Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  “Lemme go,” Roy begged. “Ain’t you done enough to me already. My head’s killin’ me.”

  Goodnight thought the outlaw had a point. He hadn’t taken part in the stealing and raping of Katie. He had been working at the down-and-out ranch when all that took place. He probably had committed similar crimes in the past, but there wasn’t any proof. Goodnight didn’t believe in hanging a man on suspicion. Maybe Roy was what he claimed to be: a retired outlaw. Of course, he would probably backslide one of these days, but Goodnight didn’t believe in preventative hanging either. There was too much random violence in this country. He didn’t want to add to it.

  “Let him go,” Goodnight said.

  “What?” asked Too Short.

  “Give him his horse and turn him loose.”

  “If you say so.”

  Goodnight nodded. Too Short shrugged. The other cowboys were surprised, but they didn’t protest.

  “What about these?” asked Roy, holding up his improvised handcuffs.

  “I dunno,” said Goodnight. “Tin Soldier, can you do somethin’ about them chains?”

  “Not without some tools,” Tin Soldier replied.

  “Sorry,” Goodnight said. “Well, Roy, you’re welcome to ride along with us far as Tascosa. Course, I don’t know how popular you’re gonna be there. It’s up to you.”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” said Roy.

  “Well, we’re in kind of a hurry,” Goodnight said, “so I guess we’ll cut the goodbyes short.”

  The rancher put out his hand. The outlaw took it. They shook. Then they all mounted up. Goodnight and his posse rode almost due south. Roy headed east with his chain jingling.

  Katie’s chain jingled, too. She rode a horse that had once belonged to one of the dead outlaws. She wrapped the chain around the saddle horn so she wouldn’t have to carry it. She still looked like a prisoner, and perhaps felt like one, too. Freedom would take a while to get used to. Maybe forever.

  As they rode along, Goodnight tried to focus on the future so he wouldn’t remember the past. The future did require some careful planning. For he was no longer willing to accept the present state of chaos.

  After careful thought, Goodnight decided that he would offer one of his cowboys to Tascosa as acting sheriff. But which one? He considered each of his men in turn, and settled on Black Dub. He believed that Black Dub’s physical strength would allow him to solve many problems with his muscles rather than with his gun. He hoped there would be less bloodletting. Of course, Black Dub’s strength would be missed around the ranch. Who would pick up the back of a wagon stuck in the mud and set it on dry land? But Tascosa probably needed Black Dub’s strength more than the Home Ranch did, at least at the moment. Goodnight planned to continue to pay Black Dub until the town got organized enough to collect some taxes. When he told the giant about his plan, the black man smiled. He had been a slave and now he was going to be a sheriff. And if any of the white folk didn’t like it, well, they could take it up with the bossman. Or they could wrestle. Take their pick.

  Naturally, a sheriff would need a jail. Until Tascosa had some kind of lockup, the town would just go on hanging outlaws, or suspected outlaws, without the benefit of law or trials. Goodnight had just presided over the lynching of five men, and he had planned to do worse. A whole lot worse. He hoped that law and some semblance of order would protect him from his own worst instincts. And protect the country from its. He wanted to make this country a fit place for a woman to live in. All women. And a particular woman.

  In his mind, he walked the streets of Tascosa looking for a structure that could be quickly converted into a jail. He “walked” down Main Street past the Equity Saloon, past John King’s drugstore, past the Cattle Exchange Saloon, past the Exchange Hotel, which was run by Katie’s parents, past the Wright & Farnsworth General Store, and past W. S. Mabry’s surveyor’s office, which brought him to the end of the street. So far he hadn’t noticed any likely prison. Turning left down McMasters Street, he “strolled” past an adobe home. He wasn’t sure who lived there. Moving on, he studied a large square corral on his right. Next to the corral stood a barn. It wasn’t very large, but it looked sturdy. That barn might do. Of course, a few iron bars would have to be added, but such fixtures shouldn’t be a problem. After all, Tascosa had a blacksmith, and Tin Soldier would be happy to lend a hand. Goodnight felt almost certain that he had found his jail.

