Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  Hearing a rustling just behind him, Goodnight half-turned and found himself staring at Revelie. He couldn’t breathe. He almost wished he were blind again. He realized now that he had hoped that a couple of weeks in jail would mar her beauty, but instead it had just made her seem more vulnerable—more fragile—which made her all the more lovely. He desperately wanted to protect her. Their eyes met and then she looked away. Had she averted her eyes out of guilt or abhorrence? Did she blame herself or him? Who was more guilty? The wife who betrayed her husband? Or the husband who drove her to pull the trigger and kill somebody? Loving had only made her an adulterer. Goodnight had made her a murderer.

  Revelie was accompanied by Sheriff Dub Martin, who had arrested her and who had recently been her landlord. After the shooting, Goodnight had been too delirious to decide whether Revelie should be shielded from the law or turned over to it. So Tin Soldier had taken it upon himself to ride from the red canyon all the way to Tascosa to lay the facts before “Sheriff Dub.” Then Black Dub had ridden to the Home Ranch, where he took Revelie into custody. Fortunately, Loving had been away from headquarters at the time, off alone somewhere trying to make sense out of what had happened. Otherwise there might have been a fight. Goodnight was the one who had wanted law and order in this country, and now that law threatened to take his “wife” away from him. He was having second thoughts about getting what he had asked for.

  As everyone stared, Revelie swept by her husband and moved to the front of the courtroom. She sat down at the defense table beside her attorney, Hank Wallace, the only lawyer in town, whose office, located at the corner of McMasters and Main Streets, was no more than a shack. His suit was shiny, but his shoes weren’t. His eyes were too close together, which made him look unreliable. Goodnight thought Revelie deserved better. She should really be tried in Boston, where the people would understand a woman like her. Her husband stared hard at her back, hoping she would turn.

  And Revelie did turn. Goodnight was happy for a moment. He thought she was looking for him. But her gaze stopped before it reached him. She had been looking for Loving. Goodnight saw their eyes meet. She smiled warmly.

  Now her husband wanted to hurt her. He had been informed that he couldn’t be forced to testify against his wife. That was the law. But he could take the stand if he so chose. He had told the prosecutor, John King, who made his living running the drugstore, that he had no desire to testify. But now he felt himself changing his mind. Now he wanted to take the stand and tell the jury that the woman who was smiling at that cowboy was a killer, a murderer, a . . .

  Calm down, calm down. The doctor had warned Goodnight that he shouldn’t get excited. He looked away.

  When he looked back, Revelie had her back turned once again. Goodnight found himself studying the back of Loving’s neck. He wondered what Loving thought of him. Why did he care? But he did.

  The judge—a circuit judge who passed through Tascosa every month or so—entered the courtroom and everybody stood up. Everybody but the crippled Goodnight. His Honor struck a table with a wooden hammer and everybody sat back down.

  Circuit Court Judge Sam Rawlins pointed at the prosecutor and asked: “You ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” said John King, whose job was to get Revelie hanged.

  “Good.” Then the judge pointed at Hank Wallace: “You ready?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Then we better git started. Time’s a wastin’. You”—he pointed again—“call your first witness.”

  Goodnight wondered if the judge had trouble remembering names.

  “I call Mortimer Jones,” said John King.

  Leaving his place beside Goodnight, Tin Soldier reluctantly got up and headed for the witness stand. Actually, it was a chair that sat beside the judge’s table. Tin Soldier’s face was a deep brown, but his forehead was white where it was normally shaded by his steel hat.

  Henry Kimball, who happened to be another blacksmith, did the swearing in. He handed the witness a heavy Bible and asked, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth, so help you God?”

  “Yeah,” said Tin Soldier.

  John King, the prosecuting druggist, stood up and approached the witness chair. He wore a black suit, a string tie, and was completely bald, with a freckled head.

  “State your name, please.”

  “Mortimer”—Tin Soldier looked embarrassed—“Jones.”

  “And where do you reside?”

  “The bunkhouse at the Home Ranch.”

  “All right, I reckon that’ll do. Where were you on the night of June twenty-fourth?”

