Then Mox Mox arrived. He had three Mexicans with him, and a stolen white boy. The little boy was about six. He whimpered all night.
When Gus McCrae rescued her, she hadn’t been able to speak, and she had never since spoken of that time to anyone—not much, anyway.
Particularly, she had never spoken about the little boy.
“Mox Mox wanted to burn me,” Lorena said. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Goodnight. I’ll tell it today. But don’t ever ask me about it again. Is that a bargain?”
Goodnight nodded.
“He’s small,” Lorena said. “He wasn’t big, like Blue Duck, and he’s got that eye that looks off. He wanted to burn me. He piled brush all around me and he poured whiskey on me. He said that would make me burn longer. He said it would make it hurt worse. He rubbed grease in my eyes. He said that would be the worst, when my eyes fried. He poured whiskey on me and he rubbed that grease in my eyes.”
“But he didn’t burn you,” Goodnight said. “I’m surprised. It’s our good luck and yours.”
“Blue Duck wouldn’t let him burn me,” Lorena said. “Blue Duck wanted me for bait. He let him pile up the brush, and he let him squirt and rub grease in my eyes, but he wouldn’t let him burn me. He wanted to use me to catch Gus McCrae. He wanted to catch Gus real bad, but then Gus killed half his renegades, and Blue Duck left.”
“What about Mox Mox?” Goodnight asked. “I guess he didn’t stay for the fight with Captain McCrae, did he? He left, like his jefe.”
“Yes . . . he left with his Mexicans,” Lorena said.
She stopped.
“I’ve never told nobody this. . . . I don’t know if I can, Mr. Goodnight,” Lorena said.
“Don’t try,” Goodnight said. “You don’t need to. I’ll tell this part, ma’am. He didn’t burn you, but he burned the boy, didn’t he?”
“How’d you know?” Lorena asked, looking at him in surprise.
“Because I found what was left of that boy, and buried him,” Goodnight said. “Six months later, that devil burned my cowboys.”
“I’m glad somebody else knows,” Lorena said.
“Well, I know,” Goodnight said. “I found the remains. The boy’s parents showed up at my headquarters about a year later. They were still looking for their child.”
Lorena began to tremble so hard that Charles Goodnight stepped over and put a hand on her shoulder. He had steadied horses that way; perhaps it would have the same effect with this woman.
“You didn’t tell them, did you?” Lorena said. “You didn’t tell them what happened, did you?”
“I told them their son drowned in the South Canadian River,” Goodnight said. “I usually try to stick to the truth, but these poor folks had been hunting that boy for a year. I thought the full truth was more than they needed to hear. Anyway, the child was dead. They wanted to go to the grave, and I took them. I’m thankful they didn’t try to dig up the child.”
“You did right,” Lorena said. “You shouldn’t have told them no more than you did.”
They were silent. Lorena was still trembling, but not so badly.
“I wasn’t a mother then,” Lorena said. “I’m a mother now. Mox Mox did the same things to that child that he said he would do to me. He whipped him and he poured whiskey on him, and he rubbed grease in his eyes. Then he piled brush on him and burned him.”
She had said it, said it for the first time. She looked up at Goodnight, the old man of the plains.
“Were the Indians that bad, with people they caught?” she asked.
“They were,” Goodnight said. “Those were bloody times, the Indian times. But you said Mox Mox was white.”
“He was white—a mean, little white man,” Lorena said. “He whipped that boy till there wasn’t an inch of skin on his body. Then he burned him.”
“It ain’t often you find two bad ones of the caliber of him and Blue Duck, running together,” Goodnight said. “But you said Mox Mox had his own gang?”
“Three Mexicans,” Lorena said. “They left with Mox Mox, when Blue Duck wouldn’t let him burn me.”
Goodnight was about to speak when Lorena’s voice quickened.
“I still hear that boy screaming, Mr. Goodnight,” she said. “I’ll always hear that child screaming. I’m a mother now. He was about the age of Georgie . . . about . . . the age of Georgie.”
