel helpless. Yet, she took the garments, one by one, as Lady Carey handed them to her, and folded them carefully. Mrs. Chubb was calm, as was Emerald— neither of them had seen what Comanches could do, Matilda reflected.

When Lady Carey had disrobed she mounted the black gelding, settled herself firmly in the sidesaddle, and reached for her snake.

“All right now, keep in line,” she said. “You too, Willy—keep in line. I want you Texans in the middle, right behind Willy. Matilda, Mrs. Chubb, and Emerald will bring up the rear. Emerald, if you don’t mind, I think you might want to carry my husband’s sword.

Unsheath it, and hold the blade high—remember, it’s sharp. Don’t cut yourself.” The Negress smiled, at the thought that she might cut herself.

Call had often noticed a fine sword in the baggage, but had not known that it was Lady Carey’s husband’s. Emerald took it and unsheathed it. She went to the rear, and waited.

“All right now, front march,” Lady Carey said. “I am going to sing very loudly—after all, I’m one voice against twenty. Willy, you might want to stop your ears.”

“Oh no, Mamma,” Willy said. “You can sing loud—I won’t mind.”

Lady Carey, on the fine black gelding, started up the long ridge toward the Comanches, the boa draped over her shoulders. She was still singing her scales, but before she had gone more than a few feet she stopped the scales and began to sing, high and loud, in the Italian tongue—the tongue that had caused Quartermaster Brognoli to rouse himself briefly, and then die.

The line of Comanches was still some two hundred yards away. Lucinda Carey, watching from behind her three veils, rode toward them slowly, singing her aria. When she had closed the distance to within one hundred yards, she stretched her arms wide; Elphinstone liked to twine himself along them. She felt in good voice. The aria she was singing came from Signer Verdi’s new opera Nabucco —he had taught her the aria himself, two years ago in Milan, not long before she and her husband, Lord Carey, sailed together for Mexico.

Ahead, the line of Comanches waited. Lady Carey glanced back. Her son, the four Rangers, and the three women all walked obediently behind her. Emerald, the tall Negress, at the end of the line, had undraped one breast—she held aloft Lord Carey’s fine sword— the keen blade flashed in the early sunlight. Emerald paused, on impulse, and shrugged off her white cloak. Soon she, too, was walking naked toward the line of warriors.

As she came nearer, close enough to see the Comanche war chief’s great hump and the ochre lines of paint on hi-s face and chest, Lucinda, Lady Carey, opened her throat and sang her aria with the full power of her lungs—she let her voice rise high, and then higher still. She pretended for a moment that she was at LaScala, where she had had the honor.of meeting Signor Verdi. She filled her lungs, breathing as Signor Verdi had taught her in the few lessons she had begged of him—her high, ripe notes rang clearly in the dry Texas air. Ahead, the war chief waited, his long lance in his right hand.

KICKING WOLF GREW TIRED of listening to the war songs. He ran ahead, meaning to make the first kill. He would leave Buffalo Hump the Texan called Gun-In-The-Water, since Gun-In-The-Water had killed his son; it would not do to cheat the war chief of his vengeance. The man Kicking Wolf meant to kill was the tall one who always walked beside Gun-In-The-Water. Kicking Wolf was short; he would kill the tall one; Buffalo Hump, who was tall, could kill the short one.

So Kicking Wolf ran ahead, and squatted beside a small clump of chaparral—he had an arrow in his bow, ready to shoot. He heard a death song coming from the Texans, but because he wanted to surprise them, he did not look up once he was in his ambush place behind the chaparral. Of course, it was appropriate for the whites to sing a death song—they would all be dead very soon, unless one or two could be caught for torture. But it was a little surprising; Kicking Wolf could not remember any instances in which whites sang death songs. Once in awhile, when there was cavalry, a manmight blow a short horn, to make the soldiers fight; he had actually killed such a person once, near the San Saba, and had taken the horn home with him. But it was not a good horn; when he tried to play it, it only made a squawking sound, like a buffalo farting. He eventually threw it away.

Then Kicking Wolf realized that he was hearing no ordinary death song—the voice that he heard lifted higher toward the sky than any Comanche voice could go. The notes rose so high and were so loud that, as the singer came near him, the song seemed to fill the whole air, and even to turn off the far cliffs and come back. Astonished at the power of the death song, Kicking Wolf stood up, ready to kill the person who was singing it.