  “The bunkhouse.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  Tin Soldier cleared his throat. He looked around the courtroom as if searching for an escape route. His eyes met his boss’s and focused. Goodnight felt sorry for him.

  “I’m waitin’,” prompted John King.

  “Well, we heard a shot and come arunnin’,” said Tin Soldier. “And we heard Mr. Goodnight tellin’ Loving to draw. But he wouldn’t fight him. And so when the boss there pulled his gun, Miz Revelie shot him. And she shot my friend Simon Shapiro with the same bullet. And he fell down dead.” He said it all without taking a breath.

  Goodnight discovered that he resented Tin Soldier for trying to hurt Revelie. He knew the poor cowboy didn’t really have any choice. Everybody in town already knew the story—gossip being what it was— so poor Tin Soldier couldn’t very well make up some new chain of events now. Still, Goodnight liked his cowboy less. He couldn’t help it.

  When Revelie glanced back over her shoulder at Loving, Goodnight discovered that his opinion of Tin Soldier was improving.

  101

  Loving seemed to sit as easily in the witness chair as he did in the saddle. Goodnight studied the cowboy’s well-made features for an answer to the only question that mattered to him: How could his friend hurt him so? But all he discovered was how much it still hurt. First he had lost his sister, and now he had lost his brother. He felt that he couldn’t stand it anymore and looked away.

  He tried not to listen as Loving swore to tell the truth. Goodnight wished he could stop his ears, but he couldn’t keep out the sound anymore than he could stop the feelings. He sat helplessly in his wagonchair and was drenched with sweat. He couldn’t help wondering if anybody noticed. He wiped his forehead and tried to stop sweating. He couldn’t do that either. He couldn’t keep the sound out or the water in.

  “Well, what happened?” asked the prosecutor.

  Goodnight longed to pass out. His chest hurt where he had been shot, as if the wound were brand new. He thought he was bleeding again. Looking down, he didn’t see any blood. He felt a blinding pain behind his eyes, the good and the bad. He wanted to get out of there. He had never run from a fight, but he was ready to run now.

  “Mr. Goodnight and I quarreled,” Loving said easily. “He threw down on me. I was faster’n he was. My bullet went clean through him and killt Simon Shapiro, who didn’t have no part in our fight. I’m real sorry for that, and I’m ready to take my medicine.”

  Goodnight felt dizzy, delirious, sick. His head was a crudely carved block that balanced precariously on his shoulders. He actually felt as if it were about to fall off. He fought hard not to throw up. It seemed to him that Loving had betrayed him once again by usurping his role, the husband’s role, as Revelie’s protector. Goodnight hated Loving for what he was attempting to do. And loved Loving for it. And resented him. And admired him more than ever. And was deeply, deeply jealous.

  “Hold on,” said John King. “You mean you did the shootin’?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Loving calmly.

  Goodnight had to admit that this cowboy even lied well.

  “Remember,” said the prosecutor, “you’re under oath.”

  “That’s why I’m tellin’ the truth,” said Loving.

  “No!” screamed Revelie. “I did it. I killed that poor man.” She pointed at Loving. �
��He didn’t do anything. He’s lying.”

  Goodnight wondered if his wife would ever have sacrificed herself in this way for him. Oh, maybe once. Maybe a long long time ago. But surely not now. And this hurt. Revelie had opened another wound. And this time she hadn’t missed his heart. His shoulders hunched and he bent forward. He looked down and saw that the front of his shirt was slowly turning red.

  102

  Goodnight thought he smelled smoke. He lay on a narrow bed in a back room of the Exchange Hotel with its huge, steep roof. The hotel was full tonight—a very unusual circumstance—because so many people from all around had come to town to see the hanging. The unmarried cowboys, who had come riding in for the show, mostly slept on the ground, but the married men and their wives and daughters naturally wanted a roof at night. Goodnight was surprised at the number of womenfolk who had made the trip to see another woman die at the end of a rope. He supposed it was a measure of their resentment of his Boston wife. These Western women wanted to see the Eastern lady dance her last dance with her feet off the ground. Perhaps what he was smelling was the hatred in the air.

