Текст книги "Comanche Moon"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 40 (всего у книги 46 страниц)

Usually when Ermoke was angry he took his anger out on captive women. He was very lustful.

But the one woman captive in the camp had already been abused so badly that she offered no sport–s now Ermoke had decided to be angry at Idahi. Blue Duck thought Ermoke was a fool. Idahi was a Comanche warrior, Ermoke just a renegade. If the two men fought, Idahi would not be the one who lost his scalp.

But Blue Duck had another reason for letting Idahi leave the camp without challenge, a reason he did not intend to share with Ermoke.

He had asked Idahi to help him kill Buffalo Hump. Of course, Idahi had refused, but Idahi was a gossip. Soon all the Comanches would know that Blue Duck intended to kill Buffalo Hump. Blue Duck knew that when a chief was old and had lost his power he could expect little help from the young warriors. Old chiefs were just old men–they could expect no protection as they waited to die.

Blue Duck wanted Idahi to spread the ^w that he intended to kill his father–t was why he had let Idahi go. The nice thing was that Idahi had even given him back the shotgun. He had lost nothing from Idahi's visit except the bear, and the bear had become more trouble than it was worth.

Ermoke still faced him, still hot.

"If you want to kill somebody, go kill that other old man," Blue Duck said. "I'm tired of looking at him–g club him out. But don't bother my friend Idahi. If you bother him I'll club you out." Ermoke didn't like what he was told–he didn't like it that a Comanche was allowed to come and go, just because he was a Comanche. There was little food in the camp. Tomorrow he meant to take a few of the better warriors and try to find game. He thought he might follow the Comanche while he was at it.

He didn't know. He was angry, but not angry enough to start a fight with Blue Duck, not then.

To relieve his anger he got a club and beat the old white man until he had broken most of his ribs. Several of the renegades watched the beating, idly. One of them, a short whiskey trader with a bent leg named Monkey John, began to upbraid the women for doing such a crude job of skinning the bear. They had got the skin off but it was cut in several places. The bear lay on its back, a naked pile of meat. When Monkey John got tired of yelling at the cowering women he took his knife and cut off the bear's paws, meaning to extract all the claws. Some of the half-breeds put great store in bear claws–Monkey John meant to use them as money and gamble with them.

In the night the old man who had been so severely beaten coughed up blood and died. One of the half-breeds dragged him into the river, but the river was shallow. The old man didn't float far. He grounded on a mud bank, a few hundred yards from camp. In the morning the mud bank was thick with carrion birds.

"Buzzard breakfast, serves him right," Monkey John said. He rattled his bear claws, hoping to entice some of the renegades into a game of cards.

Jake Spoon's decision to leave the rangers and go north caught everyone by surprise except Augustus McCrae, who, as he grew older, laid more and more frequent claims to omniscience.

Gus had stopped allowing himself to be surprised; when something unexpected happened, such as Jake abruptly quitting the troop, Augustus immediately claimed that he had known it was going to happen.

Augustus's habit of appearing all-knowing weighed on everybody, but it weighed heaviest on Woodrow Call.

"How did you know it?" Call asked. "Jake said himself he only made up his mind last night." "Well, but that's a lie," Augustus said.

"Jake's been planning to leave for years, ever since you took against him. It's just that he's a lazy cuss and was slow to get around to it." "I didn't take against the man," Call said, "although I agree that he's lazy." "Would you at least agree that you don't like the man?" Gus asked. "You ain't liked him a bit since he started bunking with Maggie–and that was back about the time the war started." Call ignored the comment. It had been some years since he had been up the steps to Maggie's room. If he met her on the street he said a polite hello, but had no other contact with her. The boy, Newt, was always around where the rangers were, of course; Pea Eye, Deets, and Jake had made a kind of pet of the boy. But what went on between Jake Spoon and Maggie Tilton had long ceased to be any concern of his.

"I don't regard him highly, will that satisfy you?" Call said.

"No, but I have passed the point in life where I expect to be satisfied," Augustus said.

"At least I don't expect to be satisfied with much. When it comes right down to it, Woodrow, I guess my own cooking beats anything I've come across in this life." Lately, due to a dissatisfaction with a succession of company cooks–Deets no longer had the time to cook, due to his duties with the horses–Augustus had mastered the art of making sourdough biscuits, a skill of which he was inordinately proud.

