Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  Goodnight agreed with her. Please, don’t go. Don’t. He was talking to himself again.

  Ed King hesitated, thinking it over, but then he headed for the porch. Not all Sally’s cries nor Goodnight’s lame wishes could stop him.

  The ranger stepped up on the porch and a shot rang out. It seemed to come from inside the saloon.

  109

  Association Ranger Ed King seemed to jump backward off the porch. It was as if some prankster had roped him and pulled him back. When he hit the ground, he raised a cloud of silver dust that shimmered in the moonlight. Goodnight felt something in his own gut pull as if he had been roped also. Another love triangle had ended in a shooting. Another body lay in the dirt. Goodnight almost felt as if it were his fault, as if he had brought this disease to his corner of Texas. He didn’t want to look, but somehow he couldn’t turn away as Sally rushed forward and knelt over the man she now loved. Goodnight could feel an old wound opening again as he also sank to his knees. He was in the perfect posture to pray, but he didn’t know what to say and wasn’t sure Anybody was listening.

  Lem Woodruff shuffled off the porch and approached his former girlfriend. He drew his six-gun and pointed it at her.

  “Don’t!” Goodnight shouted. “Stop! That’s enough.”

  Lem lowered his gun.

  Goodnight thought: Good.

  Then the gravely wounded ranger tried to get to his feet. Seeing his struggle, Lem walked over and shot Ed in the back of the head. His whole skull exploded. Sally was covered with blood and brains. Goodnight, like some damned greenhorn, threw up. He felt sick and embarrassed.

  Wiping his mouth on the right sleeve of his long underwear, Goodnight watched Lem turn and run back through the saloon’s swinging doors. The other cowboys on the porch wasted no time in following him. The walls were thick adobe, which made the saloon a strong fortress. While the doors were still swinging, the lights inside the saloon went out. Muzzle flashes lit up the inner darkness.

  Goodnight realized that he had switched sides emotionally. He hated Lem for coaxing his rival into stepping into an ambush . . . despised him for shooting a man who was already down . . . blowing up a defenseless man’s head . . . soiling his own supposed love with a stain she would never be able to wash out. But hadn’t he stained his own loved one? Stained her character? Who was he to throw the first stone?

  The rangers in the street turned and ran for cover. Goodnight decided maybe he should do likewise. Still stunned by the sudden violence, he started backing up, retreating toward the Exchange Hotel. Then he turned and ran. This wasn’t his fight. Why get killed over somebody else’s unfaithful girlfriend? Not paying close attention to where he was putting his feet, he stumbled, almost went down, almost regained his balance, then fell heavily in the dirt. The collision with the ground knocked the wind out of him. He lay in the dust just trying to breathe. His left leg hurt terribly. Reaching down, his fingers felt warm, slippery blood. He had been shot and this wasn’t even his war. Or was it? He somehow felt as if his wound had been intended rather than just a stray bullet. Could Gudanuf have been hiding in the dark? Or the New Kid?

  While he lay helpless in the street, Goodnight watched the gunfight. The gunmen in the saloon fought from the cover of darkness and seemed an unseen evil force. Bullets out of blackness. Bullets from the underworld, from hell itself. The rangers in the street were occasionally visible as they peeked from behind posts or leaned around buildings.

  Frank Valley, who had taken cover behind a shack, sprang from hiding and seemed to dive headfirst into Main Street as if it were a river. The ranger lay in the dirt kicking his legs and moving his arms as if he were swimming. He swam for what seemed a long time before he gave up and drowned.

  Unable to stand because of his wounded leg, Goodnight decided to try to roll to safety. Over and over. He was getting dizzy. His world was tumbling, now right side up, now upside down. He saw another ranger fall . . . and another . . . and another . . . or was it all the same ranger glimpsed again and again? Then he had the impression that somebody was shooting at him. Again? Was the world going crazy? Or was he? Bullets kicked up dirt all around him. He still had a long way to go. Over and over. He was never going to make it. Over and over . . .

  Then Goodnight felt himself being lifted in strong arms. He thought his savior was Loving—once more carrying him to safety—but as his head cleared, Loving turned into Sheriff Dub. Goodnight lay his dizzy head against Black Dub’s great chest.

