by Aaron Latham
Evidently, none of the cowboys working this hard-luck ranch considered himself much of a gunman. At any rate, Tin Soldier had no trouble collecting their guns and a couple of bowie knives besides. The cowboy with the gloves didn’t put up any fight either. Black Dub had no trouble tying him up.
“This country’s poor in good hangin’ trees,” Goodnight said, “but less wander over to that there two-wheeled contraption. It oughta do in a pinch.”
Now the bound cowboy looked as if he wished he had put up more of a fight. When Black Dub took him by the arm and attempted to lead him to the cart, he resisted. He tried to dig in his heels. Black Dub just picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him to the hanging cart.
Loving quickly and neatly fashioned a hangman’s noose at the end of his lariat. He was smiling warmly as he slipped the loop over the unfortunate cowboy’s head and pulled it tight around his throat.
“I’m Jack Loving, by the way,” he said. “What’s your name. It ain’t polite to hang somebody without even bein’ introduced.”
“Roy,” stammered the cowboy.
“Roy what?”
“Just Roy.”
“You sure are a closed-mouth fella, ain’t chew? Not no genius neither. You know this ain’t gonna be no purdy way to die. No chance a breakin’ your neck. You’re just gonna hang there an’ choke to death.”
“Tie your rope to the wagon tongue,” Goodnight said. “You know, clear out on the end. Don’t give it much slack.”
“Come on, Just Roy,” said Loving.
Pulling on the rope, he led the condemned man to the end of the wagon tongue.
“You ain’t really gonna do this,” Roy said in an uncertain voice. “You wouldn’t. I ain’t never done nothin’ to you. Don’t know nothin’ about no girl.”
“Bend over,” Loving said.
“No.”
“Have it your way.”
Loving passed the rope beneath the wagon tongue and pulled hard. Roy’s head went down and at the same time the tongue came up. Then Loving tied the rope so there was about six inches of play between the noose and the knot, which was a double half hitch. It was tied very neatly and at the same time very securely. Goodnight admired the workmanship.
“Okay, Too Short, you and Black Dub, here’s what I want you to do,” Goodnight said. “Both a you step on the back a this here cart.” He turned to face his prisoner. “An’ then here’s what’s gonna happen. The back a this contraption’s gonna go down just like a seesaw. An’ that means the front’s gonna go up like a seesaw. An’ I figure that’s gonna lift our friend here’s feet right off the ground. Right? Come on, hurry up, less try it and see if’n it works.” He paused for a moment. “Less’n old Roy here’s got somethin’ he wants to say.”
The cowboy remained silent.
“Okay, good, less go.”
Black Dub and Too Short both stepped on the back of the twowheeled cart. The back end went down. The front end went up. And Roy started dancing with his boots about a foot off the ground.
Goodnight counted to himself: one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five.
“Okay, let him down,” he said. “See if’n he’s had a change a heart.”
Too Short and Black Dub jumped off the back of the cart. The back end went up. The front end came crashing down. And Roy collapsed in the dust.
“Loosen up that rope a little,” Goodnight said. “Give him a breath of air in case he’s got somethin’ to tell us.”
Loving stepped forward, bent over, and gave Roy a little neck slack.
“Changed your mind?” asked Goodnight, standing over the cowboy.
Roy coughed but didn’t say anything else.
“Okay, ready to go up again?”
Another cough.
“Good. Do the honors, boys.”
Black Dub and Too Short, one too big and the other too small, climbed onto the back of the cart once again. Once more Roy tried to walk on air. And Goodnight counted to himself. One thousand one. He wasn’t as angry at the cowboy as he had been. One thousand two. The heat had gone out of his chest. One thousand three. But he was still determined. One thousand four, one thousand five, one thousand six, one thousand seven. Roy’s face was turning purple. Goodnight was afraid the cowboy might die before he got a chance to give up and talk.
“Let him down.”
Roy came crashing to earth.
“Give him some air. Better hurry up. He ain’t gonna last too much longer.”