  39

  Back in the red canyon now, Goodnight was more or less satisfied with what he had been able to accomplish. Old Man McMasters, for whom McMasters Street was named, had agreed to donate his barn as a temporary jail. And the town had eventually agreed to accept Black Dub as its new sheriff. Better still, the doctor in Tascosa had been able to treat Loving’s arm without sawing it off. It had even rained recently. So all seemed to be going well in the red canyon, except Goodnight missed Black Dub. And of course he missed Revelie, too. Even more.

  “You asleep?” Goodnight asked one night. Now it was his turn to nurse Loving.

  “No, just restin’ my eyes,” Loving said.

  The two of them shared half the house with Suckerod and Tin Soldier, who were doing chores elsewhere.

  “I was thinkin’ a writin’ another letter,” Goodnight said. “You ain’t lost your ol’ fountain pen, have you?”

  “I reckon I can put my hand on it.”

  “Figure you can write?”

  “We’ll see. Arm gets better ever’ day.”

  With his left hand, Loving rustled about in his saddlebag and eventually located pen and paper. He took a seat on an unpainted cedar chair that had been carved since the writing of the first letter. Goodnight sat on a second chair facing Loving. They would be more comfortable this time around.

  “Shoot,” said Loving, shifting the pen gingerly to his right hand, ready to write.

  “‘Dear Revelie,’” Goodnight began, and the pen scratched. “Less see . . . Don’t write that. I’m just wool-gatherin’ . . . Uh . . . ‘I hope you got my last letter. You should see the place now. We’ve been makin’ a lotta changes around here. The ranch is actually startin’ to look like a ranch.’”

  “Hold your horses. Lemme catch up. I ain’t as fast as I used to be.”

  Goodnight leaned back in his new chair. He waited until the pen stopped scratching.

  “‘This is just the beginnin’,’” he started up again. “‘I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about what we’re gonna do here in this here canyon.’”

  He paused to let the pen catch up.

  “‘It’s mebbe somethin’ like what your ancestors got to do when they was first settin’ up Boston. They got to start all over and make this brand-new country as close to perfect as they could figure out how to.’”

  He paused to think out what he wanted to say.

  “‘An’ that’s just the chance we’ve got in this here canyon. We can start all over, too. We can build up a world like we want it. We can leave out all the ol’ mistakes. Anyhow, we can try. I already got Black Dub set up as sheriff in Tascosa. Imagine that.’”

  “Wait.” Loving scribbled. “Okay.”

  “‘I figure mebbe we need somethin’ wrote down. Rules or somethin’. Laws and what to do if’n folks break them laws. We gotta cut out lynchin’ an’ all that sorta carryin’ on.’”

  Goodnight paused again to let Loving catch up.

  “‘But we need more’n just that. We need rules not just for what you cain’t do. We need ’em for what you’re supposed to do, too. Stuff like bein’ trustworthy an’ loyal. An’, less see, brave. An’ self-reliant, right? Somethin’ about standin’ on yore own two feet.’ Hummm.”

  Goodnight scratched his head and listened to the pen scratch. The itch wasn’t actually on his scalp but below it. He itched to put into words what he felt about this special land and the special qualities it required of those who lived on it.

  “‘Somethin’ about fair. Somethin’ about ever’body bein’ worth the same. A white man ain’t worth
more’n an Injun. Or a black man like Black Dub or whatever. A cow ain’t worth more’n a buffalo. Dog ain’t worth more’n a wolf ain’t worth more’n a coyote. Rose ain’t worth more’n a horehound and the other way ’round. Man ain’t worth more’n a woman.’”

  “Hold on.” Loving’s pen raced. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Maybe we kin invent the world all over ag’in in this here wild place.”

  40

  In the spring, Coffee came back from Tascosa with tobacco, baking soda, bags of flour and meal, a bucket of sorghum, and a telegram from Boston:

  MY PAPA WROTE ME THAT YOU ARE GOOD AT RESCUING STOP PLEASE RESCUE ME STOP I MEAN IT STOP WARMEST REGARDS REVELIE

  BOOK TWO

  CODE

  41

  When the newlyweds came home to the red canyon, they were in love.

