Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  “It was before I met you. I didn’t know nothin’ like you existed. I mean nothin’ as great as you.”

  “Who was she?”

  He knew she would ask. He couldn’t keep her from asking. It was a big canyon, but now there was no place to hide.

  “I don’t wanta talk about it.”

  “Why not? I have a right to know,” she said, no longer as exuberant but still smiling. “I’m your wife. I should know everything about you, just as you should know everything about me. There shouldn’t be any walls, any locked attics, any secret dark places.”

  “Mebbe some day but not now. I’m serious about this here. I just cain’t and that’s all. Don’t ask no more.”

  “Mr. Goodnight, you are selfish.” The smile was gone now. “I haven’t withheld myself from you, and that’s not always easy for a woman, especially at first. But now you are withholding yourself from me. It isn’t fair.”

  She got up, put on her clothes, and headed for the house. On foot.

  48

  At roundup time, Goodnight missed Loving. Actually, he missed him all the time, but particularly now that an extra hand would have come in real handy. He wondered why his friend would have gone off just before roundup when he must have known how shorthanded they would be.

  Coffee loaded up the chuck wagon again for the roundup. They would be gone from ranch headquarters for a good many days. By this time, the ranch also had a second wagon that they called the “hoodlum wagon,” or just the “hood.” It was for carrying whatever wouldn’t fit in the chuck wagon. Extra bedding. Branding irons. Other tools. Whatever.

  Revelie had decided she wanted to come along on the roundup. Not that a roundup was really the place for a lady like her, but she didn’t want to be left all alone in the middle of the void. Her husband could understand her feeling. Besides, he was happy to have her along. Otherwise he would have been missing both Loving and her. Goodnight didn’t miss Black Dub because he had ridden down from Tascosa to help out with the ranch’s biggest job.

  As always, this roundup persuaded Goodnight all over again of the wisdom of starting his ranch in this canyon. The steep walls kept the cattle fenced in so they didn’t scatter too far and wide. Over time, the herd had grown larger and larger, or rather longer and longer, for it was stretched out up and down the banks of the shallow red river.

  “Ain’t they purdy?” Goodnight asked Revelie. “They must be the purdiest sight I ever seen in my whole life. Present company excepted.”

  “Thanks,” Revelie said. “They do look rather pretty.”

  “‘Rather purdy’?” he said. “You can do better’n that. Does it hurt you to say ‘purdiest’? Purdiest in the whole world?”

  “All right,” she said. “They’re what you said.”

  “I give up,” he said, but he smiled warmly.

  Rounding up was a simple chore compared to what followed. Once all the cattle had been collected in the middle of the canyon, the real work began. The cowboys started separating the calves from their mamas, which wasn’t easy. Then the branding irons were unloaded from the hoodlum wagon. While they were heating to a redhot glow, the cowboys sat around on their haunches sharpening their knives.

  “Too bad Loving took off,” Goodnight said, giving voice at last to thoughts that had been pecking at him for days. “With him we coulda had two teams. But I figure we’ll git it done one way or another without him. So less go. I’ll rope. Too Short, why don’t you rope, too?”

  “Sure, boss,” the short cowboy said.

  “You take the head,” said the boss. “I’ll do heels.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Suckerod, you burn ’em.”

  “Fine.”

  “Black Dub, you hold ’em.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Coffee, you help him, awright?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tin Soldier, you tend the fires. You’re good at fires, ain’t chew? Be just like back home.”

  “You bet.”

  “An’, Simon, you cut ’em.”

  “My pleasure. Be sorta like abris but different.”

  Goodnight started limbering up his rope. Too Short did, too. All the others dismounted to play their assigned roles.

  “What will I do?” asked Revelie.

  “Uh, why don’t you go for a ride,” Goodnight said, “or sumpun.”

  “No, I want to help.”

  “You ever seen a brandin’?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it ain’t just brandin’. There’s a little more to it than that. See?”

  “No, I don’t see.”