Loving moved quickly without seeming to. Roy gasped. His chest started to heave. Goodnight walked over and knelt beside him on the ground. He looked into the cowboy’s eyes, which were glassy and unfocused. The hanged man was unconscious.
“He’ll come around,” said Loving.
“Spect so,” said Goodnight.
“Spit in his face,” suggested Simon. “That’ll bring him around.”
Goodnight considered spitting, but eventually decided not to. He didn’t think it would work. Besides, he was feeling pretty cotton-mouthed at the moment.
Then Tin Soldier appeared with his tin hat full of water. He dumped it on the unconscious cowboy.
“Don’t drown him,” said Goodnight. “Or me neither.” He started brushing off water that had splashed on him.
Roy sputtered and woke up. He shook his head back and forth. He blinked his dead eyes and they came back to life.
“How much more a this you figure you can take?” asked Goodnight. “Huh?”
“Okay, you win,” Roy said hoarsely. “I’ll show you where it’s at.”
“Good,” said Goodnight. “I’m beginnin’ to like you better already.”
32
Goodnight, his men, and their prisoner rode northwest. The journey jarred loose old, unwelcome memories, for he had once made a similar journey when he was the prisoner. Now he was the boss in control of everything but his own emotions. And he was working on controlling even them.
The posse jingled as it rode. The cowboys’ spurs made a cheerful sound. The prisoner’s chain added a more melancholy note. Before leaving the Milliron Ranch, Tin Soldier had fashioned a pair of handcuffs for Roy. These cuffs were different from most in that no key could unlock them. After all, Tin Soldier was a blacksmith, not a locksmith. The chain, which was only about six inches long, was heavier than the type normally used because it was all they could find. The iron cuffs chafed, according to the prisoner.
Black Dub led Roy’s horse. To further limit the captive’s chance of escaping, his boots and filthy socks had been taken from him. Simon kept telling him how much fun it would be to step on a snake barefooted. Your whole foot would swell up the size of a pumpkin before you died. And according to Simon, there were snakes everywhere.
Following Roy’s directions, the posse was aiming for a spot where Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Colorado all came together. Robbers’ Roost was supposed to be on the Cimarron River in the southeast corner of Colorado. Goodnight had explained carefully to Roy that he had better not be lying or he would get hanged without any reprieve or any ears.
When they reached the Cimarron, Goodnight and his riders followed it upstream. Now they were no longer in danger of dying of thirst on a waterless plain. Cottonwoods lined the riverbank, reminding Goodnight of home.
He almost wished Revelie had been the one carried off by Gudanuf because then he might well be seeing her soon. He told himself not to think such crazy thoughts. He felt as if he were being disloyal to Revelie even to entertain such a daydream.
Think about a plan. Try to make a plan. Decide what to do. Roy said the gang felt so secure in their hideout that they usually didn’t even post a watch. So these outlaw Writers felt about their Roost the way the Humans had felt about their red-canyon home. Somehow all thoughts seemed to lead back to tragedies of one kind or another.
Early one morning, Goodnight decided to ride ahead of his men. He knew he could approach more quietly alone than at the hea
d of his posse. After giving orders to the others to slow down, he speeded up. Once he had put some distance between himself and his men, he slowed again. Slower was quieter.
As he moved steadily forward, Goodnight kept trying to come up with a strategy that would affect a quick rescue without endangering the life of the young woman being rescued. But every idea seemed to have its drawbacks. He felt frustrated. Why couldn’t he think clearly and plan well? He was angry at himself. He knew he was trying too hard. Goodnight told himself to relax and see what happened. Don’t try to figure out everything in advance. Just see what unfolds and try to make the most of it. That was when he saw the buffalo.
He smiled in spite of his grim mission. He was always happy to see these woolly heads. The Human-cattle cheered him up just by being there. The old ways were dying, but they weren’t completely dead yet. There were about three hundred, which would have been considered a small herd in the old days, but it was a large one now. Lost in his admiration for the buffalo, Goodnight forgot all about needing a plan, which was when one popped into his mind.