"I will allow that Jake has done a fair job with the bookkeeping," Call said. "That will be your job, once he leaves, and you need to be strict about it." They were sitting in front of a little two-room shack they had purchased together, at the start of the war, to be their living quarters. Augustus, after the death of his Nell, vowed never to marry again; Call gave marriage no thought. The house cost them forty-five dollars. It consisted of two rooms with a dirt floor. It beat sleeping outdoors, but not by much, particularly not in the season when the fleas were active.

"Bookkeep yourself," Gus said. "I will leave too before I'll waste my time scribbling in a ledger." Across the way, at the lots, they could see Jake Spoon, standing around with Deets and Pea Eye and several other rangers. His horse was saddled but he seemed in no hurry to leave. He sat on the top rail of the corral, with Newt, dangling his feet.

"He said he was leaving this morning, but it's nearly dark and he's still here," Call said.

"Maybe he just wants to spend one more night in safe company," Augustus suggested. "With the war ending I expect he'll have to put up with a lot of thieving riffraff on the roads." "I expect so," Call said, wishing Jake would go on and leave. Some of the rangers were using his departure as an occasion for getting thoroughly drunk.

"The question ain't why Jake's leaving, it's why we're staying," Augustus said. "We ought to up and quit, ourselves." Call had been thinking along the same lines, but had not pushed his thoughts hard enough to reach a conclusion. The distant war had ended but the Comanche war hadn't; there was still plenty of rangering to do– yet the thought of quitting had occurred to him more than once.

"If we don't quit pretty soon we'll be doing this when we're ninety years old," Augustus said. "Some young governor will be sending us out to catch rascals that any decent sheriff ought to be able to catch." "And that will have been life," he added. "A lot of whoring and the rest of the time spent catching rascals." "I would like to see the Indian business through," Call replied.

"Woodrow, it's through," Augustus said.

"The settlers up in Jack County don't think so," Call said. There had been a small massacre only the week before–a party of teamsters had been ambushed and killed.

"I have no doubt a few more firecrackers will go off," Augustus said. "But not many. The Yankee military boys will soon come down and finish off the Comanche." Call knew there was truth in what Gus said.

Most of the Comanche bands had already come in–only a few hundred warriors were still free and inclined to fight. Still, it was too soon to say it was over; besides that, there was the border, as chaotic from the standpoint of law and order as it had been before the Mexican War.

Augustus, though, was not through with his discourse on the Indian question.

"In six months' time we'll have the Yankees here, giving us orders," he said.

"We're just Rebs to them. They won't want our help. We'll be lucky if they even let us keep our firearms. They'll probably have to issue us a pass before we're even allowed on the plains." "I don't think it will be that bad," Call said, but he spoke without conviction. The Confederacy had been defeated, and Texas had been part of the Confederacy. There was little telling what the future of the rangers would be. What Augustus had proposed on the spur of the moment–quitting the rangers–might not merely be something they ought to consider; it might be something they would have to consider.

"We've done this since we were boys," he said to Gus. "What would we do, if we quit?" "I don't care, as long as we go someplace that ain't dull," Augustus said. "Remember that town that wasn't quite there yet, by the river? I expect that Frenchwoman has got the roof on that saloon by now. Not only could she cook, she could barber. Lonesome Dove–wasn't that what they called it? It might be booming now. It wouldn't hurt us to ride down that way and take a look." Call didn't reply. He saw that Jake Spoon was shaking hands with all concerned.

Probably he had decided to leave that night, after all. Augustus noticed and stood up, meaning to saunter over and say goodbye.

"Coming, Woodrow?" he asked.

"No–he's got half the town to say goodbye to as it is," Call said–but Augustus, to his surprise, insisted that he come.

"You've been his captain since he was a boy," Gus said. "You mustn't let him go off without a goodbye." Call knew Augustus was right–it would puzzle the boys who were staying if he held aloof from Jake's goodbye. He walked over with Augustus and shook Jake's hand.

"Take care on the roads, Jake, and good luck," he said.

Jake Spoon was so surprised that Call had come to see him off that he flushed with gratitude.

It had been four years or more since Call had spoken to him, other than to issue the briefest and simplest commands–mostly, for the whole term of the civil war, Captain Call had treated him as if he were not there. It was such a surprise to receive a handshake from him that Jake was speechless, for a time.

"Thanks, Captain," he managed to mumble.

