by Aaron Latham
When Suckerod approached Mister, the badly shaken horse shied away. But the cowboy talked soothingly to the frightened animal and managed to calm him down. Holding the horse by the reins, he bent down and looked at the bloody belly.
“He’s scratched up,” Suckerod reported, “but there ain’t no guts hangin’ out.”
“Figure he can carry me?” asked Goodnight.
Suckerod shrugged. “Figure we gotta chance it.”
Goodnight felt foolish, like an overgrown baby, as he was hoisted onto Mister Goddog’s back. He would have fallen right off again if Suckerod hadn’t steadied him. Then the cowboy used his lasso to tie his boss’s feet in the stirrups.
“How you doin’?” Suckerod asked.
“You shoulda shot me instead the buffalo,” Goodnight growled.
They took it easy returning to the ranch, just walking the horses. Goodnight had plenty of time to worry over lots of interlocking questions. How could he marry anybody if he was paralyzed? But she was going to refuse him anyway, wasn’t she? Under the circumstances, a refusal would be the best outcome, right? So why worry about it anymore? But if she didn’t say no, he would have to, wouldn’t he? So no was the answer to hope for, wasn’t it? So why couldn’t he force himself to hope for rejection? What was wrong with him?
The ride felt endless. Time seemed to have stopped in the ancient canyon. This giant hole in the earth was also a hole in time. It was no longer the prettiest place he had ever seen. It had lost its charm and possibilities. But time had not quite stopped, only slowed down. The endless ride did finally end.
“Untie me,” Goodnight gasped, exhausted.
Suckerod released the knots that bound his boss in the saddle. Then Goodnight fell off the horse’s back and dropped into the cowboy’s arms. The boss again felt like a baby.
“Hitch up the chuck wagon,” Goodnight said. “You gotta go git that buffalo. We cain’t just leave him out there to rot. That’s dishonorin’ the dead. Besides, it was my own damn fault. Well, this is one damn mistake we can eat.”
11
Day and night, night and day, Goodnight rode his bedroll. It was one of the worst rides of his life. With paralyzed legs, he had no choice but to be passive. All he could do was wait. Wait to see if any feeling would return to his limbs. Wait for an answer to his letter. Wait for confirmation of his worst fears.
Wait and watch as the Home Ranch slowly began to look a little more like a ranch. His cowboys finished a corral and started work on a barn. Of course, the ranch house remained a distant dream. What was wrong with sleeping in the open? Except when you couldn’t sleep. Except when it rained and you couldn’t even crawl to shelter.
Over and over, lying on his back, lying on his side, lying squirming on his stomach, Goodnight would calculate in his head when Too Short should return. His own round trip to Tascosa for supplies had taken a week, but they had been slowed down by the chuck wagon. A lone rider should make much better time. If he hurried, Too Short could be back in four days. But four days came and went bringing no sign of the postman cowboy. What had happened to him? Had his horse gone lame? Could Gudanuf and his gang have gotten him? Had he somehow lost his way? Was he lying somewhere with arrows in him? Had he just gone on a long drunk as soon as he reached the Jenkins & Dunn Saloon? Or had he taken his business to the Equity Saloon on the edge of town? What was a saloon doing being named Equity, anyhow? Goodnight didn’t know whether to worry about Too Short or feel sorry for him or get angry at him.
Goodnight, his legs still paralyzed, lay on his saddle blanket with his head resting on his saddle. His only roof kept changing. Now it was high and pale blue and empty. Later it was streaked with white cloud rafters. Later still, a white lumpy ceiling descended. Were those rain clouds? He certainly hoped so. This country could use a good wetting.
Lowering his gaze, Goodnight saw another kind of cloud, a red one that boiled up from the earth. He couldn’t see the rider yet, but he knew there must be one, and he must be coming fast to raise such a red storm. If he was in such a hurry, he must have news that was in a hurry to be told.
Goodnight told himself not to expect the worst, but he couldn’t help it. He told himself that he was getting the hurt out of the way ahead of time, so the blow wouldn’t be so painful when it actually landed. And yet he suspected he still wouldn’t be able to bear the blow. He begged the oncoming horse to run slower. He told the cowboy that there was no hurry. His news would keep. Go slow. It’s a big country. You’ll wear yourself out.
