by Aaron Latham
“We’ll come back to that. When our agreement expires in five years’ time, we will divide the residual properties, one-third going to you, two-thirds to me.”
“Rewhat?”
“Residual properties. That means whatever property is left after five years. What remains. We’ll split that up according to the terms of our agreement. See, business isn’t so hard, is it?”
Goodnight shrugged again. He didn’t know what to make of the proposed agreement. He didn’t much like the idea of paying Mr. Sanborn back all the money he had invested, plus interest, whatever that was, and then turning around and giving him two-thirds of the ranch. Two-thirds of the land. Two-thirds of the cattle. Two-thirds of the whole shootin’ match. He hadn’t gotten very far in math in school, but he knew two-thirds was over half. It wasn’t a matter of even-Steven. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t much like it, but it was all written down in black and white. Not in pencil that you could erase but in ink that was indelible. You could change pencil-writing. You could fiddle with it until you got it like you wanted it—or try to. But ink was another matter entirely. Ink was once and forever. If Mr. Sanborn had chiseled the contract on a stone tablet, it would have been a little more intimidating, but not much.
“I see,” Goodnight said at last.
“Good,” said Mr. Sanborn. “If you’ll just sign this agreement, I’ll sign it, too, and we’ll be in business. Congratulations. I predict a very bright future for you, for this canyon, for us all.”
Goodnight studied Velvet Pants’s broad smile and wondered why he was wary of it. Mr. Sanborn was a soft man, a foolish man who shot his own horse, a man who couldn’t do much of anything except write, but writing was evidently enough.
“I dunno,” Goodnight said.
“What don’t you know?” Velvet Pants asked. “Here, look it over.”
He handed the written agreement to Goodnight, who stared down at it dumbly. It seemed to have cast a spell over him. The words blurred before his good eye and bumped into each other. He felt a little dizzy.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Mr. Sanborn.
“No, I’m all right,” said Goodnight.
“I was referring to the agreement.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Course.”
Goodnight stared at the document with a Human eye. The handwriting looked beautiful from a distance, but up close the letters were hard to make out. He squinted. He caught himself wondering if he would have been able to read better if he had had two eyes. He could have just admitted that he wasn’t a very good reader and was befuddled by the written agreement, but he was ashamed. He didn’t want his potential partner—and possible future father-in-law—to think he was a dumb hick. He couldn’t stand that.
“It looks okay to me,” Goodnight said at last.
“Very good,” said Mr. Sanborn. “Splendid. Allow me to offer you the use of my fountain pen.”
Velvet Pants withdrew the newfangled contraption from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Goodnight. The rancher wasn’t exactly sure how to use it. He didn’t even know how to open it, much less write with it. He had of course seen Mr. Sanborn use it day after day, but he hadn’t watched closely. He paid about as much attention to how Velvet Pants used a mechanical pen as he did to how wrens wove nests. He never figured he’d need to know how to do either one. What did such a writing machine have to do with somebody like him? He felt as if he were about to lose another war to the Writers.
“No, please,” Goodnight said. “You better go first. It’s more fittin’.”
The rancher held out the fountain pen as if it were some dangerous weapon that he was anxious to get rid of. Mr. Sanborn took it from him.
“Very well, if you insist,” he said. “I will be happy to do the honors. Turn around. I’ll use your back as my desk.”
“What?” asked Goodnight. “Excuse me.”
“I need to press against something when I write. Since we don’t have a desk or a table, I propose to use your back, if you will be so kind as to turn around.”
Oh, no! Turn around! Then he wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Then it would be his turn and he still wouldn’t know how to use a fountain pen. He had to stall until he could think of something.
“Oh, no,” Goodnight said. “Somethin’ thass this important, you gotta do it right. Cain’t afford not to. We’ll sign it on the chuck wagon.”