"I aim to go prospecting for silver." Call saw no need to extend the courtesies further. Even though Jake was mounted, Augustus produced a bottle and passed it around; soon the whole troop would be too drunk to notice whether he was polite to Jake Spoon or not. He noticed to his surprise that several of the rangers had been crying–ffPea Eye and Deets and several of the younger men, Jake was a pard, a friend who had rangered with them and shared the anxieties of youth. Jake had ever been a merry companion, except when he was scared; why wouldn't they mist up a little, now that he was going?

Call walked away, back across the street, past the house where Maggie Tilton still boarded.

He wondered, for a moment, what she was thinking, now that the man who had carried her groceries and tended her garden was going. He seldom thought much of Maggie now, though, sometimes, from habit, crossing beneath her window at night, he would look up to see if her lamp was lit.

In the dusk, by the lots, the men were urging Jake to stay at least until morning. Newt could not control his emotions–tears kept leaking out of his eyes. He kept turning his back to wipe them away, so that Pea Eye and Deets and the others would not see him crying. Jake was his best pard and his mother's best friend. With his mother sickly and Jake leaving, Newt hardly knew what he would do; he would have to try and do all the things that Jake did, when it came to helping his mother. He didn't know much about gardening, but thought he could manage the firewood, at least.

Pea Eye, too, was disturbed. Jake had been talking about leaving the rangers the whole of the time Pea Eye had known him; he supposed it was just the kind of dreamy talk men indulged in when they were restless or blue; but now his horse was saddled and all his goods packed on a mule he had bought with some saved-up wages. Pea Eye considered the move a dreadful mistake–but no one could argue Jake out of it.

Deets said only a brief goodbye. The comings and goings of white men were beyond his understanding and concern.

Now and then, though, he saw things in the stars he didn't like, things that suggested Mr. Jake might be having some trouble, someday. No doubt his leaving would make Miss Maggie sad.

When Augustus learned that Jake had purchased a mule to carry his tack, he was indignant.

"Why, Jake, you scamp–y've been hoarding up money," he said. "Your job was to bring out your money and lose it to me in a fair game of poker. Now that I know you're a hoarder I ain't so sorry you're leaving." Jake had taken a good amount of liquor in the course of his goodbyes. In fact, he had been drunk for the last three days, attempting to work himself up to departing. No one could understand why he wanted to leave at such a time, with the war just ended.

Jake hadn't wanted to be a soldier in that war, but he did want to get rich. He had seen a little booklet about the silver prospects in Colorado and the thought of discovering silver had given him a bad case of wanderlust.

Besides, Texas was poor, impoverished by the war; the Indians were still bad, and Woodrow Call didn't like him–all reasons for leaving. Even if Call had liked him there would have been no way to get rich in Texas–Jake had a longing for fine clothes that would never be satisfied if he stayed in Texas.

Of course, there was Maggie and Newt–they'd been a family to him for a few years, although Maggie had refused him the one time he suggested marriage. Later, Jake was relieved by the refusal. Maggie was not well, and, even if she had been, it was too hard to earn a living in a poor place such as Texas.

Besides, he had heard a rumour that the Yankee military meant to come in and hang all the Texas Rangers, as being sympathizers with the Rebs. He didn't want to hang, so now he was leaving, but it wasn't an easy thing. He had bidden goodbye to Maggie three times now, and to Newt; he had said several goodbyes to Pea Eye and the boys. It was time to go, and yet he lingered.

"Go on now, Jake, if you're going," Augustus said, finally. "I can't afford no more goodbye toasts." With no further ado, Augustus walked away, and the rangers, after a final farewell handshake, wandered off to the part of town where the whores plied their trade. Jake felt lonely, suddenly–lonely and confused. Part of him had hoped, until the end, that someone would come out with an argument that would cause him to change his mind and stay. But now the street was empty; the boys had blandly accepted his decision to leave and it seemed he must go. If he waited until morning and announced that he had changed his mind the boys would only scorn him and take him for an irresolute fool.

Sad and unsteadied, Jake managed to secure the lead rope attached to the pack mule. Now that he actually had to leave, the fact of the mule irritated him. It had already proven itself to be an annoying beast, but if he waited until morning and tried to sell it back to the horse traders they would only offer him a pittance. He decided to sell the mule in Fort Worth, instead. Perhaps there was a shortage of good mules up there–he would see.

