Call smiled. “That’s the tracker’s skill,” he said. “It ain’t all just looking at the ground and studying tracks. Famous Shoes will think about it and watch the birds and talk to the antelope and figure it out. Pea’s no tracker. I expect it would take him six months to locate us, on his own.”
In a hardware store, he purchased some field glasses. They were not the highest quality, but they would have to do. He was about to leave the store, but turned back and bought two extra rifles. He rarely burdened himself with extra equipment; a blanket and a Winchester and one canteen had seen him through many engagements. This time, though, he felt it might be wise to carry a couple of extra guns. Goodnight’s telegram had made him think twice about what lay ahead. Mox Mox was a complication. Call did not intend to go after him, but it might not be a matter of going after him. Mox Mox might come to Texas, for all anyone knew.
Also, Pea Eye had never owned a reliable gun, and Famous Shoes rarely went armed. He moved too fast to be carrying weapons. The extra Winchesters would come in handy.
As they left the store, Call handed the receipts to Brookshire, who carefully folded them and put them in his shirt pocket. The day had turned cold, and the sky was the color of steel. It was nearing evening; Brookshire still entertained the hope that they would spend at least one night in a hotel of some sort. But the Captain had not mentioned a hotel. He was securing the provisions, tying them onto the pack animals.
Ted Plunkert, for once, shared an opinion with the Yankee, who had mentioned to him, hesitantly, that it would be very nice to spend one night in a bed, inside a building.
“Yes, I don’t much care what it’s like, as long as it’s inside,” the deputy said.
But when Call was satisfied that the packs were secure, he mounted his horse and looked at the two men, both standing by their mounts.
“I guess we ain’t staying the night. Is that right, Captain?” Brookshire asked.
“Why, no. Your boss wants results, ain’t that correct?” Call said.
“That’s correct,” Brookshire replied.
“There’s a full moon tonight, and we should take advantage of it,” Call said. “The horses are rested. We should be able to make it to the Rio Concho.”
“How far is that, Captain?” Brookshire asked.
“I suppose about fifty miles,” Call said. “If we don’t strike it tonight, we’ll strike it tomorrow.”
Neither Brookshire nor Deputy Plunkert looked happy. Of course, Brookshire had lost his wife; he could not be expected to recover from such a blow immediately. But there was a full moon, and Call didn’t want to waste it.
“Mr. Brookshire, I think it’s better that we go on,” Call said. “I’m sorry about your wife, but lagging won’t bring her back. We’d better go get your boss some results.”
“Well, that’s good,” Brookshire said. “That’s exactly what the Colonel wants.”
“I’m confident the Garza boy’s not west of us, and I don’t think he’s south, either,” Call said. “I think he’s east and north. This is where the hunt starts. We haven’t been in any danger, so far, but that might change in a day or two. I want you both to keep alert. He’s got that German rifle, don’t forget it. We’ll be going through country where there’s not much cover. You both need to keep alert.”
“Do you think Joey Garza knows we’re coming, Captain?” Brookshire asked.
“I expect so,” Call said. “If he doesn’t know it now, he’ll know it by the time we cross the river.”
“Who’ll tell him?” the deputy asked.
“Why, I don’t know,” Call said. “He’s an intelligent young bandit. I expect he’ll know we’re coming.”
“What do you think? Will he try to pick us off?” Deputy Plunkert asked. He noticed that the Captain was frowning at him. Brookshire, the Yankee, had already mounted; he looked miserable, but at least he was already on his horse.
Ted Plunkert hastily mounted too.
“I don’t know what he’ll try. Let’s go to Texas,” the Captain said, turning his horse.
By the time the full moon appeared, they were well out of Chihuahua City. The moon shone on a landscape that seemed to be emptier than any of the barren country Brookshire had ridden through since coming to Texas. There was nothing to be seen at all, just the moon and the land. The wind soared; sometimes spumes of dust rose so high that the moon shone bleakly through them. At other times the dust cleared, and the moon shone bright—so bright that Brookshire could read his watch by its light. At midnight, they struck the Rio Concho, but the Captain neither slowed down nor looked back. He kept on riding toward Texas.