  No, something was really burning. Goodnight couldn’t see anything from where he lay. If he wanted to satisfy his curiosity—possibly even save himself from burning—he was going to have to get out of bed. But could he? Ever since his relapse in the courtroom, he had rested in this bed day and night.

  Goodnight told himself that he had to get to the window. He was worried about Revelie locked in her cell. What if the jail was on fire? He was also worried about himself. What if the hotel was burning? If Revelie was the one in danger, he would wake up the town. If he was the one, then he would just tumble out of his ground-floor window. But probably it was just some bonfire lit to celebrate the woman-hanging.

  Goodnight eased his feet over the edge of the bed and they dropped of their dead weight. Then he started the hard job of trying to push himself up into a sitting position. He told himself that he wouldn’t mind dying before Revelie died, but he didn’t want to be burned alive. The frightening odor was growing stronger. Climbing down off this bed seemed harder and more dangerous than the precarious climb down into his red canyon. He looked dizzily down at the floor that loomed a mile or more below. Stand up! He just sat there.Stand up! Pushing with his hands, he shifted his weight to his feet and rose slowly. When he reached his full height, he ceased to exist. He was gone. He died. He was falling. Then he came back to life just in time to regain his balance. He swayed, light-headed, but remained standing. Then he began the long trip across the room. The floor stretched in front of him like the White Sands. He took small steps with wooden feet. His side hurt. He had never worked harder or been so tired. He was sweating again. He felt as slippery as a fish.

  When he finally reached the window, which looked out of the back of the hotel, Goodnight saw the scaffold that had been erected in a vacant lot next to the jail. It momentarily distracted him, so he forgot the reason for his long trip.

  Then he saw a yellow flash. The scaffold was on fire. Good. No, it wasn’t good. It wasn’t the hangman’s platform burning. It was the jail. His first fears were confirmed. Revelie was locked inside a burning cage. She would be burned to death. He couldn’t imagine a more terrible fate. Gripped by panic, he started clawing at the window, trying to open it, trying to get out, desperately trying to escape, as if he were the one locked in a blazing building. He had to get to her. He had to save her.

  The window opened and he half-jumped and half-fell out. It was like being born anew. He was completely naked. Except for his bandage, his eye patch, and the six-gun he held in his hand.

  103

  Goodnight lay on the ground, dazed, but only for a moment. Then he started struggling to his feet. He felt as if somebody were stabbing him just below his heart. He touched the stabbed place, expecting to get blood on his fingers, but there was none. His shirt was damp but only with sweat. He took a deep breath and then began his endless journey to the fire. The blaze was brighter now.

  “Fire!” screamed Goodnight, and then aimed his pistol at the stars and pulled the trigger. The gun roared. No stars fell. “Fire!Fire! The jail’s onfire!” He squeezed off another shot. He was embarrassed to call so much attention to himself when he wasn’t dressed for it. Wasn’t, in fact, dressed at all. Still he kept up the alarm. “Fire! Fire! . . .” And he emptied his gun shooting at heaven.

  Soon his howling was accompanied by a ringing bell. It seemed to make a frightened sound. It was so loud that he stopped shouting. Somehow the clanging seemed to be going on inside his head. His skull was the bell and his brain was the clapper. He felt as if the bones in his head were about to crack like the Liberty Bell. He wished the ringing would stop. His nerves couldn’t take any more.

  People were now pouring into the street. Goodnight could see dark figures silhouetted against the bright flames. As he fought to reach Revelie, limping badly, he was haunted by Suckerod, the shaking cowboy. How many of “his” people was he going to have to lose to fire? The ground felt hot beneath his bare feet.

  Goodnight just hoped that somebody had the sense to unlock Revelie’s jail cell and let her out before she was burned alive. But what if they couldn’t reach her? What if the jail was already too hot? What if they couldn’t get in and she couldn’t get out? He thought he heard her screaming, but it could have been his imagination. He tried to listen harder. Was the noise coming from his wife or from the fire itself? Was the inferno howling?

