Gus finally agreed to help a little with the horseshoeing, but his mind wasn’t on his work. If Call asked for a rasp, Gus would likely hand him an awl, or even a nail. Twice he wandered off to visit the general store, but Clara was off on errands. Mr. Forsythe was pleasant to him, but vague about when his daughter might return.

“I can’t predict her,” he said. “She’s like the wind. Sometimes she’s quiet, and sometimes she’s not.”

Annoyed at the girl—why couldn’t she stay where he could find her?—Gus took the best alternative left to him, which was to get drunk. He bought a jug of liquor from a Mexican peddler and sat under a shed and drank it, while Call finished the horseshoeing. While he was working, a buggy drove by—an old man wearing a military coat was asleep in it. The old man had a red face, and was snoring so loudly they could hear him even after the buggy had passed.

“Well, that’s Phil Lloyd, the damned sot,” Bigfoot said. “He’s a general, but he ain’t a good one. I doubt we could get enough barrels of whiskey in a wagon to keep Phil Lloyd happy all the way to Santa Fe, unless we lope along quick.”

Call decided the military was peculiar—why make a general out of an old man who couldn’t even find his way around? He tried to interest Gus in the question, but Gus could not be bothered by such business.

“She wasn’t there,” he said several times, referring to Clara. “I went back twice to visit—she said I might—but she wasn’t there either time.”

“I expect she’ll be there in the morning,” Call said. “You can trot by and say adios. They say we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“You may be leaving, I ain’t,” Gus replied. “I ain’t leaving tomorrow, or any other time.”

Call knew his friend was too drunk to make sense—he didn’t press him.

“Let’s walk down by the river, I feel restless,” Gus said a little later. “That store’s closed by now—there’s no chance to visit until tomorrow.”

Call was happy to walk with him. It was a starry night, and theRangers had just made a good meal off some tamales Blackie Slidell had purchased from a Mexican woman. A little walk would be pleasant. He took his new musket, in case they encountered trouble. The Comanches had been known to come right into Austin and take children, or even young women. It wouldn’t hurt to be armed.

They walked a good distance on the bluffs over above the Colorado River—they could see a light out in the water. Somebody was out in a boat.

“Fishing, I expect,” Call said.

Gus was still fairly drunk.

“What kind of fool would fish at night? The fish wouldn’t be able to see the bait,” Gus said. Then, between one step and the next, he suddenly plunged into space. He was so drunk he wasn’t frightened; sometimes when very drunk he passed out—it felt a little like falling. He assumed, for a moment, that he must be in the process of passing out. The lantern light on the water was spinning, which went with being drunk, too.

He felt himself turn over, which was also a feeling he got when he was drunk; then he saw the river again, but it seemed to him that it was above him. He began to realize that he was falling, through a night so dark that he couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t even remember what he had been doing before he fell.

“A fish don’t need to see, it can smell,” Call said, just before noting, to his shock, that he was talking to nobody. Gus McCrae, at his elbow only the moment before, had disappeared. Call’s first thought was that an Indian had snatched Gus, though he didn’t see how, since he and Gus had only been a step apart. But Buffalo Hump had taken Josh Corn, and he hadn’t been far away, either.

Call whirled around, almost going off the bluff himself. He couldn’t see the edge, but he could see the river in the starlight. The river was a good distance down—he realized then that Gus must have fallen. He didn’t know what to do—probably it was too late to do anything. Gus might already be dead or dying. Call knew he had to get down to him, but he didn’t know how to go about it without falling himself. He had no rope, and it was so dark he feared to try and climb down.

Then he remembered that during the day he had seen an old man with a fishing pole making his way down a kind of trail. Therewas a way down, but he would need a light of some kind if he was going to find it.

Call began to run back toward town, staying well clear of the bluff; he was hoping to encounter someone with a light. But it was as if suddenly he were back on the long plain beyond the Pecos: he saw not a soul until he had run all the way back to where the Rangers were camped. When he got there he discovered that the only Ranger who wasn’t dead drunk was gimpy Johnny Carthage, the slowest man in camp. Blackie Slidell and Rip Green were so drunk they couldn’t even remember who Gus McCrae was. Johnny Carthage was willing, at least; he and Call found a lantern, and made their way back to the river. In time, they found a place where they could scramble down the cliff.

The problem then was that Call could not tell how far down the bluff they had walked before Gus fell. With the help of the lantern, though, he could see that the bluff wasn’t high enough for a fall to be fatal, unless Gus had been unlucky and broken his neck or his back.

Johnny Carthage was fairly stalwart while they were on the bluff. But once down by the river, with help far away, his fear of Indians grew to such proportions that he flinched at every shadow.

“Indians can swim,” he announced, looking out at the dark water.

“Who can?” Call asked. He wanted to call out to Gus, but of course if there were Indians near, the calling would give them away. He was afraid Johnny might panic, if the risks increased much.

“Indians,” Johnny said. “That big one with the hump could be right out there in the water.”

“Why would he be out there, this time of night?” Call asked. Mainly he was trying to distract Johnny from his fear by asking sensible questions.

“Well, he might,” Johnny said. He had a great urge to shoot his gun, although he couldn’t see a thing to shoot at. He just had the feeling that if he shot his gun, he might feel a little less scared.

To Call’s shock and surprise, Johnny suddenly shot his gun. Call assumed it meant he had seen Indians—perhaps Buffalo Hump was in the river. Johnny Carthage was ten years older than he was, and more experienced—he might have spotted an Indian in the water somehow.“Did you hit him?” Call asked.

“Hit who?” Johnny said.

“The Indian you shot at,” Call said.

Johnny was so scared he had already forgotten his own shot. He remembered wanting to shoot—he felt it would make him less nervous—but he had no memory of actually firing the gun.

Gus McCrae couldn’t get the stars above him to come into focus. He was lying on his back, a terrible pain in his left ankle, wondering if he was drunk or dead. Surely if he was dead, his ankle wouldn’t hurt so badly. But then, he wasn’t sure—perhaps the dead could still feel. He couldn’t be sure of anything, except that his left ankle hurt. He could hear the lap of water against the shore, which probably meant that he was still alive. He wasn’t wet, either—that was good. One of the things he disliked most about rangering was that it very often left him unprotected from the elements. On the first march to the Pecos, he had been drenched several times—once, crossing some insignificant little creek, his boots had filled with water. When he took them off to empty them, he noticed several of the older Rangers laughing, but it wasn’t until he tried to put his boots back on that he realized what they were laughing at. He couldn’t get his boots back on—his feet, which had just come out of those very boots, wouldn’t go back in. They didn’t go back in for almost two days, until the boots had thoroughly dried. Gus remembered the incident mainly because his ankle hurt so—he knew he could never force his foot into a boot, not with his ankle hurting so badly. He would just have to go bootless on that foot for awhile, until his ankle mended.