CHAPTER 4

The border nights had qualities that he had come to admire, different as they were from the qualities of nights in

Tennessee. In Tennessee, as he remembered, nights tended to get mushy, with a cottony mist drifting into the hollows.

Border nights were so dry you could smell the dirt, and clear as dew. In fact, the nights were so clear it was tricky; even

with hardly any moon the stars were bright enough that every bush and fence post cast a shadow. Pea Eye, who had a

jumpy disposition, was always shying from shadows, and he had even blazed away at innocent chaparral bushes on

occasion, mistaking them for bandits.

Augustus was not particularly nervous, but even so he had hardly started down the street before he got a scare: a little

ball of shadow ran right at his feet. He jumped sideways, fearing snakebite, although his brain knew snakes didn’t roll like

balls. Then he saw an armadillo hustle past his feet. Once he saw what it was, he tried to give it a kick to teach it not to

walk in the street scaring people, but the armadillo hurried right along as if it had as much right to the street as a banker.

The town was not roaring with people, nor was it bright with lights, though a light was on at the Pumphreys’, whose

daughter was about to have a baby. The Pumphreys ran a store; the baby their daughter was expecting would arrive in

the world to find itself fatherless, since the boy who had married the Pumphrey girl had drowned in the Republican River

in the fall of the year, with the girl only just pregnant.

There was only one horse hitched outside the Dry Bean when Augustus strolled up—a rangy sorrel that he recognized as

belonging to a cowboy named Dishwater Boggett, so named because he had once rushed into camp so thirsty from a dry

drive that he wouldn’t wait his turn at the water barrel and had filled up on some dishwater the cook had been about to

throw out. Seeing the sorrel gave Augustus a prime feeling because Dish Boggett loved card playing, though he lacked

even minimal skills. Of course he also probably lacked ante money, but that didn’t necessarily rule out a game. Dish was a

good hand and could always get hired—Augustus didn’t mind playing for futures with such a man.

When he stepped in the door, everybody was looking peeved, probably because Lippy was banging away at “My Bonnie

Lies Over the Ocean,” a song that he loved to excess and played as if he hoped it could be heard in the capital of Mexico.

Xavier Wanz, the little Frenchman who owned the place, was nervously wiping his tables with a wet rag. Xavier seemed to

think keeping the tables well wiped was the crucial factor in his business, though Augustus was often forced to point out

to him that such a view was nonsense. Most of the patrons of the Dry Bean were so lacking in fastidiousness that they

wouldn’t have noticed a dead skunk on the tables, much less a few crumbs and spilled drinks.

Xavier himself had a near-monopoly on fastidiousness in Lonesome Dove. He wore a white shirt the year round, clipped

his little mustache once a week and even wore a bow tie, or, at least, a black shoestring that did its best to serve as a bow

tie. Some cowpoke had swiped Xavier’s last real bow tie, probably meaning to try and impress some girl somewhere up

the trail. Since the shoestring was limp, and not stiff like a bow tie should be, it merely added to the melancholy of

Xavier’s appearance, which would have been melancholy enough without it. He had been born in New Orleans and had

ended up in Lonesome Dove because someone had convinced him Texas was the land of opportunity. Though he soon

discovered otherwise, he was too proud or too fatalistic to attempt to correct his mistake. He approached day-to-day life

in the Dry Bean with a resigned temper, which on occasion stopped being resigned and became explosive. When it

exploded, the placid air was apt to be rent by Creole curses.

“Good evening, my good friend,” Augustus said. He said it with as much gravity as he could muster, since Xavier

appreciated a certain formality.

In return, Xavier nodded stiffly. It was hard to extend the amenities when Lippy was at the height of a performance.

Dish Boggett was sitting at one of the tables with Lorena, hoping to persuade her to give him a poke on credit. Though

Dish was barely twenty-two, he wore a walrus mustache that made him look years older than he was, and much more

solemn. In color the mustache was stuck between yellow and brown—kind of prairie-dog-colored, Augustus thought. He

frequently suggested to Dish that if he wanted to eat prairie dog he ought to remember to pick his teeth, a reference to

the mustache whose subtlety was lost on Dish.

