by Aaron Latham
Goodnight relaxed slightly when he saw smiles breaking out on the faces of the badmen. He swayed even more wildly in the saddle and almost fell off his horse. He told himself that he was playacting a little too much. Taking his revolver out of its holster, he fired it in the air and let out a yell. He watched to see how the outlaws would take it, but they didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he was a better actor than he realized. Well, he just wished he had a bottle, just for show, a prop. He tried not to look at the suffering girl because he couldn’t afford to let his fury show.
“Wasss goin’ on?” Goodnight slurred.
His choir fell silent. He could hear his own breath, which seemed louder than usual. Not a good sign. He hiccupped again when he saw a tall, good-looking outlaw step forward.
“Just havin’ a little fun,” said Jack Gudanuf. “Who wants to know?”
Goodnight swayed again in his saddle and this time lost his balance completely and fell to the ground. He lay in a heap in the dust without moving. He had almost fallen on the leader of the outlaws and now huddled at his feet. When he had worked up the nerve, Goodnight started drunkenly climbing up Gudanuf’s leg as if it were a tree.
“No,” the outlaw protested, “stoppit.”
Reacting instinctively, Gudanuf reached down to pull the drunk cowboy to his feet, not because he wanted to help, but because he wanted to get the soused slob off him.
“Come on, git up,” Gudanuf said. “Git up.”
Stumbling to his feet, Goodnight bear-hugged the outlaw as if clinging to keep from falling down. He knew the badman wouldn’t be able to turn his gun on him as long as he hugged him tightly. Goodnight felt an urge to reach up and touch his patched eye, and the small constellation beneath it, but he had his hands full.
“Git off me,” Gudanuf said.
Goodnight tightened his grip with his left hand but stopped hugging with his right hand, which still clutched his pistol. Still moving drunkenly, staggering, almost knocking the outlaw over, he placed the muzzle of his gun under Gudanuf’s chin.
“Quit it,” the outlaw demanded. “Stop pawin’ me.”
Goodnight jammed the gun into Gudanuf’s throat so hard it hurt. The outlaw grunted.
“Drop your gun!” Goodnight ordered in a sober voice. “Drop it or I’ll shoot your head off. Right now!”
He felt the outlaw trying to decide what to do, so he pressed the steel even harder. The badman coughed.
“Ouch!” he said like a little boy.
“Drop it!” Goodnight said again. “And tell your men to drop their guns, too.”
Now Suckerod and Too Short had their revolvers out covering the other five bad men, who were caught by surprise. The outlaws had superior firepower, if they chose to use it, but the first one who tried to shoot was bound to get killed. And their leader would certainly die.
“Better do what he says,” Too Short said. “He’s the boss.”
Gudanuf opened his hand and let his pistol fall to the ground. Then one of his men dropped his gun. Then another and another. The firearms fell and lay in the dust the way the “drunk” cowboy had fallen a short while before. Goodnight stopped hugging the chief of the outlaws and stepped back.
“Suckerod, git her down,” Goodnight ordered.
The trembling cowboy rode over to the suspended woman and lifted her up onto his saddle with him. She sat sideways in front of him.
While keeping the outlaws covered, Goodnight moved to his horse, pulled his lucky ax out of the rifle holster, and handed it to Suckerod’s quaking hands. The cowboy used the sharp ax blade to cut the ropes that were tied to the young woman’s blue thumbs. Then he lowered her to the ground where she collapsed and lay in a heap.
Goodnight knelt beside her. “Are you aw right?” he asked, knowing that she wasn’t.
He wanted to touch her, to comfort her, but he was afraid touching would be too familiar. If she hadn’t been quite so beautiful, he would have behaved naturally and reached out to her. But instead, he just knelt there in the dust feeling foolish.
Now that the outlaws were no longer dangerous, the townspeople poured back onto Main Street, most of them carrying weapons. There were buffalo guns and carbines and brooms and clubs and even a couple of muskets. An old man with white hair actually carried a sword. The mob milled about, crowding around the young victim of the hanging. Now that it was all over, she started crying.