  As he drew closer to the burning jail, Goodnight could see the gathering crowd more plainly. Some people were carrying buckets of water, but they seemed to move in a haphazard fashion. There didn’t appear to be any organized fire-fighting. He imagined his wife dying for lack of an orderly effort. He knew how to give orders if he could just get there in time.

  But would the town take orders from a naked man? Goodnight felt as if he were moving in a nightmare, for he had often dreamed of coming to town nude. But he always woke up . . . until now. Thank God the fire had everybody’s attention at the moment, but he knew somebody would eventually notice him. He put his hand over his crotch as if that did much good.

  Goodnight forgot his embarrassment when he saw Revelie emerge from the jail. Dub held her by the arm as if to keep her from escaping. Her husband thought that was uncalled for, but at least she was safe from the fire. He could see coughs shaking her whole body. She looked pitifully pale in the light cast by the bright fire.

  “Rev—”

  He stopped his shout when he remembered that he was nude. He wanted to see her, but he didn’t want her to see him. That would teach him to sleep in the nude. He had gotten in the habit in his days as a Human Being.

  “Revelie,” he whispered from afar. “Thank God you’re all right.” He breathed her name over and over again. “Revelie, Revelie, Revelie, Revelie . . .”

  Goodnight almost hoped the intensity of his stare would make her look in his direction, make her see him, but if she did, he would really die of embarrassment. He felt not only as naked but also as weak as a newborn baby. He sank to his knees and covered his nakedness with both hands. His vision blurred so he knew he was crying. Well, he didn’t need to be strong now. She was safe—at least until morning, when they would hang her.

  Looking for someplace to hide, Goodnight selected a small mesquite that grew about five yards away. He felt too tired, too drained, to stand up, so he crawled, like a baby. Fear once again gripped him, not for his wife, but for himself. What if somebody saw him? The news would spread as fast as a runaway fire, and soon everybody would be staring at him. And laughing at him. Including Revelie. Moving along on all fours, he felt like some lower animal, a dog, even a pig. Not a cat. He wasn’t as graceful as a cat.

  When he finally reached the cover of the small mesquite, Goodnight felt as if he had been saved. Like Revelie. But somebody would eventually see him, and come daylight, somebody would hang Revelie. This saving business didn’t seem to save very much for very long. He
just wished he could rush over, grab her up, carry her off, and hide her from the hangman. He wished it so much that he could almost see it. He imagined himself riding a strong horse down McMasters Street. He had his clothes on and he bent down and—

  His wish was made flesh, but unfortunately not his. A rider was galloping down the dusty street. People scrambled to get out of the way. It was Loving riding furiously. Good for him! Save her! Please! He couldn’t thank Loving enough, but at the same time he couldn’t help being jealous. Now this graceful cowboy was not only his wife’s lover but also her savior.

  Goodnight bit the inside of his cheek as Loving bent down and pulled Revelie away from Sheriff Dub, who was certainly strong enough to have put up a fight if he had wanted to. Loving lifted her up onto his saddle, where she lay across the pommel. It wasn’t a graceful position—nor a comfortable one—but it surely beat a hanging. Goodnight wondered if Loving hadn’t set the fire on purpose to force the sheriff to unlock Revelie’s cell. He wouldn’t put it past him.

  Loving and Revelie—the people he loved best in the world, the only two people who had ever shot him—galloped away from the light and soon disappeared into the darkness.

  Nobody fired a shot.

  BOOK FIVE

  QUEST FOR VENGEANCE

  104

  1880s

  On a lovely spring morning, Goodnight sat on the front porch of his beautiful rock house feeling bad. He had never quite regained his strength after his wife shot him. He wasn’t sure which had crippled him the most, taking the bullet or losing Revelie and Loving. It had been years now and he still hadn’t healed. He got tired more easily, so he worked fewer hours. And when he wasn’t working, he generally sat right here on this porch. Now that he was alone, the house behind him was too big for him, so he resisted going inside until he had to. But the porch was different. It wasn’t too big. It was half indoors (because it had a roof) and half outdoors (because it didn’t have walls), so it belonged to the canyon as well as to the house. He had installed a store-bought rocking chair, and he spent many hours in it, with his back turned to Revelie’s mansion, his face turned tohis red-walled home.