Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  As he rocked, Goodnight noticed Too Short coming toward the house. Something about the way he moved suggested reluctance. Goodnight supposed his new foreman—new since the departure of Loving—must be bringing bad news. The rancher felt his shoulders slump as if they were about to receive some heavy weight. He was thoroughly tired of bad news.

  “Howdy,” Goodnight said.

  “Howdy,” Too Short returned the greeting.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I reckon I’m gittin’ to be a pessimist.”

  “Well, here’s how ’tis, I brung somethin’ for you to read. I don’t much think you’re gonna like it.”

  Too Short handed over a single sheet of paper folded several times. Goodnight patiently opened the folds and then stared down at the writing done by an unfamiliar hand. He squinted at the paper with both eyes—his new glass eye and the one that worked—and remembered how much he hated being called on to read during his brief school days. He was glad he didn’t have to read out loud anymore unless he wanted to.

  Goodnight read silently:We, the undersigned cowboys of the Panhandle,do by these presents agree to bind ourselves into the following obligations, viz. . . .

  “‘Viz.’? What’s ‘viz.’?” Goodnight asked.

  “Don’t ask me what it means,” Too Short said. “Tommy Harris done wrote it. I guess you’d hafta ask him.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s wagon boss over to the LS.”

  “Why’s he writin’ me a letter? I don’t even know no Tom Harris.”

  “It’s to all the ranchers hereabouts. Harris said to show it to you first on account of you’re head a the Cattlemen’s ’Sociation.”

  Goodnight nodded and went back to reading: . . .viz.: First: Thatwe will not work for less than $50 per mo. and we farther more agree no oneshall work for less than $50 per mo. after 31st of Mch.

  “This Harris fella,” Goodnight said, “he’s got sorta a roundabout way a puttin’ things.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Too Short.

  Second: Good cooks shall also receive $50 per mo.

  “How about bad cooks?” Goodnight asked.

  “I dunno,” said Too Short.

  “Looks to me like us ranchers could save a passel a money by hirin’ nothin’ but bad cooks. How’d all them fifty-dollar-a-month cowboys like that, huh?”

  Too Short shrugged.

  Third: Anyone running an outfit shall not work for less than $75 permonth.

  Goodnight glanced up at Too Short, then looked back down at the letter.

  Anyone violating the above obligations shall suffer the consequences.

  “What consequences?”

  Too Short shrugged again.

  Those not having funds to pay board after March 31 will be provided for30 days at Tascosa.

  “This here Tom Harris a rich fella?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So how’s he gonna pay for all them thirty days? Figure it’s gonna run him two bits a day for ever’ cowboy, huh?”

  “He gonna pass the hat, I reckon.”

  Goodnight then read over a long list of signatures at the bottom of the letter. Some were easier to make out than others, but all were decipherable, with patience.

  Thos. Harris

  J. A. Marrs

  Roy Griffin

  Jim Miller

  J. W. Peacock

  Henry Stoffard

  J. L. Howard

  Wm. T. Kerr

  W. D. Gaton

  Bud Davis

  B. G. Brown

  T. D. Holiday

  W. B. Boring

  C. F. Goddard

  D. W. Peepler

  E. E. Watkins

  Jas. Jones

  C. B. Thompson

  C. M. Hullett

  G. F. Nickell

  A. F. Martin

  Juan A. Gomes

  Harry Ingerton

  J. L. Grissom

  Goodnight scratched his head and checked the list again. Several of the names were familiar to him, but only vaguely.

  “I don’t git it,” he said. “What’s this here got to do with me? Ain’t none a my cowboys signed this here paper, right? Ain’t none a you involved?”

  Too Short got reluctant again. He used his right hand to scratch under his left armpit. He glanced up at the sky to see if there was any chance of rain today. There wasn’t.

  “Well, um, them there’s just the boys that was around when they wrote the damn letter,” Too Short said at last. “Happened somethin’ like this. There was these three outfits out lookin’ for drift cattle and so on.”

  “What outfits?” asked Goodnight. “None a mine?”

  “Well, I reckon it was the LIT, the LS, and the LX boys. And what they found besides some scrawny cows was each other. Sorta bumped into each other, don’tcha see? And they ended up havin’ supper together. And you know what happens when a bunch a cowboys git to talkin’. Purdy soon they was complainin’ about this and bitchin’ about that. And this here Tommy Harris come up with this here idea for a union of all things. He’s from back East where they got that sorta thing. So he knowed all about it. And first thing you know, they’d written this here letter to all the ranchers in these here parts.”

  “Includin’ me?”

  “Yes, sir, includin’ you.”

  The “sir” bothered Goodnight. Too Short never called him “sir.” So this matter must be serious.

  “So what if’n the cowboys don’t git their fifty dollars a month? What happens then?”

  “We’re gonna go on strike, I reckon.”

  “Hold on, whaddaya mean by ‘we’? You’re done gittin’ a hunderd dollars a month, ain’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And this here union’s only askin’ seventy-five dollars for outfit bosses, right? So how come you said ‘we,’ huh? Just a slip a the tongue, I hope?”