A man wearing a suit and tie approached, knelt beside her, and touched her on the back. She looked up at him and tried to smile. Goodnight was surprised to feel a twitch of jealousy. When the man started unknotting the ropes still tied around the young woman’s thumbs, Goodnight felt cheated. He had saved her and so he should have been allowed to minister to her. Citizens of the town were thanking him and congratulating him, but he hardly paid them any attention.
Goodnight studied the young woman being cared for by the other man. She appeared slightly taller than average. Her hair was either dark blond or light brown. Her figure was ample. Goodnight felt a little ashamed of himself for noticing. Was he being unfaithful to Lifts Something? Her legs were a little too thin. He was glad to find something wrong with her.
8
Telling himself he had better get back to business, Goodnight turned his attention once again to the outlaws. He was afraid they might attempt to make a break for it in all the confusion. Or they might try to retrieve their discarded firearms.
“Okay, you boys,” Goodnight addressed them, “you better just line up in the middle a the street so I can keep an eye on you. Come on. Less go.”
He herded them with his single-bladed ax in one hand and his revolver in the other. They moved slowly but eventually obeyed.
“Okay, that’s purdy good,” Goodnight said. “Now you better just kneel down like you was prayin’. Wouldn’t hurt you none to really pray.”
They knelt in the dust in the middle of the road. Now that the outlaws seemed utterly defeated and on their knees, the townspeople descended upon the gang’s horses and started pulling money, jewelry, watches, and silverware out of the saddlebags.
“Where’s the jail?” Goodnight asked.
“We don’t got none,” said a fat man with an apron tied around his waist. He probably ran the big store or tended bar. “Nobody wanted to pay for no jail. Hangin’s a lot cheaper. I’ll even throw in the rope free of charge.” So he was the storekeeper.
The rest of the citizens murmured their approval: hanging was the best way, the cheapest, the fastest, the surest. The outlaws on their knees started praying in earnest.
“I dunno,” said Goodnight. “Let’s not be hasty.”
He sensed all the good citizens looking at him as he pondered what to do. He just felt instinctively that it would be wrong to rush into a multiple hanging. He wished there were some judge or lawman to turn to for an answer.
“Where’s the sheriff?” Goodnight asked. “Hadn’t we better ask him?”
“We ain’t got none,” said the storekeeper. “Too expensive.”
Goodnight told himself he should have known. No jail. No sheriff. This was sure some skinflint town. Too damn cheap to buy any law and order. Well, if law was too expensive, then there ought at least to be some rules. The Humans had rules that depended upon a just balance. A balance between man and nature. A balance between man and man. Goodnight figured the Writers of Tascosa could stand some balancing, too. How else could they ever work out what was right and what was wrong, what was just and unjust.
“Lemme ask you somethin’,” Goodnight said.
“Fire away,” said the storekeeper.
“Did these boys kill anybody here this afternoon?”
The outlaws kneeling in the middle of Main Street began to protest that they had not. Goodnight noticed that Gudanuf didn’t look quite so handsome now that he was all dusty and humbled. That was a kind of justice in itself.
“Are they tellin’ the truth?” asked Goodnight.
“Reckon so,” said the storekeeper. Then he sho
uted, “Anybody lost anybody?” Nobody raised a voice. “Guess they ain’t killt nobody. Far as we can tell. Not here anyway. Not today anyhow.” He thought for a moment. “But they shot up the town purdy good. It was just a pure dee accident nobody got hisself killt.”
“So they ain’t killt nobody,” Goodnight said. “Did they have knowledge of any a your women?”
“You mean—?” asked the merchant.
“That’s right. Did they or didn’t they?”
The men kneeling in the street once again protested their innocence. They might have pillaged, but they didn’t rape.
“Not that I heard tell of,” said the man in the apron, embarrassed. “You mind if I don’t shout that question all over town?”
“Well, I’d like to know the answer.”
“I’ll ask around.”
Goodnight watched the prudish storekeeper moving through the crowd, whispering to first one person, then another. And one after another shook his or her head.
“Reckon not,” the apron reported at last. “No complaints of, well, what you said. But the way they handled Miss Revelie, they weren’t doing her no good, you unnerstand.”
Once more, the kneeling outlaws began to protest. Goodnight walked over and stood in front of Gudanuf to hear what he had to say.
