by Aaron Latham
Jimmy Goodnight kicked his horse—Mister Goddog by name—and hurried forward to see if his cook was alive and his wagon still in one piece. They both appeared to be in better shape than they had any right to be.
“Nice drivin’,” drawled Jimmy Goodnight.
“It ain’t funny,” Coffee said, his chest still heaving.
“You okay?”
“I bith my tongue.”
“Sorry. We better take the wagon apart and pack it down in pieces. It’s almost apart already, huh?”
The cowboys got busy rounding up the bedrolls that hadn’t rolled too far. They would pick up the others as they made their way on down into the canyon. The cowboy named Too Short Johnson roped a maverick coffee pot so he didn’t even have to get off his horse to pick it up. Too Short was small and wiry, with black hair and a drooping black mustache. It was too long just as he was too short. But on a horse he was tall enough and could outrope most men. He tossed the coffeepot to the cook, who accidentally dropped it and watched it roll on down the canyon. Too Short started the laughter and the other cowboys joined in.
“I’m gonna poison all you sons-a-bitches,” Coffee threatened. “I’m warnin’ you sons-a-bitches.”
“We ain’t the ones that run away,” Too Short pointed out. “Poison them damn mules.”
“Naw, but you laughed.”
“You wouldn’t kill a man just for laughin’ when somethin’s funny.”
“Naw? Well, I’d sure watch what chew eat if’n I was you.”
Jimmy Goodnight decided it was time to make peace. If he was going to live up to that look in their eyes, maybe he should try starting now. He decided to give an order and see what happened.
“Okay, boys,” said the boy boss, “git busy and pick up that spilled coffee ’n’ flour.” He straightened up taller in his saddle. He spoke slower. He was trying to copy how the shaman would have done it— short of taking off all his clothes and painting himself yellow.
“Pick it up?” protested Coffee. “It’ll be full a dirt!”
“Prob’ly taste better,” said Too Short.
“Don’t worry,” said Jimmy Goodnight. “We’ll strain out the biggest rocks. Now git to it. You, too, Coffee.”
Strangely enough, the cowboys—Coffee too—obeyed his order. They climbed down off their horses, balancing on the steep canyon side, and started picking up coffee and flour. Since the sacks had exploded, they collected these staples in pots and pans. Seeing his men respond to his order, Jimmy Goodnight felt he had passed another test. He didn’t bother to tell them that he was who he was, the boss he was, because of what he saw in their eyes. It was as if the mirror made the man, rather than the man making the reflection.
“Pick it up a grain at a time if’n you have to,” chimed in Simon Shapiro, who had the biggest hat. “They ain’t another store like my daddy’s for a month a Saturdays, so we gotta make this here grub last.”
“You mean a month a Sundays,” said Coffee.
“No, I don’t neither. I’m Jewish and mighty damn proud of it. Month a Saturdays. Trouble with you, Coffee, is you don’t take no pride in nothin’. You drive too fast and cook too slow. Course your cookin’ slow’s a mercy, come to think on it.”
Coffee picked up a rock and cocked his arm.
“Take it easy,” said Jimmy Goodnight. “You know Simon don’t insult you less’n he likes you. It’s kinda a compliment.”
“Hate to have the son-of-a-bitch in love with me,” Coffee said.
“Don’t worry,” said Simon. “Chances are real slim you’re gonna cook your way into my heart. You dunno matzo balls from calf balls.”
“That’s enough fun,” Jimmy Goodnight said. “Git back to work, both a ya.”
Then once again he waited to see if “his” men would obey him. He was pretty sure he could handle Coffee, but he wasn’t too sure about Simon. For Simon came from a different class. He was richer and better educated than the rest of the boys, but he didn’t talk like it because he wanted to fit in. Perhaps for the same reason, he got right down to work picking food up off the ground.
Simon’s father, a successful merchant in Weatherford, had substantially outfitted this expedition. Of course, some money had changed hands, but not much. The flour and coffee and other staples scattered all to creation had been more or less his gift. It had been the father’s way of supporting his son’s participation in a venture that he didn’t entirely approve of. The merchant had said he hoped his boy would get cowboying out of his system and come back to the store one day. But if he didn’t return—if this wild red-canyon scheme worked out— then his son would probably have a more interesting life than he himself had had. Jimmy Goodnight hoped that if he ever had a son, he would be as understanding. But, well, he wouldn’t count on it.
