Lonesome Dove 04 - Comanche Moon by McMurtry Larry

Author:McMurtry, Larry [McMurtry, Larry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Westerns, General, Literary
ISBN: 9780684857558
Google: ELkz7yIDlIgC
Amazon: 0671020641
Goodreads: 54807
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 1997-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

27.

IT WAS ON THE DAYS when Ahumado paid him no attention, never once raising his binoculars to the Yellow Cliffs, that Scull came closest to despair. As long as Ahumado watched, Scull could feel that he was in a fair contest of wills. When Ahumado watched, Scull immediately responded. Though he had given up scratching Greek hexameters, or anything else, on the rock wall, he grabbed his file and pretended to be scratching something. If that didn’t hold the old man’s interest then Scull tried singing. He roared out the “Battle Hymn” at the top of his lungs—then, hoping to puzzle Ahumado, he warbled a few snatches of Italian opera, an aria or two that he knew imperfectly but that might fool the old dark man who sat on the blanket far below him. It was all a bluff, but it was his only chance. He had to keep Ahumado interested in order to stay interested himself; otherwise he was just a man hanging in a cage, eating raw birds and waiting to die. One book might have saved him; a tablet to write on might have saved him. He tried recalling his Shakespeare, his Pope, his Milton, his Virgil, his Burns—he even tried composing couplets in his head; he had always been partial to the well-rhymed couplet. But his memory, stretch as it might, would only get him through two or three hours of the day. His memory wasn’t weak, he could snatch back much of the poetry that he had read, and not just poetry either. Lines came to him from Clarendon’s History, from Gibbon, even from the Bible. His memory was vigorous and Scull enjoyed exercising it; but he wasn’t at war with it and war was what he needed: someone or something to fight. For days he studied the cliff above and below him, thinking he might fight it. But the thought of the dark men, waiting with their machetes, made him hesitate about the climb.

Most of all, what he needed was Ahumado’s attention. The Black Vaquero was a man worth fighting—Scull warbled and howled, sometimes yelling out curses, anything to let Ahumado know that he was still an opponent, a challenger, a captain. Ahumado heard him, too—often he would train the binoculars on the cage. Sometimes he would study Scull for many minutes—but Ahumado was sly. Often he would do his studying while Scull was napping, or distracted by the effort to catch some bird that was nervous and would not quite settle on the cage. Ahumado wanted to watch but not be watched in turn; it was another way of being behind, in a position to surprise his opponent. He was subtle with his attention; perhaps he knew that Scull drew his energy from it.

What Scull wanted was some way to trigger Ahumado’s anger, as he had triggered it when he suggested a ransom. Ahumado’s hatred would give him something to challenge and resist: not just the endless swinging over an abyss. Confinement induced torpor, and from torpor he could easily slip to passivity, resignation, death.

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