Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  When he saw a glimpse of Robbers’ Roost over the bouncing backs of the woollies, Goodnight crouched lower and started looking around for cover. Noticing a rock over to his left, he headed for it. Somehow the stone had looked larger at a distance than it did close up. It was only about the size of a washtub, but there didn’t seem to be any better alternatives. He dropped down behind the rock and waited to see what would happen.

  From behind this cover, Goodnight looked to see if his boys had managed to hide themselves. Simon and Tin Soldier had found rocks of their own, but Black Dub, the biggest, was still running. Get down! Come on, get down! Black Dub dove behind a small mesquite bush. It wouldn’t stop any bullets, but at least would conceal the big man for the time being.

  Peeking over his rock, Goodnight saw that Robbers’ Roost was about thirty yards away. Now he really wished he had a rifle because he wasn’t sure he could hit anything with a pistol from this range.

  Watching the buffalo herd bearing down on the outlaws’ hideout, Goodnight still didn’t detect any activity in or around this fortress. He couldn’t even see Loving or Too Short. He was still worried about them. In spite of his concern, Goodnight’s chest was beginning to feel better. He took off his hat, which had been jammed down hard on his head, so it wouldn’t stick up above his rock.

  Now Goodnight had a moment to admire the buffalo as they ran. He marveled at the grace of these animals who—lovely as they were— looked as if they should be rather clumsy. Somehow their big heads, big shoulders, and slender hindquarters all moved well together. They were much too wonderful to die at the hands of girl-stealing outlaws. He would blame himself if any of them were harmed.

  When the leaders reached the rock house, they separated like a river dividing around a stone. Then they joined up again after they had passed the hideout. Robbers’ Roost was now an island in a flood of buffalo—well, a small flood anyway.

  Goodnight could imagine what was going through the outlaws’ minds as the woollies raced past them. When they first heard the hoofbeats, they must have been startled. They would have wondered what was making all the racket. Was a posse thundering down on them? No, there was too much noise for a posse. Maybe a whole damn regiment of cavalry? Surely they had run for their weapons in alarm. But then they would have looked out their narrow windows and seen the buffalo. Their alarm would have changed to amusement. This was going to be fun. Now they would be anxious to rush out and murder them some buffalo. But if they dashed out too soon, they would get trampled. So they would just have to be patient until the stampede passed. They might try taking a few pop shots from inside, but their cramped windows would give them trouble. They were mere slits—built for safety like the windows of a damn castle—and so were hardly ideal for shooting at fast-moving targets. Or so Goodnight hoped.

  Goodnight heard a shot, but he didn’t see any of the animals go down. Then there were two more shots in quick succession. But again no woolly fell. So far so good. Of course, some might have been wounded. Goodnight told himself again not to worry about what he couldn’t control or even influence. He tried to concentrate on and prepare for what he could do.

  When the last of the buffalo passed the stone house, Goodnight ducked a little lower behind his rock and felt his heart thumping the ground. Just as he had expected, the door of the hideout banged open and heavily armed outlaws came tumbling out. They ran in the direction of the corral that penned their horses. They were in too big a hurry to look to the right or the left. The buffalo were getting away.

  Goodnight kept looking for Loving and Too Short, but he still didn’t see them. Where could they be? He worried all over again that they might have been trampled. He couldn’t stand it if he lost Loving and . . .

  The crack of a rifle and a puff of smoke—then another—told Goodnight where his lost cowboys were. They were inside the horse corral firing from behind posts. One outlaw fell and didn’t move while another writhed on the ground. Good, Loving was all right. And Too Short, too. So far.

  The firing from the corral continued as fast as Too Short and Loving could cock their repeating rifles. The outlaws raced, dove, and rolled to get out of the way of the bullets. And they started returning fire.

  Goodnight could smell the acrid smoke from the gunfight. The horses in the corral reared and screamed in their way. A handsome bay tried to climb the air and then fell sideways. Crashing to the earth, it threw up a great cloud of dust. Goodnight felt responsible for the animal’s death.