Simon’s participation had meant that Goodnight could save most of the $900 he had won at the county fair for future expenses. Of course, he had supposedly “won” $1,000, but he had been forced to take $100 on account, which probably meant he would never get it. The fair had claimed the $900 was all the ready money it had on hand. Jimmy’s uncle told him he was lucky to get that much.
When they finished picking up all the coffee and flour they could find, the cowboys attacked the chuck wagon with hammer and crow bar. Black Dub Martin, who had been a slave as a boy, did most of the heavy lifting because he was the biggest and the strongest. He had been one of the strongmen who broke an ax handle trying to pull the blade from the anvil that memorable day at the fair. Black Dub singlehandedly lifted the cabinet off the back of the wagon and tied it to the back of a mule. They didn’t have to jack the wagon up to take its wheels off. Black Dub just picked it up, one end at a time.
“Hey, we don’t need no mules,” said Tin Soldier Jones. “We got Black Dub. He could pack this sucker down all by hisself. And he’d think it was fun.”
Tin Soldier, the very first volunteer, who had been a blacksmith back home in Weatherford, owed his name to the steel helmet he had made for himself at his anvil. It looked sort of like an upside-down pot, but it had a spearhead on top. If worse came to worse, he could butt his enemies to death.
They pulled apart the wagon and attached the pieces to the mules as best they could. So, instead ofpulling the chuck wagon, the poor mules had to carry it down on their backs. It was going to take several trips. Served them right for running away.
“We better start workin’ the cattle down,” Jimmy Goodnight said. “Don’t rush ’em. Take it nice ’n’ easy.”
Soon his cowboys began feeding the 1,600 longhorns down single file. This herd had cost nothing except the effort it had taken to round it up. Which was considerable. During the Civil War, when the men in Texas marched off to fight the Yankees, their cattle ran off. Now the state was full of wild longhorns—owned by nobody—hiding out in the brush-and-breaks country. So Jimmy Goodnight and his bunch had just helped themselves to a herd.
The longhorns followed a narrow, four-mile Comanche trail that Jimmy Crying Coyote remembered from his life among the Human Beings. Jimmy Goodnight wondered where the Humans were now. He had expected a few curious braves to make an appearance by now. He was looking forward to a reunion with old friends and relatives. He hoped he might even see the Sun Chief again. He felt sure that the vast red canyon was big enough for both Writers and Humans, for both his cattle and their shaggy, heavy-headed, hump-backed “Human-cattle.” He planned to suggest that the boundary line be the blood-red river that ran down the middle of the canyon. He would ranch the land south of the river and leave the territory north of the river for the Humans. Or the other way around. It didn’t make any difference to him. He looked forward to proving to the world—or at least to Texas—that red men and white men could live in peace and friendship together. And who was better prepared to lead such an experiment than he was?
Goodnight supposed that his cattle represented the first domesticated cloven hooves ever to leave their tracks on this wild path, this trace. They seemed n
ervous but not badly frightened as they wound their way down toward the center of the earth. It was slow work. The cattle trickled down into the canyon all morning, then all afternoon and on into the evening. As the light began to fail, Jimmy Goodnight knew that he would soon have to call a halt to this single-file cattle drive. The Comanche trail was dangerous enough in broad daylight but would be impossible in the dark.
“Hold ’em up!” Jimmy Goodnight yelled. “Bring them that’s started down on down, but don’t start no more. Pass the word up.” He felt he was beginning to get the hang of this leadership thing. He sure hoped so.
So that night the herd was divided, half on the rim above, half on the canyon floor below. Jimmy Goodnight assigned Tin Soldier and Black Dub to stay on top and look after the cattle up there. The rest of the cowboys would spend their first night in their new home, the red canyon.
