Lonesome Dove (Lonesome Dove, #1)

by Larry McMurtry

Pigs on the porch just made things hotter, and things were already hot enough.

The work they did was mostly work he could do in his sleep, and yet, though his day-to-day responsibilities had constantly shrunk over the last ten years, life did not seem easier. It just seemed smaller and a good deal more dull.

The men who made up the Hat Creek outfit were not great respecters of feeling, particularly tender feeling.

It was hard to make a girl realize you had special feelings for her when she wouldn’t look at you, didn’t hear you, and made your throat clog up.

“I’d like to see the fish that could keep me in a place I wasn’t wanted,” Call said.

“That’s what we done, you know. Kilt the dern Indians so they wouldn’t bother the bankers.”

“Goats and Donkey’s Neither Bought nor Sold,”

Augustus got a laugh out of that. “The first bandit that comes along who can read Latin is welcome to rob us, as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “I’d risk a few nags for the opportunity of shooting at an educated man for a change.”

Then, just as he thought he had brought the flood within himself under control, the darkness loosened its hold yet more and the first sunlight streamed across the plain, filtering through the cloud of dust to touch the coats of the tired horses, most of whom had slowed to a rapid trot. Ahead, waiting on the bank of the river, was Captain Call, the big Henry in the crook of his arm. The Hell Bitch was lathered with sweat, but her head was up and she slung it restlessly as she watched the herd approach—even pointing her keen ears at Mouse for a moment. Neither the Captain nor the gray mare looked in the least affected by the long night or the hard ride, yet Newt found himself so moved by the mere sight of them sitting there that he had to brush away yet another tear and smudge his dusty cheek even worse.

He knew the big motions of nature weren’t accidents; it was just that his life had not given him enough information to grasp the way of things.

It was an odd thing, but true, that the death of an enemy could affect you as much almost as much as the death of a friend.

“A man who wouldn’t cheat for a poke don’t want one bad enough,” he said as he took his hat.

“Age don’t slow a man’s whoring. It’s lack of income that does that.