Squinting into the sun, Goodnight saw—all too soon—the dark rider leading the red cloud. He wasn’t slowing down. He ought to spare his horse at least. Didn’t he have any respect for horseflesh? What was wrong with him? Goodnight would have to give Too Short a good talking to when he arrived on a lathered mount. That was no way to treat a—
But it wasn’t Too Short. He was too tall. Squinting, Goodnight made out Suckerod galloping toward him. What was wrong? What had happened? Goodnight couldn’t wait to find out. Why didn’t the cowboy ride faster?
When Suckerod finally arrived on his lathered horse, Goodnight felt drained. Why couldn’t the rider have been Too Short? The wrong cowboy swung down out of the saddle and stood over him.
“You’re in an all-fired hurry,” Goodnight said.
“The bulls,” Suckerod wheezed out of breath.
He seemed to be shaking even worse than usual, but it was hard to tell.
“Now calm down,” Goodnight said. “What about the bulls?”
“Somebody’s been shootin’ ’em!” Suckerod gasped. “Cuttin’ off their damn ears! And brandin’ ’em! Goddammit.”
“Don’t cuss. Now just tell me slowly what happened.”
Suckerod took several deep breaths. Goodnight watched him trying to make his hands stop shaking, but of course he couldn’t.
“We found three of ’em so far,” Suckerod said slowly. “Shot dead. All of ’em shot the same way, oncet behind the foreleg and oncet more at close range between the eyes. And bloody stumps for ears.”
“All bulls, right? That what you said? Our breedin’ stock?”
“’Fraid so.”
“You said somethin’ about brandin’?”
“Uh-huh, they done took a damn runnin’ iron to your brand. Turned your ‘HR’ into a damn ‘RR.’”
Goodnight saw in his mind how easily it could be done. He branded his cattle with irons that spelled out “HR” for Home Ranch. The process was similar to the way printers used type to print letters on paper. But a running iron was like a writing pen. A very hot writing pen. It was just a rod with nothing on the end but a blunt point. When that point was heated red-hot, it could write whatever brand it wanted on cattle. More important, it could rewrite brands. It would have been a simple matter to change the Home Ranch’s “HR” into “RR.”
“Now they couldn’t a branded them bulls till they was dead, right?” said Goodnight. “I mean a cow mebbe, but not a bull.”
“Thass how I figure it,” Suckerod agreed.
“How come anybody’d wanna brand dead bulls?” Goodnight asked, but he already knew the answer. “I guess they was purdy proud a what they done, huh? Signin’ their work and all. Went to a buncha trouble, huh?”
“Uh-huh. Guess they figured it was worth it.”
“Like as if cuttin’ their ears off waddn’t enough.”
“Uh-huh.”
Goodnight clenched his fists. He could feel his hand shaking, like Suckerod’s.
“Ya know,” Goodnight said, “I sorta figured that ear-collectin’ stunt was just gossip and exaggeration.”
“Me, too,” said Suckerod. “And anyhow, waddn’t it s’posed ta be just people ears?”
“Mebbe he’s branchin’ out. You find any tracks?”
“Some. Figured I’d git some a the boys and go after ’em. They cain’t of got too far. Bulls ain’t been dead long.”
Goodnight wanted to tell Suckerod to go ahead. Ride down the outlaws. Get even. Do
n’t spare the horses. But at the same time, he knew he couldn’t give such an order.
“Cain’t spare you right now,” Goodnight said. “Better wait till Too Short gits back and I git back on my feet.”
“Trail might be purdy cold by then,” Suckerod said.
Goodnight nodded, but they would just have to wait. He wasn’t about to miss the hunt for the ear collector, and he couldn’t go now.
12
After three weeks, Too Short came riding back into camp. Goodnight managed to get to his feet to greet him. He had slowly regained the feeling in his legs and yesterday had walked for the first time. He was still weak and shaky on his legs, like a damned toddler, but he was already making plans to go after Gudanuf.
