Текст книги "Comanche Moon"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 30 (всего у книги 46 страниц)

Scull dozed; the heat of the day began to fill the pit. Soon it felt hot as a stovepipe to him. His fever rose; he felt chill even as he sweated. Once he thought he heard movement above him. He thought it might be a coyote or some other varmint, inspecting the camp, hoping to find a scrap to eat. He yelled a time or two, though, on the off chance that it might be a human visitor.

His yells produced no answer. Scull stood up, to test his ankle, but immediately sat back down. His ankle would bear no weight.

Then he began to get the feeling that he was not alone: someone was above him, waiting where he couldn't see them. But the person, if it was a person, waited quietly, making no sound. Through the afternoon he turned his sore eyes upward a few times, but saw no one.

Then, as dusk was approaching, he saw what he had sensed. A face, as old and brown as the earth, was visible above him. Then he remembered the old woman. He had seen her often during his days of captivity in the cage, but had paid her little mind. Most of the day the old woman sat under a small tree, silent. When she rose to do some chores she walked slowly, bent almost double, supporting herself with a heavy stick. He rarely saw anyone speak to her. No doubt the people of the camp had left her to die–crippled as she was, she would have been an impediment to travel.

"Agua!" he said, looking up at her. The sight of a human face made him realize how thirsty he was. "Agua! Agua!" The old face disappeared. Scull felt a flutter of hope. At least one human knew where he was, and that he was alive. There was no reason for the old woman to help him–she was probably dying herself. But she was there, and people were unpredictable. She might help him.

Above him old Xitla crept about the camp.

She was glad the people had left–the camp was hers now. She had spent the day looking for things people had dropped as they were leaving. People were so careless. They left things that they considered had no use, but old Xitla knew that everything had a use, if one were wise enough to know the uses of things. In a few hours of looking she had already found a bullet, several nails, an old shirt, and a rawhide string.

These things were treasures to Xitla. With each find she hobbled eagerly back to her tree and put her treasure on her blanket.

In her years in Ahumado's camp Xitla had been careful never to tell him her name. She knew he would kill her immediately if he knew that her name was Xitla and that she was the daughter of Ti-lan, a great curandera who had known him in his youth in the south. Her mother had insisted that she take the name "Xitla" because it would protect her from Ahumado. When he was a baby, her mother told her, the elders had put a poisoned leaf under Ahumado's tongue and sent him out in the world to do evil. Though Ahumado did not know it, he and Xitla had been born on the same minute of the same day, and their mothers were sisters– thus their destinies were forever linked together. They would die on the same moment of the same day too–in killing Xitla, Ahumado would have killed himself.

But Ti-lan, her mother, when she sent Xitla away, warned her that she was never to tell Ahumado her real name, or the circumstances of her birth. If Ahumado knew he would try to challenge his destiny by putting Xitla to death in some cruel fashion. He bore the legacy of the poisoned leaf and would do much evil as a result.

A few years back Xitla thought Ahumado had found her out. He seldom rode a horse, yet one day for no reason Ahumado mounted a strong horse and rode the horse right over her, injuring her back, so that she could never again stand straight. He had never explained his actions.

He had merely ridden over her and left her in the dust. Then he dismounted and was never seen on a horse again. He had forbidden the people to help her, too. Xitla had crawled away on her hands and knees and found roots and leaves that helped her pain to be less.

Around the camp, Xitla was known as Manuela. Because it was understood that Ahumado disapproved of her, she had few friends. Sometimes drunken vaqueros, men so debased that they would use any woman, or even a mare or a cow, came and pawed at her in the night. She had been small and dark but very beautiful; the vaqueros saw something of her beauty and still pawed at her, even though she had passed her time as a woman.

One or two of the other old grandmothers in the village spoke to her; they were too old to care about Ahumado or his wrath. Xitla's one companion was a small white cat. The little cat grew and became her hunter. It brought her the fattest rats and even, now and then, a baby rabbit, a delicacy Xitla cooked in her pot, seasoned with good spices. Her cat was Xitla's companion. It slept next to her head at night, and its thoughts went into her brain.

The cat wanted her to leave the camp and go to a nearby village. But Xitla was afraid to go.

She moved so slowly that it would take her many days to reach the village–once Ahumado knew that she was gone he might send his pistoleros to catch her and put her on one of the sharpened trees –t was the penalty for those who left without permission.

