and torture.
“I wonder how big Comanches are?” he asked Gus, as they peered north into the silent darkness.
“About the size of Matilda, I’ve heard,” Gus said.
“That old woman ain’t the size of Matilda,” Call pointed out. “She’s no taller than Rip.”
Rip Green was the smallest Ranger, standing scarcely five feet high. He also lacked a thumb on his right hand, having shot it off himself while cleaning a pistol he had neglected to unload.
“Yes, but she’s old, Woodrow,” Gus said. “I expect she’s shriveled up.
He had just consumed the last of his mescal, and was feeling gloomy at the thought of a long watch with no liquor. At least hehad a scrape, though. Call had no coat?he intended to purchase one with his first wages. He owned two shirts, and wore them both on frosty mornings, when the thorns of the chaparral bushes were rimmed with white.
Just then a wolf howled far to the north, where they were looking. Another wolf joined the first one. Then, nearer by, there was the yip of a coyote.
“They say an Indian can imitate any sound,” Gus remarked. “They can fool you into thinking they’re a wolf or a coyote or an owl or a cricket.”
“I doubt a Comanche would pretend to be a cricket,” Call said.
“Well, a locust then,” Gus said. “Locusts buzz. You get a bunch of them buzzing and it’s hard to hear.”
Again they heard the wolf, and again, the coyote.
“It’s Indians talking,” Gus said. “They’re talking in animal.”
“We don’t know, though,” Call said. “I seen a wolf just yesterday. There’s plenty of coyotes, too. It could just be animals.”
“No, it ain’t, it’s Comanches,” Gus said, standing up. “Let’s go shoot one. I expect if we killed three or four the Major would raise our wages.”
Call thought it was bold thinking. They were already a good distance from camp?the campfire was only a faint flicker behind them. Clouds had begun to come in, hiding the stars. Suppose they went farther and got caught? All the tortures Bigfoot had described might be visited on them. Besides, their orders were to stand watch, not to go Indian hunting.
“I ain’t going,” Call said. “That ain’t what we were supposed to do.”
“I doubt that fat fool is a real major, anyway,” Gus said. He was restless. Sitting half the night by a bush did not appeal to him much. It was undoubtedly a long way to a whorehouse from where they sat, but at least there might be Indians to fight. Better a fight than nothing; with no more mescal to drink, his prospects were meager.
Call, though, had not responded to the call of adventure. He was still squatting by the chaparral bush.
“Why, Gus, he is too a major,” Call said. “You saw how the soldiers saluted him, back in San Antonio.”
“Even if he ain’t a major, he gave us a job,” he reminded his friend. “We’re earning three dollars a month. Long Bill says we’ll get all the Indian fighting we want before we get back to the settlements.”
“Bye, I’m going exploring,” Gus said. “I’ve heard there’s gold mines out in this part of the country.”
“Gold mines,” Call said. “How would you notice a gold mine in the middle of the night, and what would you do with one if you did notice it? You ain’t even got a spade.”
“No, but think of all the whores I could buy if I had a gold mine,” Gus said. “I could even buy a whorehouse. I’d have twenty girls and they’d all be pretty. If I didn’t feel like letting in no customers, I’d do the work myself.”
With that, he walked off a few steps.
“Ain’t you coming?” he asked, when he heard no footsteps behind him.
“No, I was told to stand guard, not to go prospecting,” Call said. “I aim to stand guard till it’s my turn to sleep.
“If you go off and get captured, the Major won’t like it one bit, either,” Call reminded him. “Neither will you. Remember how that Mexican screamed.”
Gus left. Woodrow Call was stubborn?why waste a night arguing with a stubborn man? Gus walked rapidly through the cold night, toward where the wolf had howled. It irked him that his friend was so disposed to obey orders. The way he looked at it, being a Ranger meant you could range, which was what he intended to do.
