Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  His horse shied and reared above a snake. Goodnight took a shot at it and hit it in the head. He knew it was a lucky shot, but it still gave him a smug, warm feeling. Now if he could just get his hands on the other snakes that he thought he had glimpsed down by the river. Where was Claw? Where was Gudanuf?

  Goodnight galloped past the big saloon tent that was now on fire, charged on down to the river’s edge, and splashed in. The churning water was cold on his legs. Soon his horse was swimming. Goodnight already relished his revenge. Now he realized that he hated his son even more than he hated Gudanuf. Now that misshapen monster would pay for killing Black Dub from ambush, would pay for murdering Loving under a flag of truce, would pay for killing Becky. No, that wasn’t right.

  The men in the boats were shooting back, but Goodnight paid the lead no attention. He was focused. The bullets only got his attention when one of them hit poor old Red in the neck. Had Claw or Gudanuf fired the shot? Whatever the truth, he blamed them. Miraculously, Goodnight’s horse kept on swimming, but he was hurting. No, not now, don’t stop now, don’t die now, Goodnight silently begged the horse beneath him. Please, please. But the wounded animal’s legs moved slower and slower until they couldn’t move at all. Then the horse began to sink and turn sideways. Goodnight grabbed his ax from its scabbard and floated clear of his old friend. Then he clamped the handle of the ax tightly between his teeth and started crawling hand over hand after Claw. He swam through blood—human blood, horse blood. His hands and arms and even his face were sticky with blood. He raced through a red river after his enemy.

  Wading ashore, he couldn’t find them. Had he just imagined that he had seen Claw and Gudanuf in that boat? Were they some sort of mirage? Had they just evaporated the way mirages did? He wished more than ever that he had two eyes to search for them. Staring through the knothole in his skull, he couldn’t find them. Without knowing where he was going, Goodnight tried to run, but his bad leg quickly pulled him up short. How could a one-eyed cripple ever chase down those demons? He blamed himself for his injuries. He blamed himself for letting them get away. He blamed himself for everything. Maybe he should just put his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. He pulled his six-gun out of its holster, probably just bluffing, and saw that he was out of bullets, unless there was still one left in the chamber. He checked. Bad luck..

  Then Goodnight saw them. He was surprised to find them quite near. Was it another mirage? There was Claw. There was Gudanuf. There was Loving! What washe doing here? How had he crossed the river? It must all be a mirage. A dream. Loving was supposed to be on the other side of the river, gravely wounded, probably dead, his body burned and smoking. Goodnight’s eye blurred with tears. No! He had to see clearly. He tried to focus. Yes, he was right. He was thrilled that Loving was still alive, but then he realized that his friend, although alive, was about to die.

  Gudanuf was holding Loving while Claw prepared to chop his head open with an ax. Goodnight told himself that the outlaws could never have controlled this prince of cowboys if he weren’t wounded. Still Loving struggled. Good, fight them. Yes! He broke free and tried to run, but the two outlaws easily caught the crippled cowboy once again. Loving seemed to give in and accept his fate. Claw’s back was to Goodnight as he raised his ax to split Loving’s skull, his brain, his life. Now Goodnight wished he hadn’t already used up his bullets. They were not only gone, but they had been fired to no effect—except for that snake.

  Goodnight had only one weapon left. Gripping it tightly, he cocked his arm, took careful aim at the back of Claw’s head, and threw his lucky ax. As the blade left Goodnight’s hand, his terrible son ducked. Could he see behind him? No, he lowered his head because he was beginning his own mighty blow.

  A horrified Goodnight realized that his ax was going to miss Claw and kill Loving instead. Had he half-wanted to murder him all along because he had dared to love Revelie? Could it be? In his mind, Goodnight saw his weapon turn over and over in slow motion. Glimpsing the ax in flight, Loving was smart enough and fast enough to dodge. The blade missed Claw and Loving and split the skull of Gudanuf. One startled eye went one way and the other eye went the other. The handsome nose cracked in two. Teeth and brains spilled all over Loving. Goodnight’s old nemesis was dead, but instead of elation, the victor felt nauseous.

  The two, Loving and Gudanuf, both crumpled backward just as Claw delivered the blow with his ax. He missed, and the blade buried itself in the red ground. Claw just stood there staring, stunned, perhaps even sorry for what had happened to his new father figure.

  While his son paused, Goodnight lurched forward, limping, staggering, as best he could. He saw Claw grin as he pulled out his pistol. The son took careful aim at his father and pulled the trigger. Goodnight started to sing his death song:

  “O Sun, you live forever, but we must die. O Earth, you remain forever, but we must die . . .”

  117

  Click. Claw was out of bullets, too. Like father, like son. Seeing his crippled daddy bearing down on him, the boy threw away his empty six-gun and reached for his ax. He had struck with such energy and power that he had trouble pulling his blade from the red earth. Good! His hate had handicapped him.

  Reaching Gudanuf’s body, Goodnight pulled his own ax from the outlaw’s skull just as Claw managed to free his from the red clay. Father and son faced each other. They circled one another, the father limping, the son hopping from foot to foot.