The blowing-away feeling came back to Brookshire, but it came to him laced with fatigue and sadness over the loss of his wife, Katie, a nice person. He felt heartsick at the knowledge that he would never see Katie again. His heartsickness went so deep that the blowing-away feeling didn’t frighten him. It would be fine now, if he blew away. He would not have to face the Colonel and explain the exorbitant expenses that might accrue.
In Brooklyn, in his work as a salaried man, Brookshire had never paid much attention to the moon. Once in a while, on picnics, he might admire it as it shone over the East River, or the Hudson, if they went that far to picnic. But it hadn’t mattered to him whether the moon was full, or just a sliver, or not there at all.
Once they were on the black desert in Mexico, Brookshire saw that the Captain had been right. The full moon, in the deep Mexican sky, was so bright that traveling was as easy as it would have been in daylight. Brookshire was still a salaried man, but he was also a manhunter now, a manhunter hunting a very dangerous man. He was heading into Texas with Captain Woodrow Call, and he would probably do well to start paying more attention to the moon.
Part II
The Manburner
1.
LORENA WAS READING a letter from Clara when Clarie came in to tell her that Mr. Goodnight was at the door.
In the letter, Clara was urging her to make a beginning in Latin, advice that caused Lorena to feel doubtful. She thought she could do quite well with English grammar now, but she didn’t know if she was up to Latin, or if she ever would be. The baby had been sick most of the time since Pea Eye left, and she had been sleeping tired and waking tired, worrying about the baby and worrying about Pea.
“Mr. Goodnight?” Lorena said. Though he had given the money to build the school she taught in, Lorena had only met Mr. Goodnight once or twice, and he had never visited her home.
“Why would he come here? Are you sure it’s him?” she asked. She felt unprepared, and not merely for the study of Latin, either. At that moment, she just felt low, and her feet and hands were cold. Usually, letters from Clara cheered Lorena, but this one made her feel more aware of her shortcomings. She knew herself to be a competent country schoolteacher, but somehow, the Latin language felt as if it should belong to a better order of person than herself, a farmer’s wife with five children, no money, and no refinements. If Latin was anything, it was a refinement.
“Learning may be the best thing we have. It may be all that we can truly keep, Lorie,” Clara wrote in the letter, along with news about her girls and her horses.
Lorena read that sentence several times. In fact, she read it again, even after Clarie delivered her information. She felt her daughter’s impatience, but she was reluctant to lay aside her letter, to go and attend to Charles Goodnight, the great pioneer.
“Ma, he’s waiting—he already took his hat off!” Clarie said, annoyed at her mother’s behavior. Mr. Goodnight was on the back steps, hat in hand. Why was she sitting there like that, reading a letter she had already read five or six times? Laurie had just taken the breast, and her mother had scarcely bothered to cover herself, even though the baby was now asleep. What was wrong with her?
“Ma!” Clarie said, deeply embarrassed.
“Oh hush, don’t scold me, I’ve been scolded enough in my life already,” Lorena said. She buttoned her dress and put the letter
under a book—Aurora Leigh it was; she had ordered it from Kansas City—and went to the kitchen door. The old, heavy man with the gray hair and the gray beard stood there, patiently. A big gray horse waited behind him.
“I was busy. I’m sorry you had to wait,” Lorena apologized, opening the door for him. She had heard that Goodnight was severe with women, but she had seen no sign of it in his behavior toward her. Despite her past, he had approved of her as a schoolteacher. Not everyone wealthy enough to simply write a check and have a schoolhouse built would have been so tolerant.
“I hesitate to bother you, ma’am,” Goodnight said.
“Come in, I can offer you buttermilk,” Lorena said, holding the door open.
Goodnight immediately came in and took a chair in the kitchen.
“I know you’ve got your duties, I’ll be brief, though I would like the buttermilk,” he said. “If I had been born in different circumstances, I could have made a life of drinking buttermilk.”