Not giving Velvet Pants a chance to raise objections, Goodnight rushed out of the hackberry grove as if somebody were chasing him. He didn’t stop until he reached the chuck wagon, where he found Coffee mixing up some hotcake batter for Revelie’s breakfast. She had not gotten up quite as early as her father or her suitor.
“Outa the way, Coffee,” Goodnight said. “Mr. Sanborn wants to borrow your table there.”
He was referring to the door of the chuck wagon’s cabinet that was hinged not on the side but at the bottom, like those round-topped tin mailboxes stuck on top of posts back in civilization. The mailboxes opened that way, from top to bottom rather than from side to side, just because they did. But a chuck wagon opened that way for a reason, because when it did, its door formed a kind of kitchen table where the cook prepared the meals. Coffee picked up his tin bowl full of batter and retreated a few steps. Goodnight started blowing stray flour off the chuck wagon door so the agreement wouldn’t get soiled.
“There you go, Mr. Sanborn,” he said. “Have at it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goodnight,” said Velvet Pants. “You are too gracious.”
“What’s going on?” asked Revelie.
“Come over here,” said her father. “You can witness our signatures. That is, if Mr. Goodnight has no objections.”
Mr. Goodnight objected all right but silently. He had been worried about making a fool of himself with that fountain pen in front of Velvet Pants. Now he had to worry about looking like an idiot in front of Revelie, too, which was infinitely worse.
“No objection,” Goodnight said. “Witness away.”
“Thank you,” said Revelie with what seemed mock courtesy. “I would be delighted. What are you signing?”
“Partnership papers,” said her father.
“Are congratulations in order?” she asked.
“Certainly,” the father said.
Goodnight just shrugged. He wasn’t so sure.
“Well done,” she said.
Velvet Pants placed the written agreement on the door of the chuck wagon. Then he began unscrewing the top of the fountain pen with Goodnight watching closely. He had to rise up a little on his tiptoes and crane his neck to see over the businessman’s shoulders. So that was how you did it! Before beginning to write, Mr. Sanborn reached for some sort of metal lever on the side of the pen and pulled it out a little way, which had the effect of forcing ink into the tip of the pen. Then he released the lever and bent to his work.
“Now it’s your turn,” said Velvet Pants, holding out the fountain pen. “Be my guest.”
Goodnight was relieved to see that Mr. Sanborn had not replaced the top on the fountain pen, so he wouldn’t have to fuss with that. Visualizing what his new partner had done, Goodnight reached for the little lever on the side of the pen and gave it a good yank. Ink spurted out of the tip of the pen and hit Velvet Pants just below the belt.
“Oh, no!” Goodnight moaned. “I’m sorry. I’m real sorry.”
“Think nothing of it, my good man,” Mr. Sanborn said in a tight voice. “Really, I don’t mind. An accident. Couldn’t be helped.”
Revelie was in danger of hurting herself from laughing so hard. Goodnight wanted to cry. He was more embarrassed at having shot Mr. Sanborn in his velvet pants than Velvet Pants was at having shot his own horse in the head while riding it.
17
Late in the afternoon, Goodnight and Revelie went for a last walk together to say goodbye. The Sanborn family with its escort of troops would be pulling out in the morning. They had been there only a week, but now Goodnight couldn’t imag
ine the red canyon without them. As they left their tracks side by side on the bank of the river, he found himself wishing that these footprints would not wash away. He caught himself wondering if his memory of this moment would erode also. If this parting turned out to be goodbye forever, then he hoped his memory of Revelie would remain as indelible as writing on paper, for it would be all he had left of her. And yet if he lost her, maybe he would want to forget her, because remembering would drive him crazy. Wouldn’t it? Goodnight knew a bit about how memory worked, how you tended to remember what was painful and forget what had been pleasant. He already feared that his memories of Revelie were going to hurt him, which was both good and bad. Good for the memory but not so good for the heart. Of course, if the memory wastoo painful, you could just block it out of your mind completely. He knew something about that, too.