Then a convulsion of sobbing seized her, and she got up and stumbled out of the room, her arms clutched about her chest, as if her very organs might spill out if she didn’t clutch herself tightly enough.
Goodnight looked at the buttermilk again, and again decided against another glass. Though he was old, and should have been used to all suffering, to any misery that life could place in his path, he had never accustomed himself to the deep sobbing of women, to the grief that seized them when their children died, or their men. He had no children. His cowboys were his children, but he had not given birth to his cowboys; it must surely make a difference. He went out the back door, into the stiff wind, and stood by his horse, waiting until the young woman had recovered sufficiently to fend for herself and her children.
A little boy came out and walked up to him.
“My m-m-mama is crying,” he said, looking at Goodnight. The boy didn’t seem to be particularly upset. He was just reporting.
“Well, I expect she needs to. . . . Let her bawl,” Goodnight said.
“My b-b-baby sister cries all the t-t-time, but I don’t cry,” the little boy, Georgie, stammered.
Two more boys came out, one older, one younger. They stood together. All were barefoot, though it was cold outside. Then the large girl came too, carrying the baby. She looked scared.
“Mama’s screaming in there,” the girl said. “Why is she screaming like that? She’s never screamed before.”
Indeed, when the wind lay for a few seconds, Goodnight could hear Lorena screaming. They were wild screams. He supposed captive women must scream like that, during the worst of it. But he had never been a captive, nor a woman, and he could only suppose.
“I brought some bad news; I’m afraid it’s greatly upset her,” Goodnight said. “She’ll probably be better, presently.”
Unless she isn’t, he thought. People had lost their minds over less than the schoolmarm had endured.
“I hope she stops,” one of the older boys said.
“It wasn’t about Pa, was it?” Clarie asked.
“No. I have no reason to think your father has had any difficulty,” Goodnight told the girl. He was not used to talking to young people, and found it a strain. But in the calm intervals, between the surges of wind, he could still hear Lorena, as could the children, and she was still screaming. Then the wind would return and whisk her screams away.
“Do you ever c-c-cry, mister?” the bold Georgie asked.
“Seldom, son, very seldom,” Goodnight replied.
“Is it b-b-because you have a b-b-beard?” Georgie asked. He liked the old man, though he certainly didn’t have much to say.
“Yes, I expect that’s the reason,” Goodnight said.
There was an interval. The wind lay, briefly. They heard no screams.
“She’s stopped. Do you think I should go see about her, Mr. Goodnight?” Clarie asked.
“No, let’s just wait,” Goodnight said. “I expect she’ll come and get us when she wants us.”
They were all silent for a minute, as the wind blew.
“It’s chilly weather to go barefoot in,” Goodnight said. “Don’t none of you have shoes?”
“We got a pair apiece,” the older of the boys replied. “Ma don’t like us to put ’em on until we get to school, though. She thinks it’s wasting shoes.”
“G-g-got any horses that’s for k-k-kids to ride?” Georgie asked. “I b-b-been wantin’ a horse.”
“Georgie, it’s Mr. Goodnight,” Clarie said, mortified. Georgie had practically come right out and asked him for a horse, with their mother screaming in the house.
“Th
at’s fine, miss,” Goodnight said. “A cowboy needs a horse.”
“Well, d-d-do you have one, m-m-mister?” Georgie asked.
Clarie resolved to box him soundly, when she got the opportunity. She had an urge to go in the house and see about her mother, but she hesitated to leave Georgie alone with Mr. Goodnight. There was no telling what he might ask for next.
“Why, I’ll have to inspect my herd,” Goodnight said, amused. “I wouldn’t want to give a cowboy like you just any horse.”
“M-m-make it brown, if you’ve g-g-got a brown one,” Georgie said. “B-b-brown’s my f-f-favorite c-c-color!” His stutter became worse when he got excited.
“Would you come back in, please? All of you?” Lorena asked, from the doorway. “I’m so sorry I drove you out in the wind.”
“It ain’t the first breeze I’ve felt,” Goodnight remarked. Evidence of her sobbing was in Lorena’s face, but she had put a comb in her hair and seemed composed, more composed than she had been even when he arrived.