He thought best to cock his gun, though, in case he was taken by surprise. He had heard men scream while dentists were working on them, but in his experience no one undergoing dentistry had screamed half as loud as the captured Mexican.
After strolling nearly twenty minutes through the sandy country, Gus decided to stop and take his bearings. He looked back to see if he could spot the campfire, but the long plain was dark. Thunder had begun to rumble, and in the west, there was a flicker of lightning.
While he was stopped he thought he heard something behind him and whirled in time to spot a badger, not three feet away. The badger was bumbling along, not watching where it was going. Gus didn’t shoot it, but he did kick at it. He was irritated at the animal for startling him so. It was the kind of thing that could affect a man’s nerves, and it affected his. Because of the badger’s intrusion Gus felt a strong urge to get back to his guard post. Walking around at night didn’t accomplish much. It was annoying that Woodrow Call had been too dull to accompany him.
On the walk back Gus tried to think of some adventure he could describe that would make his friend envious. The campfire had not yet come in sight. Probably the Rangers had been too lazy to gather sufficient firewood, and had let the fire burn down. Gus began to wonder if he was holding a true course. It was hard to see landmarks on a starless night, and there were precious few landmarks in that part of the country, anyway. Of course the river was in the direction he was walking, but the river twisted and curved; if he just depended on the river he might end up several miles from camp. He might even miss breakfast, or what passed for breakfast.
While he was walking, the wolf howled again. Gus decided it was probably just a wolf after all. The boredom of guard duty had caused him to imagine it was a Comanche. He felt some irritation. The wolf had distracted him with its howling, and now he was beginning to get the feeling that he was lost. He had always believed that he had a perfect sense of direction. Even when he was put off on a mud bar in the middle of the Mississippi River, he didn’t get lost. He walked straight on to Dubuque. Of course, it was not hard to find Dubuque?it was there in plain sight, on its bluff. But there were willow thickets and some heavy underbrush between the river and the town. If he had been drunk he might well have gotten lost and ended up pointed toward St. Louis or somewhere. Instead he had strolled straight into Dubuque and had persuaded a bartender to draw him a mug of beer?it had been a thirsty trip, on the old boat. That Iowa beer had tasted good.
Now, though, there was no Mississippi, and no bluff. He could walk for a month in any direction and not find a town the size of Dubuque, or a bartender willing to draw him a mug of beer just because he showed up and asked. He had only owned his weapons for three weeks and so far had not been able to hit anything he shot at, although he believed he might have winged a wild turkey, back along the Colorado River. He might walk around Texas until he starved, due to his inability to hit the kind of game they had in Texas. It was skittery game, for the most part?back in Tennessee the deer were almost as docile as cows, and almost as fat. He had killed two or three from the back porch of the old home place, whereas here in Texas, deer hardly let you get within a mile of them.
Gus stopped and listened for a bit. Sometimes the Rangers sang at night?there had been plenty of whooping and dancing the night they drank the mescal. He felt if he listened he might hear Josh Corn’s harmonica or some other music. Black Sam sometimes let loose with his darky hymns, when he was in low spirits; Sam had a full voice and could be heard a long way, even when he was singing low.
But when Gus stopped to listen, the plain around him was absolutely silent?so silent that the silence itself rang in his ears; the night was as dark as it was silent, too. Gus could see nothing at all, except intermittently, when the lightning flickered. It was because of the lightning that he had spotted the offensive badger that had managed to affect his nerves.
He took a few steps, and stopped. After all, it wouldn’t be night forever, and he had not gone that far from camp. The simplest thing to do would be to wrap up good in his San Antonio scrape and sleep for a few hours. With dawn at his back he could be in camp in a few minutes. If he kept walking he might veer off into the great emptiness and never find his way back. The sensible thing to do was wait. He could yell and hope Woodrow Call responded, but Woodrow had been too dull to move off his guard post; he might be too dull to yell back.
The lightning was coming closer, which offered a sort of solution. He could be patient, mark his course, and