Glancing in Revelie’s direction, Goodnight was startled once again to find her looking at him. This time, he didn’t look away so quickly because he wanted to see if she would look away. She didn’t. She just kept studying him, measuring him, finding fault with him, or whatever it was she was doing. He couldn’t stand it any longer.
“You’re looking at me,” Goodnight said nervously.
“Yes,” Revelie said.
Well, he had really managed to clear that up. “Why?” he asked.
“You’re so big,” she said. “You take up so much room. You need all this room. You belong here in this big place. I can’t decide if you were made for the canyon, or if the canyon was made for you. And you make other people big. You make them big enough to have forests inside them. That’s pretty big.”
She looked at him now as if she expected him to say something.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said.
“I don’t either,” she said.
Goodnight realized that he had never considered the possibility that she might run out of words. He liked her better if such were possible.
“I suppose all this bigness frightens me,” Revelie said at last. “The canyon. The sky. Back home the sky is much smaller. You’re big and you can stand up to this place. I’m little.”
“Not so little,” Goodnight said, concerned about the drift of the conversation.
“This place makesyou bigger,” she said, “but it makesme feel small. I can’t help it.”
They fell silent again. Their walk carried them to the very edge of the shadow cast by the western wall of the canyon. They were still in the bright sunlight, but soon the beginning of darkness would touch them. Goodnight felt a chill as if in anticipation of that moment.
“I’ve really enjoyed my visit,” Revelie said a little stiffly, a little formally. “I’ve seen a world I never knew existed. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Goodnight said, a little formal himself. “Right welcome.”
“I’ll miss it,” she said.
“We’ll miss you,” he said. “I will. The canyon will, too. And the bees and all.”
Their feet were in shadow now. The world was growing colder.
“I’m glad I came,” she said.
“Me, too,” he said. “I hope you’ll come back.”
“Maybe. You never know.”
“I was hoping you’d promise to come back.”
They walked in silence while the shadow of the canyon crawled up their bodies. They seemed to be sinking into darkness.
“Won’t you promise?” he asked.
“Promise what?” she asked.
“To come back.”
“But I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“If I’ll come back. If it’ll work out.”
“Please promise.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“I just can’t. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Walking in the gloom of the canyon, Goodnight felt his mind crying. It cried for her because it loved her. It wept for her because it couldn’t have her.
He knew he had closed his deal with the wrong Sanborn.
18
Goodnight and Black Dub rode through a dark, rain-soaked night. Now and then, big lightning would flash in the distance, and then small lightning would crackle between their horses’ wet ears. Actually, Black Dub forked a mule rather than a horse. He claimed none of the horses were strong enough to carry him. The riders were cold, miserable, and sleepy—but there was no point in stopping because they wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway with this storm blowing. Unless they could find shelter.
“How’re you doin’?” asked Goodnight.
“I’m okay, but I’m worried about this here mule,” said Black Dub. “He’s gittin’ pretty tired. Pretty soon I’m gonna have to git off and start carryin’ him.”
Goodnight found himself wondering if the strongman was serious. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Bossman, has this here rainstorm done washed away your sense a humor?”
Goodnight laughed self-consciously.
The horse and mule’s jobs were made more difficult by the incline up which they trudged. Goodnight and his traveling companion were climbing higher and higher into the Rocky Mountains in search of Robbers’ Roost, which was supposed to be somewhere up ahead in southeastern Colorado. That much everybody in this crowded corner of state boundaries seemed to know. But now they needed better directions and a place to spend the cold, rainy night.
Two weeks ago, Goodnight had gathered his hands together to tell them what he wanted them to do in his absence. They were of course to care for the herd and the horses—but they were also to begin constructing a ranch house. In Goodnight’s mind, the house was a part of the courtship of Revelie. He doubted that she would consent to marry him if it meant living in a dugout or a tepee. He drew the plans in the red dust of the canyon floor and warned his boys not to step on its lines. Keep the animals away from his diagram, too.