  They had almost reached the cover of the Exchange Hotel when the sheriff dropped Goodnight as if he were too heavy. Then Dub collapsed on top of his old boss, almost crushing the life out of him, but shielding him at the same time. Goodnight was in too much pain to be grateful until later.

  110

  Goodnight was worried about the funerals. The rangers would certainly ride into town to pay their last respects to their brothers in arms, Ed King, Frank Valley, and Fred Chilton. And an even larger force of cowboys—they considerably outnumbered the rangers—were certain to crowd into town to hear words said over Tim Oliver, the only cowpoke killed in what was already being called the “Big Fight.” He had been found slumped in front of the Equity’s long bar with no nose because a bullet had crashed head-on into his face. With so many cowboy-hating rangers and even more ranger-hating cowboys on hand, the odds favored another fight, an even bigger battle. Not only Goodnight but the whole town was concerned. No women or children would be attending the funerals for fear they might get caught in the cross fire. Instead, most would be gathering at a hastily arranged picnic—the object of which was to get them out of town—to be held on the north bank of the Canadian River. Tascosa was probably going to need a sheriff today more than ever before, but it didn’t have one. Not anymore.

  Standing at his Exchange Hotel window looking out, Goodnight was dressed only in his long johns and a leg bandage. His restless gaze finally came to rest on a vacant lot where a shack had stood the night before. It had always been something of an eyesore. So far as he could remember, this old shed hadn’t been much account for years. It certainly hadn’t done Frank Valley much good last night. The bullet that had killed him had gone right through the shack’s weathered timbers and hit him in the throat. Well, next time he would know better and hide behind some adobe. Goodnight felt his mouth twist into a wry smile. The shack was missing now because there hadn’t been enough loose lumber in town to make up five coffins, three for the rangers, one for the lone cowboy, and the last for Sheriff Dub Martin. Goodnight hated to think of his old friend being laid to rest in a box made from the remnants of an ugly, worthless old shed. Maybe when they ran out of shacks, they would have to start making coffins out of adobe. His lips twisted wryly once again. Might be a good idea at that.

  Using his new crutches, Goodnight limped back to his narrow bed and lay down to rest his injured leg. The bullet had hit him in the calf, luckily missing bone. Goodnight dozed for a little while. When he got back up and returned to the window, he could see that the crowd was already gathering. He was surprised to see several men wearing bandannas over their faces, which caused him to worry all the more about a new outbreak of violence. Why in the world were they masked? Who were they, anyway? Rangers? Striking cowboys? Outlaws? Were they planning to mourn the dead by treeing the town?

  Goodnight decided it was time to get dressed. His new black suit was draped over a chair in the corner of the room. He hadn’t brought any dress-up clothes to town with him, so he had bought new duds this morning at Wright & Farnsworth General Store. He sat down on his bed to pull on the trousers. The right leg went in easily enough, but the left one with its bandage was more clumsy. He put on a clean white shirt that the hotel had washed and ironed for him. Then he pulled on his coat. As he was tying his black string tie, he wished Revelie were there to see him in his new suit. He wondered if he should bring his gun. It seemed in the wrong spirit for a funeral, but this burying might well be different from others. He decided to strap on his
gunbelt. His six-shooter made his new suitcoat hang awkwardly on one side. Too bad.

  He glanced back out the window where Main Street seemed to grow busier by the minute. Looking down at his watch, the gift from Revelie, he saw that it was five minutes until two, time to go. Hooking his crutches under his arms, he headed for the funeral. As he moved awkwardly along, he noticed that he was short of breath.

  Crutching himself out the front door of the Exchange Hotel, Goodnight found a buggy waiting for him. He had rented it from Mickey McCormick’s livery stable earlier in the day for the trip to Boot Hill. He had never liked that name—Boot Hill. He thought it somehow mocked the dead. Besides, the good citizens of Tascosa had just been copying Dodge City. But in this case—these cases—he had to admit that the name was apt, for all five of the departed had certainly died with their boots on. He untied the reins from the hotel hitching post and clambered awkwardly up into the buggy, trying not to hurt his sore leg more than absolutely necessary.

