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Newt and Deets and anybody else that don’t want to do it for themselves. It’s been right handy having him around to assume them burdens all these years, but if you think he’s doing it for us and not because it’s what he happens to like doing, then you’re a damn fool. He’s out there sitting behind a chaparral bush congratulating himself on not having to listen to Bol brag on his wife. He knows as well as I do there isn’t a hostile within six hundred miles of here.”
    Bolivar stood over by the wagon and relieved himself for what seemed to Newt like ten or fifteen minutes. Often when Bol started to relieve himself Mr. Gus would yank out his old silver pocket watch and squint at it until the pissing stopped. Sometimes he even got a stub of a pencil and a little notebook out of the old black vest he always wore and wrote down how long it took Bolivar to pass his water.
    “It’s a clue to how fast he’s failing,” Augustus pointed out. “An old man finally dribbles, same as a fresh calf. I best just keep a record, so we’ll know when to start looking for a new cook.”
    For once, though, the pigs took more interest in Bol’s performance than Mr. Gus, who just drank a little more whiskey. Bol yanked his knife out of the side of the wagon and disappeared into the house. The pigs came to Newt to get their ears scratched. Pea Eye slumped against the porch railing—he had begun to snore.
    “Pea, wake up and go to bed,” Augustus said, kicking at his leg until he waked him. “Newt and I might forget and leave you out here, and if we done that these critters would eat you, belt buckle and all.”
    Pea Eye got up without really opening his eyes and stumbled into the house.
    “They wouldn’t really eat him,” Newt said. The blue shoat was on the lower step, friendly as a dog.
    “No, but it takes a good threat to get Pea moving,” Augustus said.
    Newt saw the Captain coming back, his rifle in the crook of his arm. As always, Newt felt relieved. It eased something inside him to know the Captain was back. It made it easier to sleep. Lodged in his mind somewhere was the worry that maybe some night the Captain wouldn’t come back. It wasn’t a worry that he would meet with some accident and be killed, either: it was a worry that he might just leave. It seemed to Newt that the Captain was probably tired of them all, and with some justice. He and Pea and Deets did their best to pull their weight, but Mr. Gus never pulled any weight at all, and Bol sat around and drank tequila most of the day. Maybe the Captain would just saddle up the Hell Bitch some night and go.
    Once in a great while Newt dreamed that the Captain not only left, but took him with him, to the high plains that he had heard about but never seen. There was never anyone else in the dreams: just him and the Captain, horseback in a beautiful grassy country. Those were sweet dreams, but just dreams. If the Captain did leave he would probably just take Pea along, since Pea had been his corporal for so many years.
    “I don’t see any scalps,” Augustus said, when Call came up.
    Call ignored him, leaned his rifle against the porch rail and lit a smoke.
    “This would have been a good night to cross some stock,” he said.
    “Cross ’em and do what with ’em?” Augustus asked. “I ain’t seen no cattle buyers yet.”
    “We could actually take the cattle to them,” Call said. “It’s been done. It ain’t against the law for you to work.”
    “It’s against my law,” Augustus said. “Them buyers ain’t nailed down. They’ll show up directly. Then we’ll cross the stock.”
    “Captain, can I go next time?” Newt asked. “I believe I’m getting old enough.”
    Call hesitated. Pretty soon he was going to have to say yes, but he wasn’t ready to just then. It wasn’t really fair to the boy—he would have to learn sometime—but still Call couldn’t quite say it. He had led boys as young, in his day, and seen them killed, which was why