“You children go into the bedroom. You, too, Clarie,” she said. “I have to talk to Mr. Goodnight a minute more. Then, we’ll try to get back to normal.”
“Ma, Georgie’s been asking Mr. Goodnight for a horse,” Clarie blurted out. She didn’t want to go in the bedroom. She wanted to report on Georgie’s misbehavior first.
“Where he’s going, there are plenty of horses,” Lorena said. “Don’t question me now. Go in the bedroom.”
The children went, obediently.
“I’m sending them off to Nebraska,” Lorena said, the minute she knew the bedroom door was closed. “I have a friend there. She’ll take them till this is over.
“I thought it was over, or I wouldn’t have been living nowhere near here,” she added. “He told me if I ever had children, he’d come and burn them, like he burned that little boy. It was the last thing he said to me, before he and his Mexicans left.”
“I should have stopped that man a long time ago,” Goodnight said.
“You didn’t, though,” Lorena said. “He burned your cowboys, despite you. I won’t take a chance with my children.”
“Don’t blame you,” Goodnight said. “You’ve got a fine brood. I like that talkative little boy, he takes up for himself.”
“He’s going to Nebraska, and so are the rest of them,” Lorena said. “As soon as I can get them packed and on a train, they’re going. Mox Mox is a bad man, Mr. Goodnight. He’s not getting a chance to torment any of mine.”
“I thought all the mean wolves was about killed out, in this country,” Goodnight said. “I thought that man was dead, or I would have stayed after him. Of course, maybe he is dead. Maybe this manburner is somebody else.”
“I can’t take that chance, not with my children,” Lorena said. “Now my husband’s gone too, and it’s my fault. He ain’t a killer, and he has no business hunting killers with Captain Call, not anymore.”
Goodnight felt a little uncomfortable. After all, he had urged the man to go, though it was none of his business. Once again he wondered when he would ever learn not to meddle in other people’s business. The woman was right. Pea Eye was not a killer, and had no business having to deal with a Joey Garza, or a Mox Mox.
“There’s something else,” Lorena said. “I think we ought to close the school, until this ends. If Mox Mox showed up, he might burn all the children. He’s capable of it—he might pen us in and burn us all. I won’t risk it for my children or for anybody’s.”
“What if I set a guard?” Goodnight asked.
“No,” Lorena said. “If I had known he was alive, I’d never have started the school. When he’s dead, and I know it, there’ll be time for studying and teaching. But not until I know he’s dead.”
“I better go myself and stop him, then,” Goodnight said. “That way, when it’s done, I’ll know it’s done, and so will you.”
“Let Captain Call do it,” Lorena said. “I’m sure that sounds bold. I have no right to give you orders. I’ve no right even to make suggestions. But you came here and asked what I knew, and I told you. I have seen that man, and you haven’t. If I were you, I’d let Captain Call do it.”
“It was my men he burned,” Goodnight said. “It’s my responsibility, not Call’s.”
Lorena didn’t respond. She felt she had overstepped as it was, by saying what she had said. She thought she was right, and had said what she felt.
Besides, part of her mind had already begun to occupy itself with the logistics of flight: getting the children’s things together, finding neighbors who might take their animals, or hiring a helper to live in the house and look after things. There was no time even to write Clara. Lorena knew she would not draw an easy breath until the children were gone and safe. Clara would be surprised, when five children got off the train expecting to live with her. But Lorena knew Clara would take them. Since her daughters’ marriages, Clara had been too much alone, anyway. At least it seemed so, from her letters. Having children in the house again might not be the worst thing for her.
“I expect you think I’m too old to subdue the man,” Goodnight said. He was annoyed, and surprised at his annoyance. But the definite way the young woman had come down for Call and not for him, stirred something in Goodnight; the competitor, perhaps, or just the male. In his long years as a pioneer, he had always led, no matter how long, how difficult or how ugly the task. He had always led. He had been the man to do the job, whatever that job was. He was vain enough to think he was still the man who could do the job, whatever it happened to be, although his own vanity annoyed him, too.
