by Aaron Latham
Goodnight let his arm drop to his side. Looking around, he saw two other gunmen with their firearms still up, so he wasn’t last, anyway. Now if he had only managed to hit the paper target, Gudanuf’s heart. Goodnight glanced over at his wife, who gave him another one of her brilliant smiles. He liked the smile, but her presence made waiting for the scores even more difficult. He hated the thought of losing in her eyes.
When Too Short read out the scores, it turned out that Goodnight was the only gunman to hit his target all six times. None were in the bull’s-eye, but he won his heat. The husband enjoyed his wife’s broad smile. She still had the purdiest smile he had ever seen in his whole life. He appreciated Loving’s pleased grin as well.
“Nice shooting,” Revelie called from her post by the river. “I’m proud of you.”
Goodnight thought: Why did she have to go and say that? First of all, it was embarrassing. But the worst part was that he would be all the more nervous next time he stepped up to shoot. If winning made her proud of him, what would losing do?
Loving joined the final group of shooters. As Revelie raised the red handkerchief, Goodnight noticed that Loving stood straight up. He didn’t crouch the way all the other gunmen had done. His feet were close together rather than spread for balance. His elbow was straight rather than bent. His right hand hung limp below his gun. He did not look like a man about to draw his weapon.
When the red handkerchief touched the red dust, Loving casually raised his hand and his pistol rocked backward into his palm. He didn’t raise his gun as high as Goodnight had. He seemed to be firing as soon as the barrel cleared the holster. He was the first to finish shooting and lower his gun.
When Too Short announced the results, Loving had of course won easily with the highest score of the day. Goodnight was glad his friend had done so well. He was impressed all over again. And he could tell that Revelie was impressed, too. Goodnight couldn’t help being a little jealous, even though he was still glad for his friend.
Too Short studied his dusty bookkeeping for a few moments and then called off the names of the eight gunmen who had qualified for the next round of the competition, the semifinals. The shoot-off would be held in two heats of four shooters each. The same rules would apply as before: the slowest shooter would be disqualified, while the best marksman moved on to the finals. Flytrap got a sharp-pointed stick and redrew the line in the red earth.
“First group,” yelled Too Short.
“Who’s that?” a cowboy asked.
“Don’t matter,” said the judge. “Whoever. But step on it.”
Goodnight and Loving looked at each other. Loving nodded in the direction of the line. Stepping forward, Goodnight could feel his fingers involuntarily twitching again. Revelie dropped her handkerchief and Goodnight started firing. Squinting with his one good eye, imagining the gunbarrel to be his metal finger, he pointed and fired, fired, fired . . .
“It’s close,” Too Short shouted, “but high score goes to Mr. Goodnight.”
There was a smattering of applause. He figured the hand-clapping would probably have been a little louder if one of the regular cowboys had won the round.
Seeing Loving step forward to take his place on the firing line, Goodnight stopped thinking about himself and admired his friend. Goodnight had to admit that Loving was without doubt the best cowboy he had ever seen in his life. It wouldn’t be any disgrace to lose to such a man. Besides, Loving had two good eyes and it sometimes seemed as if he had even more the way they kept changing colors.
The handkerchief flew and so did the lead. Loving fired so rapidly that his gun was already hanging down at his side while the other gunmen were still lining up their third and fourth shots. Now Goodnight realized that he had no chance.
Too Short examined the targets and announced what was already obvious to everybody. The clapping for Loving was louder and longer than it had been for Goodnight. The rancher heard in this applause a preview of the ovation yet to come. Loving’s victory over him would be a popular one. He was the champion the crowd wanted. He was a top hand but still a hand, and his win would be shared vicariously by all the other hands. Goodnight himself and his wife would be the only ones pulling for him to win. He looked at her, needing to be cheered up by one of her smiles, but he found her looking at Loving.
“Somebody better ’splain the new rules,” Too Short called.
“Revelie, you’re good at ’splainin’,” Goodnight said.
“All right, these are the rules for the last round of the competition,” Revelie said in a clear, loud voice. “Can you hear me?”
There was a muttered response: yes, they could hear, get on with it, let’s go, hurry up.
“There are just two contestants left,” announced Revelie. “This time, one of them will shoot, then the other will shoot. They will take turns. Very good manners.”
The onlookers laughed.
“Tell ’em about the hankie,” prompted her husband.
“Oh, that’s right. As soon as I drop my handkerchief, the first marksman will start firing at the target. He must stop shooting when the kerchief hits the ground. His score will be recorded. Then the next marksman will step forward. And we will repeat the process.”
Goodnight walked over to the riverbank to talk to his wife.
“Honey, why don’t you rustle up a clean hankie,” Goodnight suggested. “That un’s so dirty, it drops just like a clod. I need all the time I can git.”
“All right, I will,” Revelie said. “Good luck. I never realized you were such a good shot. No, that’s not quite what I mean. I knew you were good, but I didn’t know you were the best.”
Goodnight was caught off guard. He had impressed his wife. Even after all these years, he could still impress her. He felt a warm sense of pleasure until he saw his vision blur. That was all he needed right now. How could he shoot straight with tears in his one hardworking eye?