  “See, they’re gonna cut them there calves. It’s gonna git kinda bloody.”

  “Why? The poor things.”

  “Well, we gotta.”

  “It sounds like some sort of pagan ritual?”

  “No. It’s how steers git made. You don’t wanna see that.”

  Goodnight could see understanding move across Revelie’s face, but she didn’t back up, didn’t retreat, just sat her sidesaddle and waited for . . . what?

  “Please,” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Your funeral,” he said. “Less git started.”

  Goodnight watched with pride as Too Short whirled his rope over his head and then tossed it in the direction of a mottled calf. The loop settled over the calf’s head and the cowboy pulled it tight.

  Now it was Goodnight’s turn to see if he could do as well. He reminded himself that roping the heels was harder, so perhaps the cowboys would give him some slack if he missed. But would his wife? He twirled his rope and cast low. The calf stepped into his noose and he pulled it tight. Thank God. Or thank the Great Mystery. As a smile brightened his face, he turned to Revelie to see if she was watching. Of course, she was.

  Goodnight’s horse, trained in the art of calf-roping, began to back up. Too Short’s mount backed up, too. With a rope around its throat pulling one way and a rope around its heels pulling another, the poor calf was stretched taut. Black Dub rushed in and flipped it over on its back and held it there like a wrestler pinning his opponent. Coffee sat on it. Suckerod came running with a red-hot branding iron trailing white smoke. He pressed the glowing iron against the flank of the calf. There was a hissing sound and a burning smell. When he removed the iron, flames flared from the wound, the calf’s fur on fire.

  “Help!” yelled Revelie. “Water! Do something.”

  “It’ll go out on its own,” Goodnight said, fighting down queasiness as he remembered the outlaw he had branded. He said a little too curtly, “I told you not to watch. Go for a ride. Go for a walk.”

  Goodnight found himself staring directly into her eyes. He saw defiance. She shook her head. Then she edged closer to the struggling, bawling calf.

  Simon knelt beside the baby bull, took hold of its miniature scrotum, and pulled it up empty. Then with a sawing motion, he cut it off and tossed it away on the ground. The blood mingled with the red dust. Reaching inside the bloody hole, Simon pulled out one of the calf’s balls. It was the size of a hen’s egg and had a long, tangled string attached. Using his knife, Simon clipped the string and tossed the ball into a cooking pot. Then he reached in after the other ball . . .

  Reliving his own brush with the knife long ago, Goodnight’s whole middle was racked by nausea. He leaned crookedly forward and threw up on the ground.

  Then he was afraid the cowboys—or even worse, Revelie—would make fun of him. After all, he had implied that she couldn’t take such a scene when in fact he was the one who couldn’t take it. It would serve him right. He had it coming. When he opened his eyes and looked sheepishly around, he saw that Revelie was throwing up, too. Thank God! Oh, thank the Great Mystery!

  Then Goodnight noticed the ground beneath her. There was nothing there. His vomit stained the red earth, but hers had not left a trace. Oh, poor thing, she is having dry heaves. Those are the worst of all. Then he realized: she wasn’t sick at all but just pretending to be
to make him feel better. He had never loved her as much as at that moment.

  Releasing his hold on the calf, Simon stood up. Too Short nudged his horse forward and his rope went slack. Black Dub hurried to remove the noose from around the animal’s neck. Remembering his part in this drama, Goodnight edged his horse forward. Coffee removed the rope from the calf’s heels. Then the baby longhorn struggled to its feet and hurried away crying for its mother, crying for its lost balls, crying because its life and destiny had been arbitrarily changed forever. And its brand still hurt.

  Too Short picked out another calf, swung his rope, and lassoed the head. Praying he could pull himself together and act like a “man,” Goodnight flipped his noose at the calf’s heels. He missed. Then he reeled in the rope, which looked like a snake recoiling after a strike. He could feel everybody staring at him, waiting to see if he would be all right. The snake struck again and this time tripped up the calf, which flopped on the ground. Goodnight was relieved to see miniature tits. It was only later that he realized that Too Short had picked out a heifer on purpose. Suckerod rushed forward and branded the calf. This time there was no fire.