Lorena poured him a large glass. He drank half of it and set the glass down. Clarie peeked in at the door. She couldn’t resist. Everyone talked about Mr. Goodnight, but she had only seen him once before, at a picnic, and he hadn’t stayed around long enough for her to get a really good look at him.
“That’s a fine-looking young lady there—I understand she helps out with the teaching,” Goodnight said.
“Yes, she’s a great help,” Lorena said. Clarie blushed, so unexpected was her mother’s compliment; she had made it to the great man, too!
“I’m shaky at some of the arithmetic,” Lorena admitted. “Clarie grasps fractions better than I do.”
Goodnight drank the other half of the buttermilk and set the empty glass back on the table.
“I expect I could chase a fraction from dawn to sunset and never come near enough to grasp it,” he said.
Then he looked firmly at Clarie. The three boys, hearing an unfamiliar voice in the kitchen, were huddled behind her, peeking along with their big sister.
“I’ll have to ask you young ’uns to excuse us older folks,” he said. “I’ve got a private matter to talk over with your mother.”
“Oh,” Clarie said. She immediately retreated, taking the boys with her. Georgie she had to forcibly drag by the collar. He had developed the ill-mannered habit of staring at guests.
Lorena felt a sudden alarm. Had something happened to Pea?
“No, your husband’s fine, as far as I know,” Goodnight said, seeing the alarm in the woman’s eyes. He felt sympathy for her, and much admiration. It was well known that she had not missed a day of school since taking her job. She arrived every day, in her buggy, in the coldest weather and in the muddiest weather, too. He himself had always been more vexed by mud than by cold, and so was Mary, his wife. Skirts and high-button shoes were a great nuisance when it was muddy, Mary claimed, and he didn’t doubt it a bit.
This young woman had strength, and she didn’t neglect her duties; that he admired. He felt uneasy, though, at the nature of the inquiry he had come to make. The uneasiness had kept him at home for two weeks or more, since he had first been told that Mox Mox, the manburner, had appeared again. This woman had a difficult past; he knew that, but he didn’t care. Life was an uneven business. He knew himself to be of a judgmental nature—too judgmental, his wife assured him. But with the schoolmarm, he had no urge to pass judgment. She was not the only woman in the Panhandle to have had an uneven life, and her performance with her pupils had been splendid, in his opinion. Her past was between her and her husband. Goodnight was not a preacher, and he had no mission to save the world, either.
“You’re sure he’s not dead?” Lorena asked. She couldn’t help it. She’d had several bad dreams, since Pea Eye left, and in all of them he was either dead or about to be.
“If he is, I haven’t heard it,” Goodnight said.
“Then what is it, Mr. Goodnight?” Lorena asked. “What is it?”
“It’s Mox Mox,” Goodnight replied.
Lorena knew then why it had taken an old man, known all over the West for his abruptness, so long to come to the point. Her first urge was to run and lock her children in the bedroom, where they couldn’t possibly even hear the name Goodnight had just spoken.
At the same time, she felt too weak to stand up. A rush of fear broke in her such as she had not felt for many years.
Goodnight saw it—the woman had come into the kitchen a little flustered, some color in her cheeks. But the color left her, as soon as he spoke Mox Mox’s name. It was as if the blood had suddenly been milked from her, with one squeeze.
“But he’s dead, ain’t he?” Lorena asked. It was the first time she had slipped and said “ain’t” in many months.
“I thought so myself, but now I ain’t so sure,” Goodnight said. “I’ve never seen the man myself, and I believe you have seen him. That’s why I’ve bothered you and took the risk of upsetting you.”
He paused, watching the young woman bring herself under control. It was not a simple struggle, or a brief one. She stared at him, wordless. She was plainly scared, too scared to hide it. Finally, to be doing something, he got up and helped himself to another glass of buttermilk.
Seeing Mr. Goodnight pouring himself the buttermilk brought Lorena back to herself, and just in time. For a second, she had felt a scream starting in her head, or had heard, inside herself, the piercing echo of many screams from the past. She felt cold and clammy, so heavy with fear that, for a second, she didn’t know if she could move. During the hours when she had been a captive of Mox Mox and his boss, Blue Duck, she hadn’t been able to move, and the terror that she felt during those hours was a thing that would never leave her. The name alone had brought it all back. Mr. Goodnight must have known it might, or he would not have hesitated.
