by Aaron Latham
“That don’t make no sense.”
“It’s the only way he’ll cross, I’m tellin’ you. I knows him real well. Whut he’ll do and whut he won’t. We kin sit here jawin’ till the cows come home, but it ain’t gonna change nothin’, and I’m in a hurry. I gotta git you to Robbers’ Roost by dark or you’re gonna hang me.”
“That’s for damn sure. Okay, you’re prob’ly lyin’, but we gotta git movin’. Black Dub, you go first, then me, then this son-of-a-bitch. I’ll lead him and his balky Prince.”
“Cain’t you take off this noose while we cross?”
“No, ma’am.”
Black Dub and Abraham Lincoln splashed into the river and the mule was soon swimming. Goodnight and Red followed them into swift water. The cold bit through the denim trousers and produced a shudder. Goodnight yanked on Prince’s reins and he jumped unhesitatingly into the frigid river. The donkey didn’t seem balky.
“Be careful,” Goodnight called to Black Dub. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
“I’s careful,” the giant called back.
Goodnight glanced back over his shoulder at King, who was smiling. Why was he amused? What did he have to grin about? The cannibal’s eye gleamed brightly in the late afternoon sun. Looking ahead, Goodnight glimpsed the danger.
“Come back!” he yelled. “Black Dub—!”
But he had called too late.
“Owww!!” screamed Black Dub.
The whirlpool had him. The giant was caught in a watery twister, a liquid tornado. Abraham Lincoln fought the swirling current but was no match for it. Mule and rider were swallowed by the freezing water.
Reacting instinctively, Goodnight spurred his horse toward the whirlpool to save Black Dub. Then the whirling water took him, too. Now, of course, he knew the river crossing was a trap. King had methodically guided them into danger in the hope of winning his life back. Pulling the reins hard to the right, upriver, upstream, Goodnight prayed that Red could save both their lives. He not only didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want King to live, to win.
Red fought the circling water. The horse kicked up foam fore and aft. He struggled to turn upstream against the current. Goodnight knew that his life depended upon his Goddog and asked the Human gods to save him from the spinning death force. Red pulled away from the cyclone, good, uh, then was drawn back into it.
“Revelie!” Goodnight screamed and then felt foolish. Save your breath, he told himself, you may need it. “Revelie! Revelie! Revelie! Revelie!”
21
Red responded to “Revelie” or to his own will to live. He rode the water harder, legs churning, froth all around.
“Go!”Goodnight yelled into Red’s ear, speaking the Human tongue. “Fight! Fight!”
Then Goodnight felt a jerk. Looking back, he saw King trying to break away, pulling back on Prince’s mane. Goodnight clung tighter than ever to the donkey’s reins and the noose. If he drowned, he intended to take the cannibal to the bottom with him. He owed it to the world. He promised the world that he would never let go, but the pressure got heavier and heavier. He couldn’t hang on any longer. He had to let go. No! But he had to. No! No! But he had no choice. He was being pulled inexorably into the vortex. He felt the wet reins slipping through his clenched fist. No!
Goodnight raised his spurred heels and then brought them down again, kicking Red in the sides. The kick was in slow motion because it happened underwater, but it literally spurred Red to a renewed effort. The horse’s legs churned wildly like a windmill in a storm. The froth and foam were storm clouds. Red raced against death and slowly, a little, a little, he pulled away upstream.
Looking back, Goodnight saw Prince and King disappear into the whirling maelstrom. He felt the donkey’s reins pulled forcefully from his hands, but he clung desperately to the noose rope. He was determined not to be outwitted by a cannibal. At the end of the noose rope, King flopped about like a big fish on a line.
Slowly, the far bank came closer. The fish continued to struggle, pulling this way and that against the line. Now Red had his feet on the bottom and was climbing up a steep slope to dry land. Goodnight didn’t care if his fish was drowned or not, so long as he didn’t wash away downstream. In his mind, King and Gudanuf were all mixed up— and he hated them both with a fury so hot that it was painful.
Goodnight looked around wildly. Where was Black Dub? Dead? Were fish now eating the meal that King had once hoped to enjoy?