  Two outlaws crouched behind a watering trough. Two others had taken cover behind a small pile of rocks—which were probably left over from building the rock house. Another man crouched behind a fallen body. Still another had managed to run behind a corner of the stone house. Six outlaws were now concentrating their firepower on the two men in the corral. The bullets made the corral railings tremble and shiver.

  From his angle, Goodnight could see about a third of Loving’s body. He watched the smooth, rhythmic motions as his friend cocked and fired, cocked and fired. All the movements economical. No evidence of haste. And yet the shots followed rapidly one upon the other. Goodnight almost felt hypnotized as he watched his friend work. Or was he paralyzed by fear? Not for himself. For Loving.

  When Loving spun around and dropped to his knees, Goodnight bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.

  Goodnight was on his feet and running before he was aware of having made any sort of decision. He couldn’t just lie there while bad men killed his best friend. He knew he couldn’t be of much help from thirty yards away with a pistol in his hand, so he had to get closer.

  The outlaws, who were shooting the other way, didn’t see him coming up behind them. Hearing other footsteps, Goodnight looked back over his shoulder and saw Simon, Black Dub, and Tin Soldier all racing after him. He wanted to tell them to go back. They had rifles. They could kill outlaws from far away and from behind cover. But he was their leader and they had followed his lead. He just hoped he didn’t get them all killed. Well, that’s what they got for looking at him as if he were a leader all those months ago. He had gone and become one—and now he was leading them into slaughter.

  34

  Goodnight bore down on the outlaws twenty-five yards away. He couldn’t believe they didn’t hear him coming because he was breathing so hard. Twenty yards away. His own breath was screaming in his ears. Fifteen yards away. Now they heard him.

  They were turning around. He looked for cover, but he didn’t see anywhere to hide. So he thumbed the hammer back and pointed the barrel at the horse trough. He doubted he could hit anything while he was running and his chest was heaving, but maybe he could scare them into not hitting him. The report of his revolver drowned out the roar of his breath. He saw the water in the trough splash. Nice shooting. He had killed some muddy water.

  But then Goodnight was surprised to see an outlaw rise up from behind the trough, and start walking toward him. Coming out to meet him. Welcoming him to Robbers’ Roost. He had a puzzled look on his face. He was still trying to figure out what this death business was all about. How did it work? He had never died before and didn’t know how to do it. He fell on his face, but his legs were still trying to walk. A part of him still thought he was alive.

  Good. Another one of them down. But was it too late? Was Loving already dead? Had he gotten his best friend killed? He would never forgive himself if . . .

  Thumbing back his hammer again, Goodnight pointed his barrel, pretending it was just a finger, at a second man who rose from behind the horse trough. He looked scared and confused. Where could he hide? Goodnight was surprised to see the outlaw jump into the trough and disappear under the dirty water.

  Now Goodnight heard gunfire coming from behind him. He glanced back and saw Simon and Tin Soldier sprawled on the ground, their rifles to their shoulders, shooting at the bad men. Black Dub, the biggest target, stood straight up and fired. With his peripheral vision, Goodnight saw an outlaw go down by the corner of the house.

&n
bsp; Ouch! A bee stung Goodnight’s ear. He had always been afraid of bees—and with good reason. Damn, it hurt! He could feel blood running down the side of his face. The pain made him madder than ever. He hated these girl-stealers, these bull-killers, these horse-murderers. These damned best-friend shooters! He was going to get even. Count on it. The problem was he was almost too angry to aim.

  Goodnight wasn’t sure who had shot him, so he just picked out one at random. He pointed at the outlaw who had chosen a body as his cover. He tried to control his anger so he wouldn’t shake. When he pulled the trigger, the outlaw dropped his rifle and grabbed his neck. But Goodnight wasn’t sure whose bullet had hit the man. He hoped it had been his, but he wasn’t convinced. Then he was surprised to find that he was taking the battle so personally. What did it matter who had shot the outlaw? Well, maybe it didn’t matter, but he still hoped he was the one.