His arrow was in his bow; he could tell from the power of the song that the person was near—but what Kicking Wolf saw when he rose from his ambush place chilled his heart, and filled him with terror: there, on a black horse, was a woman with a hidden face, black breasts, and shoulders that were only yellowing flesh and white bone. Worse, this woman who poured a song from beneath the cloth that hid her face had twined around her naked arms a great snake—a snake far larger than any Kicking Wolf had ever seen. The head of the snake was extended along the horse’s neck. Its tongue flickered out, and it seemed to be looking right at Kicking Wolf.

So frightened was Kicking Wolf, that he would have immediately sung his own death song had his throat not been frozen with fear. The woman on the black horse was Death Woman, come with her black flesh and her great serpent, to kill him and his people.

Kicking Wolf let the arrow fall from his bow—then he dropped the bow itself, and turned and ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, toward the war chief. Behind him he heard the high, ringing voice of Death Woman, and could imagine the head of the great serpent coming closer and ever closer to him. In his panic, he stepped on a bad cactus; thorns went through his foot, but he did not stop running. He knew that if he slowed the slightest bit, the great snake of Death Woman would get him.

When the Comanches sitting with Buffalo Hump saw Kicking Wolf running toward them they thought it was just some clever plan the stumpy little man had thought up, to lure the whites closer to their arrows and their lances. But the strange, high song seemed to come with Kicking Wolf, to ring in the air like an old witch woman’s curse. Some of the Comanches began to be a little apprehensive—they looked to their war chief, who sat as he was. It was only when Kicking Wolf ran up and Buffalo Hump saw the terror in his face, that he knew it was not a ruse. Kicking Wolf was fearless in battle—he would attack anyone, and had once killed six Pawnees in a single battle. Yet, now he was so frightened that he had cactus thorns sticking through his foot and blood on his moccasins, and he was still running. He ran right past Buffalo Hump without stopping—also, Buffalo Hump saw that Kicking Wolf had even dropped his bow; not since Kicking Wolf was a boy had he seen him without his bow in his hand.

Buffalo Hump had been listening to the death song with admiration—he had never heard one so loud before. The song came back off the distant hills, as if the singer’s ghost were already there, calling for the singer to come. But something was wrong—Kicking Wolf was terrified, and the ringing, echoing death song was causing panic among his warriors. Then Buffalo Hump saw Death Woman, with her rotting black body; he saw the great snake, twisting its head above her horse’s neck. He was so startled that he lifted his lance, but didn’t throw it. Behind Death Woman, at the far back, was a naked black woman with a lifted sword; the black woman led a white mule.

At the sight of Death Woman, with her great serpent, the Comanche warriors broke, but Buffalo Hump held his ground. Worse even than the snake twisted around the shoulders of Death Woman was the white mule that followed the tall black woman with the sword. Long ago his old grandmother, who was a spirit woman, had told him to flee from a woman with a white mule; for the coming of the white mule would mean catastrophe for the Comanche people. The great snake he didn’t fear; he could kill any snake. But there before him was the white mule of his grandmother’s spirit prophecy: he could not kill a prophecy.

It was doom, he knew. His warriors were fleeing; Kicking Wolf had fled. Buffalo Hump lowered his lance, but he did not flee. He could not kill the Texans, not even Gun-In-The-Water, not then; they were under the protection of Death Woman. But they would not escape him; he would kill them later, when Death Woman was sleeping and when the white mule was gone.He rode a little higher on the hill and waited. If Death Woman tried to come at him, he would fight, and if he could keep his face toward her he might win, for there was a prophecy, too, that he could only be killed by a lance that pierced him through his hump. He must not let the woman with the white mule and the flashing sword get behind him. As long as his hump was protected, even Death Woman could not kill him.

“Don’t look at him,” Call said, as he and Gus walked slowly past. “She’s spooked most of them, but she ain’t spooked him. Just don’t look at him. If he comes at us, the rest of them might come back, and we ain’t no match for twenty Comanches, even if they’re scared.”