Leaving the buffalo behind, Goodnight kept them very much in mind. He would need their help. He was still smiling. He wasn’t sure the plan would work, but he no longer worried. He would just see what happened. The buffalo had made him believe in his luck again.
About half an hour after he parted from the herd, Goodnight came upon Robbers’ Roost. It was just as Roy had described it, a onestory stone house, built on the bank of the Cimarron River. It was actually a handsome place. Goodnight didn’t see anybody moving around outside. The outlaws were probably all inside playing cards—or with their captive. The place wasn’t deserted because there were horses in a cottonwood corral. Goodnight admired the rock house— jealously—for a long moment.
Then he turned back to look for his boys, to tell them his plan.
33
In midafternoon, Goodnight and his cowboys smiled down on the buffalo herd that was grazing peacefully in a shallow swale. They had ridden in downwind from the nearsighted animals who hadn’t scented them yet.
For his plan to work, Goodnight was counting on his knowledge of the nature of Writers. Specifically, he was depending upon the white man’s love of the senseless slaughter of buffalo. Not that he actually intended to let them kill any—not if he could help it—but he knew he might not be able to protect them all. Which saddened him. He would just do the best he could and see what happened.
“Stay here,” Goodnight told his cowboys in a low voice. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Goodnight surveyed the herd, looking for its chief. He saw several impressive bulls, but they really didn’t have the bearing of chiefs. He kept looking, scanning the herd from right to left, then left to right. Maybe the chief had been killed. Perhaps another leader had not yet emerged. When Goodnight finally saw the chief, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed him right away. The old bull held his massive head up and stared right at the oncoming rider. He was in charge, all right. The other animals began warily retreating, but not the old chief. He stood his ground and waited. He had surely survived many dangers. Goodnight hoped that the old bull had enough luck, enough medicine, to survive a few more.
“O, Great Chief of the Buffalo,” Goodnight called from about two hundred feet away, “I have a big favor to ask.”
Then he paused to let the bull absorb what he had said. He had spoken in the Writer tongue rather than the Human tongue because it was so much easier now. Pretty soon he wouldn’t be able to talk Human at all.
“It’s a real big favor,” Goodnight began again. “See, there’s some outlaws stole this here girl. And I gotta git her back. Them outlaws’ hideout is just right over there in that damn rock house. Excuse the ‘damn.’ Anyhow they call the place Robbers’ Roost. So what I figured was this here: If’n you and your herd was to run past in fronta that there house, well, them outlaws just couldn’t resist. They’d grab their guns and come runnin’ out to kill themselves some buffalo. Writers is like that. Well, you know that.”
Goodnight had been afraid that when he said “kill,” the old bull might react. Paw the earth. Bellow. Perhaps even start a stampede. But this old bull just tossed his head as if mildly annoyed. Was he telling Goodnight to get the hell out of there? Or was he just chasing flies away?
“Good, now we’ve got over the roughest part,” Goodnight told the buffalo chief. “See, the idea is that when they come runnin’ out wavin’ their guns, well, we’re gonna be waitin’ for ’em. We’ll ambush ’em and that’ll be that.”
Goodnight let the woolly chief think the matter over. He didn’t want to hurry him.
“I sure hope my plan’s okay with you, see, ’cause I cain’t think a no other way to git them outlaws outa their rock hideout. That there place is some kinda fortress. So we really do need your help. Might even be a chance for you to git some revenge if’n you ever think a that sorta thing. Well, now, how about it? Whaddaya say?”
The old bull nodded, or maybe just shooed a pesky fly. It was hard to tell.
“Thanks.”
Goodnight turned around in the saddle and motioned his men to come forward. As he did so, his heart came alive in his chest. He noticed he was smiling again. He just couldn’t help it with so many buffalo around. When the cowboys reached him, Goodnight quickly explained his plan. Then he issued brief orders.
“Okay, Loving, you and Too Short go on ahead. Keep your heads down. Good luck.”
