“Besides, he lives there,” he added. “He’s got his whole people. I expect he’ll interfere with us plenty, if we try to cross his country.”

“Damn it, ain’t you coming?” Gus asked, exasperated by his friend’s contrariness. “Wouldn’t you rather be riding out on an expedition than staying around here shoeing mules?”

“I might go if we have enough of a troop,” Call said. “I’d like to know more about this man you named—what was he called?”

“Caleb Cobb—he’s the man who captured Santa Anna,” Gus said. He didn’t know that Caleb Cobb had done anything of the sort, but he wanted to pile on as many heroics as he could. Maybe it would get Woodrow Call in the mood to travel.

“They say there’s enough gold lying around in Santa Fe to fill two churches,” Gus said, piling it on a little more.

“Why would the Mexicans just give us two churches full of gold? It don’t sound like any Mexicans I’ve met,” Call said.

Though not unwilling to consider an adventure—shoeing mules was a long way from being his favorite occupation; it was mainly something he did to help old Jesus, who had been kind to him when he first came to San Antonio—the one Gus McCrae was describing seemed pretty unlikely. He would be trying to reach a town he had never heard of, led by a man he had never heard of, either. Who would command the Rangers, if the Rangers went as a troop, he didn’t know, but it wouldn’t be Major Randall Chevallie, because Major Chevallie had died of a fever not three weeks after returning from the failed expedition to El Paso. They had got into some wet weather on their return—also, they had traveled hard. Major Chevallie took to his bed for a day or two, got worse, died, and was buried before anyone had time to think much about it.

“You’re too damn contrary,” Gus said. “I’ve never known a person more apt to take the opposite view than you—you’re too damn gripy.”

“I expect I’ve spent too much time with mules,” Call said. “When would we be to leave, if we go?”

“What’s wrong with now?” Gus asked. “The expedition’s leaving any day—I sure don’t want to get left. We’d be rich for life if we could pick up a little of that gold and silver.”

“I hope we can whip the Mexicans, if we get there,” Call said.

“Why wouldn’t we, you fool?” Gus asked.

“We didn’t whip ‘em at the Alamo,” Call reminded him. “We might get out there on the plains somewhere and starve—that’s another thing to think about. We could barely find grub for twelve men when we were out on the Pecos. How will we feed an army?

“There ain’t much water out that way, neither,” Call added, before Gus could break in with a few more lies about the gold to be picked up in Santa Fe.

“Why, we’ll be going across the plains—it’s plenty wet up that way,” Gus said.

“You could shoe one of these mules if you don’t have anything else to do,” Call suggested. “Once we get these mules shoed I might be more interested in capturing Santa Fe.”

Gus at once rejected the suggestion that he help shoe the mules. He saw that Call was weakening in his opposition to the trip, and his own spirits began to rise at the thought of the great adventure that lay ahead of them.

“I say leave the mules—I want to get started for Austin,” Gus said. “Redmond Dale can find someone else to paint his saloon. Of course we might have time for a visit to the whorehouse, if you ever get tired of working.”

“I can’t afford the whorehouse—I’m saving up for a better gun,” Call said. “If we’re going out there into the Indian country, I need to have a better gun.”

He had visited the whorehouse, though, with Gus, several times —he didn’t scorn it as a pastime. Matilda Roberts was employed there while waiting for passage to the west. She had taken a liking to young Call. Gus too had his likeable side, but he was overpersistent, and also a blabber. There were times when Matilda could put up with persistence easier than she could with blab.

Young Call, though, seldom said two words. He just handed over the coins. Matilda saw something sad in the boy’s eyes—it touched her. She saw after a few visits that her great bulk frightened him, and put him with a young Mexican girl named Rosa, who soon came to like him.

Call often though of Rosa—she taught him many Spanish words: how to count, words for food. She was a slim girl who seldom smiled, though once in awhile she smiled at him. Call thought of her most afternoons when he was working in the hot lots behind the blacksmith’s shop. He also thought of her at night when he was sleeping on his blanket, near the stable. He would have liked to see Rosa oftener-Gus had not been wrong to recommend whores, but Gus was reckless with his money and Call wasn’t. Gus would borrow, or cheat at cards, or make promises he couldn’t keep, just to have money for whores.

Call, though, could not bring himself to be so spendthrift. He knew that he wanted to be a Ranger once the troop went out again, which meant that sooner or later he would be fighting Indians. This time, when the fight came, he wanted to be as well equipped as his resources would permit. Neither of the cheap guns he owned was reliable. If he ever had to face the Comanche with the great hump again, he wanted a weapon that wouldn’t fail him. Much as he was apt to think of Rosa, he knew that if he wanted to survive as a professional Ranger, he had to put guns first.

Once he felt assured that his friend was going to come with him on the new expedition, Gus relaxed, located a spot of shade under a wagon, stretched out full length, put his hat over his face, and took a long serene nap while Call labored on with the mules. The last little mule was a biter—Call cuffed him several times, but the mule bared his teeth and demonstrated that he had every intention of using them on Call’s flesh if he could. Call was finally forced to rope the mule’s jaws shut before he could finish his work. Gus had a snore like a rasp-Call could hear the snore plainly when he wasn’t hammering in a horseshoe nail.

Just as the last shoe was nailed in place, there was a clatter in the street. Call looked up to see Long Bill Coleman, Rip Green, gimpyJohnny Carthage, and Matilda Roberts come loping up. Matilda was mounted on Tom, her large grey gelding.

“Saddle up, Woodrow—it’s Santa Fe or bust,” Long Bill sang out. He was wearing a fur cap he had found in a closet in the whorehouse.

“Dern, Bill, I thought you’d left town,” Call said. “Ain’t it a little warm for that hat?”

He himself was drenched in sweat from shoeing the four mules.

“That cap’s to fool the grizzlies, if we meet any,” Long Bill said. “I’m scared of grizzlies, and other kinds of bears as well. I figure if I wear this fur bonnet they’ll think I’m one of the family and let me alone.”

“That cap belonged to Joe Slaw; they hung the son of a bitch,” Matilda said. “I guess he considered himself a mountain man.”

Gus McCrae, hearing voices, suddenly rose up, forgetting that he was under a wagon. He whonked his head so loudly that everyone in the group laughed.

“Shut up, I think my skull’s broke open,” Gus said, annoyed at the levity—he had only made a simple mistake. His head had taken a solid crack, though. He wobbled over to the water tank and stuck his head under—the cool water felt good.

While the group was watching Gus dip his head in the water, Blackie Slidell came racing up—he had been with a whore when the others left the saloon. The reason for his rush was that he feared being left, which would mean having to cross the prairies in the direction of Austin all by himself.

“So, are you with us, Woodrow?” Rip Green asked. Although Call was a younger man than himself, Rip considered him dependable and was anxious to have him with the group.

“I thought you was already gone, Bill,” Call said.

“Why no, we’ve been collecting Rangers, but we can’t find Bigfoot, and Shadrach prefers to travel alone, mostly,” Bill said. “He’s already gone up to Austin. I guess we’ll have to leave Bigfoot. I expect he’ll catch up.”