“I mayn’t be the best,” Goodnight said.
“Then one of the two best,” Revelie said.
Goodnight sort of wished that she hadn’t given up quite so quickly. Well, never mind. It was time to go shoot.
Turning away, Goodnight almost ran into Loving. What was he doing there? How long had he been standing there? What had he heard? Could his friend see the tears in his eye?
“Too Short wants to know how many targets,” Loving said. “One or two. I tol’ him just one on account of we ain’t gonna be shootin’ at the same time, but he said check with you.”
“One’s fine,” Goodnight said.
Then Goodnight had an idea. His wife’s good offices had been used to persuade him to enter the shoot-out, so now perhaps she could be employed once again to make sure it was a fair contest.
“Miz Goodnight, how ’bout doin’ me a favor?” her husband asked.
“Certainly, Mr. Goodnight,” his wife said with elaborate courtesy.
“Make Loving promise to do his best.”
“Are you still worried he may let you win?”
“I don’t wanna win that way.”
“All right, Mr. Loving,” Revelie turned and faced the graceful cowboy, “you must promise to beat my husband. Is that understood? He won’t have it any other way.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Loving said and tipped his hat. “Cross my heart.”
The two men turned and headed back toward their firing positions.
“You go first?” Goodnight said.
“No thanks,” said Loving.
“It’s your turn to go first.”
“Ain’t no turn about it. You shoot first. I’ll go after.”
“No, you’re first.” Goodnight realized that he sounded like a boy having an argument with another boy in a schoolyard, but for some reason he was determined to have his way. “I mean it.”
“I thought this here party was supposed to be for me,” Loving said. “The fatted calf and gittin’ my way—that’s what I counted on. Was I wrong?”
“No, you’re right.”
Goodnight stepped up to the line.
“Ready?” called Revelie.
“You bedder come a little closer,” Goodnight said, “so’s I can see you and the bull’s-eye at the same time.”
“All right,” she said, “just don’t shoot me.”
“I’ll try hard not to,” he said.
Revelie moved farther from the riverbank and closer to the line of fire. She came slowly.
“How about here?” she asked.
“A little more,” he said.
So she came on.
“Right there,” he said.
Revelie stopped and smiled. She stood to his right and a little in front of him about ten feet away. She wasn’t in any danger, or he wouldn’t have let her stand there, so long as he didn’t miss his aim by a dozen feet.
“Ready?” she asked again.
When Goodnight nodded, Revelie released a newly borrowed white handkerchief, which began its butterfly flight. The husband had to force himself to look away from his wife in order to shoot. The big Colt jumped into his hand. Feeling the smooth ivory handle against his palm calmed him. Goodnight pointed and squeezed, first shot. Take that, Gudanuf. He saw that the handkerchief had already fluttered down to his wife’s waist. Again he pointed and squeezed, second shot, wanting to impress Revelie. Again, third shot, wanting to impress Loving, which didn’t make any sense and yet it did. Point, squeeze, fourth shot. The white blur in his peripheral vision touched the ground.
“Stop!” yelled Too Short.
Goodnight lowered his gun. Then he half-turned and looked directly at Revelie, who was smiling at him. He watched her bend and retrieve the white handkerchief, which was now embroidered in red. He turned and found Loving standing behind him. He realized that in locating his wife and his friend, he was checking the points of his compass.
“Nice shootin’,” said Loving.
“We’ll see,” said Goodnight.
“Bull’s-eye!” yelled Too Short.
Goodnight wheeled around to face his target. He couldn’t have heard right. But everybody was clapping all around him and this time more warmly.
“Plum in the middle,” Too Short shouted. “Best goddamned shot all day.”
“Don’t cuss,” said Goodnight.
“You cuss.”
“Not in mixed company.”
“Do too.”
“Well, I shouldn’t ought to.”
Everybody laughed while Too Short studied the target more carefully. He circled all the bullet holes. Then he turned around and cleared his throat loudly.
“One smack in the center, bull’s-eye, like I done said,” Too Short reported. “One in the second ring. Two in the fourth.”
Goodnight was amazed. Now that he had shot so well, he found it hard to look at anybody. Success made him shy, or rather shier. He glanced at Revelie, but his restless eye wouldn’t stay. He didn’t look at Loving at all. He was somehow embarrassed by what he had done. Then he sensed Loving moving forward to shoot. Now Goodnight finally looked up and briefly met the glance of his friend.
“Remember your promise,” Goodnight muttered.
“Sure thing,” Loving said with a laugh.
Then the graceful cowboy walked up to the line and stood as non-chalantly as if he were at the bar in a Tascosa saloon waiting to be served. Goodnight wondered how his friend achieved the effect. It had something to do with the hands hanging relaxed at his sides. But it was more than just hands and fingers. It was his whole posture. But it was more still. It was his point of view, his way of meeting the world, his vision of his place in it. Well, who knew what the hell it was? Certainly not Goodnight.
“Ready?” asked Revelie.