In leaving he passed beneath Maggie's window.

If the lamp had been lit he would have hitched his animals and rushed up for one more farewell, perhaps even one more embrace; but the window was dark.

Tears rushed out at the thought that he was leaving his Mag, but Jake didn't stop. He knew Newt wanted him to stay, but he wasn't so sure about Maggie. She didn't chatter much with him anymore; perhaps it was her illness. In any case there were said to be merry women in Colorado, and Colorado was where he was bound.

Above him in the dark room, Maggie watched him leave. Newt had come in sobbing and cried himself to sleep. Maggie watched out the darkened window as Jake made his extended farewells. She left the light off deliberately, so that Jake would not rush at her again, confused, sad, importunate; one minute he wanted her to bless his departure, the next he wanted her to marry him and keep him in Austin. In either mood he sought her welcome, wanted her to lie with him. It had been months since Maggie had felt well. She had a cough that wouldn't leave her. She did her job and tended her child, but she rarely had the energy now to deal with Jake Spoon's confusions, or his needs.

Though Maggie knew she would miss Jake– she felt a certain sadness as he passed beneath her window–she also felt relieved that he was going.

Though he was as helpful as he knew how to be, having him with her was like having two children, and she no longer had the energy for it. She had never been able to be quite what Jake wanted, though she had tried; though she would now have no one to carry her groceries or help her with her garden, she would also be free of the strain involved in never being quite what a man wanted.

Her true regret was for Newt. Jake had been what father Newt had; Newt's life would be the poorer, for his leaving. Maggie was glad that all the ranger boys liked her son; they let him stay with them all day, when they were in town. The fear that haunted Maggie, that seized her every time she coughed, was that she would die before Newt was grown.

What would happen to Newt then? Sometimes Maggie imagined that with her death Woodrow would soften and accept his son, but it was not a thing she could be confident of. Many nights she scarcely slept.

She tried to evaluate her own coughing; she wondered what her son would do, if she died.

At least she knew he was welcome with the ranger boys, Augustus and Pea Eye and Deets.

Newt had grown up with those men; they had all had a hand in his raising. Ikey Ripple was like a grandfather to the boy. Maggie knew Augustus well enough to know that, with all his whoring and his drinking, he would see to it that Newt was well cared for.

Gus wouldn't desert him, nor would Deets or Pea–even without her, Newt would be better off than many of the orphaned children adrift in the country now, children whose parents the war had taken.

But such reflections didn't end Maggie's fears. Augustus McCrae was not immortal, and neither were the others. What if they had to leave Texas to earn a living, as Jake was doing?

What if they were all killed in an Indian fight?

The worry about Newt and his future was a worry Maggie could not entirely put down–it made her determined to last. If she could just last a few more years Newt would be old enough that someone might employ him–she knew that many cowboys were no more than twelve or thirteen when they first gained employment on the many ranches to the south.

The streets of Austin were empty: Jake was gone. Maggie sat by the window a long time, thinking, hoping, looking down at the silent street.

Then, just as she was about to go to bed, she saw Pea Eye roll out of the wagon where he had been napping. Maggie watched, expecting him to walk off–she had never known Pea Eye to be drunk, but then old friends such as Jake Spoon didn't leave the troop every day. It was late in the night and chilly; it had begun to drizzle. Maggie waited, thinking Pea Eye would wake up, stand up, and make his way to the shelter of the bunkhouse.

But he didn't wake up. He lay as he had fallen, flat on his face in the street.

Maggie went to bed, telling herself that Pea Eye was, after all, a grown man–z a roving ranger he had no doubt slept out of doors in far worse weather, and in more dangerous places than the streets of Austin.

Maggie's reasoning failed to convince her–the thought of Pea Eye kept sleep from coming. No doubt he had slept out of doors in worse weather, but, on those occasions, she hadn't been in sight of him. Finally she got up, took a heavy quilt out of her cedar chest, went down the stairs, walked the few steps, covered Pea with the quilt, and pulled him around so that his legs were no longer sticking into the street where a wagon could run over them, as in the case of the senator who lost his hand.

The next morning, when Maggie went down to recover her quilt, Pea Eye was seated with his back to the wagon wheel, looking like a man in shaky health and spirits.

"I wish I could take my head off," he said, to Maggie. "If I could take it off I'd chuck it far enough away that I couldn't feel it throb." "Many a man has ruined his health for good, drinking whiskey with Gus McCrae," Maggie informed him sternly.

