The Last Kind Words Saloon: A Novel

by Larry McMurtry

  “I remember Mr. Goodnight mentioning some Kiowa. Benny says he knows the West better than any man since Kit Carson.”

  “I interviewed Kit Carson twice, but now he’s dead,” Russell said.

  “Perhaps Mr. Goodnight will do just as well. Benny says he’s never been lost, night or day, in any weather.”

  Russell had been sitting; he stood.

  “If I may say so, Miss San Saba, you’re just as beautiful as ever.”

  San Saba didn’t answer. She was thinking of Mr. Goodnight. Why, she couldn’t say.

  -10-

  “Satank,” Goodnight said at once, when the tall Englishman told him about the massacre. “The son of a bitch, he’s the worst Indian still out. Although Satanta ain’t far behind. Satanta tried to hug me once, but since he smears himself with red clay I declined the hug.”

  “He was there too,” Russell said. “And several others whose names I didn’t recognize.”

  “If you got Satank and Satanta you’re damn well informed, for a person from as far away as London.”

  “Yes, that’s what we English do now: we stay informed,” Russell said.

  “And invest,” Goodnight added. “If it wasn’t for Lord Ernle’s investment I wouldn’t be here flapping my jaw with a scribbler like you.”

  Goodnight was restive: the minute he heard about the massacre he wanted to get home to Mary. But he was trapped. Lord Ernle, his partner, was bringing in three special train cars full of dignitaries. At least three governors were there, plus big lawyers and bankers, a few millionaires, and, of course, many journalists. Benny Ernle had to be allowed his party. While the townsfolk and cowboys looked on in amazement, a huge tent was erected, champagne popped, a beef was roasted, chilled pheasants were brought in from Virginia, a thousand quail’s eggs were served up as appetizers, and nearly everybody got drunk.

  “I didn’t even know a damn quail could lay an egg,” Wyatt declared. He himself had been interviewed several times, and Doc too. Wyatt was hailed as hero of Abilene and Dodge, but he had little interest in compliments, unless they came from Jessie, which lately they didn’t.

  “Why me?” Wyatt asked, when told he was a hero of some sort. “Abilene and Dodge are just as mean and ugly as they were before I went there. I subdued a few cowboys who had drunk too much for their own good, that’s all.”

  “You’re an anomaly, sir,” Russell told him. “Most lawmen I know take a little more in their own reputations.”

  Wyatt shrugged and walked away. Charlie Goodnight’s noisy party didn’t interest him. He thought he might rope one or two of the bagpipers, but never got around to it.

  “I wish Charlie Goodnight had put his ranch somewhere else,” Doc said. “I’ve talked so much I’m hoarse.”

  “The ranch is somewhere else,” Wyatt explained. “This is just his shipping station.”

  “That tall English reporter is going to Arizona,” Doc said. “Maybe we ought to tag along.”

  In fact Wyatt had been thinking about a move. He found that he soon tired of most places on the plains: the same drinking, the same card playing, the same rough society; not to mention Jessie’s variable moods. She had never liked the plains. Arizona, he understood, was mostly desert. Maybe she’d like the desert better. But, short of moving to it, how to know?

  Meanwhile, in the main street of Long Grass a whole beef had been roasted, and a large black butcher was carving it up and handing hefty slabs to cowboys and dignitaries alike. One hundred pheasants from Virginia were fast consumed. Doc Holliday, a stranger to quail’s eggs until that day, liked them so much that he ate forty. A veritable river of drink was imbibed. Food disappeared so quickly that a second beef was roasted, from which Lord Ernle himself cooked the sweetbreads.

  While the vast company was feasting a tall man came riding in on a white horse: Buffalo Bill himself, accompanied by his longtime chum—some said mistress—Nellie Courtright, the tall telegraph operator from nearby Rita Blanca.

  Goodnight had long admired Nellie Courtright, a woman with spunk if there ever was one. Once or twice he considered proposing to her; but one day he came back from a cattle drive only to discover that Nellie was married and already pregnant—which she was often in the next few years, in one of which Mary Anne came along and proposed to him.