Lorena had her usual look—the look of a woman who was somewhere else. She had a fine head of blond hair, whose

softness alone set her apart in a country where most women’s hair had a consistency not much softer than saddle strings.

Her cheeks hollowed a little—it gave her a distracting beauty. Augustus’s experience had taught him that hollow-cheeked

beauty was a dangerous kind. His two wives had both been fat-cheeked and trustworthy but had possessed little

resistance to the climate. One had expired of pleurisy in only the second year of their marriage, while the other had beencarried off by scarlet fever after the seventh. But the woman Lorena put him most in mind of was Clara Allen, whom he

had loved hardest and deepest, and still loved. Clara’s eyes were direct and sparkled with interest, whereas Lorena’s wer

always side-looking. Still, there was something about the girl that reminded him of Clara, who had chosen a stolid hors

trader when she decided to marry

“’I god, Dish,” he said, going over to the table, “I never expected to see you loafing down here in the south this time o

the year.

“Loan me two dollars, Gus,” Dish said

“Not me,” Augustus said. “Why would I loan money to a loafer? You ought to be trailing cattle by this time of year.

“I’ll be leaving next week to do just that,” Dish said. “Loan me two dollars and I’ll pay you in the fall.

“Unless you drown or get stomped or shoot somebody and get hung,” Augustus said. “No sir. Too many perils ahead

Anyway, I’ve known you to be sly, Dish. You’ve probably got two dollars and just don’t want to spend it.

Lippy finished his concert and came and joined them. He wore a brown bowler hat he had picked up on the road to Sa

Antonio some years before. Either it had blown out of a stagecoach or the Indians had snatched some careless drumme

and not bothered to take his hat. At least those were the two theories Lippy had worked out in order to explain his goo

fortune in finding the hat. In Augustus’s view the hat would have looked better blowing around the country for two year

than it did at present. Lippy only wore it when he played the piano; when he was just gambling or sitting aroun

attending to the leak from his stomach he frequently used the hat for an ashtray and then sometimes forgot to empty th

ashes before putting the hat back on his head. He only had a few strips of stringy gray hair hanging off his skull, and th

ashes didn’t make them look much worse, but ashes represented only a fraction of the abuse the bowler had suffered. I

was also Lippy’s pillow, and had had so many things spilled on it or in it that Augustus could hardly look at it withou

gagging

“That hat looks about like a buffalo cud,” Augustus said. “A hat ain’t meant to be a chamber pot, you know. If I was you I’

throw it away.

Lippy was so named because his lower lip was about the size of the flap on a saddlebag. He could tuck enough snuff unde

it to last a normal person at least a month; in general the lip lived a life of its own, there toward the bottom of his face

Even when he was just sitting quietly, studying his cards, the lip waved and wiggled as if it had a breeze blowing across it

which in fact it did. Lippy had something wrong with his nose and breathed with his mouth wide open

Accustomed as she was to hard doings, it had still taken Lorena a while to get used to the way Lippy slurped when he wa

eating, and she had once had a dream in which a cowboy walked by Lippy and buttoned the lip to his nose as if it wer

the flap of a pocket. But her disgust was nothing compared to Xavier’s, who suddenly stopped wiping tables and cam

over and grabbed Lippy’s hat off his head. Xavier was in a bad mood, and his features quivered like those of a trappe

rabbit

“Disgrace! I won’t have this hat. Who can eat?” Xavier said, though nobody was trying to eat. He took the hat around th

bar and flung it out the back door. Once as a boy he had carried slops in a restaurant in New Orleans that actually use

tablecloths, a standard of excellence which haunted him still. Every time he looked at the bare tables in the Dry Bean h

felt a failure. Instead of having tablecloths, the tables were so rough you could get a splinter just running your hand ove

them. Also, they weren’t attractively round, since the cowboys could not be prevented from whittling on thei

edges—over the years sizable chunks had been whittled off, giving most of the tables an unbalanced look

