by Aaron Latham
“Who?”
“Her folks run the Exchange Hotel. Evenin’s she carries supper over to Mr. Sanborn at his house. That’s where she was when they busted in. Pore girl.”
“Who busted in?”
“Most likely the Robbers’ Roost boys. They wore han’kerchiefs over their faces. And gloves, too, mebbe to hide a bunch a flat thumbs, huh? That’s accordin’ to Mr. Sanborn. Mebbe you shoulda hung ’em when you had the chance, huh?”
“Mebbe.”
“They come bustin’ in. And they grabbed ahold a Miss Katie, but they was callin’ her ‘Miss Revelie’ or just ‘Revelie’ ’cause they figured that’s who she was. See?”
“Uh-huh.”
“An’ while they was still callin’ her by the wrong name, see, they done tol’ Mr. Sanborn to be sure an’ tell you that this here was all yore fault. Payin’ you back or somethin’.”
“Damn,” Goodnight said. He felt an angry burning in his chest.
“Shore ’nough mean boys,” said Gibson. “Anyhow, Miss Katie was yellin’ an’ screamin’ that she waddn’t Miss Revelie. That she was Miss Katie. That they was makin’ a bad mistake. But they just said, aw hell, an’ took her anyhow. If they couldn’t git their hands on Miss Revelie, then Miss Katie’d hafta do.”
“Damn,” said Goodnight again.
He spat on the ground and watched the earth change color. He felt a sharp pain behind his sightless eye. All the air in the deep canyon had been breathed up. His hands grew larger and they shook. They had dared to come after his woman. Except she wasn’t his. That was the rub. She wouldn’t even write to him.
“One of ’em kept on rantin’ an’ ravin’ about how he was gonna nail yore ears to the saloon’s swingin’ doors. Mr. Sanborn tol’ me to run out cheer and tell you what was goin’ on.”
“That’s the only message you’ve got for me?” asked Goodnight.
“Thass all. Ain’t that enough?”
30
Goodnight led his cowboys in search of the stolen woman. Loving rode beside him. The other boys were scattered out behind. All except Coffee and Suckerod who had been left behind to look after the ranch and the stock. If they kept on at this rate, their horses would all be dead before they got halfway to Tascosa.
Eventually, Goodnight slowed the pace. He was in a hurry to catch the kidnappers, but he was more concerned with sure than fast. He had promised himself that the outcome of this chase was as certain as death. Saving the horses would doom the outlaws.
As he rode along, Goodnight got angrier and angrier. He kept imagining what the gang was probably doing to the daughter of the hotelkeeper. And he knew they had intended to perform those same actions on Revelie. It was almost as if they really were raping and torturing the woman whom he loved. He would never forgive them not only for what they were doing but for what they had intended to do. He channeled all the frustration of his weeks of waiting into a lust for revenge. He would make them suffer as they had planned to make Revelie suffer. Maybe it would be fun—well, not exactly fun, but satisfying—to cut off their ears before he hanged them. Nailtheir ears to swinging doors. They would have enough ears to ornament the doors of both of the saloons in Tascosa.
But first he would have to find them.
When they finally reached Tascosa, Goodnight, Loving, and the cowboys rode down Main Street and stopped in front of the bank. They tied their horses to a crowded hitching rail. The cowboys lounged about outside while Goodnight and Loving went inside to see Sanborn. He was wearing brown tweeds instead of his velvet pants. Goodnight introduced Loving to the banker.
“Good of you to come,” said Sanborn. “We’re very worried about Katie. She’s been gone for three days. We don’t know what to do.”
“Ketch ’em,” said Loving.
“That’s right,” said Goodnight.
“Do you believe you will be able to do so?” asked the banker.
“We’re gonna,” said Goodnight.
“When I think it could have been Revelie—”
“How’s she doin’?”
“Oh, she’s well. Thank God.”
“She write you reg’lar?”
“Why, yes, she does.”
Goodnight wanted to ask if Revelie ever said anything in her letters about him, but he couldn’t quite work up the nerve. Still, he couldn’t let the subject completely alone.
“Writes a good letter, huh, does she?” Goodnight asked.
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, she does,” her father answered.