A few weeks later her cat left the camp to hunt and never came back. A woman told her, much later, that Ahumado had caught it and given it to a great rattler he kept in a cave –Xitla never knew whether the story was true.

Even though she was old many women in the camp were jealous of her, because of her great beauty. Sometimes in the night Xitla felt her cat trying to send its thoughts into her brain, but its thoughts were not clear.

Another woman told her that the story about the great rattler was nonsense; there had been an old cougar living near the camp; the cougar had probably eaten her cat.

This old woman, Cincha, had merely wanted gossip, Xitla thought. Like everyone else in the camp, Cincha was curious about Xitla and Ahumado. They wanted to know why the Black Vaquero hated Xitla so much; and why, if he hated her, didn't he just kill her. None of them knew about the sisters, or the poisoned leaf, nor did they know the real reason for Ahumado's hatred, which was simple. Once in his youth Ahumado had tried to come to her in the way of a man and she had stuck him in his member with a green thorn. She had been using the thorn to sew and had merely stuck Ahumado with it because she did not want to be with him in that way.

The green thorn had poison in it and the poison went into Ahumado's member. He had several wives, but none of them were happy–there were stories and stories, but Xitla didn't know if they were true. She just knew that Ahumado hated her so badly that he had run over her with a horse.

Now, to her surprise, Ahumado had been the one to leave the camp. He told no one that he was leaving. There was much speculation but no one really knew why Ahumado did the things he did. Within a day, all the other people in the camp left too.

No one offered to take Xitla. They had simply left her on her blanket. The women were particularly anxious to leave her–they did not like it that Xitla had such beauty of face still.

Xitla had been asleep, dreaming of Parrot, when Ahumado pushed the white man into the pit. When she awoke she heard the white man speaking to himself and knew that he was still alive.

The white man had survived as Ahumado's captive for many weeks–he had a strong spirit in him; he might yet find a way to escape the pit. She could not resist peeking at him, in the pit, and it was then that he asked her for water.

There were three or four pots laying around the camp, pots people had left in their careless haste.

Xitla took one of the pots and filled it with water from the stream. Then she searched through her treasures until she found enough rawhide string to make a cord long enough to lower the water to the white man. It would please her to help the prisoner in the pit, but when she lowered the water and looked at the man she realized it would not be easy to save him –he was very weak. He was on the point of giving up, this man, but Xitla hoped that a little cool water and some food would bring his spirit back its strength.

It took Xitla a long time to get the water, moving slowly as she did, and she was careful when she lowered it into the pit. When the white man stood up to catch the jug Xitla saw that one of his ankles was injured. He could not put his foot on the ground without pain, a fact which complicated his escape. It would be hard for him to climb out of the pit with such a sore ankle.

Xitla decided to take her blanket and go to the little cornfield by the stream. The corn was young, but it was the only food close to the camp that she might bring him. She would pile some of the soft corn on her blanket and drag it to the pit, so that the man would have something to eat. She could stay alive on very little, and the white man could too or he would have already starved.

"Gracias, gracias," Scull said, when the water jug was safely in his hands. He took the water in little sips, just a drop or two at a time, to soothe his swollen tongue. His tongue was so thick that he could barely speak his ^ws of thanks.

It was a good sign that Scull was careful with the water, Xitla thought. He was disciplined; if she could get him a little corn his spirit might revive.

That night Xitla listened carefully to the animal noises around the camp. She wanted to be awake in case Ahumado came back.

He had always been a night raider; he struck at the most peaceful hour, when people were deep in restful sleep. Young women, dreaming of lovers, would not know anyone was there until the hard hands of the pistoleros took them away into slavery, far from their villages and their lovers. People were not alert enough to sense the approach of Ahumado, but animals could sense it. All the animals knew that Ahumado had been given the poison leaf, and did evil things. Sometimes he made Goyeto tie up animals and skin them, for practice. The animals knew better than to let such an old man catch them. The coyotes stayed away, and the skunks and even the rats. The night birds didn't sing when Ahumado was around.

Xitla listened carefully, and was reassured.

There were plenty of animals out that night, enjoying the bright moon. Just beyond the cornfield where she meant to go in the morning with her blanket there were some coyotes playing, yipping at one another, teasing and calling out. She watched a skunk pass by, and heard an owl from a tree near the cliff.