He himself had a linen tablecloth which he brought out once a year, on the anniversary of the death of his wife. His wif

had been a bully and he didn’t miss her, but it was the only occasion sufficient to provide an excuse for the use of 

tablecloth in Lonesome Dove. His wife, whose name had been Therese, had bullied horses, too, which is why his team ha

run off and flung themselves and the buggy into a gully, the buggy landing right on top of Therese. At the annual dinner i

her honor Xavier proved that he was still a restaurateur of discipline by getting drunk without spilling a drop on the fin

tablecloth. Augustus was the only one invited to the dinners, but he only came every three or four years, out o

politeness; not only were the occasions mournful and silly—everyone in Lonesome Dove had been glad to see the last o

Therese—they were mildly dangerous. Augustus was neither as disciplined a drinker as Xavier nor as particular abou

tablecloths, either, and he knew that if he spilled liquor on the precious linen the situation would end badly. He would no

likely have to shoot Xavier, but it might be necessary to whack him on the head, and Augustus hated to hit such a smal

head with such a large pistol

To Xavier’s mind, Lippy’s hat was the final exacerbation. No man of dignity would allow such a hat in his establishment

much less on the head of an employee, so from time to time he seized it and flung it out the door. Perhaps a goat woul

eat it; they were said to eat worse. But the goats ignored the hat, and Lippy always went out and retrieved it when h

remembered that he needed an ashtray carried off by scarlet fever after the seventh. But the woman Lorena put him most in mind of was Clara Allen, whom he

had loved hardest and deepest, and still loved. Clara’s eyes were direct and sparkled with interest, whereas Lorena’s were

always side-looking. Still, there was something about the girl that reminded him of Clara, who had chosen a stolid horse

trader when she decided to marry.

“’I god, Dish,” he said, going over to the table, “I never expected to see you loafing down here in the south this time of

the year.”

“Loan me two dollars, Gus,” Dish said.

“Not me,” Augustus said. “Why would I loan money to a loafer? You ought to be trailing cattle by this time of year.”

“I’ll be leaving next week to do just that,” Dish said. “Loan me two dollars and I’ll pay you in the fall.”

“Unless you drown or get stomped or shoot somebody and get hung,” Augustus said. “No sir. Too many perils ahead.

Anyway, I’ve known you to be sly, Dish. You’ve probably got two dollars and just don’t want to spend it.”

Lippy finished his concert and came and joined them. He wore a brown bowler hat he had picked up on the road to San

Antonio some years before. Either it had blown out of a stagecoach or the Indians had snatched some careless drummer

and not bothered to take his hat. At least those were the two theories Lippy had worked out in order to explain his good

fortune in finding the hat. In Augustus’s view the hat would have looked better blowing around the country for two years

than it did at present. Lippy only wore it when he played the piano; when he was just gambling or sitting around

attending to the leak from his stomach he frequently used the hat for an ashtray and then sometimes forgot to empty the

ashes before putting the hat back on his head. He only had a few strips of stringy gray hair hanging off his skull, and the

ashes didn’t make them look much worse, but ashes represented only a fraction of the abuse the bowler had suffered. It

was also Lippy’s pillow, and had had so many things spilled on it or in it that Augustus could hardly look at it without

gagging.

“That hat looks about like a buffalo cud,” Augustus said. “A hat ain’t meant to be a chamber pot, you know. If I was you I’d

throw it away.”

Lippy was so named because his lower lip was about the size of the flap on a saddlebag. He could tuck enough snuff under

it to last a normal person at least a month; in general the lip lived a life of its own, there toward the bottom of his face.

Even when he was just sitting quietly, studying his cards, the lip waved and wiggled as if it had a breeze blowing across it,

which in fact it did. Lippy had something wrong with his nose and breathed with his mouth wide open.