  “I thought the man was supposed to do the asking,” he said, though in mild tones.

  “You’re living in the past, Charlie,” Mary Anne said, and that was that.

  Nellie, spunkier than ever, marched right in and handed a telegram to Lord Ernle.

  “Don’t lose it, it’s from the president himself,” she said.

  “Well, I won’t,” Lord Ernle assured her. He was often taken aback by forthright women.

  Goodnight thought that Cody seemed tired. He was showman enough to manage a fine entrance, but his face was gaunt; and he was not slapping backs and hurrahing with the dignitaries, as he once would have.

  “He’s failing, my Billy,” Nellie said. “And he’s no longer his own man. A newspaperman in Denver owns him lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Harry Tammen, the son of a bitch,” Goodnight said. “He don’t own me, but he’s done me some bad turns.”

  “He is a son of a bitch,” Nellie said. “I can’t afford to go to jail—who’d look after my girls—but if I could I’d shoot him for what he’s done to Bill Cody.”

  -11-

  Goodnight was startled by Nellie’s cussing. He had never heard the term son of a bitch employed by a female. He coughed to hide his embarrassment, but he needn’t have, because Nellie was heading over to chat with Doc Holliday, who was thinking that he might have overdone the quail’s eggs.

  “Where’s Wyatt?” Nellie asked.

  “He seen you coming and hid,” Doc said. It was hardly even a lie. “I’m not so quick on the uptake, or else I’d be hid too,” he told her bluntly.

  “You two could be nicer to me—it wouldn’t require much effort. Because like me or not I’m here to stay.”

  She sighed. Men were a pain.

  “When Wyatt comes out of hiding, tell him I need to ask him something,” she said.

  “It might be next week,” Doc said, improvising.

  “No it won’t, unless Jessie has finally left him. What’s the odds on that?” she asked.

  Before Doc answered Nellie observed that Lord Ernle was making toasts—and she wanted to listen. The English were good with toasts. She listened to a few and had to admit that Lord Ernle made splendid use of the English tongue. He toasted the president, and the governors and his new partner Goodnight, and the cook and the newspapermen and plenty of others. Nellie half expected to be toasted herself, but she wasn’t, and neither was San Saba, who was watching the proceedings quietly, along with Flo, the Creole girl who did her hair. Later in the afternoon Nellie spotted San Saba going into the Orchid, a hotel known to be a whorehouse, and followed her.

  “San Saba, I’m Nellie—could I take a few minutes of your time?” she asked.

  San Saba turned at once.

  “Let me ask the first question—is Mr. Cody really your lover?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Nellie said. “I’ve never been his mistress, although there’s been just a little kissing and some other stuff.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “He likes to feel my titties—he’s harmless now.”

  “Well, I’d say Mr. Cody is lucky to have such a considerate friend.”

  “Excuse me, but since we’re on the subject, are you Lord Ernle’s mistress?”

  She was afraid she might never have a better chance to ask that question, and she wasn’t going to succeed in newspapers if she didn’t ask the big questions when she could.

  “No, I’m merely his best madam,” said San Saba. “And to some extent his foreman. Benny Ernle saved me, schooled me, trained me, but then look where he put me? I deserve New York, Paris, Bombay, don’t you think, Miss Courtright?”

  “You sure do,” Nellie said, wonder
ing what she would find out next.

  “He stuck me here because he’s afraid to risk putting me in one of the capitals,” San Saba said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s afraid someone richer might snatch me. Now he’s sending me off to Texas with your cattle, so I won’t run off.”

  “Good god,” Nellie said. “I didn’t think anybody was rich as Lord Ernle.”

  “There’s a few challengers,” San Saba told her. “Maharajahs and such.”

  “You’re probably the most interesting woman I’ve ever met,” Nellie said. “I wish you’d let me do a magazine piece on you.”

  “Not a chance,” San Saba told her. “I’m a madam, remember—I have to be discreet. But I will invite you to visit us in our Texas house, when it’s complete.”

  They stood for a minute, with Flo, the Creole girl, standing just behind San Saba.

  “That’s an interesting sign for someone who wants to be discreet. Do you really measure customers?”