The brim of Loving’s hat dipped down and then up again. The redrimmed white handkerchief spread its wings. Loving used the smallest motion to draw his gun and fire. Goodnight counted to himself: One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
“Stop!” ordered Too Short.
The handkerchief landed and the gun seemed to find its own way back into the holster. So Loving was faster than Goodnight was. He had gotten off more shots. But was he more accurate?
The crowd clapped in appreciation of Loving’s speed and also because they liked him. This day had made his reputation and his popularity. Again, Goodnight could not help being a little jealous of his best friend on earth.
“You’re even faster’n I figured,” Goodnight said. “Good goin’.”
Loving’s hat brim bobbed slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment. He never moved more than he had to. The brim bobbed again when Revelie walked up.
“Congratulations on your quickness,” she said. “That was most impressive.”
Goodnight was more than a little jealous. He wanted to be the one to impress his wife.
“Thanky, ma’am,” said Loving.
They were all turned, like sunflowers, facing the bull’s-eye. Too Short was examining it carefully. Goodnight thought he was taking an unusually long time. Finally, he stood up straight and made a racket clearing his throat.
“Three hits,” Too Short shouted. “Two in the second ring. One in the third.”
Goodnight was stunned. Loving had paid the price of speed: inaccuracy. Two of his bullets had missed the target completely. Who would have thought?
“Why Mr. Goodnight, I believe you’ve won!” cried Revelie.
She stood right in front of her husband, took both his hands, and squeezed them tightly. She was excited. She obviously hadn’t expected him to win, but that was all right. He hadn’t expected it either. She looked at him in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Anyway, he thought she did.
The crowd was clapping, not as warmly as they would have if their favorite had won, but nonetheless they were making considerable noise.
Goodnight had to admit that he had even impressed himself. He hadn’t expected to hit the bull’s-eye right in the pupil. He hadn’t expected to beat Loving. But then that old fear came back to worry him. Maybe Loving had missed the target twice on purpose. He had never missed before. Why now? Goodnight turned a suspicious eye on his friend.
Would Loving deceive him?
72
The next day after everybody had left, Goodnight and Loving sat on the spacious front porch of the big ranch house cleaning their guns. After the shooting match, there had followed another night of dancing until dawn. Then the guests had piled into their vehicles or climbed on their horses—many not having slept much, if at all, for two days and two nights—and headed for their distant homes. It was all over except the cleaning up, which included the cleaning of firearms. Goodnight and Loving sat on cane-bottomed chairs that were tipped back against the stone wall of the ranch house. Their work was in their laps, which meant they were getting some oil on their clothes.
“You sure you didn’t let me win?” asked Goodnight.
“Will you quit pesterin’ me about that?” Loving said. “I done tol’ you.”
“I know, I know, but I still ain’t easy in my mind about it. Somethin’ seems wrong. Fishy.”
“You accusin’ me a lyin’? I don’t take kindly to bein’ called a liar, not even by you.”
“I ain’t callin’ you a liar, not exactly.”
“Not exactly!”
“Don’t git so touchy. I just wanna be sure. Tell me ag’in.”
“Tell you what?”
“You know, tell me you didn’t let me win.”
“That’s right.”
“No, say it. Say the whole thing. I wanna hear how you say it. I figure I could tell if you’re out-and-out lyin’ to me. I know you well ’nough for that.”
“Okay, I didn’t let you win. How’s that? That good ’nough? You believe me now? Or you still think I’m lyin’?”
“I believe you, I reckon. But the hard part’s believin’ you missed the whole dad-blamed target. Not just oncet but twicet. That ain’t like you. Not atall. That’s what I cain’t figure out. How’d you come to do that? Huh?”
�
�Do what?”
“Miss the target.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that. Can you sit here with a straight face an’ tell me you didn’t miss the target on purpose?”
“I didn’t miss it on purpose. Leave it alone, okay?”
Goodnight tried to take Loving’s advice, but he was still troubled by his suspicions. He wanted his win to feel as clean as his gun barrel now looked as he squinted down it. No, wait. It wasn’t all that clean. There was one piece of lint way down in there. He couldn’t leave it like that. He got out his swab and went to work again.
“So you’re sayin’ you missed the dad-gum target by accident, right?” Goodnight asked. “Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”
“No, I ain’t sayin’ that,” said Loving.
“No?”
“No, not exactly. Don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth.”
“Then what are you sayin’?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”
“Come on, tell me. Did you accidentally miss the target or didn’t you?”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t miss it accidentally? You missed it on purpose?”
“No, I didn’t miss the damn target. Satisfied?”
“What? But—”
“If you don’t believe me, go look. See how many bullets hit the damn bull’s-eye.”
“What—?”
Goodnight laid down his gun, which was still all in pieces, on the floor of the porch. He got up and started walking toward the river. He looked behind, but Loving wasn’t following. Goodnight felt an impulse to run, but he restrained it. He simply walked quickly. When he reached the riverbank, he turned left in the direction of the bluff that marked the site of the shoot-out. Once he was out of view of the ranch house, he did quicken his pace to a trot. When he saw the last target, still nailed to its post, Goodnight started running. Reaching the cedar post, he knelt in the red sand beside it.