  Now Goodnight pointed his Colt at one of the outlaws who had taken cover behind the rock pile. He aimed at the man’s head. He wanted to see brains on the ground soaking up dust. This one’s for Loving!

  “Don’t shoot!” shouted the outlaw. “Don’t shoot! I’m outa bullets. I give up.”

  The man threw down his empty rifle and held up his hands. Goodnight decided to shoot him anyway. Damn him to hell. Served him right. But his trigger finger, with a mind of its own, hesitated.

  “Stop!” cried another voice. “Don’t shoot me! I surrender.”

  The second outlaw at the rock pile dropped his rifle and raised his hands.

  “Hold your fire!” Goodnight shouted the order. “That’s enough!”

  The shooting stopped. Goodnight had forgotten about the outlaw in the trough, so he was surprised to see him rise up out of the water dripping. He had his wet hands raised over his wet head.

  Now the moment had come that Goodnight dreaded.

  35

  As he ran, Goodnight could feel the tears running down his face. He could taste them. It had been so long since he had cried. He should have cried more, but he hadn’t. Now he couldn’t stop.

  Not even when he saw Loving stand up in the corral and wave. He waved with his left hand. His bloody right arm hung at his side. But he was smiling.

  Goodnight told himself that he would never forgive himself if that arm had to be taken off. Damn sawbones. But in spite of his worry, in spite of blaming himself for the injury, he still smiled. Then laughed. Trying to wipe the tears from his good eye, he managed to smear it with blood.

  “I was afraid you was dead,” Goodnight choked.

  “Me dead?” Loving said. “You’re the one looks dead. All covered with blood from head to toe.”

  “It’s just my ear.”

  “Funny, you wouldn’t think an ear’d have that much blood in it, now wouldja?”

  “How bad’re you hurt?”

  “Just shot through the arm’s all, so’s I couldn’t shoot. Never learned how left-handed. Didn’t seem to matter till now. Just kept my head down. Sorry I waddn’t more help.”

  Goodnight started to tell Loving not to say he was sorry, but then he changed his mind. He was too happy to find his friend alive to lecture at the moment. He just wanted to celebrate.

  “You did great,” Goodnight said. “You’re alive, ain’t you? What could be greater’n that?”

  Looking around, Goodnight saw that his other cowboys were busy tying up the outlaws who were still alive. It turned out that only two of them were actually dead. The first to fall was never going to get up again. And the man whom Goodnight had shot through the water trough was also beyond help. The outlaw who had tried to hide behind a dead body was bleeding badly from his throat. And the one who had taken cover behind a corner of the rock house had been shot through the knee, which surely hurt. Three other outlaws weren’t hurt at all or just nicked: the two at the rock pile and the one in the trough. All the living, even the wounded, soon had their hands tied behind them and their feet tied to their hands. They weren’t going to run away or even roll away. They were caught good.

  But Goodnight was disappointed. Gudanuf was missing. The rancher had only seen the outlaw chief that one time, but he was sure he remembered him well enough to know that he was not among the dead or the prisoners. None of them were good-looking enough. He reached up and touched his eye patch and brushed the Big Dipper.

  “Where’s Gudanuf!” Goodnight shouted, and he was not a man to shout.

  None of the outlaws answered him. He walked up to one of the bound but uninjured men.

  “Open your mouth,” Goodnight ordered.

  The man obeyed. Goodnight shoved the barrel of the gun inside the outlaw’s mouth.

  “Now answer my question,” he demanded.

  “He left,” the outlaw mumbled, his mouth full of gun.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Kansas.”

  “Where in Kansas?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You’re lyin’, but I ain’t got time to fool with you right now. I’ll tend to you later.”

  Goodnight turned and slowly approached the front door of the handsome rock house. He retarded his steps because he was worried about what he might find inside. There could still be outlaws in there just waiting for him to step inside, but more badmen were not what he feared most. He was worried about the girl. What condition would she be in? Had they gotten there too late? Would she be there at all? Was she still alive?