Red burst up out of the freezing water into the freezing air. The horse shook himself and the rider shivered. Red climbed up the bank and thought his horse thoughts about saving himself and his master.
Once on the far bank, Goodnight began pulling in the rope, reeling in a big one. That fish was King, it was Gudanuf, it was all the hurts, all the pain the fisherman had suffered in his life. Goodnight wanted to wreak his vengeance upon this fish for what had happened to his good horse Mister Goddog, what happened to his sister long ago, what happened to the Humans, and what happened to Black Dub.
When he came out of the water, King looked dead. He lay motionless on the bank. Goodnight saw that he had lost his eyepatch and his empty socket was a gaping wound.
“Hello!”
Goodnight looked up and saw Black Dub riding toward him along the bank of the swift river. Suddenly, he was as happy as he had been angry. Then he noticed that the giant’s right foot was pointing in the wrong direction. He felt as if his stomach were filled with man meat and he had to throw it all up.
Dismounting, Goodnight ran to Black Dub and tried to help him down from the saddle. When the giant’s weight descended on him, Goodnight staggered. Then he half-lowered, half-dropped the big man. Goodnight ended up on the ground with the giant sitting in his lap.
“Thanks,” said Black Dub.
“You’re welcome,” said Goodnight.
Then they both laughed in spite of their hurts.
Remembering his Human training, he set the break: an agonizing realignment of throbbing bones. He wrapped the leg in his bedroll and tied it up like a sausage. Finally, he added two of the straightest tree limbs he could find—one on either side of the leg—and bound them in place.
“He’s movin’,” said Black Dub.
Looking around, Goodnight saw King get awkwardly to his feet and start running. The cannibal staggered drunkenly up the bank.
Rising from his knees, Goodnight ran, too. He caught King before he reached the trees and tackled him. Then he twisted the cannibal’s right arm behind him and marched him back down the bank.
“Less hang him,” said Black Dub.
“Maybe hangin’s too good for him,” said Goodnight.
Forcing King to the ground, Goodnight sat on top of him, pinning his arms at his side.
“Whut you got in mind?” asked Black Dub.
Goodnight produced his pocket knife, opened a long blade, and plunged it into King’s one good eye.
The hunt for Gudanuf was over for now. It was time to take Black Dub home.
The No-Eyed King would just have to get along the best he could. They left him on foot on the far side of the swift river. Surely something would be eating him before too long.
22
Descending into his home canyon, Goodnight looked for two landmarks: Sad Monkey Mountain and Mexican Skirt Mesa. There they were. His eye searched the swale between Monkey and the Skirt. He could make out a light-colored speck, but that was all. Was that speck a house under construction? He couldn’t tell.
“How you doin’?” Goodnight called over his shoulder to his companion.
“Just fine,” said Black Dub, but his voice was stretched tight.
The giant had ridden out of the mountains astride Abraham Lincoln because there was no other way. Then he had insisted on riding the rest of the way because he was stubborn.
When they finally reached the flat floor of the big canyon, Goodnight asked again if Black Dub was okay. The giant reassured him again that he was all right. Was he sure? Of c
ourse. Was he dizzy? No. Light-headed? No! Want me to shut up? Yes.
Then they emerged from a grove of cottonwoods and there it was, glowing a pale pink in the late afternoon light: Revelie’s house. Of course, she didn’t know it was hers, didn’t know what was being prepared for her—and probably cared less. Would she ever see her new home? Could she ever admire it as much as he did? The structure looked like a couple of log cabins built about ten feet apart with a single peaked roof connecting them. The space between the cabins—a breezeway—was called a dog run.
After sleeping a single night in his new home, Goodnight was ready to travel again. Early in the morning, he saddled Red and rode off to ask Revelie to come and live with him in his new two-room log palace.