“We didn’t mean no disrespect to Miss Revelie,” the outlaw chief stammered. “We was just after money. And we knowed her daddy was holdin’ out on us. Knowed he had a whole passel a money hid somewheres. An’ we was aimin’ to find it. We thought about hangin’ him up by his thumbs, but he’s a purdy tough ol’ bird. So we figured it’d be faster to work on his daughter. But the son-of-a-bitch still wouldn’t spill. Look, he’s worse ’n we are. Makin’ her suffer an’ all.”
“Shut up!” ordered Goodnight. “You talk way too much.”
He pondered again. His mood darkened when he noticed the well-groomed man kissing Miss Revelie’s swollen, discolored thumbs. Angry at the fortunate man, he glowered at the unlucky badmen on their knees. Then he made up his mind.
“Well, here’s how I see it,” said Goodnight, and everybody listened. “Killin’s a hangin’ offense, I reckon, but they ain’t killt nobody.” He put his ax over his shoulder. “And foolin’ with women ag’inst their will, now that’s a hangin’ crime, too, but they didn’t.” He rocked the ax on his shoulder. “So as far as I can figure out, they’re guilty of robbin’ and just plain meanness. That’s bad. That’s real bad. But that ain’t enough to hang six grown men. Not in my book.”
The citizens of the town groaned and protested. The reverent robbers looked relieved.
“Now wait a minute,” the fat storekeeper raised his voice. “Who give you the right—?”
“I caught ’em,” said Goodnight, “and I reckon that gives me the right. So as I was about to say, we oughtn’t to hang ’em, and we cain’t lock ’em up, but we cain’t just let ’em go neither. So I figure we better just make the punishment fit the crime. Like it says in the Bible, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.” He paused a moment thinking it over. “A thumb for a thumb.”
He could hear the townspeople and the outlaws all wondering out loud what he was talking about. He let them mull it over for a while.
“So here’s the deal I’m offerin’ these boys here,” Goodnight announced at last. “They can either pay for their crimes with their necks or with their thumbs. It’s up to them.”
And he brandished his ax. Goodnight noticed some of the citizens starting to smile and the outlaws looking very hangdog.
“That’s butchery!” cried Gudanuf, the talkative outlaw. “That’s savagery. That’s heathen. You’re still a damn savage. You shouldn’t oughta be allowed to mess with Gawd-fearin’ white folks.”
“So you’ve heard of me?” asked Goodnight.
“I heard a your damn ax.”
“I see. And you’d rather these good Gawd-fearin’ white folks stretched your necks than that a savage like me messed with your thumbs? Okay, fine by me. Boys, let’s go.”
Goodnight turned his back and started walking away.
“No, come back,” begged Gudanuf. “You cain’t let ’em hang us. It’s like you said. We didn’t kill nobody. You gotta be fair.”
“My justice or theirs?” Goodnight said. “Necks or thumbs? Make up your minds. I hope I’m a fair man, but I ain’t a patient one. So let’s have it. Which’ll it be?”
Gudanuf just knelt in the dust and looked like he was going to cry. He looked at his thumbs, first one, then the other, then looked up at the impatient Goodnight.
“Right now!” said the self-appointed judge.
Gudanuf bowed his head and put his hands over his face. Goodnight nudged him with the blade of his ax. The outlaw looked up.
“I don’t wanta die,” Gudanuf admitted at last, his voice choked. “I guess I’d rather lose my thumbs than lose my life. If that’s the only choice you’re givin’ me. But it ain’t fair.”
“Good,” said Goodnight. “Now how ’bout the rest a you? Necks or thumbs?”
He stared at them as they grumbled.
“Shut up! I’m tired of listening to you. You’re aggravatin’ me.”
One at a time, they made up their minds, then held out their thumbs, as if giving happy thumbs-up signs, but all the lines on their faces turned down.
“You first, Gudanuf,” Goodnight said.
“You’ve heard of me, too?” asked the outlaw.
“Less go. Git up. Come on.”
When the boss of the badmen got to his feet, Goodnight took him by the arm, turned him, placed the muzzle of a revolver between his shoulder blades and marched him down the middle of Main Street.