4
The next morning while his men continued working the cattle down, Jimmy Goodnight began reexploring the canyon, reacquainting himself with its network of narrow interlocking gorges and washes. The design reminded him of the pattern of lines on the palm of his hand. He looked at his palm, which he cupped slightly, then back at the canyon, then back down at his hand. He smiled to himself. And he wondered: Was this canyon the palm of the Great Mystery’s hand? He spit in his right palm. Had he just created a flood? He rubbed his hands together and put such nonsense out of his head. But he half-expected it to rain. All day long, the cattle kept coming down.
By nightfall, the entire herd had reached the floor of the canyon, where the cattle feasted on tall clumps of buffalo grass. They drank from the river that divided the canyon. And they were fenced in by the high walls of the canyon. Goodnight’s herd was as secure as if he held it in the palm of his hand.
The next day, Jimmy Goodnight and his men began pushing the herd along the floor of the red canyon, which grew wider and wider. Crying Coyote had been happy in this place, and Jimmy Goodnight felt he would be happy here once again. He believed this red canyon had a benevolent spirit.
His reveries were interrupted by Suckerod Lawrence, who had been riding point, but who was now approaching at a gallop. Suckerod shook all the time because of an accident he had had as a boy. He had fallen off a windmill, had broken many bones, and had been expected to die. When he lived, folks started calling him Suckerod because of his connection to windmills and because he was so tall and skinny. The windmill’s sucker rod was the slender rod that went up and down, up and down, sucking water from deep in the earth. The first time Jimmy Goodnight met Suckerod, he thought he was a nervous wreck, maybe even a coward, but he soon learned that this cowboy was one of his steadiest and bravest men. He just shook.
“We got company,” Suckerod said when he got close enough. “Buffalo up ahead.”
“They in our way?” asked Jimmy Goodnight.
“’Fraid so. Mebbe we better hold up the herd. Huh?”
“Ya think so?”
“Well, last thing we need’s for somethin’ to spook them woolly heads, then for them woollies to spook our cows.”
Jimmy Goodnight knew there was plenty to be concerned about. He and his men could easily be caught in a double stampede of cattle and buffalo. The canyon walls would funnel and intensify the fury of this living flash flood of animal flesh. The walls would also cut off any route of escape. He imagined his whole outfit being swept away on a fleshy flood tide.
“I better go take a look,” Jimmy Goodnight said.
He, Suckerod, and Too Short rode up ahead of the herd to see about the buffalo. They found ten thousand shaggy animals stretched from one side of the canyon to the other like a majestic army barring their way. Somehow this formation would have to be breached if the longhorns were to reach the lower valley where the best grazing was.
“Less go, Mister Goddog,” Jimmy Goodnight said. “Giddyup, ol’ boy.”
Tightening his legs around his horse, he rode ahead of the others. He studied the great beasts carefully, not as a herd but as individuals. He was looking for a particular buffalo. No, not this one. Not that one either. Telling himself not to hurry, he rode slowly along the fringe of the herd looking, looking, looking. While he studied the animals, he could feel his men studying him. He knew he puzzled them, but he couldn’t worry about that now because he had just found what he had been searching for: the chief of the herd.
Turning Mister Goddog, Jimmy Goodnight, the chief of his outfit, rode out to meet the Chief of the Buffalo. The lesser animals scattered before him, turning and running, kicking up their heels, bucking, but the old chief just turned to face him, lowered his heavy head, and waited. Jimmy Goodnight rode at a slow walk, not wanting to alarm the herd, not wanting to show disrespect for the chief. When he was about twenty yards from the old bull, Goodnight reined in Mister Goddog and stopped.
“Excuse me, O Chief of the Buffalo,” he began in the Human tongue. “I have something to say to you. We do not need your meat because we have brought our own meat. So we will not harm you or yours. I come simply to ask a favor.”
Jimmy Goodnight wondered if the buffalo chief was listening to him. He couldn’t tell whether he had made any impression on the old bull or not.
“O Chief of the Buffalo, hear me,” he said. “There is enough grass for your herd and my herd. There is enough water for your herd and my herd. There is enough room for your herd and my herd. I ask only that you allow my cattle safe passage through your herd of Humancattle. We wish to reach the lower canyon. And you are in our way. So please move. How about it? What do you say?”