“That’s good. I been hopin’ ta git one myself. But so far, no such luck.”
“I’m sorry.”
Goodnight couldn’t tell whether this banker was really sorry or not.
“Any thoughts,” Loving said, “on where we might oughta start lookin’.”
“Look for Robbers’ Roost,” said the banker.
“We kinda figured that much,” said the handsome cowboy.
“We’ll ask around town,” Goodnight said. “See what we turn up. Maybe somebody’s got a notion.”
Tin Soldier was the first cowboy to bring any news. His source was the bartender at the Jenkins & Dunn Saloon, who remembered a cowboy who had bellied up to the bar last month wearing gloves. This cowpuncher kept his gloves on while he drank his whiskey. But when he went to pay for his pleasure, he took a glove off to reach for coins in his pocket. The bartender got a glimpse of a busted thumb. Later on, he noticed that Busted Thumbs left with some riders who worked for the Milliron Ranch. That was a hard-luck spread that lay a couple of horseback days southeast of Tascosa.
“When was that?” asked Goodnight.
“Barkeep wasn’t too sure,” replied Tin Soldier. “A month ago mebbe. Mebbe more.”
“Not exactly a fresh trail.”
“Sorry.”
“But we cain’t hardly ignore it. I mean it’s the only trail we got.”
Goodnight got all the boys together and they saddled up. They rode until dark and didn’t stop then. Remembering his Human days, the former Crying Coyote decided to keep his men moving the way a Human war party would move. They rode deeper and deeper into the night. They weren’t favored with a full Human moon, just a halfmoon, but it was enough to help light the way. Goodnight hated to admit to himself that he was enjoying himself. It was like old times. He was hunting Writers. They didn’t make a waterless camp until after midnight.
The next day, the Goodnight-Loving gang came to the ragged edge of the plains. They left the high tableland and descended into breaks country. The landscape resembled the red canyon, but all the features were smaller, less magnificent, messier. Rather than one great canyon, there were many little canyons running into each other. It was a puzzle, a labyrinth. Goodnight thought of it as good rustling country, where stolen herds could easily be hidden among the geological riddles and mysteries.
Loving had been to the Milliron Ranch before, so he pointed the way, but he did it unobtrusively. Goodnight never felt his authority undermined. And even if he had, he wasn’t sure he would have minded. He liked Loving’s company too much.
They rode on down the dangerous maze. The horses reared and snorted when they saw or heard or smelled rattlesnakes. When his mount jumped, Tin Soldier lost his steel hat, which rolled all the way to the bottom of a tricky little canyon. He dismounted and went after his helmet on foot. When he finally retrieved it, he couldn’t climb back out of the gorge. He was trapped. Goodnight had to throw him a rope and pull him out.
The riders watched carefully for holes that could break a horse’s leg. Burrs caught in the horses’ hair and had to be pulled or cut free. These breaks had everything that was bad about the red canyon and none of what was good. Goodnight pitied the ranchers who had bet on this part of Texas. Well, they hadn’t had his upbringing, so they didn’t know any better.
Goodnight followed Loving up the steep side of a small plateau. When they reached the tabletop, they scanned the horizon. Black Dub was the first to see the small feather of smo
ke fluttering above a distant hill. He pointed it out.
“That oughta be Milliron headquarters,” said Loving. “Mebbe git there before dark.”
31
The Goodnight-Loving posse rode down a rugged bluff toward a ramshackle collection of buildings. The disordered structures seemed to reflect the broken, chaotic nature of the landscape. As the newcomers clattered closer, an old man emerged from the cabin with the smoking chimney. He stood on the front porch and shaded his eyes to see better. He wore overalls like a farmer. His head was bald. He was skinny. This hard land seemed to have used him up. Goodnight raised his hand in the Human fashion long before he was close enough to holler. The old man waved back.
“How do,” Goodnight said when he was near enough to be heard.
“Howdy,” said the old man, who didn’t have any teeth. “What kin I do for ya?”
Still sitting in his saddle, Goodnight leaned forward until his forearms rested on the pommel. He stared down at the old man, trying to decide how honest he was, how much trouble he might be.
“Well, we’re looking for a rider,” Goodnight said. “A boy with a coupla busted thumbs. Sometimes wears gloves to hide ’em. Sound familiar?”