“Where’s my letter?” Goodnight demanded.
“What letter?” asked Too Short.
“‘What letter!’” (Goodnight could feel disappointment swelling into fury.) “I sent you off with a letterfrom me.” (He was angry at Too Short and angrier at Revelie.) “And you was supposed to come back here with a letterto me.” (She had simply ignored his proposal, thrown it away—oh, no!) “So where’s my damn letter?”
“You didn’t say nothin’ about bringing you back no letter.”
“Do I have to tell you ever’thing? Explain ever’thing? What’s the matter with you? And where the blazes you been all this time anyhow?!”
“They wouldn’t let me go,” Too Short said.
“What the hell’re you talkin’ about? You ain’t makin’ no sense. Who wouldn’t let you go?”
“Miss Revelie and her folks.”
“You’re talkin’ plum crazy.”
“They’re crazy, you ask me.”
“Shut up! She made you stay?”
“Her—and her folks.”
“Why? Because you was too good-lookin’ to let git away?”
They just stared at each other. Goodnight’s was a jealous stare.
Too Short took a deep breath. “They made me stay,” he began, “on account of they got a hankerin’ to see this here ranch. Only they didn’t know how to find it. Figured they’d git lost. Made me stay to guide ’em. Then they took a month a Sundays to git ready.”
“Month a Saturdays,” said Simon.
“Shut up,” said Goodnight. “They wanna see my ranch?”
“Thass right. When we got close, I come ahead to warn you.”
“No!”
“’Fraid so.”
“Who’s comin’?”
“Ever’body. Mom, Dad—and her.”
Goodnight just shook his head. Now he figured Too Short had come back too soon. A couple of years too soon. The Home Ranch wasn’t exactly equipped to look after visitors. Especially not these visitors. Goodnight limped over, sat down under the chinaberry tree where he had written his letter, and waited for doom. On top of everything else, he would have to put off hunting down that damn ear collector. Too Short came over and squatted down beside him.
“Well, what the blazes you want now?” asked Goodnight. “Ain’t you done caused enough trouble already?”
“Sorry, but I gotta git back and show ’em the injun trail, or they’ll break their necks tryin’ to git down here.”
“Then go on, git outa my sight.”
Watching Too Short go, Goodnight thought about calling him back. The prospect of Mother Sanborn breaking her neck rather appealed to him.
Goodnight felt as if he were being invaded by a foreign army. U.S. Cavalry troops escorted the Sanborn family when they made their appearance at the Home Ranch. The Human side of his mind could not help seeing them as an enemy Writer army. He hated to welcome them here in what had long been a natural Human fortress. But actually, they were just insuring the safety of a Sanborn family outing. Mr. Sanborn was obviously an important man in these parts.
Yes, Goodnight hated to see the Writer warriors, but he could not help feeling that the real invading enemy was Mrs. Sanborn. She and her daughter, neither of whom knew how to sit a horse, arrived riding in a U.S. Army ambulance. Goodnight noticed that it had springs, unlike most other vehicles in this part of the world. Of course, Mrs. Sanborn would insist on springs. Her husband helped her down from the ambulance while she complained about the horrors of the descent into the canyon. She did not seem to have noticed that she was descending into heaven, not hell.
“Where’s your ranch, Mr. Goodnight?” demanded Mrs. Sanborn, who again wore white gloves and a frilly pinafore.
“You’re lookin’ at it, ma’am,” he said.
“Where’s the ranch house?” she asked. “Where’s the bunkhouse? Don’t ranches have bunkhouses? I’ve heard so much about this kind of house. But what is it? Some sort of a cowboy hotel?”
Goodnight noticed his cowboys trying to hide their smirks, but he found nothing amusing about the situation. He glanced over at Revelie with an expression that begged for help. She smiled at him, which pleased him, but she didn’t come to his rescue. He thought she looked like a princess in a fairy tale who was guarded by a dragon.
“Well, ma’am,” he said at last, “I’m afraid we don’t have a regular bunkhouse or anything like that. We just live in an ol’ dugout. Or sleep under God’s own leaky ceilin’. Someday . . .”