Accustomed as she was to hard doings, it had still taken Lorena a while to get used to the way Lippy slurped when he was

eating, and she had once had a dream in which a cowboy walked by Lippy and buttoned the lip to his nose as if it were

the flap of a pocket. But her disgust was nothing compared to Xavier’s, who suddenly stopped wiping tables and came

over and grabbed Lippy’s hat off his head. Xavier was in a bad mood, and his features quivered like those of a trapped

rabbit.

“Disgrace! I won’t have this hat. Who can eat?” Xavier said, though nobody was trying to eat. He took the hat around the

bar and flung it out the back door. Once as a boy he had carried slops in a restaurant in New Orleans that actually used

tablecloths, a standard of excellence which haunted him still. Every time he looked at the bare tables in the Dry Bean he

felt a failure. Instead of having tablecloths, the tables were so rough you could get a splinter just running your hand over

them. Also, they weren’t attractively round, since the cowboys could not be prevented from whittling on their

edges—over the years sizable chunks had been whittled off, giving most of the tables an unbalanced look.

He himself had a linen tablecloth which he brought out once a year, on the anniversary of the death of his wife. His wife

had been a bully and he didn’t miss her, but it was the only occasion sufficient to provide an excuse for the use of a

tablecloth in Lonesome Dove. His wife, whose name had been Therese, had bullied horses, too, which is why his team had

run off and flung themselves and the buggy into a gully, the buggy landing right on top of Therese. At the annual dinner in

her honor Xavier proved that he was still a restaurateur of discipline by getting drunk without spilling a drop on the fine

tablecloth. Augustus was the only one invited to the dinners, but he only came every three or four years, out of

politeness; not only were the occasions mournful and silly—everyone in Lonesome Dove had been glad to see the last of

Therese—they were mildly dangerous. Augustus was neither as disciplined a drinker as Xavier nor as particular about

tablecloths, either, and he knew that if he spilled liquor on the precious linen the situation would end badly. He would not

likely have to shoot Xavier, but it might be necessary to whack him on the head, and Augustus hated to hit such a small

head with such a large pistol.

To Xavier’s mind, Lippy’s hat was the final exacerbation. No man of dignity would allow such a hat in his establishment,

much less on the head of an employee, so from time to time he seized it and flung it out the door. Perhaps a goat would

eat it; they were said to eat worse. But the goats ignored the hat, and Lippy always went out and retrieved it when he

remembered that he needed an ashtray“Disgrace!” Xavier said again, in a somewhat happier tone.

Lippy was unperturbed. “What’s wrong with that hat?” he asked. “It was made in Philadelphia. Says so inside it.

It did say so, but Augustus, not Lippy, was the one who had originally made the point. Lippy could not have read a word a

big as Philadelphia, and he had only the vaguest notion of where the city was. All he knew was that it must be a safe an

civilized place if they had time to make hats instead of fighting Comanches

“Xavier, I’ll make you a deal,” Augustus said. “Loan Dish here two dollars so we can get a little game going, and I’ll rak

that hat into a towsack and carry it home to my pigs. It’s the only way you’ll ever get rid of it.

“If you wear it again I will burn it,” Xavier said, still inflamed. “I will burn the whole place. Then where will you go?

“If you was to burn that pianer you best have a swift mule waiting,” Lippy said, his lip undulating as he spoke. “The churc

folks won’t like it.

Dish found the conversation a burden to listen to. He had delivered a small horse herd in Matamoros and had ridde

nearly a hundred miles upriver with Lorie in mind. It was funny he would do it, since the thought of her scared him, but h

had just kept riding and here he was. He mainly did his sporting with Mexican whores, but now and then he found h

wanted a change from small brown women. Lorena was so much of a change that at the thought of her his throat clogge

up and he lost his ability to talk. He had already been with her four times and had a vivid memory of how white she was

moon-pale and touched with shadows, like the night outside. Only not like the night, exactly—he could ride through th

night peacefully, and a ride with Lorena was not peaceful. She used some cheap powder, a souvenir of her city living, an