  From his seat in the buggy, Goodnight was high enough to see all of Main Street from one end of town to the other. He noticed more masks than ever now. They irritated him in part because he thought they showed a disrespect for the dead. One of the masked men, who walked slowly with his head down, looked familiar. He was short but powerfully built. He looked like he would make a good hand.

  “Hey, Too Short!” Goodnight yelled.

  The masked cowboy turned around.

  “Hello, Mr. Goodnight,” said the former foreman of the Home Ranch. “How’s your leg?”

  “Fair to middlin’. How come you got your face covered up? You boys plannin’ to cause trouble?”

  “No, sir. Some of the boys just figured it’d be a good idea.”

  “How come? What boys?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Sure you know. It was them boys in the fight, waddn’t it? They don’t want nobody to recognize ’em, huh? ’Fraid somebody might try’n even the score.”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “Them boys killt Black Dub. You’re sidin’ with them ag’inst him?”

  “No,” Too Short said, pulling down his mask, “I reckon not.”

  “Good.”

  “Good to see you, Mr. Goodnight.”

  “You, too. When all this is over, look me up. We’ll talk.”

  “Yessir.”

  Goodnight jiggled the reins and the rented horse edged out slowly into the crowded street. Up ahead, three buckboards were lined up side by side. The one on the left held three coffins, the one in the middle just one, and the one on the right also a single wooden box. The trio of boxes must contain the three slain rangers. But which of the two single coffins held the dead cowboy? And which one cradled Dub?

  Naturally, the procession to Boot Hill—that terrible name—didn’t start right on time at two o’clock. Goodnight kept expecting violence to break out as so many sworn enemies crowded into Main Street side by side. If he had been running this show, he wouldn’t have had all the funerals at the same time. But the burying had been arranged to fit the crowded schedule of Circuit Court Judge Sam Rawlins, who would read over the bodies. Fortunately or unfortunately, the judge happened to be in town holding court. Tascosa didn’t have a preacher or a church. It wasn’t that kind of town. So a circuit court judge was about the best they could do for somebody to preside at funerals. When the judge wasn’t around, Henry Kimball, the blacksmith, usually did the honors. Since the whole town always closed down for funerals, Goodnight figured the good merchants of Tascosa had also been in favor of doing all the burying at once and as quickly as possible. Get them all over with and then open up for business once again. Make some money while the funeral crowds were still in town.

  It was close to two-fifteen by Goodnight’s pocket watch before the buckboards that served as hearses started to roll. And even then they didn’t move very fast, which was fitting, but he still wished they would pick up the pace a little bit. The longer this burying took, the longer there would be for something to go wrong.

  The funeral procession was unlike anything Goodnight had ever seen. There must have been five hundred or more mourners. Merchants. Cowboys. Saloonkeepers. Rangers. Even a few farmers, which was something new in this part of the country. Men on horseback. Men in wagons and buggies and hacks. Men and even a few boys on foot. All these boots and hooves and wheels were kicking up a mighty dust storm that made Goodnight sneeze.

  He kept “chomping at the bit,” wishing they would all move faster—when something happened that stopped him completely. A masked cowboy placed himself directly in his buggy’s way. Why was he doing such a thing? Did he want a job? No, that couldn’t be it. Nobody went job-hunting wearing a mask. Goodnight pulled back on the reins to keep his horse from running over this curious fellow.

  “What’s the matter?” Goodnight raised his voice. “What’s wrong?”

  The masked man took hold of the buggy horse’s bridle as if he were afraid that Goodnight might suddenly shake the reins, or lay on with his whip, and make a run for it. Couldn’t he see that nobody could make a run for anything in this mob?

  “Take a good look at me,” the masked cowboy said.

  “What?” asked Goodnight.

  “Do I look familiar?”

  “I cain’t tell with that damn mask on.”

  “Take a good look.”

  Goodnight studied this presumptuous cowboy. Then he knew. Of course! He should have recognized him by the voice alone. Goodnight drew back his whip and then lashed out at the masked man. Claw released the reins and dodged away from the whip.

  “Good!” shouted Goodnight’s son. “Wouldn’t be no fun if you didn’t know me.”

  Claw slapped the buggy horse on the foreleg and made it rear. Goodnight pulled back on the reins to try to get the animal under control. He was afraid somebody was going to get kicked or trampled. When the horse calmed down, Goodnight looked around for the all too familiar cowboy, but he was gone.