  “Flo usually measures them, when there’s some question of length. Though I am familiar with the procedure,” San Saba said.

  Nellie could not imagine doing something like that with her husband Zenas. He would no doubt accuse her of not doing him justice, though she felt a little dewy between the legs just at the thought. Zenas had been gone a long time and she missed him.

  She got back to the assembly just in time to hear Charlie Goodnight make his toast: an activity he clearly did not enjoy.

  “I believe I’ve found a fine partner,” he said, “and I thank him for backing me. Now me and the boys need to go be gathering cattle. Amen.”

  Bose was waiting with a saddled horse, Nellie Courtright popped out of the crowd and kissed him soundly.

  “Did you like that? I thought it might be my last chance,” she asked.

  “I’m a human being of the male sex—of course I liked it; but the fact is I’m in a hurry and you’re married.”

  “Cowboys waiting in the livery stable,” Bose said.

  -12-

  General Sherman stood looking at the scarred and charred bodies of the teamsters; he looked in silence for a long time. General Mackenzie stood beside them.

  The soldiers with them tried not to look at the burnt, slashed bodies, but now and then, they did.

  “I was in the Big War, as Mr. Lincoln called it,” he said. “I’ve seen brutality—I’ve even been dispensed some. But nothin’ like this. Tie a man to a wagon tongue and burn his face off, not to mention his other parts.”

  “They burned the young one’s face off, too.” He himself felt a little queasy, though he rarely flinched in such situations.

  Sherman looked up—to the south was a rocky ridge.

  “Unless I am mistaken I came along that ridge to the south yesterday morning.”

  “We did come along it, sir,” Mackenzie said.

  “But we caught no whiff of Indians, and we were just an hour or two from Indians. Where were the scouts?” Sherman asked.

  “We’re so close to Fort Richardson that no one bothered to send them out,” Mackenzie said. “They were Kiowa—I guess they don’t bother too much about forts.”

  “I assume they went north—I intend to pursue,” Sherman said.

  “They went north but slowly,” Mackenzie said. “They’re proud of their work here. It’s my understanding that we’ve already caught most of them.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the Red River.”

  “I want them brought to Richardson,” Sherman said. “I want them put on trial, and if my schedule permits I want to see them hang.”

  “I expect we’d all like to see that, sir,” Mackenzie said.

  “Do you think they could have whipped us, if they’d tried, General Mackenzie?” Sherman asked.

  “I have no way of knowing, sir—I didn’t see their force,” Mackenzie said. In fact he found General Sherman a bit of a pain.

  -13-

  For once Satank was glad that Satanta was boasting so loudly about the massacre. He bragged so loudly that many of the soldiers listened to him. They had no way of knowing what Satanta said, but they probably knew he was bragging about the tortures he’d inflicted.

  Satank sat in a wagon, in the shadows. When no one was looking he chewed at his wrists. The handcuffs were loose—in time he might chew his way free.

  Sure enough, just before darkness, he slid the handcuffs off his dirty wrists. The young soldier guarding him was nodding—as soon as he was free Satank grabbed the soldier’s knife and stabbed him in the chest. He grabbed a carbine from another soldier and pointed it at him but the carbine didn’t fire. Satank threw away the gun and charged the startled soldier with the knife.

  “Shoot the old fiend!” a soldier said. Three soldiers fired at once, throwing Satank backward and killing him dead.

  “He chewed his own wrists!” one soldier exclaimed.

  Several soldiers pointed their rifles at Satanta, who sat very still. He didn’t want the soldiers to kill him too, and he knew several wanted to.

  The soldiers didn’t fire.

  Shortly, so as not to scare the soldiers Satanta began to sing a death song.

  -14-

  Nellie finally found Wyatt at the third saloon she tried. He did not appear to be drunk but had not shaved for several days. There was a glass of whiskey on the table in front of him, but at the moment he was playing solitaire.

  “Your family owns a famous saloon—at least the sign is famous. Why are you drinking in this stinky dive when you could be served by your own wife?”