Slowly, not looking up, the Texans and the women passed the ridge where Buffalo Hump sat. Lady Carey sang even louder as they passed almost beneath the great humpbacked Comanche. Her voice rose so high, it was as if she were trying to cast it into the clouds. She draped her reins over her horse’s neck, and spread her arms as she sang.

Buffalo Hump sat above them, immobile, the desert wind blowing the feathers he had tied to his lance. Call did not look up, but he felt the war chiefs hatred, as he passed below him. He tensed himself, in case the lance came flying as it had at Gus, on a stormy night not far to the south.

When they had passed the ridge and deemed it safe to stop, Lady Carey dismounted. Matilda brought her clothes. The men dropped their eyes, while she dressed. The boa, Elphinstone, was returned to its basket on the donkey. Emerald put her cloak back on, and returned Lord Carey’s sword to its fine sheath. During the excitement the donkey had managed to pull Mrs. Chubb’s straw bonnet out of the baggage pack, and had eaten half of it.

“There, who says opera isn’t useful?” Lady Carey asked, when she remounted. “I shall have to write Signor Verdi and tell him his arias were not appreciated by the wild Comanche.”

When they resumed their journey they saw a strange thing: Buffalo Hump was backing his horse, step by step, across the desert toward the north. His warriors were nowhere in sight, but he had not turned his horse to go and find them. His face was still toward the Texans—step by step, he backed his horse.

“We didn’t kill him,” Call said. “We should have.”

“That’s right,” Gus said. “We should have. He’s still out there—I reckon he’ll be back.”

“If he does come back, he won’t find me,” Long Bill said. “If I ever get to a town, I aim to take up carpentry and sleep someplace where I can lock my doors. I’ve had enough of this sleeping outside.”

“I wonder why he’s backing his horse?” Call said. “We got no gun that could shoot that far. We couldn’t hit him if we tried.”

“Go ask him, Woodrow, if you’re that curious,” Gus said.

WHEN THEY RODE IN at dusk to San Antonio, two barefoot friars were bringing a little herd of goats within the walls of the old mission by the river. Somewhere within the walls, another priest was singing.

“Why, it’s vespers,” Lady Carey said. “Isn’t it lovely, Mrs. Chubb? It rather reminds me of Rome.”

“A plain English hymn will do for me,” Mrs. Chubb said.

“A plain English hymn and no donkeys,” she added, a bit later. “I’m afraid I will never be reconciled to donkeys.”

Ten days later, on a pier in Galveston, Mrs. Chubb was still complaining of donkeys, to any sailor who would listen.

“Not only did it bite my toe, it ate my best bonnet,” she said, but no one listened.

Lady Carey paid the Texans one hundred dollars each, a sum so large that none of the four could quite grasp that they had it. She gave Matilda two hundred dollars, a sum that made Gus jealous— after all, what had Matilda done that he hadn’t? Then, as Call and Gus, Matilda, Wesley, and Long Bill stood on the pier in the warm salty breeze, the English party boarded a boat whose mast was taller than most trees. Young Willy waved, and Lady Carey, still triply veiled, waved her hand. Mrs. Chubb was gone, still complaining, and Emerald, the tall Negress, looked at the shore but did not wave.

The Texans stood watching as the boat pulled away and began its journey across the great grey plain of the sea. Gus was talking of whores again, as the boat pulled away, but Call was silenced by the immense sweep of the water. He had not expected the sea to be so large: soon the boat containing Lady Carey and her party began to disappear, as a wagon might as it made its way across a sea of grass.

Woodrow Call could be subdued by the ocean if he wanted to— Gus McCrae, for his part, had never felt happier: he was rich, he was safe, and the port of Galveston virtually teemed with whores. He had already visited five.

“I guess this is where I quit the rangering, boys,” Long Bill said, with a sigh. “It’s rare sport, but it ain’t quite safe.”

Woodrow Call said nothing; the little ship had vanished. He was watching the sea.

Wesley Buttons knew that he could no longer avoid going home and telling his mother that his two brothers were dead, killed by Mexican soldiers in New Mexico.

Matilda Roberts was thinking that she was farther from California than ever—but at least she had money in her pocket.

“Now, Woodrow, come on,” Gus said, taking his friend’s arm. “Let’s whore a little, and then lope up to Austin.”

“Austin—why?” Call asked.

“So I can see if that girl in the general store still wants to marry me,” Gus said.

End

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