the smell of it seemed to follow Dish for weeks. He didn’t like just paying her, though—it seemed to him it would b

better if he brought her a fine present from Abilene or Dodge. He could get away with that with the señoritas—they like

the idea of presents to look forward to, and Dish was careful never to renege. He always came back from Dodge wit

ribbons and combs

But somehow he could not get up the nerve even to make the suggestion to Lorena. It was hard enough to make a plai

business offer. Often she seemed not to hear questions when they were put to her. It was hard to make a girl realize yo

had special feelings for her when she wouldn’t look at you, didn’t hear you, and made your throat clog up. It was eve

harder to live with the thought that the girl in question didn’t want you to have the special feelings, particularly if yo

were about to go up the trail and not see her for many months

Confusing as these feelings were, they were made even worse for Dish by the realization that he couldn’t afford even th

transaction that the girl would accept. He was down to his last two bits, having lost a full month’s wages in a game i

Matamoros. He had no money, and no eloquence with which to persuade Lorena to trust him, but he did have a dogge

persistence and was prepared to sit in the Dry Bean all night in hope that his evident need would finally move her

Under the circumstances it was a sore trial to Dish that Augustus had come in. It seemed to him that Lorie had bee

getting a little friendlier, and if nothing had happened to distract her he might soon have prevailed. At least it had bee

just him and her at the table, which had been nice in itself. But now it was him and her and Augustus and Lippy, making i

difficult, if not impossible, for him to plead his case—though all he had really been doing by way of pleading was to loo

at her frequently with big hopeful eyes

Lippy began to feel unhappy about the fact that Xavier had thrown his hat out the door. Augustus’s mention of the pig

put the whole matter in a more ominous light. After all, the pigs might come along and eat the hat, which was one of th

solidest comforts in his meager existence. He would have liked to go and retrieve the hat before the pigs came along, bu

he knew that it wasn’t really wise to provoke Xavier unduly when he was in a bad mood anyway. He couldn’t see out th

back door because the bar was in the way—for all he knew the hat might already be gone

“I wisht I could get back to St. Louis,” he said. “I hear it’s a right busy town.” He had been reared there, and when hi

heart was heavy he returned to it in his thoughts

“Why, hell, go,” Augustus said. “Life’s a short affair. Why spend it here?

“Well, you are,” Dish said, in a surly tone, hoping Gus would take the hint and set out immediately

“Dish, you sound like you’ve got a sour stomach,” Augustus said. “What you need is a good satisfying game of cards.

“Nothing of the kind,” Dish said, casting a bold and solicitous glance at Lorena

Looking at her, though, was like looking at the hills. The hills stayed as they were. You could go to them, if you had th

means, but they extended no greeting

Xavier stood at the door, staring into the dark. The rag he used to wipe the tables was dripping onto his pants leg, but h

didn’t notice

“It’s too bad nobody in town ain’t dead,” Augustus remarked. “This group has the makings of a first-rate funeral party

What about you, Wanz? Let’s play cards.”Xavier acquiesced. It was better than nothing. Besides, he was a devilish good cardplayer, one of the few around who was

a consistent match for Augustus. Lorena was competent—Tinkersley had taught her a little. When the Dry Bean was full

of cowboys she was not allowed to sit in, but on nights when the clientele consisted of Augustus, she often played.

When she played, she changed, particularly if she won a little—Augustus frequently did his best to help her win a little,

just to see the process take place. The child in her was briefly reborn—she didn’t chatter, but she did occasionally laugh

out loud, and her cloudy eyes cleared and became animated. Once in a while, when she won a really good pot, she would

give Augustus a little punch with her fist. It pleased him when that happened—it was good to see the girl enjoying herself.

It put him in mind of family games, the kind he had once played with his lively sisters in Tennessee. The memory of those

games usually put him to drinking more than he liked to—and all because Lorie ceased being a sulky whore for a little

while and reminded him of happy girls he had once known.