  Revelie carefully studied her new home. Her blue eyes filled with tears that magnified them. She sniffed. She wiped her eyes with fingers that had red dust on them, so her face was streaked with red. She looked so miserable that Goodnight stopped being in a good mood. He felt like a guilty criminal for having brought this unfortunate girl to this lonely place that was a hundred miles from any other woman. And he had expected her to live in this rude log cabin after she had grown up in a Boston mansion.

  “Forgive me,” Goodnight said. “What’d I do?”

  “What have you done?” Revelie said. “You’re building a new world. Just like you wrote in your letter. None of this was here before.”

  “You like it?”

  “I love it. I really love it. It’s magic.”

  “But it ain’t what you’re used to.”

  “I’m tired of what I’m used to.”

  Goodnight smiled broadly, his good mood restored. He looked around to see what impression his new wife was making on his outfit. He was pleased to see that they were all smiling. He studied Loving especially, since he was the only one who had never met her before. He was glad to see that his foreman was staring with open admiration at Mrs. Goodnight.

  “Let’s go inside the house,” Revelie said. “I want to see it from the inside out.”

  “Less go,” said Goodnight.

  He led the way, then opened the door of the north room, where he and Revelie would live together as man and wife. The rest of the cowboys, all six of them, would have to make do with the south room. Revelie entered and Goodnight followed. The space seemed smaller to him than it had ever seemed before. Once again, he could not help making comparisons with Boston.

  “Ain’t hardly room to turn around in,” Goodnight said, “huh?”

  “Stop apologizing,” Revelie said. “I love it. And you’re not going to change my mind no matter how hard you try. So you might just as well give up. We don’t need a big house because our real home is your red canyon. Don’t you know that?”

  “I know,” he said. “I just didn’t know that you knew.”

  They smiled at each other.

  42

  After supper that evening, the cowboys threw a wedding dance for the newlyweds. The ballroom was the dog run—the breezeway— between the north room and the south room. The dance floor was packed earth. Unfortunately, there weren’t quite enough women to go around. Revelie was, after all, the only Eve in an Eden full of Adams, so measures had to be taken if the ball was to be a success. They agreed to draw straws to see which cowboys would be girls and which ones could remain boys. Those who got the short straws would be the females, the long straws, the males. The short straws would tie white handkerchiefs around their left arms to indicate that they were the weaker and fairer sex.

  Goodnight was looking forward to the fun, but he knew this dance would be a far cry from their wedding ball in Boston. He hoped Revelie wouldn’t mind the difference too much. He almost wished the boys hadn’t come up with this idea. He was afraid they might embarrass him by acting like hicks. He was equally worried that his wife might look down on the cowboys and their antics.

  “Miss Revelie,” Coffee said, “would you hold these here straws?”

  “I’d be honored,” said the bride. “But what if Mr. Goodnight draws one of the short straws. Does that mean I can’t dance with my own husband at my own wedding ball?”

  “Oh, no,” said Too Short. “He don’t hafta draw. It’ll just be us run-a-the-mill heroes.”

  “Very well,” said Revelie.

  She held out her hand and Coffee placed the straws across her palm. Then she turned her back and took her time mixing them up so nobody would know which was which. Turning back around, she held out her right hand, which was closed in a fist. Just the tops of the straws peeked out above her curled index finger.

  “All right, Coffee,” Revelie said, “you draw first.”

  “No, ma’am,” said the cook, “I don’t git to dance on account a I’m the orchestra.”

  “All right, you’re excused,” she said. “What about you, Simon? Will you do the honors?”

  Goodnight was proud of how his new wife was throwing herself into this game. He could tell that Simon was nervous as he approached Revelie. The groom smiled when he saw the great pains the cowboy took not to touch the feminine hand as he plucked the straw. It was a short one.

  “Aw, no,” Simon moaned.

  All the other cowboys laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?” asked Revelie. “What’s wrong with being a woman?”