23
When Goodnight rode into Tascosa again, his heart was pounding like outlaw guns being fired in the air. He rode past Henry Kimball’s blacksmith shop, where he smiled down at the tree stump as if it were an old friend. He slowed his horse as he approached the office of W. S. Mabry, Surveyor. He was in no hurry to get where he was headed. But he kept on going past McMasters’ Store and the Post Office, past the Wright & Farnsworth General Store, past the North Star Restaurant. He stopped when he got to the Jenkins & Dunn Saloon. He swung down from his horse and tied the reins to the saloon’s hitching rail, but he didn’t go in. He continued on down Main Street on foot until he came to Tascosa Creek. The shaky footbridge matched his mood. Feeling weak, he attempted to knock firmly at a well-remembered door.
Then Goodnight waited and listened. He found himself hoping Revelie wouldn’t open the door herself. His sudden appearance at her home might shock her. Or more likely seeing her in the doorway could stop his heart. It would be better to ease into this reunion. Take it slowly . . .
But then he had a frightening thought: If Revelie didn’t open the door, her mother would! No, Goodnight would rather have Revelie greet him. That would be much better. Get it over with. Don’t prolong the agony. Grab the bull by the horns. No, that wasn’t how to put it.
Then Goodnight began to wonder if he had knocked loudly enough. He had been so nervous that he might not have struck firmly. He raised his right fist and knocked again. This time he really hammered the door. And he went on hammering until it suddenly occurred to him that he was making a fool of himself with all this racket. He felt like a mule kicking at the barn door. Now he dreaded the opening of the door because it could only lead to embarrassment.
But eventually nervousness and fear and embarrassment gave way to impatience. Goodnight went from being afraid somebody would open the door to feeling irritated at being kept waiting. Why didn’t they answer the door? He had waited for weeks to see Revelie again, but he didn’t intend to wait many more minutes on this doorstep. Were they being deliberately rude to him? Who did they think they were? Who did they think he was? Wasn’t he good enough to cross their threshold? Hell!
This time he really pounded on the door. He was trying to hurt it. He made it jump on its hinges. Then he got afraid he might break it and stopped. He couldn’t believe how he was behaving. He felt like the Big Bad Wolf outside the pigs’ house. He dimly remembered his mother telling him that story.
Suddenly, he had to get out of there. He didn’t want anybody to come to the door. If they did, they would see how crazed he had become. He would slink away and come back and try again later. He hurried shakily back across the shaky bridge.
Once he was back on Main Street, Goodnight started to calm down. He wondered what he should do now. He eventually decided to pay a call on the bank to see if Velvet Pants was in. He could talk to the father about his daughter before seeing her himself. He was back to his old idea of easing into the long-wished-for reunion.
Entering the bank, Goodnight saw a single teller behind bars in a kind of cage. He didn’t see anybody else. He kept looking around wondering how this place worked and where Mr. Sanborn was.
“Can I help you?” asked the teller.
“I dunno,” said Goodnight, ambling forward. “I was kinda lookin’ for Mr. Sanborn.”
“He’s in the office,” said the young man, who was wearing a white shirt and a black tie. “Just knock on the door.”
Goodnight looked around. Seeing only one door, he walked up to it and knocked on it, but this time he restrained himself. He didn’t make the door do any dances.
When the door opened promptly, Goodnight saw Mr. Sanborn smiling at him. He tried to smile back, but he wasn’t sure he was doing a good job of it. He felt nervous again.
“Well, hello, stranger,” said Mr. Sanborn. “How did you know?”
“Know what?” asked Goodnight.
“That your money just got here. It came yesterday. I was a little worried how I was going to get in touch with you. And now here you are. Johnny on the spot.”
“My money?” said Goodnight in something of a daze.
“The money to buy our ranch, of course. It took it a while to get here. I had to write to London for it. These immense distances. It seemed to take forever. But it finally got here. And you’re here. Let’s go right over to the surveyor’s office and get down to business.”
Mr. Sanborn started toward the bank’s front door, but Goodnight just stood where he was. At the moment, he was much more concerned about the partnership deal he wanted to make than the one he had already signed up for. His mind just wasn’t on business, even though he was in a bank.
“Come on,” ordered Mr. Sanborn.
Goodnight followed. Mr. Sanborn held the door open for him. They both passed out into Main Street.
