The Last Kind Words Saloon: A Novel
THE
LAST KIND
WORDS
SALOON
A Novel
Larry
McMurtry
LIVERIGHT
PUBLISHING CORPORATION
A DIVISION OF W. W. NORTON & COMPANY
NEW YORK • LONDON
For Susan Freudenheim,
a cherished friend.
THE LAST KIND WORDS SALOON
is a ballad in prose whose characters are afloat in time; their legends and their lives in history rarely match. I had the great director John Ford in mind when I wrote this book; he famously said that when you had to choose between history and legend, print the legend. And so I’ve done.
CONTENTS
THE LAST KIND WORDS SALOON
-
1
-
A hat came skipping
down the main street of Long Grass, propelled only by the wind, which was sharp for March. The hat was brown felt and had a narrow brim.
“I believe that’s Doc Featherston’s hat,” Wyatt said. “He may have lost track of it while setting a limb.”
“Or, he might be over at the Orchid fornicating and let it blow out a window,” Doc Holliday suggested.
“Doubt it . . . only rich dentists such as yourself can afford the Orchid these days,” Wyatt said.
Doc drew his pistol and aimed at the hat but didn’t shoot.
“Why would a grown man want to be a dentist anyway?” Wyatt inquired.
“Well, for one thing, the cost of equipment is low,” Doc told him. “All you need is a pair of pliers and maybe a chisel for difficult cases.”
At the mention of a chisel Wyatt turned pale—he had always been squeamish.
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said. “Are we going to sit here and let the good doctor’s hat blow clean away?”
A crow flew over. Doc shot at it twice, but missed.
Wyatt walked out in the street and picked up the hat.
Across the street, at the establishment called the Orchid a tall woman in a purple dressing gown came out onto a little balcony and shook out her abundant black hair.
“There’s San Saba, what do you think about her?” Doc said.
“I don’t often think about her,” Wyatt said. “Jessie’s all the female I can handle, and it ain’t a hundred percent that I can handle her.”
“Why do you ask?” he added.
“Just to be making conversation, I ain’t a mute like you,” Doc said. “And it’s the only whorehouse in town. They say if you can sprout up twelve inches of dick you get to fuck free.”
“Well, I can’t sprout it up and I doubt you can so let’s talk about something else,” Wyatt suggested.
Just then they heard a faint sound from the empty plains to the south of town.
“There’s supposed to be a herd coming in today from Texas—I ’spect that’s it,” Doc said. “Where’s your six-shooter?”
“It might be behind the bar,” Wyatt said. “It’s too heavy to carry around. If I see trouble springing up I can usually borrow a weapon from Wells Fargo or somebody.”
“Bat Masterson claims you’re the best pistol shot in the West,” Doc said. “He says you can hit a coyote at four hundred yards.”
“Hell, I couldn’t even see a dang coyote if it was that far away, unless they painted it red,” Wyatt said. “Bat should let me do my own bragging, if he can’t manage to be credible.”
“All right then, what’s the farthest distance you could hit a fat man?” Doc persisted, determined to get at least the elements of conversation out of the taciturn Wyatt, who ignored the question. In the distance it was just possible to see mounted figures, urging their horses at a dead run toward Long Grass.
“Those cowboys have probably been on the drive thirty or forty days,” Doc said. “They’re gonna want whiskey and whores, and want them quick.”
Just then there was a piercing whistle, followed moments later by a train from the east; the train had many empty boxcars and two passenger cars and a caboose. As soon as it came to a complete stop a skinny young man got off, carrying a satchel.
“There stands a dude, of sorts,” Doc said. “I wonder what the state of his molars might be.”
“Now, Doc, don’t be yanking teeth out of tourists,” Wyatt said, turning pale again at the mere suggestion of dentistry.
The rumble to the south had diminished; for a time it faded altogether.
“The cattle smelled the water—they’re over at the river, filling up,” Doc said. “The whores can sleep a little longer.”
“If you had twenty pearls would you give at least one or two to Jessie?” Doc inquired.
Wyatt ignored the question. His wife’s taste for finery was none of Doc’s business, that he could see.
One of the passenger cars was considerably fancier than the other. It was painted a royal purple. The skinny young dude took a moment to get his bearings and then came resolutely up the street.
“I wonder who’s in that blue car,” Doc said. “You don’t often see a car that fancy in these parts.”
He happened to glance to the south, where he saw two riders approaching. Wyatt noticed the same thing.
“Uh-oh,” Doc said. “It’s that damn Charlie Goodnight and his nigger.”
“You’re right—he was in that fracas in Mobetie,” Wyatt said.
“They say that nigger is the best hand in the West at turning stampedes—it’s a rare skill.”
Just then Doc Featherston, owner of the bouncing bowler, walked out of the Orchid and fell flat on his face in the street.
“I guess San Saba likes the Doc,” Wyatt said. “Women sure are odd.”
Before Doc could weigh in on the oddity of women, San Saba herself walked out of the Orchid and strolled off toward the train track. The young man who had stepped off the train raised his hat to her. She took no notice of him, or of the prostrate doctor; nor did she so much as glance at the two men watching her from the porch of—according to its sign—The Last Kind Words Saloon. She went straight to the royal purple railroad car and rapped on the door, through which she was immediately admitted.
“Well, hell and damn,” Doc said.
His taciturn companion said nothing at all.
-
2
-
Charles Goodnight rarely troubled
with pleasantries, but when he took note of the sign hanging over the saloon door he stopped and gave the sign a considered inspection.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if one of my cowboys shoots a hole in your sign,” he said.
“When will that be, Charlie?” Wyatt asked.
“Soon as the herd’s penned,” Goodnight said.
“Ain’t it a little early to be driving cattle on the plains?” Doc said. “It’s no fun driving cattle in a howling blizzard, which are not uncommon in March.”
“Driving cattle ain’t fun, blizzard or no blizzard,” Goodnight said. “But there’s no train yet to my ranch, so here I am.”
“Is that your sawbones sleeping in the street?” Goodnight asked. “If it’s who I think it is he once took a boil off my rump. I’ve traveled more comfortably ever since.”
“There’s plenty of dentistry available here,” Doc pointed out.
“Another time, maybe,” Goodnight said. “I admire that sign, though I don’t know what it means.”
“It’s my brother Warren’s sign,” Wyatt said. “I seldom understand Warren, myself.”
While they talked, Bose Ikard, Goodnight’s black foreman, saw a large bull snake edging around the porch. In his years on the plains Bose had learned a thing or two, one of which was how to catch snakes by the tail. He quickly caught the snake, swung him around his head a few times as if he were swinging a lariat, and threw him across the street, out of harm’s way.
“He’s just as neat with rattlesnakes,” Goodnight volunteered.
“Bull snakes will charge you sometimes, and I am not a good enough shot to hit a charging snake.”
“Me neither,” Wyatt admitted. “I could probably hit a buffalo, though, if there were any left.”
“We could stand here talking all day, which would not earn us a cent,” Goodnight said. “Anybody get out of that blue railroad car?”
“No, but somebody went in it, the lovely San Saba,” Doc said.
“Good, I believe I’ll join the company,” Goodnight said. He dismounted, handed his reins to Bose, who led his horse back toward the livery stable.