  “If she’d serve, it can be touch and go,” Wyatt said. Annoying as Nellie could be, there was no denying that she was pretty. Bearing a number of children had not spoiled her figure. If anything she was higher-breasted than Jessie.

  “Why the hell should that concern you,” he said. “In fact I like the smell of this place.”

  “What’s the real reason?” Nellie asked. “If I were guessing I’d say it’s Jessie. She’s probably trying to restrict your whiskeys in hopes of keeping you healthy.”

  “My health is better than Doc’s—the two of you are welcome to leave me alone,” he said.

  “I will presently, but Bill Cody would like to have a talk with you—and your brother Morgan was looking for you too.”

  “Cody? I know you’re in love with the old windbag, but why would he want to talk to me?”

  “Who I’m in love with is a matter for conjecture,” Nellie said. “You’re too surly to discuss it with. I’ll go get Bill. He’s always looking to improve his show, you know,” she said. “I think he wants to add a gunfighter skit.”

  “A what?” Wyatt asked.

  “Gunfighter, a gunfighter skit,” she said. “Billy the Kid shooting all those people over in New Mexico has made gunfighting real popular with the public and Bill Cody’s the best there is at giving the public what it wants. Now that Bill Bonney’s dead I guess Bill figures that you and Doc must be the best there is—he always seeks the top talent.”

  “That’s wrong, though, Nellie,” Wyatt said. “Top what?” Wyatt asked. “I may have winged a couple of card sharps, up in Dodge, and I’ve whacked quite a few rowdy cowboys, but I’ve never done nothing like what happened in New Mexico . . . and neither has Doc.”

  “Wyatt, it’s just acting,” Nellie assured him. “You can pull out a pistol and shoot off some blanks, can’t you?”

  “And the pay might surprise you,” she added. “Bill’s no cheapskate. And mainly he’s just looking for fast draws.”

  “Fast draws with what, Nellie? Most of my life I don’t go armed. You can scare off a lot of cowboys just by looking mean, I guess.”

  Though Wyatt wanted to tell Nellie Courtright to go jump in the lake, he didn’t. In the end he agreed to see Cody, and even promised to bring Doc along, if he could find him. Doc tended to gamble all night and sleep all day, often in a foul hole containing an even fouler woman. Doc was not particular.

  For a time Wyatt
sat on the porch of the Last Kind Words Saloon and watched the dignitaries file back into the fancy private cars and head back to where dignitaries lived, in Kansas City and elsewhere where they came, summoned to a remote spot by English money.

  As the source of the English money, Lord Benny Ernle was still toasting and probably boasting—though Wyatt couldn’t hear the toasts or boasts.

  The sun began to set—once again, on the prairie, there was the squeal of bagpipes. Lord Ernle did not intend to be without his pipers.

  -15-

  “You mean stage a holdup?” Doc said. “I’d be wary of it. What if some fool forgot to put blanks in his gun?”

  “No, no—no risks,” Cody said. “We’ve done the big fight scenes—Custer’s Last Stand for example—hundreds of times with no mistakes. We’re experienced show people.”

  “Maybe you are but I’d want to see all the damn guns,” Wyatt said.

  “Fine, you can load them yourselves,” Cody said.

  Wyatt and Doc looked at one another.

  “Probably be pretty safe,” Wyatt said. “Neither one of us can hit a barn with a pistol, anyway.”

  “This will mainly involve practice drawing,” Cody assured them.

  “Now that’s plain foolish, Cody,” Wyatt said. “If you were headed into gunplay the last thing you’d want is to have your gun stuck in a damn holster, or worse yet in your pocket.”

  “True,” Doc said. “I doubt Billy the Kid had his gun in a damn holster when he went against those killers.”

  Buffalo Bill Cody smiled—a tired smile though. How to explain to these men, who didn’t even seem to be gunmen, that a show had to be real and yet not real at the same time? Of course they were right about frontier gunplay: the fighter would get his gun out and cocked, as he had when he killed the Cheyenne Yellow Hair and claimed the first scalp for Custer.

  In the show, of course it was more complicated. The good guys had to win—evil could not be allowed to triumph in a show that had even been enjoyed by Queen Victoria herself, as well as many other crowned heads.