Too Short and Loving would attempt to close in on the rock house unobserved. They would take cover and wait for the action to begin. Goodnight had picked Loving for this assignment because he knew from personal experience that this cowboy could shoot straight. He chose Too Short because he was also a pretty good shot and was generally level-headed. Also it didn’t take much cover to hide him. Goodnight hadn’t picked Tin Soldier because he was afraid the sun might glint off his tin hat and warn the outlaws.
Loving spurred his horse and set off in the direction of Robbers’ Roost. Too Short trailed a horse length behind. They were moving fast now, but they would slow down as they neared the house.
“Okay,” Goodnight said, “let’s start workin’ ’em on down. Don’t spook ’em. We don’t want ’em runnin’ just yet.”
Goodnight, Simon, Black Dub, and Tin Soldier spread out to form a sort of semicircle. Then they advanced on the herd. The buffalo were as usual—even after all the slaughter—too trusting for their own good. Goodnight wished they had sense enough to run in all different directions as soon as they saw a white man, but they didn’t. His plan wouldn’t have worked if they had. As the riders approached, the buffalo began an orderly retreat, moving slowly in the direction of the rock house.
Riding along at an easy walk, Goodnight kept listening for sounds of trouble up ahead. He figured outlaws probably didn’t do too many chores, but they must do some, and what if they picked now to do them? They might well spot Loving and Too Short creeping up on them. Goodnight hoped the outlaws liked to take afternoon naps. That’s what lazy, good-for-nothing people did, wasn’t it? Of course, they could be in bed for another reason, taking turns.
Goodnight noticed that the old bull hung back behind the rest of the herd. He was the rear guard, ready in case these ominous Writers tried anything funny. The woolly chief seemed to feel about his subjects the way the rancher felt about his cowboys, and yet neither leader could always keep others from harm. Goodnight couldn’t help worrying even though he knew it didn’t do any good. He was especially worried about Loving, even though he knew that Loving was good at taking care of himself.
Up ahead, Goodnight saw a slight rise that he had noticed earlier and made a point of remembering. He knew that behind this elevated ground lay the rock house.
It was time to start the buffalo moving faster. He lifted his hat, which was the prearranged signal. Then he spurred Red and charged the buffalo. The other cowboys followed his lead. Goodnight beat his hat against his chaps to make noise. Tin Soldier
banged his tin hat on the pommel of his saddle to make even more noise,clang, clang, clang. Black Dub shouted and whirled his lariat over his head. And Simon cracked an impressive bullwhip that his father had given him. Hearing the whip, Goodnight hoped it didn’t sound too much like gunfire to the outlaws behind their rock walls.
The buffalo acted as he had hoped. They started running toward the still unseen hideout. The river, which lay to the animals’ left, helped to funnel them in the right direction. Soon flight had become a full stampede.
Now Goodnight started worrying about Loving and Too Short for another reason. He hoped they wouldn’t get trampled. Goodnight knew that if he were responsible for killing Loving, who had once almost killed him, he would never forgive himself. He didn’t want Too Short to get hurt either.
The riders were no longer driving the buffalo but chasing them. As he neared the crest of the rise, Goodnight reined in Red and looked to make sure that Simon, Black Dub, and Tin Soldier did the same. They all dismounted in a hurry. They dropped their reins to the ground, which would ground-hitch the horses to a spot as if they were tied to hitching posts. Then the four men crouched and ran after the buffalo. Goodnight, breathing dust and coughing, noticed that the others carried rifles. He had only a pistol because he didn’t travel with a rifle. He preferred an ax in his saddle scabbard, but he didn’t figure a blade was going to do him much good right now.
Reaching the crest of the rise, Goodnight still couldn’t see the rock house because the buffalo screened it from him. Which also meant, he hoped, that the outlaws couldn’t see him. His chest was burning from the effort and from all the dust he had sucked down into his lungs. He wanted to stop running—or at least slow down—but he wouldn’t let himself. The dirt in his one good eye nearly blinded him. He stumbled, falling, falling, but he caught himself. Then he tripped again and fell. But he quickly rolled back up again.