And he knew where he wanted his new home. Goodnight had crisscrossed the canyon on horseback, imagining his house in different places. He looked out of imaginary windows and admired different views. He tried to see with her eyes because he wanted to please her.
The site Goodnight finally chose was between an impressive peak and a beautiful mesa. The peak was topped by a large stone that looked a little like a face. It wasn’t exactly a human face. So what was it? Squinting up at the frowning rock, Goodnight decided it looked like a monkey. Or rather it resembled pictures of monkeys in his schoolbooks. His Writers’ schoolbooks. But this rock monkey looked sadder than all those book monkeys. He figured maybe he would call it Sad Monkey Mountain. Turning his attention to the mesa, he noticed that it flared from top to bottom like a woman’s skirt. This skirt was decorated with horizontal bands of color. A pink band, then a white band, then a red band, then another white band, then a purple band, another pink, then violet, white again, red again, then maroon . . . This skirt was more colorful than the ones Revelie usually wore. It reminded him of the skirts he had seen in Weatherford worn by the Mexican women. Maybe he would call it Mexican Skirt Mesa. Yeah, he liked the name. He liked the place. He would build Revelie a house between Sad Monkey Mountain and Mexican Skirt Mesa. It would be the prettiest house in the world in the prettiest canyon on earth. He just hoped the prettiest girl in the world would make up her mind to live there.
Having given his cowboys their instructions, Goodnight had picked one of them, Black Dub Martin, and had ridden away on a search for vengeance. He was determined to find Gudanuf and his gang and make them pay in blood and ears. Goodnight and his chosen partner would be outnumbered if they ever caught what they were chasing, but they would worry about that later. Black Dub was as strong as three men, which would help in a fistfight, but in a gunfight he was just a bigger target. It had been a hard trip, either too hot and too dry, or too cold and too wet. This mountain country was beautiful but treacherous. Black Dub’s mule was more surefooted than Goodnight’s Red. The rancher missed his good horse Mister Goddog more a
nd more, which just made him want to catch Gudanuf all the more. He debated whether to cut the outlaw’s ears off before or after he hanged him.
“Look yonder,” said Black Dub.
Goodnight squinted in the direction the big man was pointing, but he couldn’t see anything but rain and darkness. He wasn’t surprised that Black Dub could see what he couldn’t. The giant’s eyes were as strong as his back.
“What?” asked Goodnight.
“I swan,” said Black Dub, “but there’s a light up there. See, right there. Lookit.”
“I’ll take your word for it. What does it look like?”
“Hard to say. Mebbe a campfire. Cabin. Forest fire. We gonna have to git closer.”
“Nice spottin’.”
“Aw, I just looked up and saw it. Nothin’ special.”
They rode on in silence watching the little lightning sparking between their mounts’ ears. The little thunder was a barely audible crackle. It was ten minutes later that one-eyed Goodnight finally saw the light. He noticed that it flickered but not much, which suggested a cabin rather than a campfire. That held out the possibility of shelter. Shelter and food. Ever since their pack mule drowned crossing the Red River they had been existing on extremely short rations. (Goodnight had managed to shoot a skunk, but its meat was definitely a mixed blessing.) Now he tightened his legs around Red to nudge him faster. He could feel saliva in his mouth.
“Yeah, I see it,” Goodnight said.
“It’s a dugout,” Black Dub said. “Door’s open. There’s a candle on a table. Fire in the fireplace.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Don’t kid me now. My eyes ain’t that good. But, ya know, it could be stew. There’s a pot hangin’ in the fireplace.”
Goodnight wanted to kick Red in the sides and race toward the light, but he was afraid he would end up at the bottom of a cliff. Still, Red sensed his mood and started to trot. Goodnight eased back on the reins to restrain his horse’s enthusiasm. He wanted to make sure he actually got to the light in one package.
They rode down a long incline, then up another, then down, then up. Goodnight still couldn’t see the pot bubbling over the fire in the fireplace, but he had no trouble imagining its savory contents.