  The third calf had tits, too. The fourth calf had balls, but Goodnight somehow suffered through the castration without vomiting. Perhaps because he had nothing left in his stomach. Soon the team had settled into a rhythm. Rope the head. Rope the heels. Flip. Brand. Cut or don’t cut depending on the sex. Rope again. Flip again. Brand again. Cut again. It seemed to Goodnight that there were more males than females, more castrations than tits, but he knew there probably weren’t.

  “Wait a minute,” Revelie yelled.

  Goodnight and all the cowboys looked in her direction. Her husband wondered if all the cruelty had finally gotten to her. The effect on him had been immediate, but on her it had been accumulative. Now she had finally had enough. He wondered what in the world they were going to do with her, but nonetheless he was glad to see her more sensitive side.

  “This is going to take forever,” Revelie said.

  It wasn’t exactly the outburst her husband had expected. So, she was bored. He could understand that. He was sorry. But a cure did not occur to him immediately. Oh, well, maybe she could go pick hackberries.

  “Well, it’s a big job all right,” Goodnight allowed.

  “And twice as big as it should be,” Revelie said. “The way I see it, you’ve got eight able-bodied workers, but you’re only using seven. That throws the whole system off. You can just moan and groan about how much you miss Loving. Or you can let me take his place. I suggest the latter course. That way we would have two teams and finish twice as fast.”

  “You?” asked her husband.

  “Yes, me,” said his wife.

  “What could you do?”

  “Well, I can’t rope. I’ll give you that. And I might not be strong enough to flip. I’ll give you that, too. But I could brand or cut.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious!”

  Goodnight thought a moment, took off his hat, scratched his moist scalp, put his hat back on, scratched his chin.

  “Why don’t you brand,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you.”

  She gave him a big smile.

  Getting down from her sidesaddle, Revelie walked over to the fire where the branding irons were heating. She borrowed a pair of too-big gloves and looked to be ready to go to work.

  “Okay,” Goodnight said, “we’ll work two teams. Second-team ropers: Tin Soldier and Suckerod, okay? Simon, you’ll still cut, and Black Dub’ll still throw. An’ we’ll have two burners, Revelie and Coffee. See how that works out.” He didn’t seem too sure that it would.

  Too Short roped the front end of another calf and Goodnight lassoed the back end. Black Dub grabbed a front foot and flipped the calf on its back.

  Goodnight wondered if his bride would be able to go through with her part of the deal. He couldn’t imagine her inflicting pain on any of God’s creatures. And of course there was always the possibility that a calf would inflict some pain on her with a well-placed kick. Her husband wished he had forbidden his wife to take part in what was clearly man’s work, but he knew why he hadn’t. He had been afraid it would harm his relationship with his wife. Her getting a few bumps and bruises would be better than their relationship getting roughed up. He watched her withdraw a red-hot branding iron from the fire, watched her run toward the struggling calf, watched her look down at her victim, watched her hesitate.

  He was right: She couldn’t go through with it. Good. No harm done.

  Revelie slapped the glowing branding iron on the calf’s rump and set its fur on fire. When he saw the flames flare up, the husband expected his wife to drop the iron and run, but she stood her ground undeterred by the fire and the sizzle.

  Goodnight was in for one more surprise: a feeling of deep pride.

  49

  Goodnight watched his wife move about the cedar room. The windows now had curtains, which were made from flour sacks but didn’t look it. They were white and ruffled. The rough split-rail floor was partially obscured by a rug woven from rags. It was a rug of many colors like the coat of many colors in the Bible. The bed was covered by a patchwork quilt of many colors. Revelie’s womanly instincts did not seem to have been damaged by branding a few thousand calves. Then Goodnight became aware that she was giving him curious looks.

