Lonesome Dove - By Larry McMurtry Page 0,75

The bushes were gray and thorny, and there were no trees at all.

“No, son, you’ve overshot the snow,” Augustus said. “What we have down here is sand.”

Call felt his impatience rising. The night had been far more successful than he could have hoped. They could keep the best horses and sell the rest—the profits would easily enable them to hire a crew and outfit a wagon for the trip north. Then all they would have to do would be gather the cattle and brand them. If everyone would work like they should, it could all be accomplished in three weeks, and they could be on the trail by the first of April—none too soon, considering the distance they had to go. The problem would be getting everyone to work like they should. Jake was already off with his whore, and Augustus hadn’t had breakfast.

“You men go eat,” Call said to the Irishmen; having rescued them, he could do no less than feed them.

Allen O’Brien was looking dejectedly at the few buildings that made up Lonesome Dove. “Is this all there is to the town?” he asked.

“Yes, and it’s worse than it looks,” Augustus said.

To the embarrassment of everyone, Sean O’Brien began to cry. It had been an extremely tense night, and he hadn’t expected to survive it. All during the ride he had expected to fall off his horse and become paralyzed. He associated paralysis with falls because a cousin of his had fallen off a cottage he was thatching and had been paralyzed ever since. The horse Sean had been given seemed to him at least as tall as a cottage, and he felt he had good reason to worry. He had spent a long boat ride growing more and more homesick for the green land he had left. When they were put ashore at Vera Cruz he had not been too disappointed; it was only Mexico they were in, and no one had ever told him Mexico was green.

But now they were in America, and all he could see was dust and low bushes with thorns, and almost no grass at all. He had expected coolness and dew and green grass on which to stretch out for a long nap. The bare hot yard was a cruel letdown, and besides, Sean was an easy weeper. Tears ran out of his eyes whenever he thought of anything sad.

His brother Allen was so embarrassed by the sight of Sean’s tears that he walked straight into the house and sat down at the table. They had been asked to eat—if Sean preferred to stand in the yard crying, that was his problem.

Dish concluded that the young Irishman was probably crazy. Only someone crazy would break out crying in front of several grown men.

Augustus saved the day by going over and taking Sean by the arm. He spoke kindly to him and led him toward the house. “Let’s go eat, son,” he said. “It won’t look quite so ugly on a full stomach.”

“But where’s the grass?” Sean asked, snuffling.

Dish Boggett let out a whoop. “I guess he was meaning to graze,” he said.

“Why, no, Dish,” Augustus said. “He was just reared in a place where the grass covers the ground—not in no desert, like you.”

“I was reared on the Matagorda,” Dish said. “We got grass knee high over there.”

“Gus, we need to talk a minute,” Call said.

But Augustus had already led the boy through the door, and Call had to follow him in.

A surprised Bolivar watched the Irishmen put away sowbelly and beans. He was so startled by their appearance that he picked up a shotgun that he kept by the cookstove and put it across his lap. It was his goat-gun, a rusty .10 gauge, and he liked to have it handy if anything unusual happened.

“I hope you don’t decide to shoot that thing off in here,” Augustus said. “It’d take a wall out if you did—not to mention us.”

“I don’t shoot yet,” Bol said sullenly, keeping his options open.

Call waited until Augustus filled his plate, since there would be no getting his attention until he had food before him. The young Irish boy had stopped crying and was putting away beans faster even than Augustus—starvation was probably all that was wrong with him.

“I’m going to go see if I can hire some hands,” Call said. “You better move them horses this afternoon.”

“Move ’em where?” Augustus asked.

“Upriver, as far as you want,” Call said.

“These Irishmen have fine voices,” Augustus remarked. “It’s