  “Not exactly. I figure I better stick with the boys. If’n they’re strikin’, I reckon I’m strikin’.”

  As always, when there was trouble or the threat of trouble, Goodnight missed Loving.

  105

  When Goodnight entered the Exchange Hotel on March 29, two days before the cowboys’ deadline, he saw that most of the other ranchers were already there. The boards, which creaked beneath his feet, were a part of the first wooden floor put down in Tascosa. He knew that these timbers had often squeaked on happier occasions, for the hotel had become a real social center, a dancing center. This floor was accustomed to the waltz, the glide polka, the schottische. It wasn’t used to strikes. By now, most of the houses in town had wooden floors, and cowboys considered themselves working stiffs. They were all going to have to get used to living in a new and different world.

  As president of the Panhandle Cattlemen’s Association, Goodnight had called this meeting. He had conceived the idea of an association a few years earlier when his only problems were rustlers. It was in March of 1880 that the ranchers all met and elected him president. They had pledged to battle the stock thieves collectively rather than individually. The association even posted a standing reward of $250 for anybody caught rustling. These efforts seemed to have slowed down but not stopped the loss of cattle. Back then, Goodnight’s association had simply been a part of his ongoing effort to bring law, order, and, in particular, justice to this untamed and often unjust part of the country.

  But now the cattlemen’s association was convening to attempt to deal with a problem it had never anticipated. Goodnight felt that he knew what the others were feeling. Double-crossed by their cowboys, by the times. Or was it just him? Maybe he was simply preoccupied with betrayal after all that had happened.

  Looking around the hotel’s combination lobby and dining room, Goodnight checked attendance in his head. There was Moss Hays, who owned the Springer Ranch. Will Lee, owner of the LS. Jim Cator of the Diamond K. Jim Evans of the Spade Ranch. Jules Gunter of the T-Anchor. And a dozen or so others. Everybody see
med to be here now, so it was time to get the proceedings under way. Lacking a gavel, Goodnight used his fist, tapping lightly on the hotel’s fragrant cedar dining table.

  “Okay, let’s git started,” Goodnight said in a loud drawl. “Ever’body just take your seats.”

  The ranchers shuffled—their spurs jingling—up to the long table and sat down. The president of the association solemnly regarded them all with one blue eye that worked and a bluer eye that didn’t. Now that he had given up his patch, he was even more acutely aware of his Big Dipper birthmark. Maybe this glass eye hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. When he sent off for it, he had been trying to be modern, but now he was no longer sure he liked new-fangled modernity.

  “Well, y’all know why we’re here,” Goodnight said in a businesslike way. He was in a hurry to get these proceedings over with and go home again. “Let’s put the cowboys’ demands to a vote. All those in favor of acceptin’ their terms raise your right hand.”

  No hands went up.

  “All opposed.”

  They all raised their right hands except John Dunhill, the owner of the Matador Ranch, who had lost his right arm fighting for the Confederacy. He raised his left hand. Nobody seemed to mind. Goodnight didn’t raise either hand.

  “How ’bout you, Goodnight?” asked Will Lee, the boss of the LS. “Where do you stand on this thing?”

  “Pres’dent just votes to break ties,” Goodnight said.

  “Since when?”

  “Since now.”

  Goodnight felt that he was losing control of the meeting. He had thought that his not voting would lead to a more peaceful get-together, which would be fairer at the same time. But now his very evenhandedness was disturbing the peace.

  “Okay,” Goodnight announced, “these here demands”—he waved the cowboys’ letter—“are hereby rejected. The floor’s open for suggestions.”

  “How many are threatenin’ to strike?” asked Moss Hays of the Springer.

  “They claim two hunderd-fifty,” said Goodnight.

  “Cain’t be that many,” said Lee of the LS in an accusing voice.

  “Well, the point is,” said the association president, “what’re we gonna do no matter how many of them there is. Anybody got any ideas? Huh?”

  “There ain’t but one thing to do,” argued Lee. “I ain’t gonna pay no highway rob’ry to my cowboys, and that’s all there is to it. And I ain’t gonna feed nobody who ain’t workin’, and that’s all there is to that, too. No damn work, no damn fodder. They can starve for all I care.”

  “Are you makin’ that a motion, Will?” asked Goodnight. “Or are you just talkin’ to hear your head rattle?”

  As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He had promised himself to be a calming force, and here he was picking a fight at the first opportunity.

  “Hell, I’m makin’ it a motion if that’s how you want it,” Lee said angrily. “You and your fancy Boston ways. I call for a damn vote.”

  The mention of Boston hurt Goodnight as it was surely meant to do. He had long suspected that the LS boss was jealous of him, envying his position as the first rancher in these parts—first chronologically and first in influence. Now, Lee had found a wound that he would continue to bother without mercy.

  “Not so damn fast,” Goodnight said. “Any second to the motion?”

  He looked around the table hoping nobody would support Lee in his implacable stance.

  “Second,” said Hays.

  “Okay, okay, all in favor.”

  Goodnight counted five raised hands. He was pleased to see that the motion had not carried. Lee glared at him.