Pea Eye didn't dispute the opinion.

"Gus? He can hold more liquor than a tub," he said. "Is this your quilt?" "Yes, I thought I better cover you," Maggie said.

"I had an awful dream," Pea Eye said.

"I dreamed a big Comanche held me up by my legs and scalped me." "That wasn't a Comanche, that was me," Maggie said. "Your legs were sticking into the street–I was afraid a wagon would run over you, so I pulled you around." "Jake's gone off to Colorado to find a silver mine," Pea Eye said.

Maggie didn't answer. Instead, to Pea Eye's consternation, she began to cry. She didn't say anything; she just took her quilt and walked home with it, crying.

Pea Eye, never certain about what women might do, got up at once and walked back to the bunkhouse. He resolved in future never to get drunk and fall asleep where a woman might spot him. That way there would be no tears.

"Maybe I shouldn't have talked about my dream," he said, a little later, discussing the incident with Deets.

"Do you think it would upset a woman to hear about my dream?" Pea asked.

"Don't know. I ain't a woman and I ain't had no dream," Deets said.

Inish Scull–General Scull now, thanks to a brilliant, some would say brutal, series of victories in the long conflict with the South–had just settled into his study, with the morning papers and a cup of Turkish coffee, when his nephew Augereau, a wispy youth with French leanings, wandered in with an annoyed look on his face.

"It's a damn nuisance, not having a butler," Augereau said. "Why would Entwistle enlist?" "I suppose he didn't want to miss the great fight," General Scull replied. "I didn't so much mind his enlisting–the real nuisance is that the man got himself killed, and within two weeks of the armistice too. If the fool had only kept his head down for another two weeks you wouldn't be having to answer the door, would you, Augereau?" "It is rather annoying–I ain't a butler," Augereau said. "I was reading Vauvenargues." "Well, Vauvenargues will keep, but what about the fellow at the door? I suppose it was a fellow," Scull said.

"Yes, I believe he's a colonel," Augereau said.

"There's no reason to expect. Either he is or he isn't," Scull said. "Would it discommode you too much to show him in?" "I suppose I could show him in, since he's here," Augereau said. "I say, will Auntie Inez be back soon? It's a good deal more jolly when Auntie Inez is here." "Your aunt just inherited a great deal of money," Scull informed him. "She's run off to Cuba, to buy another plantation. I don't know when she'll be returning. Her tropical habits ain't exactly suited to Boston." "Oh what, the masturbation?" young Augereau said. "But there was a lap robe and they were in a carriage. What's the bother?" "Augereau, would you mind going and getting that colonel?" Scull said. "We can discuss your dear Auntie's behaviour some other time." Augereau went to the door, but he didn't quite exit the study. He stood for almost a minute right in the doorway, as if undecided whether to go out or stay in.

"The fact is, I don't much care for Vauvenargues," he said. "I do care for Auntie–hang the bloody masturbation!" Then, before Scull could speak to him again about the colonel he had misplaced somewhere in the house, Augereau turned and drifted off, leaving the door to the study ajar, a lapse that irritated Scull intensely. He liked doors, drawers, shutters, windows, and cabinets to be closed properly, and, on balance, was more annoyed with his impeccably trained butler, Entwistle, for getting himself shot at an obscure depot in Pennsylyania than he was at Inez for masturbating old Jervis Dalrymple in an open carriage injudiciously parked near Boston Common. Somehow the lap robe had slipped during the operation; to Inez's annoyance the policeman who happened to be passing was a tall Vermonter, well able to look into the carriage and witness the act, which resulted in a charge of public fornication, not to mention much fuss and bother.

"Really, you Yankeesffwas Inez remarked in annoyance. "I was only doing off his pizzle in order to calm him down. I couldn't take him into Mr. Cabot's tea party in that state, now could I? He might have thrust himself on some innocent young miss." "I have no doubt your action was well intended," Scull told his wife, "but you might have been more careful about where you parked." "I'll park where I please–th is a free country, or at least it was until you filthy Yankees won the war," Inez told him, her fury rising. "It was no worse than milking a cow. I suppose next I'll be arrested if I decide to milk my Jersey in public." "Your Jersey and a Dalrymple pizzle are not quite the same thing, not in the eyes of Boston," Scull informed her. He had recently been forced to turn all the Scull portraits face to the wall, to prevent Inez from ruining them with her wild quirtings.