“Well, I cain’t exactly say yes, an’ I cain’t exactly say no. Less’n I know who wants ’im and what they wants ’im for.”
“Fair enough. My name’s Goodnight.”
“Mine’s Milliron.”
“Glad to know you, Milliron.”
“I’d be glad to know yore business, Goodnight.”
“Well, I’m lookin’ for some men with busted thumbs that carried off a girl. I mean to git her back.”
“That so? How long ago this here happen?”
“’Bout a week.”
“Where?”
“Tascosa. They rode right into town and grabbed her.”
Old Man Milliron took a while to digest all this new information. His mouth moved as if he were talking, but no sound came out. Goodnight figured he must be talking to himself. He decided not to interrupt the conversation.
“Well, how I figure it is, if’n I had any busted thumbs ’round here, they ain’t gone missin’ lately. Been doin’ their chores day in an’ day out for a month er so. Right cheer. Couldn’t hardly be yore man. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”
Goodnight lifted his sweaty hat and scratched under it. Then he set it back in place.
“Well, how I figure is, mebbe he waddn’t in on the girl stealin’. Mebbe he quit that there busted-thumb gang. Mebbe he’s reformed an’ all.”
“Mebbe,” said Milliron.
“But mebbe he still knows wheresomever that there gang likes to hide out. Mebbe he knows where they’d most likely take this here girl for funnin’ with her. So mebbe we’d like to talk to him if’n you don’t mind.”
Old Man Milliron thought for a moment, chewing his cud.
“Tell me, Goodnight,” said Milliron, “be you the man with that funny ax I heared tell of.”
“Depends on what you call a funny ax,” Goodnight said. “I got mine off’n an anvil.” He patted the scabbard on the side of his saddle that held his ax.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Must be. You figure I might could take a look at it? Be much obliged to you.”
Goodnight didn’t particularly like being parted from his ax. He counted on it to give him luck. You didn’t readily hand your luck into the hands of another. Much less a stranger. Besides, he had promised the ax—on that day at the fair—that he would always keep it with him. But on the other hand, he wanted the old man’s help, so a favor might be in order. And he didn’t plan to let the ax out of his sight.
“Sure thing,” Goodnight said.
He pulled his ax out of its scabbard and handed it down handle foremost to Milliron. He watched closely as the old man accepted it respectfully. Watched as he brushed the blade with the side of a wrinkled old thumb. Watched him pucker his lips as if he meant to kiss the steel, but he pulled back just in time. Watched as the old man’s eyes glittered and got younger.
“Like it?” asked Goodnight.
“Love it,” said Milliron. “I oncet give it a pull myself. I was a big strappin’ fellow then. Didn’t budge. You mind tellin’ me how you done it?”
“I reckon you loosened it up for me.”
“Thanks, but thass not what I heared. I heared you talked it out. Wha’d you say?”
“Don’t ’member right off hand. Not exactly. Less just say I’m a real persuasive fellow.”
“Must be. I reckon I’m persuaded. The boys’ll be comin’ in for chow anytime now. An’ last I looked, one of ’em had busted thumbs. But he may be a little harder to persuade than me, most likely. Git down and stay to supper.”
“Thanks.”
Goodnight swung down off his horse and Loving and the other cowboys followed his example. They tied their mounts to the posts of a nearby corral. Old Man Milliron went back to his cooking inside the log cabin. The Home Ranch cowboys squatted on their heels and leaned back against the cabin and waited. Goodnight’s good eye was always busy, watching for the return of the riders. Every so often, he would glance over at Loving, whose eyes were intently watching, too. The other boys were half-dozing.
Soon a couple of riders appeared over the top of a western hill just as a big red sun was going down behind it. Goodnight didn’t like the idea of anybody with busted thumbs coming at him right out of the disadvantage, Goodnight got slowly to his feet. Loving stood up, too. sun. He squinted but still couldn’t see very well. Knowing he was at a Goodnight let his hand rest on the butt of his revolver. Loving didn’t bother.
Hearing a sound behind him, Goodnight looked around quickly. He saw the old man putting tin plates on a table. When he had finished, Milliron came forward, squinted, shaded his eyes, and grunted.