Hearing the sounds of the animals made Xitla feel peaceful, content to doze by her little fire of twigs and branches. She didn't know where Ahumado had gone, or why, but it was enough, for the moment, to know that he was far away. In the morning she would go to the cornfield with her blanket and pick some young corn for the white man, Captain Scull.

Th@er@ese Wanz was much put out when she emerged from the white tent and discovered that Captain Call and Captain McCrae had left Lonesome Dove in the night. She had been up early, gathering eggs in her basket from hens' nests in the crumbling house left by Preacher Windthorst. She liked the two young captains; having them there was a fine change from the company of her husband, Xavier, a man disposed to look on the dark side of life, a man who had little natural cheer in him or even a satisfactory amount of the natural appetites all men should have.

Frequently, due to his gloom, Th@er@ese had to sit on Xavier in order to secure her conjugal pleasures. Xavier was convinced they would starve to death in the Western wilderness they had come to, but Th@er@ese knew better. In only one day, with the rangers there, they had made more money than they would have made in France in a month, doling out liquor in their village for a few francs a day.

All day the rangers had drunk liquor and paid them cash money, a fact not lost on Xavier, who threw off his gloom long enough to accord Th@er@ese a healthy dose of conjugal pleasure without her having to go to the trouble of sitting on him.

She sprang up early, ready to make the rangers a fine omelette and collect a few more of their dollars, only to discover that the two rangers she liked best had ridden off to Mexico. Only the black man had seen them leave; the other rangers were as startled as Th@er@ese to discover they were gone.

"You mean they left us here?" Lee Hitch asked.

"Yes sir," Deets said. "Gone to get the Captain." "That's all right, Lee," Stove Jones said.

"I imagine they expect us to wait, and at least we'll be waiting in a place where the saloon don't close." "It'll close if Mr. Buffalo Hump shows up," Lee said, with an apprehensive look around the clearing. Toward the river the blue sow and the blue boar were standing head to head, as if in conversation. Xavier Wanz was attempting to fasten a bow tie to his collar, a task that soon reduced him to a state of exasperation.

At the mention of Buffalo Hump, Jake Spoon came awake with a start.

"Why would he show up, Lee?" Jake asked.

"There ain't a town here yet–he wouldn't get much if he shows up here." "My tooth twitched half the night, that's all I know," Lee Hitch said. "When my tooth twitches it means Indians are in the vicinity." "Goddamn them, why did they go?" Jake said, annoyed at the two captains for leaving them unprotected. Since the big raid on Austin his fear of Indians had grown until it threatened to spoil his sleep.

Pea Eye was shocked that Jake would use such language in talking about Captain Call and Captain McCrae. They were the captains–if they left, it was for a good reason.

Then, to Pea Eye's surprise, the Frenchwoman began to wave at him, beckoning him to come help her prepare the breakfast. She was breaking eggs into a pan, and swirling it around; her husband, meanwhile, took out his tablecloth, from a bag where he kept it, and spread it on the table, smoothing it carefully. The man had on a bow tie, which struck Pea Eye as unnec, seeing as there was only a rough crew to serve.

"Quick, monsieur, the woods!" Th@er@ese said, when Pea Eye bashfully approached. He saw that the cook fire was low and immediately got a few good sticks to build it up. As Th@er@ese swirled the eggs in the pan her bosom, under the loose gown, moved with the swirling motion. Pea Eye found that despite himself his eyes were drawn to her bosom. Th@er@ese didn't seem to mind.

She smiled at him and, with her free hand, motioned for him to bring more sticks.

"Hurry, I am cooking but the fire is going lows," she said.

Though it was so early that there were still wisps of ground fog in the thickets, Lee Hitch and Stove Jones presented themselves at the bar, expecting liquor. To Pea Eye's amazement Jake Spoon stepped right up beside them. Only the night before Jake had confided in him that he didn't have a cent on him–he had lost all his money in a card game with Lee, a man who rarely lost at cards.

Xavier Wanz put three glasses on the bar and filled them with whiskey; Jake drank his down as neatly as the two grown men. Both Lee and Stove put money on the bar, but Jake had none to put, a fact he revealed with a smile.

"You'll stand me a swallow, won't you, boys?" he asked. "I'm a little thin this morning, when it comes to cash." Neither Lee nor Stove responded happily to the request.

"No," Lee said bluntly.

"No one invited you to be a drunkard at our expense," Stove added.

Jake's face reddened–he did not like being denied what seemed to him a modest request.