  “Well, it’s okay for a woman,” Simon mumbled.

  “All right, Suckerod, it’s your turn,” she said.

  Goodnight felt sorry for the poor cowboy, whose hand shook even more than usual as he reached for a straw. He got a long one.

  “Whew,” Suckerod said.

  “Black Dub, it’s your turn,” Revelie said.

  Black Dub, the sheriff of Tascosa, was visiting the Home Ranch. It turned out that he missed them as much as they missed him, so he rode out fairly often. He got a long straw.

  “Tin Soldier, now you,” called Revelie.

  He got a short straw and got laughed at.

  “Welcome to the sewing circle,” Revelie said. “Let’s see, we’ve got one long straw and one short straw left. Who’ll be the next to try his or her luck? How about you, Jack?”

  “I don’t dance much,” Loving said. “I figure I better just pass.”

  “But you can’t,” Revelie said. “We need you to have an equal number. If you drop out, some poor woman—or it could be some poor man—won’t have a partner. Come now, be a good sport.”

  “Then I reckon I cain’t say no, huh?” Loving said.

  He stepped forward, shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips, arched his eyebrows, and picked a long straw. He smiled a little sheepishly.

  “Too bad, Too Short,” Loving said. “May I have the first dance?”

  “Deelighted, Mr. Loving,” Too Short said. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Soon Coffee was tuning up his fiddle.Screech. Squawk. Screech. The journey west had not been kind to the instrument, but before long the cook had it making sounds that passed for music.

  “Hey, Coffee,” Too Short taunted, “you’re a better fiddler than you are a cook. Mebbe we better start callin’ you Fiddle.”

  “Okay, I’m about ready,” Coffee said. “Choose your pardners.”

  “No,” said Simon. “The bride an’ groom hafta dance the first dance all by theirselves.”

  “Okay, bride and groom, whaddle I play?” asked Fiddle.

  Goodnight and Revelie looked at each other. They both shrugged.

  “It’s gotta be a waltz,” said Too Short.

  “Whichun?” asked Fiddle.

  The bride and groom shrugged again.

  “The one about Froggy the Frog,” said Too Short.

  “That okay by you folks?” asked Fiddle.

  The bride and groom looked at each other.

  “Sure,” said Revelie. “‘The Blue Danube Waltz’ would be lovely.”

  “Shore,” said Goodnight. “Play Ole Froggy.” />
  The fiddler started fiddling and the groom took the bride in his arms.

  “No, wait,” said Revelie. “This isn’t right. I have to change clothes. I’m underdressed for my wedding reception.”

  “It’s just us,” Goodnight said. “You look great.”

  “No, I want to.”

  Revelie disappeared into the ranch “house.” Goodnight looked at his men and thought he could read their minds. They were all thinking: Well, that’s a woman for you. She had managed to bleed all the energy out of the enterprise over a little matter of vanity.

  The groom paced up and down between the cook shack and the house, getting more red dust on his boots. He couldn’t imagine what could be taking his bride so long. Pretty soon it would be too late to dance. It would be time to go to bed because they all had work to do in the morning. No dressing up could be worth this amount of waiting around doing nothing.

  When Revelie reappeared, Goodnight realized that he—and all his men, if they were thinking what he thought they were thinking—had been wrong. She was wearing her white bridal gown, knowing it would get dirty because of all the red dust, not caring, wanting to look like a bride at her cowboy wedding ball. All the cowboys started nodding their heads, knowing she had been right, realizing this was really a special evening, made more special by her.

  “You’re the purdiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Goodnight said. “I swear.” He scratched his chin. “Mebbe I should change clothes.”

  “No,” Revelie said. “You look fine the way you are. Besides, it’s getting late. These boys have work to do in the morning.”

  Besides, Goodnight couldn’t have changed into his groom clothes because he hadn’t brought them out West with him. He had left them behind in the East because they didn’t belong to him. He had gotten married in a borrowed morning coat.

  “May I have this here dance?” Goodnight asked.

  “My pleasure,” said Revelie. “Let there be music.”