  Goodnight wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his new black coat. He told himself to calm down. Take a deep breath and try to look normal. Think funereal thoughts. Get back in the funeral mood. Remember why you’re here. Look sad. As soon as he felt his mouth twist into a frown, he couldn’t stop the sadness. It hit him like a flash flood. He was drowning.

  I’ve lost another one. I’ve lost another one. I’ve lost another one.He couldn’t stop saying the sentence over and over again in his head. He told himself not to be so selfish, not to dwell on his loss, but upon Dub’s loss of life itself.Dub is dead. And it’s my fault. I made him take thatjob. And he was trying to save me. Dub is dead and I killed him. But he knew he was being self-centered again. He was feeling sorry for himself rather than mourning Dub.Dub is dead. Dub lost everything. Dub isdead, dead, dead, and I miss him. That was about the best he could do. His vision went out of focus and slippery drops rolled down both his cheeks. It still surprised him after all these years that both eyes, the one that worked and the one that didn’t, could shed tears.

  Disoriented by the blurry landscape and strong feelings, Goodnight felt a welcome presence at his side, just creeping into his watery field of vision. Was she riding a white horse? He was glad to see her or almost see her. He knew she had come to comfort him in this time of pain. He tried not to look, begged himself not to look, but he couldn’t help looking. When he turned to his left, she fled as she always did when he tried to “catch” her. Now he was all the sadder for having lost not only Dub but also Becky again. He couldn’t stop crying. What would the town think of him?

  Almost blinded by his own leaky emotion, Goodnight thought he saw another phantom, this time on the other side. Once again, it was a welcome presence. Once more, he felt comforted. But it wasn’t her this time. It was him. He told himself not to look, begged himself, pleaded with himself, but of course he looked.

  And there was Loving riding beside him.

  111

  Are you real?” Goodnight asked.

  “
Reckon so,” said the vision. “Leastwise nobody never told me no differ’nt. Anyhow, not lately.”

  Goodnight looked away, doing a kind of test, to see if the vision would still be there when he looked again. Turning back, he found Loving still there.

  They moved along side by side in silence for a while, the one in a buggy, the other on horseback. It was as if they did it every day, as if they didn’t have anything of any importance to say to one another. They just seemed to be comfortable companions. They acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary, but more and more people began to look at them as if they were indeed something unusual.

  “I reckon we’re causin’ a fuss,” Goodnight said at last.

  “Yeah,” said Loving, “they’re waitin’ to see if’n you’ll kill me.”

  “I ’spect so.”

  “Prob’ly layin’ odds.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  They fell silent again. People kept looking at them expectantly.

  “Heard you were in Californy.”

  “That’s right. Purdy country.”

  “That so? You come back for the funeral?”

  “Not exactly. Black Dub just got killed last night. I’d’ve kinda had to hurry to ride over from Californy and git here in time for today’s festivities.”

  “’Spect so.”

  The silence returned for a while.

  “Then how come you to come?”

  “Well, I’d heard some rumors.”

  “What kind?”

  “Oh, I heard there was some trouble hereabouts.”

  “Yeah, some, off-’n’-on.”

  “Even heard maybe you was in trouble.”

  “Do tell. Nothin’ I cain’t handle.”

  “So you don’t need no help.”

  Goodnight spat on the ground.

  “Trouble is, I remember how you helped me before.”

  Loving didn’t say anything.

  Goodnight tried not to let on how confused he felt inside. When he first saw Loving, he had been shaken by a spasm of pure happiness. But when the spasm passed, he remembered how angry he was at Loving, how badly he had been hurt by Loving, how much reason he had to hate him. But he found he couldn’t hate him, not cleanly, not purely. He hated him and loved him at the same time. It was a little like the way he had felt about his sister Becky back when she was alive. Not that he had ever actually hated her, but she had been good at making him mad. He wondered if he loved Loving so much because he had lost his sister. He hadn’t loved Revelie like a sister, didn’t want to, because grown-up, man-woman love complicated the emotions. But he could and had loved Loving like a brother. And now he desperately wanted him back. The only trouble was, he hated him too much.