  By the time Goodnight finally reached the door, his cowboys had finished their tying-up chores and had hurried to join him. Even the wounded Loving. They didn’t want Goodnight going through that door alone. Now they all had their handguns out for close work inside a closed room. Even Loving held a pistol unconvincingly in his left hand.

  The door stood partially ajar. Staring at the crack, Goodnight couldn’t see anything but darkness within. That was the problem with those little castle windows. They wouldn’t let in many bullets, but they wouldn’t admit much light either.

  “Be careful,” Goodnight said. “I reckon it’s time to look alive. Here goes.”

  Turning slightly, he charged the door and hit it a sound blow with his right shoulder. He was surprised at how heavy it turned out to be. The wood must have been four or five inches thick. His shoulder hurt. This rock house really was a fortress. But thick and heavy as it was, the door moved. It swung slowly back and open. He stepped forward onto the square of light admitted by the door.

  Looking around the room, Goodnight didn’t see anybody inside. He was glad not to find any outlaws, but he was brokenhearted not to discover the girl. They had come all this way for nothing. She was probably buried someplace out there on the trackless Staked Plain, a small mound of earth rising ever so slightly above the general flatness. Nobody would ever find her grave if they had even bothered to dig one. They could have just left her for the animals to dispose of. Goodnight was profoundly sad. He was infinitely weary of not being able to protect people, not being able to save them, not being able to keep them from dying.

  Thenshe rescued him from his flash flood of misery. In his excited state, Goodnight thought he saw his sister moving in a dark corner of the room. She seemed to have come back to him now as she had so many times before in dreams. Fortunately—or unfortunately—it was a dream he dreamed less and less often. But here she was back at last, back for good, a light figure moving in the darkness.

  36

  Then as his eye slowly accustomed itself to the gloom of the room, Goodnight saw that she wasn’t his sister, and his heart screamed, just as it always did when he woke up from one of those dreams. The girl in the corner was a complete stranger to him, but at least she was alive. Goodnight hurried toward her. The place smelled the way the old dugout smelled, like the bodies of unwashed men. Sweaty men. And he was pretty sure he knew how they had worked up some of those sweats. He already wanted to get out of there, but he couldn’t go yet.

  The girl knelt and squeezed herself as tightly as she could into the corner. Goodnight realiz
ed that since she was a stranger to him, then he was certainly a stranger to her. She hadn’t seen the battle because the windows were too small. She probably thought all the shooting was just another buffalo slaughter. Now she must be imagining that he and his men planned to treat her as other strange men had. He stopped about six feet from her.

  “Don’t worry,” Goodnight said in the tone of voice he usually reserved for animals and plants. “I won’t hurt you. You’re safe. I promise.”

  She peeked up at him but didn’t say anything. She still wasn’t sure she could trust him. Or the others either. Maybe they did look a little like outlaws. A pretty scruffy bunch. He didn’t blame her for having her doubts about them.

  “Really, it’s all right,” Goodnight said softly. “We come to git you back.”

  “Where are they?” she asked.

  “Dead or tied up,” Goodnight said.

  “You ain’t foolin’ me, huh?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “He crosses his heart,” said Loving, “an’ hopes to die.”

  The other cowboys laughed softly. The captive just looked blank. Goodnight knew how she felt. He had been there himself. He wasn’t surprised that her expression did not change. She was beyond smiles and frowns.

  “Can I come closer?” Goodnight asked. “I don’t mean you no harm.”

  The girl on the floor took a long time making up her mind. She must have been trying to figure out what was happening—trying to decide who to trust—but none of her thoughts showed on her face. Hers was dead.

  “By the way, my name’s Goodnight,” he said. “These here are my boys. We’re from the Home Ranch down in the red canyon. Maybe you heard tell of it?”

  She still didn’t say anything. Goodnight was a little disappointed. He had counted on her knowing who he was. Maybe the Home Ranch wasn’t as impressive to others as it was to him.