“No, you’re not a killer,” Lorena said. “I know you may have killed to survive, but you’re not a killer. Mox Mox is a killer, and so is Captain Call. Send a killer after a killer. That’s why I said it. I wasn’t thinking about your age.
“Besides, people here need you,” she added. “This whole part of the country needs you. You’re the man who built the school, and I know you’ve built others, too. You brought the doctor here. You paid for the courthouse. You’re needed. Nobody needs Captain Call.”
“Well, the rich men need him,” Goodnight said.
“Yes, because he’s a killer,” Lorena said. “That’s why they need him. He’s as hard as Blue Duck, and he’s as hard as Mox Mox.”
“He’s got that other boy to catch first,” Goodnight reminded her.
“Mr. Goodnight, I’ve got to start packing,” Lorena said, standing up. “I’ve got to go to the school and dismiss my pupils. They’ll want to know why, and I’m going to tell them. Then I’ve got to hunt up somebody to do the chores here, for a while. Then I’ve got to pack. I want to start for Amarillo tonight. I want my children out of here, now.”
“You’ll be in a regular lather, before you get all that done,” Goodnight said. “I expect I could stop the train for you, at Quanah, and I’ll send a wagon and a cowboy or two to help you get to the train.”
“Much obliged,” Lorena said. “And could you lend me a weapon? All my husband left me with was a shotgun. Of course, he didn’t know about Mox Mox. I’ve never even said that name to him.”
“I can lend you several guns, but I doubt you’ll need them, once you’re on the train for Nebraska,” Goodnight said.
“My children are going to Nebraska, I’m not,” Lorena replied.
“Not going?” Goodnight said. “Why not, ma’am? You’re the one he nearly burned. I doubt that he’s in six hundred miles of here, but six hundred miles can be crossed. If anyone has a right to be scared, it’s you. Why not leave with your children?”
“Because I have to find my husband and bring him home,” Lorena said. “I should have set my heels and kept him, but I didn’t. It’s my place to go bring him back.”
“Now, that’s rash,” Goodnight said. “If you’d like me to lend you something, why not accept the loan of a man who knows the country and can go get your husband and bring him home?”
“None of your cowboys married him,” Lorena said.
“I married him. He’s a good man, and I need him. Besides, he won’t mind anybody but me, unless it’s the Captain. I’m going to go find him, and he’s going to mind me, particularly now.”
Charles Goodnight, rarely quelled, felt quelled this time. He knew determination when he saw it. He ceased to argue, but he did promise to send two cowboys with a wagon, to get her to the train at Quanah. As he was preparing to leave, he told Lorena he wanted to provide each of her boys with a horse, when they returned.
“I do like the way that talkative little boy takes up for himself,” he repeated.
“Don’t forget to send me the gun,” Lorena said. “I don’t want to be going south without a gun.”
2.
RIDING TO CROW Town across the empty land, Maria began to wish she would never have to arrive. The happiest moments of her life had often been spent alone, with her horse. From the time of Three Legs, she had always loved going away alone, with her horse.
To avoid Presidio and Doniphan, the hard sheriff, she rode up the river for two days before crossing into Texas. She saw mule deer and antelope, many antelope, but no people. It was cold, and the north wind sang in her face. At night, she persuaded her spotted horse—she called him Grasshopper, because he had a way of suddenly springing sideways—to lie down, so she could sleep close to him and share his warmth.
Twice she saw trains moving across the long plain. The trains did not seem to be moving very fast; no wonder Joey could rob them. The locomotives pulled only two or three cars. They were just little trains, moving slowly across the endless line of the horizon. Maria had ridden a train only once, to go to her mother when her mother was dying. It had rattled so badly that she had been unable to think.
Grasshopper did not like the new country, and he shied at many things. Once, a tumbleweed surprised him, and he bucked a few times. Maria was amused that he was so skittish; she didn’t think he could throw her. She enjoyed it when Grasshopper was naughty. He was irritated with her for bringing him so far from the cornfield. But he obediently lay down at night, so Maria would be warm.
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