But the man was in her kitchen, he was her guest, and there was such a thing as manners. Even though her deepest urge was to gather her children and run—run to Nebraska, or farther—she knew that she had to control herself and try to help Charles Goodnight, for the very sake of her children.
“I’m sorry, I’m bad scared, it caused me to forget my manners,” she said. She gripped the edge of the table and squeezed it with the fingers of both hands. She needed something that would steady her, something to grip. But the spasm of fear was stronger than her grip. Despite herself, she kept trembling.
“It don’t take much muscle to pour buttermilk,” Goodnight said. “I regret having to put you through this.”
“Why are you? Mox Mox is dead,” Lorena said. “Pea Eye heard it years ago. He was killed in Utah, or somewhere.
“He’s dead. . . . ain’t he?” she asked. “He’s dead. Everybody said it.”
“I chased him to Utah myself,” Goodnight said. “He burnt four of my cowboys, in Colorado, on the Purgatory River. Three of them were boys of sixteen, and the fourth was my foreman. He’d been with me twenty years. I chased Mox Mox, but I lost him. It’s a failure I’ve regretted ever since. Two or three years later, I heard he was dead, killed by a Ute Indian.”
“Yes, it was a Ute that killed him,” Lorena said. “That’s what Pea Eye told me.”
Goodnight watched her shaking. He wished he could comfort her, but he had never been much of a hand at comforting women. It wasn’t one of his skills. He drank the second glass of buttermilk, looked at the pitcher, and decided not to have a third.
“I think Mox Mox is alive,” he said. “Somebody’s been burning people in New Mexico.”
“Burning what kinds of people?” Lorena asked, still gripping the table. It was all she could do to keep from jumping up and gathering her children and running before Mox Mox could come and get them all.
“Whatever kind he catches,” Goodnight said. “He stopped a train and took three people off and burned them. That was three weeks ago.
“There ain’t that many manburners,” Goodnight added, after a pause. “The Suggs brothers burned two farmers, but Captain Call caught the Suggs brothers and hung them. Tha
t was years ago.”
He paused again. “Mox Mox is the only killer I’ve heard of who makes a habit of burning people,” he said, finally.
Lorena was silent. But in her head, she heard the screams.
“If I’ve got the history right, when Blue Duck took you from the Hat Creek outfit, Mox Mox was still running with him,” Goodnight said. He spoke with caution. He had known several women who had been captives, several women and a few children. Some of them babbled about it; others never spoke of it; but all were damaged.
Though used to plain speech, he knew that there were times when it wasn’t the best way to talk. This woman, who worked so hard for the ignorant, raw children of the settlers, in a school-house he had built, had been a captive, not of the Comanche, but of Blue Duck, one of the cruelest renegades ever to appear in the Panhandle country. And Mox Mox, at various times, had run with Blue Duck. He himself had never seen either man. This woman had seen one of them for sure; perhaps she had seen both. He wanted to know what she knew, or as much of it as she could bear to tell him.
Rarely, in his long life, had Goodnight felt so awkward about asking for the information he needed. Lorena was not one to babble. What she felt, she mainly kept inside. Her fingers were white from gripping the edge of the table, and her arms shook a little; but she was not behaving wildly, she was not screaming or crying, and she was also not talking.
“Mox Mox is a white man and he’s short,” Lorena said. “One of his eyes ain’t right, it points to the side. But the other eye looks at you, and one’s enough.”
Goodnight waited, standing by the stove.
Lorena took a deep breath. She felt as if she might strangle, if she didn’t get more air into her lungs. She remembered that was how she had been then, too, the day Blue Duck led her horse across the Red River and handed her over to Ermoke and Monkey John and all the rest.
But not Mox Mox. He hadn’t been there then. He had arrived later; how many days later, Lorena wasn’t sure. She wasn’t counting days, then. She hadn’t expected to live, and didn’t want to, or didn’t think she wanted to.
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