"You're barely weaned off the teat, Jake," Lee said. "You're too young to be soaking up good liquor, anyway." Jake stomped off the floor of the saloon, only to discover another source of annoyance: the Frenchwoman had summoned Pea Eye, rather than himself, to help her with the cook fire. The woman, Th@er@ese, was certainly comely. Jake liked the way she piled her abundant hair high on her head. Jake sauntered over, his hat cocked back jauntily off his forehead.

"Pea, you ought to be helping Deets with the horses–I imagine they're restless," Jake said.

To his shock the Frenchwoman suddenly turned on him, spitting like a cat.

"You go away–ride the horses yourself, monsieur," she said emphatically. "I am cooking with Monsieur," she said emphatically.

"I am cooking with Monsieur Peas. You are in the way. Vite! Vite!

"Young goose!" she added, motioning with her free hand as if she were shooing away a gosling that had gotten underfoot.

Mortified, Jake turned and walked straight down to the river. He had not expected to be rudely dismissed, so early in the day; it was an insult of the worst kind because everybody heard it–Jake would never suppose such a blow to his pride would occur in such a lowly place.

It stung, it burned–the high-handedness of women was intolerable, he decided. Better to do as Woodrow Call had done and form an alliance with a whore–no whore would dare speak so rudely to a man.

The worst of it, though, was having Pea Eye chosen over him, to do a simple chore. Pea Eye was gawky and all thumbs; he was always dropping things, bumping his head, or losing his gun –yet the Frenchwoman had summoned Pea and not himself.

While Jake was brooding on the insult he heard a splashing and looked down the river to see a group of riders coming. At the thought that they might be Indians his heart jumped, but he soon saw that they were white men. The horses were loping through the shallows, throwing up spumes of water.

The man in the lead was Captain King, who loped right past Jake as if he wasn't there.

The men following him were Mexican; they carried rifles and they looked hard. He turned and followed the riders back toward the saloon.

When he arrived Captain King had already seated himself at the table with the tablecloth, tucked a napkin under his chin, and was heartily eating the Frenchwoman's omelette. One of the vaqueros had killed a javelina. By the time Jake got there they had the little pig skinned and gutted. One of the men started to throw the pig guts into the bushes but Th@er@ese stopped him.

"What do you do? You would waste the best part!" Th@er@ese said, scowling at the vaquero. "Xavier, come!" Jake, and a number of the other rangers too, were startled by the avid way Th@er@ese and Xavier Wanz went after the pig guts. Even the vaquero who had killed the pig was taken aback when Th@er@ese plunged her hands to the wrists in the intestines and plumped coil after coil of them on a tray her husband held. Her hands were soon bloody to the elbow, a sight that caused Lee Hitch, not normally a delicate case, to feel as if his stomach might come up.

"Oh Lord, she's got that gut blood on her," he said, losing his taste for the delicious omelette he had just been served.

Captain King, eating .his omelette with relish, observed this sudden skittishness and chuckled.

"You boys must have spent too much time in tea parlors," he said. "I've seen your Karankawa Indians, of which there ain't many, anymore, pull the guts out of a dying deer and start eating them before the deer had even stopped kicking." "This is fine luck, Captain," Th@er@ese said, bringing the heaping tray of guts over for him to inspect. "Tonight we will have the tripes." "Well, that's fine luck for these men–while they're eating tripe I'll be tramping through Mexico," he said. "Some thieving caballeros run off fifty of our cow horses, but I expect we'll soon catch up with them." "You could take us with you, Captain," Stove Jones said. "Call and McCrae, they left us. We ain't got nothing to do." Captain King wiped his mouth with his napkin and shook his head at Stove.

"No thanks–taking you men would be like dragging several anchors," he said bluntly. "Call and McCrae were unwise to bring you–they should have left you to the tea parlors." He spoke with such uncommon force that none of the men knew quite what to say.

"It was the Governor sent us on this errand," Lee Hitch said finally.

"He just wanted to get rid of you so he could claim he'd tried," Captain King said, with the same bluntness. "Ed Pease knows that few Texas cattlemen are such rank fools as to deliver free cattle to an old bandit like Ahumado. He takes what livestock he wants anyway." "It was to ransom Captain Scull," Stove Jones reminded him.

Captain King stood up, wiped his mouth, scattered some coins on the table, and went to his horse. Only when he was mounted did he bother to reply.