  “What’s the matter?” Goodnight asked.

  “Well, I was just thinking,” Revelie said, “maybe it’s time.”

  “Time for what?” he asked.

  “Time to write out your code,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you remember? Back when you were courting me by mail, you wrote to me that you were planning to write down some rules for life in this country. And you implied that you could use my help. Well, was that just something you said to get me to fall in love with you. Or were you serious?”

  “Uh, well, both to tell you the truth. I wanted you to love meand I wanted help to write this stuff down. Wha’d you call it?”

  “A code.”

  He scratched his chin. “Reg’lar writin’s tough enough for me. I don’t need no codes. Why’d I wanna write it in code, anyhow? I don’t git it.”

  She smiled. “I’m not talking about that kind of code. I don’t mean secret writing. I mean a code of laws. A code of rules. A code of conduct. A code to live by.”

  Goodnight was embarrassed at having misunderstood. He wasn’t sure he had ever heard of that kind of code, but he tried not to let on.

  “Oh,” he said. “Sure.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” she said. “I liked it when you wrote about it, and I like it now. I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up, but you never did, so I thought I might mention it. You still want to, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” he said nervously.

  “Good, so do I,” she said.

  She went to her store-bought chest of drawers, which he had bought for her in Tascosa and hauled home in the hoodlum wagon. She opened the top drawer and took out a paper and pen and ink. At least it wasn’t a damn fountain pen. Nonetheless, as she approached him, he grew more and more nervous. He felt trapped.

  “Uh, well, ya see,” Goodnight stammered, “I don’t write none too good. That’s how come I ain’t brung up that there code. I was sorta scared a you seein’ how bad I write.”

  “But your letters were beautifully written,” Revelie said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Loving wrote them letters,” he said.

  “Are you telling me I fell in love with Loving,” she asked, “not you?”

  “No, no, thass not what I’m sayin’. Not less you just fell in love with how them letters looked ’stead of what they said. See, I said them words. I thought them thoughts. But I waddn’t up to writin’ ’em down. So he give me a hand. You might say the writin’ was mine but the handwritin’ was his. Are you mad?”

  “No, that’s what I thought.”<
br />
  “You did?”

  “Sure. I’d seen your handwriting. Remember?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But I had also heard you talk. I thought I knew something about how your mind worked. So I took the words to be yours but the penmanship to be somebody else’s. I didn’t know whose. But when I arrived here and saw how close you two were, I guessed he was the one.”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “No kidding. What I loved about those letters wasn’t the penmanship.”

  “It waddn’t?” He chuckled.

  “No.”

  Revelie sat down on a store-bought chair that her husband thought looked rather puny. It had spindly legs. She unscrewed the top of a small bottle of ink.

  “I know I can’t really take Loving’s place,” she said, “but my handwriting isn’t too bad. It may be a trifle feminine for your taste, but I can’t help that. We’ll just have to live with that. What I am trying to say is that I would be happy to transcribe your code for you.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Goodnight said. “Mebbe we could write this here thing together at that. You’ll do more’n just spellin’, won’t you? You’ll help me fix up the right words, the right ever’thing, won’t you? We’ll puzzle it out together.”

  “Of course.”

  Revelie dipped the tip of her pen in the bottle of ink. Then she wrote something at the top of a piece of paper. Goodnight tried to read it upside down, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He wasn’t even all that good at right-side-up reading.

  “I reckon it oughta be some kinda contract,” Goodnight said, “like the one I signed with your daddy. But this here contract won’t be about bizness. It’ll be about how you’re s’posed to act.”

  “A social contract,” Revelie said.

  “Sumpun like that.”

  “How do you want to start?”

  “I dunno. Mebbe we oughta start with number one.”

  “That sounds good to me.”

  Goodnight watched Revelie write “1” near the top of the page. He could evidently read numbers upside down.

  “Less see,” Goodnight said, “put down how you gotta be trustworthy. That’s number one. Now you do number two.”