The Chief of the Buffalo just stood there and stared. Jimmy Goodnight stared back. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the cloud of red dust that signaled the approach of his herd of cattle. He felt nervous, but he tried not to show his uneasiness either to the buffalo chief or to his men. Still, he wondered if he had made a mistake in not halting the cattle before they got this close. Why hadn’t he? Did he want to show off? Well, it was too late to change his mind now.
“Excuse me, O Chief,” Jimmy Goodnight said. “I hope you will stay calm. I hope your followers will stay calm. We don’t need a lot of running here. You don’t need it, and we don’t need it. All we ask is that you remain quiet and let us pass. What do you say?”
He felt Too Short and Suckerod edging up to him. He knew they had expected him to do more than have a chat with the buffalo herd. They had figured he would yell and shoot in the air and get the woollies the hell out of the way before the longhorns got too near. But he hadn’t. Now he and his men were trapped between the two herds, and it was too late to make a lot of noise because it might set off a living avalanche. Normally, a cattle herd moved at the slow, steady pace of the seasons, but this one seemed to be hurrying toward him. He could already hear them mooing and smell their bodies and their shit. The great cloud churned up by their hooves looked like a red cyclone.
“We better git outa here,” said Too Short.
“No place to git to,” said Suckerod.
“Excuse me, O Great Chief of the Buffalo,” Jimmy Goodnight tried one last time in the Human tongue. “Please move out of my way. I don’t mean to hurry you, but it’s time to go. I’m telling you this for your own good as well as my own. What do you say?”
The buffalo chief turned slowly and walked back through the great sprawling mass of his woolly subjects. And as he moved among them, the herd of buffalo parted. They moved to the left and to the right, leaving an open path in the middle.
Not even Jimmy Goodnight was sure—really sure—why the buffalo herd had parted. Maybe they saw the approaching cattle herd and just decided to get out of the way. Maybe they didn’t like the way cattle smelled. Maybe they were worried about all those long horns. But he didn’t think so. Jimmy silently thanked the Sun Chief for all he had taught him.
Jimmy Goodnight, Too Short, and Suckerod rode at the head of their cattle herd, which passed right through the middle of the herd of buffalo. A river of long horns flowed through an ocean
of short horns and woolly shoulders.
“Just like the Red Sea,” said Suckerod. “Gawddamn!”
“This ain’t no time to cuss,” said Jimmy Goodnight. “Don’t press our luck.”
“I take it back,” said Suckerod.
5
Jimmy Goodnight, former Human Being, decided to go looking for the Humans. They normally pitched their tepees on the banks of the river that had carved this canyon, so he planned to follow the red water until he found their village. He rode alone because he didn’t imagine any of his cowboys would be anxious to accompany him in search of what they would think of as trouble. Besides, he thought the Humans would be less nervous if they saw a lone rider approaching.
He wished hisTuhuya would go faster, but he didn’t want to wear him out because he didn’t know how far they had to go . . .Tuhuya . . . “Goddog” . . . Yes, he had thought “horse” in the language of the Humans. He was thinking in the Human tongue again as he made his way toward them. His iron-shod Goddog made deep, well-sculpted tracks in the soft, deep, red-clay riverbank.
The longer Jimmy Goodnight rode, the stranger it seemed that he saw no trace of the Human Beings. The red canyon felt eerily empty, like a deserted house. Where could they be? Lots of answers occurred to him. They might be out on the High Plains following the Humancattle. But the humpbacks were here. He had seen them, thousands of them. So why weren’t the Humans here, too? Of course, if they were nervous and hiding out, they could have taken refuge in one of the many arms of the labyrinthine canyon. That seemed the most logical explanation. But then how would he ever find them?
Maybe he had better just count on them finding him. He figured they would locate him faster if he made a little noise. Jimmy Crying Coyote let out a loud Human cry that echoed down the red canyon, and then he laughed at himself. He laughed again when he wondered how hearing that cry was affecting his cowboys. They were probably all reaching for their guns and trying to keep from peeing in their pants. He let out another cry to scare his boys and to alert his relatives to his homecoming.