“Hold yore hosses,” the old man said. “That ain’t him.”
Loving sat back down, but Goodnight remained standing. He kept watching. The sky was getting dark fast. He wished Busted Thumbs would hurry. He was getting impatient. Unfortunately, impatience often led to mistakes. Goodnight looked down at Loving, who appeared to be completely relaxed. He hardly seemed to notice that the black riders coming out of the sun were getting bigger and bigger.
“There he be,” said Milliron. “Yonder.”
Goodnight looked to see where the old man was pointing. His finger was aiming at a clump of brush in the distance. Goodnight didn’t see anything.
“Where?”
“There.”
Finally, Goodnight saw three miniature riders emerge from the brush. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Goodnight decided to ride out to meet them. But before he reached his horse, he felt Loving’s grip on his elbow. The grip said: “Be patient, wait.”
The two riders coming out of the sun arrived first. They rode their horses into the corral, dismounted, and removed their saddles, which they pitched on the top rail of the fence. Then they sauntered toward grub.
“Company come,” Milliron said to his men. “Stayin’ to supper.”
“Ev’nin’,” said one of the Milliron cowboys.
The other one mumbled the same. They introduced themselves all around in a casual way.
“Nice hat,” said one of the Milliron hands.
“Thanks,” said Tin Soldier, nodding.
Goodnight studied the newcomers. They had ridden in on poor horses with sway backs. Their threadbare clothes barely seemed to cling to them. These weren’t outlaws unless they were very bad at their trade.
Soon Goodnight returned his attention to the three riders approaching from the brush. As they drew nearer, he could see that their horses were as poor as the others. He decided to wait until they dismounted and unsaddled. Then there would be less chance of the man he wanted getting away. Wait, wait.
As the three cowboys approached the cabin on foot, hungry for supper, Goodnight recognized one of them. He didn’t even need to look at the man’s hands. He recalled his face. He remembered watching from
across a stump as those features distorted.
“Company come,” Milliron sang out again.
The gloved cowboy looked wary. Goodnight smiled warmly and pulled out his gun. Loving’s revolver cleared its holster, too. All the Milliron cowboys altered their poses—their shoulders straightened, their heads turned, their chins came down—but none of them drew.
“Hey, Busted Thumbs, hold on there,” Goodnight called. “I got a coupla questions to ask ya.”
“What?” asked the gloved cowboy.
“Remember me?”
“No, why should I?”
“Lemme see your thumbs?”
“What for?”
“I’m in kind of a hurry. You an’ your buddies stole a girl outa Tascosa a week back. I want her back.”
“I was right here last week. And the week before that, too. I don’t know nothin’ about no stole girl.”
“I won’t argue the point. Don’t have time to. Less say we do you a favor: we believe you. Then less say in return you do us a favor: you lead us to this here famous Robbers’ Roost that ain’t exactly on no maps. How about it?”
The gloved cowboy looked down at the dry ground, carefully examined the dust on his well-worn boots, then started shaking his head as he slowly looked up.
“No, I don’t reckon,” he said softly. “I got too much work to do ’round here. Don’t expect I could git off just now.”
“I say you can git off,” Goodnight said, his voice soft, too.
“Wisht I could,” said the cowboy in gloves, “but I cain’t. Fact is, I never been there. Sorry you boys made all this trip for nothin’.”
“Less see how things stand. I reckon your old friend Gudanuf promised he’d kill you if’n you ever told. But I’m promisin’ I’ll kill you if’n you don’t tell. An’ it just so happens that I’m here an’ he ain’t. See? So who you gonna listen to?”
The cowboy just shrugged.
Goodnight was so angry he wanted to strangle Busted Thumbs where he stood. Or hang him. Looking around for a tree, Goodnight didn’t see any, naturally, but he did see something else that gave him an idea. It was a cart.
“Black Dub, why don’t you sorta tie this fella’s hands behind his back?” Goodnight said, his voice still soft. “An’ while he’s doin’ that, Tin Soldier, I got a little job for you. Why don’t you go ’round an’ collect any firearms you come acrosst? Now nice an’ easy. I don’t want nobody gittin’ excited.” He was using the same voice he used when he wanted to calm cattle.