They played until the rustler’s moon had crossed to the other side of town. Lorena brightened so much that Dish Boggett

fell worse in love with her than ever; she filled him with such an ache that he didn’t mind that Xavier won half of his next

month’s wages. The ache was very much with him when he finally decided there was no hope and stepped out into the

moonlight to unhitch his horse.

Augustus had come with him, while Lippy sneaked out the back door to retrieve his hat. The light in Lorena’s room came

on while they were standing there, and Dish looked up at it, catching just her shadow as she passed in front of the lamp.

“Well, Dish, so you’re leaving us,” Augustus said. “Which outfit’s lucky enough to have you this trip?”

The quick glimpse of Lorena put Dish in such perplexity of spirit that he could hardly focus on the question.

“Reckon I’m going with the UU’s,” he said, his eyes still on the window.

The cause of Dish’s melancholy was not lost on Augustus.

“Why that’s Shanghai Pierce’s bunch,” he said.

“Yup,” Dish said, starting to lift his foot to his stirrup.

“Now hold on a minute, Dish,” Augustus said. He fished in his pocket and came out with two dollars, which he handed to

the surprised cowboy.

“If you’re riding north with old Shang we may never meet again this side of the bourn,” Augustus said, deliberately

adopting the elegiac tone. “At the very least you’ll get your hearing ruint. That voice of his could deafen a rock.”

Dish had to smile. Gus seemed unaware that one of the more persistent topics of dispute on the Texas range was

whether his voice was louder than Shanghai Pierce’s. It was commonly agreed that the two men had no close rivals when

it came to being deafening.

“Why’d you give me this money?” Dish asked. He had never been able to figure Gus out.

“You asked me for it, didn’t you?” Augustus said. “If I’d given it to you before the game started I might as well have

handed it to Wanz, and he don’t need no two dollars of mine.”

There was a pause while Dish tried to puzzle out the real motive, if there was one.

“I’d not want it thought I’d refuse a simple loan to a friend,” Augustus said. “Specially not one who’s going off with

Shanghai Pierce.”

“Oh, Mr. Pierce don’t go with us,” Dish said. “He goes over to New Orleans and takes the train.”

Augustus said nothing, and Dish soon concluded that he was to get the loan, even if the aggravation of Mr. Pierce’s

company wasn’t involved.

“Well, much obliged then,” Dish said. “I’ll see you in the fall if not sooner.”

“There’s no need for you to ride off tonight,” Augustus said. “You can throw your blanket down on our porch, if you like.”

“I might do that,” Dish said. Feeling rather awkward, he rehitched his horse and went to the door of the Dry Bean,

wanting to get upstairs before Lorie turned off her light.

“I believe I left something,” he said lamely, at the door of the saloon.

“Well, I won’t wait, Dish,” Augustus said. “But we’ll expect you for breakfast if you care to stay.”

As he strolled away he heard the boy’s footsteps hitting the stairs at the back of the saloon. Dish was a good boy, not

much less green than Newt, though a more experienced hand. Best to help such boys have their moment of fun, before

life’s torments snatched them.

From a distance, standing in the pale street, he saw two shadows against the yellow box of light from Lorie’s room. She

wasn’t that set against Dish, it seemed to him, and she had been pepped up from the card playing. Maybe even Lorie

would be surprised and find a liking for the boy. Occasionally he had 

Boggett, with his prairie dog of a mustache, considered himself too refined to throw his bedroll beside two fine pigs, the

he could rout them out himself.nheenown sporting women to marry and do well at it—if Lorie were so inclined Dish Boggett would not be a bad man to settle on.

The light had gone off at the Pumphreys’ and the armadillo was no longer there to roll its shadow at him. The pigs were

stretched out on the porch, lying practically snout to snout. Augustus was about to kick them off to make room for the

guest he more or less expected, but they looked so peaceful he relented and went around to the back door. If Dish

Boggett, with his prairie dog of a mustache, considered himself too refined to throw his bedroll beside two fine pigs, then

he could rout them out himself.