Young Augereau never reappeared, but, after a bit, Scull heard a tread in the hallway, a hesitant and rather unmilitary tread. He put down his Turkish coffee and stepped out of the study just in time to stop a thin, stooped colonel in the United States Army from proceeding along the almost endless hallway.

"I'm here, Colonel–we lost our butler, you know," Scull said.

"I'm Colonel Soult," the man said. "We met not long after Vicksburg, but I don't suppose you remember. That's S-o-u-l-t–x's often confused with "salt."' In my youth I was called "Salty"' because of the confusion." Scull had no memory of the man, but he did recall seeing the name "Soult"' on a muster roll or document of some sort.

"Samuel Soult, is it?" he inquired, only to see a flush of delight come to the man's sallow features.

"Why, yes, that's me, Sam Soult," he said, shaking Scull's hand.

"What brings you to our old Boston, Colonel Soult?" Scull asked, once the two of them were settled in his study. A sulky cook had even been persuaded to bring Colonel Soult a cup of the strong Turkish coffee General Scull now favored.

Scull wore the multilensed dark glasses he had worn throughout the war–glasses which got him the nickname "Blinders" Scull. With a touch of his finger he could regulate the tint and thickness of the lenses to compensate for whatever intensity of light prevailed. The study, at the time, was rather a litter. Scull could see that the disorder offended the neat colonel a little; but, by the end of the war, he was in a fever of impatience to get back to the book he had just started writing when the conflict broke out: The Anatomy and Function of the Eyelid in Mammals, Reptiles, Fish, and Birds. At the moment he was plowing through the classical authors, noting every reference to the eyelids, however slight. A towering pile of papers, journals, books, letters, photographs, and drawings had had to be dumped out of the chair where Colonel Soult was by now rather cautiously sitting.

"I was sent, sir–sent by the generals," Colonel Soult said. "You did leave the front rather quickly, once the peace was settled." "True, I'm not a man to wait," Scull said. "The fighting was over–the details can be left to the clerks. I had a book to write, as you can see–a book on the eyelid, a neglected subject. Until I lost my own I didn't realize how neglected. I was eager to get to it–st am. I hope you've not come all this way to try and pull me away from my researches, Colonel Soult." "Well, I .was sent by the generals," Colonel Soult admitted. "They believe you're the man to take the West–I believe that's the general view." The Colonel was almost stuttering in his anxiety.

"Take the West? Take it where?" Scull asked.

"What I meant to say was, administer it," the Colonel said. "General Grant and General Sherman, they're of the view that you're the man to do it." "What did General Sherman think about this scheme?" Scull inquired. He knew that the rough Sherman was not likely to sponsor or support his candidacy for such an important post.

"Don't know that Sherman was consulted," the Colonel admitted. "If you won't take the West, would you at least take Texas? The savages there require a firm hand and the border is not entirely pacified, if reports are to be believed." "No, the savages in Texas are broken," Scull said firmly. "I don't doubt that there are a few free remnants, but they won't last long. As for the border, my view is that we should never have bothered stealing it from Mexico in the first place. It's only thorn and mesquite anyway." He let that opinion sink in and then pointed his thick blinders directly at the quaking colonel and let fly.

"You're a poor specimen of colonel, Sam Soult," Scull said. "First you offer me the West and then you reduce me to Texas before I even refused the first offer. All I did was inquire about General Sherman's opinion, which you evidently can't provide." "Oh, beg pardon, General–I suppose I'm not used to this sweet coffee," the Colonel said, aghast at the blunder he had just committed.

"Your tone when I offered the West was not encouraging –of course, if you would take the whole West, the generals would be delighted." "No sir, I pass," Scull said. "Let General Sherman run the West. I expect the Sioux and the Cheyenne will lead him on a merry chase for a few more years." "I don't believe he wants it either," the Colonel said, with a droop in his tone.

"General Sherman has not declared his intentions." "If Sherman won't take it, give to whoever you want," Scull said. "I doubt the northern tribes will last ten years, if they last that long." "But General, what about Texas?" the lugubrious colonel asked. "We have no one to send. The President was particularly hopeful that you'd take Texas." Inish Scull clicked his lenses a few times, until he came to the last lens, the one that shut out all light, and insured perfect darkness.