  “Anybody else got any thoughts?” Goodnight asked.

  While he waited for a response, he tried for the thousandth time to come up with a solution in his own mind. He could afford to pay the cowboys what they were asking, but he knew that some of the other ranchers couldn’t. He also believed in this association that he had founded, and so he favored united action. Still, he admitted to himself he didn’t know exactly what to do. He wondered if his thinking might have been sharper before he had gotten shot under the heart. He wished he could ask Loving or Revelie what to do?

  “How about offerin’ a little more,” said Jim Cator of the Diamond K, “but not too much more?”

  “We’d be cavin’ in,” said Lee.

  “How much you got in mind?” asked Goodnight.

  “Well, I dunno, how about, say, thirty-five dollars for hands, and, I dunno, maybe sixty-five for the foreman?”

  “That’s too much,” argued Lee.

  “Let’s vote,” said Goodnight.

  “How ’bout a second, huh? You fergit your damn rules already?”

  “Okay, okay, any second?”

  “Second,” said the one-armed Dunhill.

  “All in favor or whatever.”

  This motion received only three votes.

  “Well, okay, less make it less,” suggested Cator. “Less say thirty dollars and sixty dollars. How about that?”

  “That’s just sayin’ ‘uncle,’” said Lee.

  “Second?”

  “Second.”

  “All in favor.”

  He counted the same three hands. The trend did not seem hopeful.

  “Less try it this way,” Goodnight said. “Ever’body in favor a any kinda raise atall. How ’bout it?”

  “Not if’n we know what’s good for us,” said Lee.

  The same three ranchers put up their hands. Goodnight felt tired and discouraged. He believed that in his prime he could have forged an agreement—almost any agreement—by sheer force of will and optimism. But now he had lost faith. Betrayal would do that to a man. He could no longer make something happen just by believing in it. He sat there feeling as useless as a glass eye. Meanwhile, he could see with his good eye that the others also felt his impotence.

  “We ain’t gittin’ nowhere,” complained Lee. “You want me to make that there a damned motion?”

  Goodnight shook his head. He hated to agree with Lee about anything, but in this case he knew the hot-tempered rancher was right. All they could agree on was nothing.

  “You ain’t makin’ it no easier,” Goodnight said.

  “You tellin’ me to shut up?” asked Lee.

  “Just take it easy. Okay?”

  “That’s the problem. You’re takin’ it too easy. Seems like you done gone soft on us, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Anyhow, that’s what your wife done tol’ me.” Will Lee laughed at his own humor. “You wanta put that to a vote?”

  106

  Goodnight lay on his back staring up at the ceiling of the mansion he had built for Revelie, feeling miserable. He had lost his wife and his best friend, and now he was losing his cowboys. They were all on strike, and one by one they had started to drift away from the ranch. Some would eventually come back, he believed, but not all. It was as if his family were disbanding. He blamed himself. Somehow he must have driven Revelie into Loving’s arms—perhaps by loving them both so much—and now he was driving away his cowboys.

  Raising his clenched fist, Goodnight stared at it for a long time. This knotted hand, which hung above his face like some sort of threat, did not seem to belong to him. He felt he couldn’t control it and wondered what it was going to do. The fingers were squeezed together so tightly that they turned white. He was afraid of them. He was sure they were up to no good. And he was right. The clenched fist started hitting him in the eye, his good eye. The blows were struck mechanically one after the other and seemed to keep time to some slow music. He told himself to dodge the onrushing fist, but he couldn’t move. He just lay there and took the beating that he so richly deserved. He wondered if he would keep it up until he blinded himself permanently.

  Then he heard a knock at the front door and felt embarrassed. Goodnight stopped hitting himself and lay quietly on the floor barely breathing. He hoped his visitor would become discouraged and go away, but instead he heard a fami
liar voice calling his name. In the old days, before the strike, Too Short would have just walked in, but such familiarity between management and labor was evidently no longer possible.

  “Coming,” Goodnight called back.

  Getting to his feet, he felt stiff and old. He touched his eye and found it swollen. He wondered what Too Short would think. Actually, he wasn’t sure what to think himself. He shuffled across the big living room and opened the door.

  “What happened to you?” asked Too Short.

  “It’s a long story,” said Goodnight. “What’s up?”

  “Coupla boys just rode in lookin’ for work. Figured I’d better tell you. Don’t know what you’ll wanta do.”

  “We don’t need no new hands.”

  Too Short just shrugged.

  Goodnight desperately wanted to say something that would make matters better on the Home Ranch. His mind struggled to find some solution, but his brain felt as bruised as his eye. He had just about given up when an idea occurred to him. He rushed right into it.

  “So you cowboys say you want fifty bucks a month,” Goodnight said. “But do you figure ever’ cowhand on this here ranch is really worth that much?”

  Too Short shrugged again. “Well, I dunno. Some’re worth more’n others, I grant you.”

  “Right.” Goodnight smiled. “So here’s what I’m willin’ to do. You tell me whichuns are worth the full fifty, and that’s what I’ll pay ’em. But you gotta give me your word they’re really worth it. Okay? We got a deal?”