"Inish Scull is mainly interested in making mischief," he said. "He got himself into this scrape, and he ought to get himself out, but if he can't, I imagine Call and McCrae will bring him back." "Well, they left us," Lee Hitch said.

"Yes, got tired of dragging anchors, I suppose," the Captain said.

He motioned to his men, who looked dismayed.

They had cut up the javelina and prepared it for the fire, but so far the meat was scarcely singed.

"You will have to finish cooking that pig in Mexico," he informed them. "I cannot be sitting around here while you cook a damn pig. I need to get those horses back and hang me a few thieves." With that he turned and headed for the river. The vaqueros hastily pulled the slabs of uncooked javelina off the fire and stuffed them in their saddlebags. A couple of the slabs were so hot that smoke was seeping out of their saddlebags as they rode away.

Th@er@ese and Xavier Wanz began to cut up the pig guts, stripping them of their contents as they worked. Xavier had taken off his black coat, but he still wore his neat bowtie.

Lee Hitch and Stove Jones were both annoyed by Captain King. In their view he had been rude to the point of disrespect.

"Why does he think we sit around in tea parlors?" Stove asked.

"The fool, I don't know–why didn't you ask him yourself?" Lee said.

"Lord, Mexico's a big country," Augustus said. It was a warm night; they had only a small campfire, just adequate to the cooking they needed to do. Just after crossing the river, Call had shot a small deer–meat for a day or two at least. They were camped on a dry plain, and had not seen a human being since coming into Mexico.

"The sky's higher in Mexico," Gus observed; he felt generally uneasy.

"It ain't higher, Gus," Call said.

"We've just travelled sixty miles. Why would the sky be higher, just because we're in Mexico?" "Look at it," Gus insisted. He pointed upward. "It's higher." Call declined to look up. Whenever Gus McCrae was bored and restless he always tried to start some nonsensical argument, on topics Call had little patience with.

"The sky's the same height no matter what country you're in," Call told him. "We're way out here in the country–y can just see the stars better." "How would you know? You've never been to no country but Texas," Gus commented. "If we was in a country that had high mountains, the sky would have to be higher, otherwise the mountains would poke into it." Call didn't answer–he wanted, if possible, to let the topic die.

"If a mountain was to poke a hole in the sky, I don't know what would happen," Gus said.

He felt aggrieved. They had left in such a hurry that he had neglected to procure any whiskey, an oversight he regretted.

"Maybe the sky would look lower if I had some whiskey to drink," he said. "But you were in such a hurry to leave that I forgot to pack any." Call was beginning to be exasperated. They were in deserted country and could get some rest, which would be the wise thing.

"You should clean your guns and stop worrying about the sky being too high," he said.

"I wish you talked more, Woodrow," Augustus said. "I get gloomy if I have to sit around with you all night. You don't talk enough to keep my mind off them gloomy topics." "What topics?" Call asked. "We're healthy and we've got no reason to be gloomy, that I can see." "You can't see much anyway," Gus said.

"Your eyesight's so poor you can't even tell that the sky's higher in Mexico." "The fact is, I was thinking about Billy," Augustus said. "We've never gone on a rangering trip without Billy before." "No, and it don't feel right, does it?" Call agreed.

"Now if he were here I'd have someone to help me complain, and you'd be a lot more comfortable," Augustus said.

They were silent for a while; both stared into the campfire.

"I feel he's around somewhere," Augustus said. "I feel Billy's haunting us. They say people who hang themselves don't ever rest. They don't die with their feet on the ground so their spirits float forever." "Now, that's silly," Call said, although he had heard the same speculation about hanged men.

"I can't stop thinking about him, Woodrow," Gus said. "I figure it was just a mistake Billy made, hanging himself. If he'd thought it over a few more minutes he might have stayed alive and gone on rangering with us." "He's gone, though, Gus–he's gone," Call reminded him, without reproach. He realized he had many of the feelings Augustus was trying to express. All through the bush country he had been nagged by a sense that something was missing, the troop incomplete. He knew it was Long Bill Coleman he missed, and Augustus missed him too. It was, in a way, as if Long Bill were following them at an uncomfortable distance; as if he were out somewhere, in the thin scrub, hoping to be taken back into life.

"I hate a thing like death," Augustus said.

"Well, everybody hates it, I expect," Call said.

"One reason I hate it is because it don't leave you no time to finish conversations," Gus said.