He looked down and noticed that his boots were covered with red dust and animal shit. He felt dirty all over.
“A dugout?” she said. “I thought a dugout was a canoe. You don’t live in a canoe, do you, Mr. Goodnight?”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“Then could you explain to me what you’re talking about?” she asked. “I’m afraid I don’t speak your language.”
“Well, ma’am, mebbe I better just show ya,” he said reluctantly. “It’s right over here. Just follow me, ma’am.”
Goodnight limped along slowly, in no hurry to get where he was going, but it was unfortunately a short trip. The dugout was located in a small grove of cedars. Goodnight had once been rather proud of this humble structure, for it was his first home in which he was the boss, but now it seemed to shrivel before his gaze. It also got dirtier and darker.
It was just a shack, half in the ground and half out of it. It was dug into the side of a small grassy mound and looked like a part of it. The back wall and the two side walls were made of stones piled on top of each other and mortared together by clay. The front wall, the face of the dugout, was made of cedar logs standing upright, placed side by side. The small black doorway cut in this wooden wall looked like a missing tooth. There weren’t any windows. The peaked roof was made of lodge poles found in a devastated Human campground not far from where all the Goddogs had been shot down. These lodge- polesturned-rafters were covered with sod, so the dugout’s single room was like a large coffin with grass growing above it.
“Do I understand that you live in this so-called dugout, Mr. Goodnight?” asked Mrs. Sanborn.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I mean I sleep here sometimes. I mostly live outdoors.”
“What about your cowboys?” she asked. “Do they have their own dugout things?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “There’s just one dugout and we all sleep in it.”
“Really. May I look inside, Mr. Goodnight?”
“Okay, if you want to.”
She had to stoop to get through the small doorway, and she wasn’t a tall woman. Goodnight stayed outside because there wasn’t much room inside and he had no desire to be trapped in close quarters with this woman. He could only see her from the waist down as she paced back and forth over the dirt floor. He realized she was measuring the dugout’s only room. It was about eight steps wide and twelve steps deep.
Mrs. Sanborn poked her head out of the little door. She was holding her nose. “Mr. Goodnight,” she said in a nasal voice, “your home smells.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “You and your poor men, you live like prairie dogs.”
Staring at her hopelessly, Goodnight had the feeling that he had roped another buffalo. What was he going to do with this woman?
“Well, ma’am, prairie dogs have towns,” Goodnight said. “We ain’t quite that grand, I’m afraid.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Sanborn. “Or rather I don’t see. I don’t see where my daughter and I are to sleep. I don’t see where we are to perform our toilets.”
Goodnight was embarrassed. He wasn’t accustomed to hearing words like “toilet” used in mixed company.
“Er, ma’am, we weren’t exactly expectin’ you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you mean we aren’t welcome?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, I didn’t mean that atall,” he said. “I just mean this is gonna take some figurin’.”
Goodnight studied his dusty boots and tried to figure. The canyon seemed terribly quiet all around him. Even the birds, normally so noisy in the cedar and chinaberry trees, had nothing to say. Goodnight found himself wondering: What would the Sun Chief have done? And posing the question suggested a possible answer.
“Well, what about if we built you a tepee?” Goodnight said in a soft voice. He looked apprehensively at the mother, then beseechingly at the daughter, then nervously back at the mother again. “I reckon we could scratch one together purdy fast. How’d that be?”
He watched Mrs. Sanborn think over the proposal. He could see her turning it this way and that, looking for ways to criticize it. Well, at least she hadn’t rejected it out of hand.
“You don’t expect us to pee in our tepee, do you, Mr. Goodnight?” she asked.
Goodnight was shocked at Mrs. Sanborn’s language. “Well, I wouldn’t if I was you,” he said.
When Mr. Sanborn laughed out loud, his wife gave him a withering look. He tried to swallow his laughter and ended up choking.
“Very funny, Mr. Goodnight,” Mrs. Sanborn said. “But in all seriousness, where do you expect us to pee?”
“It’s a big canyon,” he said.
He hunched his shoulders because he expected a verbal attack, but it didn’t come.