  Goodnight swung his ax and his enemy used his own to deflect the blow. Goodnight swung again. Claw once again warded off the stroke with his ax. Goodnight had a flash memory of the sword fights in the old family fort. Sir Jimmy against Sir Becky. The memory made him want to kill Claw more than ever, as if the boy had been responsible for what had happened to her. Even with his crippled hand, Claw was a surprisingly good swordsman. Goodnight kept swinging away, hitting nothing, blocked every time. After the hard swim, all this chopping made his arms tired. He was working hard and breathing harder. He even began to wonder how much longer he could keep it up. Revenge was turning out to be a real chore. Goodnight retreated a couple of steps to catch his breath.

  “What’s the matter, Daddy?” the son asked. “Gittin’ tired?”

  “No,” Goodnight said, wheezing.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Old Man,” the boy hissed, “and then I’m gonna finish off your buddy.”

  Goodnight stepped forward and attacked again. He tried swinging from below, but his blade only bit into the wooden handle of another ax. He could see Claw’s strategy: wait for the old crip to wear himself out and then cut him to pieces. And the plan was working. Almost as much as he wanted to kill Claw, Goodnight just wanted to sit down.

  “You don’t look too good,” the son taunted. “Your face is all red. Look like you’re about to have a fit and fall over dead.”

  Goodnight decided to put all he had left into his next blow. He raised his ax over his head and swung down with all his might. Once again, all he hit was wood, but this time his blade bit deeply. Claw’s ax handle snapped in two. Moving quickly to exploit his advantage, Goodnight swung his ax like a baseball bat and caught Claw right in the gut. The sharp blade sliced open his middle, and intestines came rolling out. Claw sat down hard and stared at the tangled tubes in his lap. Goodnight took a step forward and raised the ax once more to put the monster out of its misery.

  “You done killt your own son,” Claw said.

  “I know,” Goodnight said, and then hesitated before adding, “and good riddance.”

  “But I ain’t quite done yet,” his boy croaked.

  Claw pulled a Derringer from the sleeve just above his claw, pointed it at his father, and shot him in the chest.

  “Die, Daddy. Go to hell.”

  When Goodnight opened his good eye, he saw Loving looking down at him. His friend, whose left cheek had been shattered by a bullet, wasn’t as good-looking as he had been, but he was still a welcome sight.

  “I thought you was—” Goodnight whisp
ered.

  “No, I ain’t dead yet,” Loving said.

  “Looks like I am. Anyhow purdy soon.”

  “No.”

  “Sorry.”

  Goodnight was surprised to see tears in his friend’s eyes.

  “I love you,” Loving said.

  Goodnight couldn’t believe he had heard those words. Maybe he was hallucinating as he sank into death. But he didn’t think so. Loving had said it all right. Goodnight had always felt that he was the one who loved, but who remained unloved. He had loved both Revelie and Loving in different ways, but they seemed not to return his love, for they had betrayed him. And yet now Loving spoke of loving him. The world was even more complicated than Goodnight had imagined, and some of those complications were good, but he had learned this lesson too late for it to do him much good in this life.

  “Me, too,” Goodnight gasped. He saw Claw lying motionless beside him. “Is he done for?”

  “Yeah,” Loving said.

  “I reckon there ain’t no gittin’ away from the past nohow, huh?” Goodnight said. Or maybe he didn’t actually say it. Perhaps he only thought it. He wasn’t sure. “The past’ll git ahold of you somehow and just won’t never let go for nothin’. I guess I shoulda known. Becky tried to tell me.”

  Loving was saying something, but Goodnight could no longer make out the words.

  118

  Loving wrote Revelie what had happened, and she came as quickly as she could. She also came quietly since she was still a wanted woman in Texas. Loving met her at the railhead in Abilene, Kansas. He brought with him a bay mare carrying the old sidesaddle that her husband had made for her. Unexpectedly, Revelie brought something with her, too, a small son, so another mount was needed. Loving bought a pony for him to ride. The boy was already strikingly handsome. People disagreed about whether his eyes were brown or blue.

  The trip took almost two weeks. Revelie hated the new scar on Loving’s left cheek at first—but had come to like it by the time they finally reached the Home Ranch.

  She found the place little changed. She had expected it to feel empty and listless, but it didn’t. The strike was over and the cowboys back to work. They had all survived the battle and the fire except Flytrap, who caught a bullet in his open mouth.

  In his optimistic will, written long ago, Goodnight had left his share of the ranch to any children who might survive his marriage. Moreover, Mrs. Sanborn, who had recently died, bequeathed her estate to her daughter’s offspring. And Revelie, a fugitive from Texas justice, had deeded her share over to her son, so the state wouldn’t confiscate it. Now the boy with the changeable eyes owned all of the red canyon, its steep walls, its river, its twining history.

  Loving walked Revelie to the hackberry thicket where Goodnight was buried. The grave lay in a small clearing at the center of thorns. When she caught sight of the tombstone—an impressive monument made of granite shipped in from somewhere—she stopped and stared. The blade of an ax was imbedded in the headstone.

  Revelie walked forward slowly, knelt, and kissed that blade. When she stood up, she was smiling, but from her lips trickled a drop redder than the canyon walls.