“It’s not far,” said Mr. Sanborn.
“I hope your wife and daughter are well,” Goodnight said.
“Oh, yes, they’re very well, thank you. They went back to Boston. My wife wasn’t happy here. It’s not the country for her.”
24
Goodnight was lost. He no longer recognized the earth over which he rode. It had changed. Or he had changed. Anyhow, he saw no familiar landmarks. Not that there were many landmarks out here on the stakeless Staked Plain. He wondered if he would ever find his way home again.
The land looked to him like a piece of paper on which God or the Great Mystery or Whoever had not yet written. Which was perhaps why this part of America was the last part conquered by the Writers. When rain fell on this land, it didn’t run away in babbling sentences. It just disappeared into the earth. Trees punctuated most landscapes, but there wasn’t any punctuation here. None! Nothing had been scratched out or erased by erosion. Goodnight couldn’t read this unmarked land. Not now. Not anymore. He wondered if he had lost the ability to read with a Human eye. Now he could only read what Writers read. And Writers could only read what they could see.
Then he saw an armadillo and was glad for the company. He decided to discuss his plight with this armored possum who seemed to know very well where it was going.
“O Armadillo,” Goodnight called out in the Writer’s tongue, “I’ve got a favor to ask you. Hope you don’t mind. I got myself lost. I cain’t find a big, red canyon. You know the one? I was hopin’ mebbe you could sorta point me in the right direction. How about it?”
The armadillo suddenly disappeared into the earth, the ground swallowing it in one gulp. Riding closer, Goodnight found the hole down which the armor-plated rodent had run, but from a few feet away it had been completely invisible. It might just as well have been in another state, in another country, on the moon. Goodnight was devastated by the experience. Not only did it prove to him how hard it was to find holes on this plain, even a hole as big as the red canyon, but it also suggested something even more disturbing: he had lost his ability to talk to nature.
That armadillo had not listened to him at all. It hadn’t helped him. It hadn’t cared about him. He could no longer close the gap between himself and other manifestations of the Great Mystery. Now he really felt alone. Now he was truly lost.
Goodnight was feeling particularly sorry for himself when he noticed an imperfection o
n the horizon. As God or the Great Mystery or Whoever had drawn the line separating earth and heaven, It had accidentally let fall a drop of ink. As this black spot drew closer, it was transformed into a buffalo. And as the buffalo came nearer, it turned into a horse and the hump on its back changed into a rider. Goodnight squinted into the heat waves at his salvation.
Tightening his legs around his horse to urge it to go faster, Goodnight started waving at the distant rider. But the rider did not wave back. The lost man took off his hat and swung it back and forth over his head, but the other man did not seem to notice. Goodnight was not a man who liked to raise his voice, but he started yelling. No voice answered his cry.
Goodnight became terrified that the other rider wouldn’t see him, would go off and leave him, would abandon him in this desert. Staring into the heat waves, he became convinced that the other horseman was growing smaller rather than larger, was moving away from him rather than toward him. Oh, how he wished he had two eyes now, which would have made him better able to judge distances. The oneeyed man felt he had to get the other man’s attention or perish here in this wasteland, so he yelled louder and waved his hat harder. But it didn’t do any good. He had the feeling of coming so very close to salvation but missing it nevertheless. He had to do something! But what could he do?
Then he knew. Goodnight took out his revolver, cocked it, and started firing in the air. The other rider would have to hear these shots. Now he would ride to the rescue.
But he didn’t. He didn’t wave. He didn’t yell a greeting. He didn’t fire in the air. He didn’t respond in any way.
Goodnight had to reload his cap-and-ball pistol. It was hard work on horseback, especially with only one eye. He even managed to drop some ammunition on the ground, but he finally got his gun loaded again. Raising it over his head, he started firing at God in His heaven.
And then suddenly his prayers seemed to have been answered. Goodnight saw a puff of white smoke rise from the other rider, which meant that he had fired an answering shot. The lost had been found. His plea had been heard. Goodnight was flooded with a sense of unconditional happiness . . .