He noticed smirks on the faces of the townspeople as they accompanied him and his prisoner. He knew that they were thinking that they would have preferred a hanging, but a good thumb-chopping might be fun, too, and more novel. Well, he couldn’t help how they felt. He couldn’t prevent their having a good time. He couldn’t stop their enjoying what was going to happen to the outlaws. He tried to tell himself that a mob of Human Beings would have behaved differently, but he didn’t convince himself. He figured Human nature and human nature were probably pretty similar in this respect. Goodnight didn’t stop until he reached Henry Kimball’s blacksmith shop.
“Okay, Gudanuf, step right on up to that there tree stump,” Goodnight ordered.
“Looks sorta like a choppin’ block, don’t it?” said Too Short.
“Put your right thumb on top. Come on, don’t be shy.”
While Gudanuf hesitated, Goodnight stared at the tree stump, which had been sawed off flat. What was it doing here? This was a treeless plain. Where had it come from? It looked like an ancient mesquite. He wished he knew its story.
“You heard him,” said Too Short, nudging the outlaw in the back with his gun. “Git!”
Reluctantly, Gudanuf did as ordered. The townspeople murmured and gaped and crowded in to make sure they got a good look.
“Move back,” Goodnight said. “Give us some room.”
Stepping around in front of the outlaw, Goodnight measured the stroke with his ax. He lowered the blade so it just kissed the thumb, then raised it, shifted his feet, got ready. He noticed the outlaw had his eyes closed. He didn’t blame him. He started his swing—then at the last moment stopped. He wasn’t sure he could do it.
Taking a deep breath, Goodnight gathered himself again. He had to do it, so he might just as well get it over with. But at the last moment, he stopped again. No, he couldn’t do it. Yet surely he had to do something. He wondered if the pretty girl was watching his hesitation. Did she find it unmanly?
Goodnight shrugged and turned the ax on his shoulder. When he swung, the blunt end, not the blade, came down hard on the outlaw’s outstretched thumb. There was a crunch as if somebody had stepped on a beetle with his boot.
Gudanuf screamed. Then he opened his eyes and looked down and saw his thumb still attached to his hand and probably couldn’t
believe it. Tears rolled down his face, but he smiled. His thumb was much flatter than it had been before, but it wasn’t twitching in the dust.
“Thank you,” the outlaw said.
“Well, I figured you didn’t spill no blood,” Goodnight said, “so I reckoned I wouldn’t neither. Now t’other thumb.”
9
Goodnight was actually tired. He was surprised to find that busting a dozen thumbs had turned out to be hard work. He supposed that the emotional strain involved in causing so much pain must have made the chore all the more draining. The head of the ax rested on the ground as if it were tired, too. Goodnight leaned on the ax handle as if it were a cane. He rubbed the back of his arm across his sweating forehead. It was too hot for such manual labor.
He watched the outlaws mounting up. The citizens had wanted to keep the bad men’s horses and make them walk out of town, but he felt they had suffered enough. Besides, he figured they would have died out there in the badlands if they had been on foot. And if he had wanted them dead, he would have just hanged them in the first place.
Goodnight couldn’t help feeling sorry for the badmen, who looked so awkward as they tried to figure out how to ride with busted thumbs. They had trouble getting up because it hurt to grab the horn. They didn’t know how to hold the reins without using their thumbs. They reminded Goodnight of children who didn’t know what they were doing but were trying hard.
The army of townsmen—who were plenty brave now that the outlaws were not only disarmed but would have had trouble cocking guns if they had had any—escorted Gudanuf and his gang out of town. The citizens fired in the air the way the badmen had done earlier. And the white-haired old man hit the leader’s horse in the ass with his sword. He turned it broadside and used it like a paddle.
“Excuse me, sir,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Goodnight turned to see the well-groomed man who was the object of his jealousy approaching him. He wanted to turn away but prevented himself from doing so. The man had on a high, clip-on collar. Stuck in the short lapel of his suit coat was some sort of pin that looked like a medal for something. Goodnight now noticed a vest beneath the jacket and, most remarkable of all, velvet britches. He reached up and touched his patch and his stars.