"Oh," Call said. "Was you having a conversation with Billy that night before ... it happened?" Augustus remembered well what he and Billy Coleman had been talking about the night before the suicide. Bill had heard from somebody that Matilda Jane Roberts, their old travelling companion, had opened a bordello in Denver. Matty, as they called her, had ever been a generous whore. Once, on the Rio Grande, bathing not far from camp, she had plucked a big snapping turtle out of the water and walked into camp carrying it by its tail. He and Long Bill always talked about the snapping turtle when Matilda's name came up.

"We was talking about Matty, I believe she's in Denver now," Gus said.

"I guess she never made it to California, then," Call said. "She was planning to go to California, when we knew her." "People don't always do what they intend, Woodrow," Gus said. "Billy Coleman had it in mind to turn carpenter, only he couldn't drive a nail." "He was only a fair shot," Call remembered. "I guess it's a wonder he survived as a ranger as long as he did." "You survive, and you're just a fair shot yourself," Augustus pointed out.

"He married," Call said. He remembered how anguished Long Bill had been after he learned that Pearl had been outraged by the Comanches. That discovery changed him more than all their scrapes and adventures on the prairies.

"He's out there now, Woodrow–I feel him," Gus said. "He's wanting to come back in the worst way." "He's in your memory, that's where he is," Call said. "He's in mine too." He did not believe Long Bill's ghost was out in the sage and the thin chaparral; it was in their memories that Long Bill was a haunt.

"Rangers oughtn't to marry," he said. "They have to leave their womenfolk for too long a spell.

Things like that raid can happen." Augustus didn't answer for a while.

"Things like that happen, married or not," he said finally. "You could be a barber and still get killed." "I just said what I believe," Call said.

"Rangering means ranging, like Captain Scull said. It ain't a settled life. I expect Bill would be alive, if he hadn't married." "I guess it's bad news for Maggie, if you feel that way, Woodrow," Gus said.

"She's needing to retire." "She can retire, if she wants to," Call said.

"Yes, retire and starve," Gus said.

"What would a retired whore do, in Austin, to earn a living? The only thing retired whores can do is what Matty just did, open a whorehouse, and I doubt Maggie's got the capital. I imagine she could borrow it if you went on her note." Call said nothing. He was being as polite as he could. They would need to be at their best, if they were to rescue Captain Scull.

They ought not to be quarrelling over things they couldn't change. He believed what he had just said: rangers ought not to marry. The business about going on Maggie's note was frivolous–Maggie Tilton had no desire to open a whorehouse.

"I doubt Captain Scull is even alive," Gus said. "That old bandit probably killed him long ago." "Maybe, but we still have to look," Call said.

"Yes, but what's our chances?" Gus asked.

"We'll be looking for one man's bones–they could be anywhere in Mexico." "We still have to look," Call said, wishing Augustus would just quiet down and go to sleep.

On the third day the rangers came into terrain that looked familiar–they had crossed the same country before, when Inish Scull had first pursued Ahumado into the Sierra Perdida.

"We've got to be alert now," Call said.

"We're in his country." In the afternoon they both had the feeling that they were being watched–and yet, as far as they could see, the country was entirely empty of human beings. The mountains were now a faint line, far to the west.

Augustus kept looking behind him, and Call did too, but neither of them saw anyone. Once Gus noticed a puff of dust, far behind them. They hid and waited, but no one came. Gus saw the puff of dust again.

"It's them," he said. "They're laying back." Too nervous to leave the problem uninvestigated, they crept back, only to see that the dust had been kicked up by a big mule deer. Gus wanted to shoot the deer, but Call advised against it.

"The sound of a gun would travel too far," he said.

"The sound of my belly rumbling will too, pretty soon, if we don't raise some more grub," Gus said.

"Throw your knife at him–I don't object to that," Call said. "I think it's time we started travelling at night." "Aw, Woodrow, I hate travelling at night in a foreign country," Augustus said.

"I get to thinking about Billy being a ghost. I'd see a spook behind every rock." "That's better than having Ahumado catch you," Call told him. "We're not as important as Captain Scull. They won't send no expeditions after us." "Woodrow, he ain't important either," Augustus said. "None of these ranchers let us have a single cow–I guess they figure the Captain's rich enough to pay his own way out." They rode all night and, the next day, hid under some overhanging rocks. Gus thought to amuse himself by playing solitaire, only to discover that his deck of cards was incomplete.