The Last Kind Words Saloon: A Novel (12 page)

“Notice what—I mainly just complimented his roping.”

With women it didn’t take long for things to slip out of kilter.

“I mainly just said what a good trail boss he was.”

“You managed to miss the main point, Charlie,” she said.

“I don’t have even a notion but I’m sure you’re going to tell me what the main point is,” he said. “I’ll just await the news.”

“Miguel’s in love with San Saba, that’s plain as the nose on your face,” Mary said just as she blew out the lantern—after which she pulled down her gown.

“Good lord,” Goodnight said. “He lives in the brush country, which is a damn long way from here. He only gets this way when I hire him to bring a herd—maybe twice a year. If he wants to snare prairie chickens and give them to San Saba, that’s fine with me.”

“How it would sit with his wife is another question, but she’s a long way off. I hear that he’s got a passel of kids.”

“They’re chaste in their ways of course,” she said. But when he reached for her hand she directed it to a wet place—it was clear she herself was not at the moment feeling chaste.

“That’s not all the news,” Mary said, when they were resting. “San Saba’s leaving us; she’s moving to Paris, France.”

At that Goodnight sat up. “Paris, France,” he said. “Why would she do that, when she’s just about got my horses gentle enough to ride?”

“She doesn’t like the plains and I can’t blame her. Too somber,” Mary said. “A count asked her to come—he’s the richest man in France, except for the Rothschilds. You’ve heard of them, I guess.”

“I haven’t but they’re probably bankers,” he said.

“Maybe we can visit France, someday.”

“Mary, we can barely pay the hands,” he said.

Then he noticed that Mary was crying; her face was wet.

Before he could move she swatted him with a pillow.

“Shut up, Charlie,” she said. “Every word you utter just makes it worse.”

Charles Goodnight shut up.

-
45
-

The Goodnights accompanied
San Saba and Flo back to Long Grass, to see them off. Goodnight drove the buggy himself. The three women were sad.

“I think the thing I dislike most about America is the lack of trees.”

“Oh, there are some, just not around here,” Mary said. “I know what you mean about missing them, though. These bare plains are just too sad.”

“I’m sorry you ladies don’t like the plains—I’m a cattleman and I need to operate where there’s an abundance of edible grass.”

They had asked Miguel to come with them but he merely tipped his hat politely and turned away. What was there to say?

News of San Saba’s departure traveled far and wide in the plains country. Nellie Courtright, still more or less a widow, came racing down the plains, hoping to get a story.

San Saba had come to like Nellie and helped her out this time.

“You still can’t call me a madam, though,” San Saba said.

“Then what
can
I call you?” Nellie asked.

“Just call me a consort—a consort is a kind of companion to rich and titled men. Right now it’s Count Erlander who’ll be keeping me.”

“How do you spell that—and what does he do?” Nellie asked.

San Saba laughed.

“The men who keep me don’t do anything,” she said. “I think he broke the bank at Monte Carlo once—and I believe he likes the races. That’s what he does.”

Goodnight was glad the mood had lightened. Driving a buggy with three women in it was no light task, and Long Grass, when they got there, did not seem to be thriving. Only one saloon was open and the livery stable seemed to be on its last legs. Fortunately Bose had come with them to take care of the team.

“The last time I rode into this town it was full of Earps. I have no liking for Earps, nor for that dentist who rides with them.”

“Yes, Doc Holliday,” Nellie said. “He’s often rude, though a good shot nonetheless.”

“How would you know how good a shot he is?” he inquired.

“Because I work for newspapers now and they like stories about gunfighters. I won’t work for the Denver paper though, because of what Harry Tammen did to Bill Cody—sold his show right out from under him. I loved Bill Cody and will never forgive Harry Tammen.”

“I’m glad you’re loyal,” he said.

“I don’t see any Earps here,” he said.

“No, you’ll find them in Arizona,” Nellie said. “They’ve taken over a place called Tombstone. Virgil Earp’s the sheriff and Warren Earp runs the biggest saloon. I don’t know what Wyatt does, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I’ve heard of Tombstone,” Goodnight said. “There’s an old ruffian named Clanton who makes his living stealing Mexican cattle. He tried to sell me some once but I declined—Mexican cattle often have the fevers.”

“So I’ve heard,” Nellie said.

“The Earps had better watch close,” Goodnight said. “Old Man Clanton is a murderer as well as a thief. He ought to have been hung long ago but so far nobody’s been up to the task. I know there’s a multitude of Earps but most of them can’t shoot and Clanton’s got an army, some of whom
can
shoot.”

“Well, I’m not the mother, but when I get home I might send Warren a message—maybe write him a letter, warning them about Old Man Clanton. I might even do a story on them, if they’d allow it.”

“I think you yourself have more of a story but I somehow doubt that you’d invite me to write it up.”

“You’re correct, I wouldn’t. Where’s the story in driving cattle?”

“Don’t waste your time on him,” Mary said. “Half the time he won’t even tell me what he wants for breakfast.”

While the Goodnights bickered Flo and San Saba walked across to the place that had been the Orchid. Goodnight hired a young cowboy named Teddy Blue, who was known to be knowledgable about Montana, a range Goodnight had been keeping his eye on—he was thinking of expanding there, once he got his panhandle operation the way he wanted it.

San Saba walked through the house she had once ruled.

“Benny Ernle could have sent me to a lot of places,” she said. “I wonder why he sent me here. Seems like he wanted to see me on a ranch.”

“Life is full of surprises, isn’t it, Flo?” she said.

Flo didn’t say. Her main hope was never to leave San Saba. Without her Flo knew she wouldn’t last long.

In the morning, just as they were boarding the train a fierce hailstorm swept the plains. In three minutes the whole prairie was white with hail. Flo and San Saba were safe in the sturdy railroad car and the Goodnights and Nellie took refuge in the livery stable.

Five miles or so from Long Grass the hail stopped and the sun shone brightly.

“I’ll just bet you’re going to like Paris,” San Saba said. “Honey, I just bet you will.”

Then they heard a whoop and there was that cowboy, Teddy Blue, waving his hat and racing the train.

“That’s fine of him, let’s blow him a kiss,” San Saba said. She and Flo waved and blew him kisses until the cowboy slowly fell behind.

-
46
-

Goodnight was vexed
by the hailstorm: he resented any delay. Lately it seemed he was mostly doing chores for women—chores for which he was largely unfitted. Mary wanted a grape arbor, for example, and she also wanted a proper outhouse: Lord Ernle had not gotten around to installing proper plumbing in his mansion.

If it wasn’t one thing it was another. Every few miles she produced a fresh set of tears: missing her friend, he supposed. He thought about asking her what was the matter, but even the simplest question might preface a fresh tear burst.

“Is there anyone in this world that you’d miss, Charlie?” she asked once.

“You, maybe,” he said. “Or if I needed some reliable roping done I might miss Miguel.”

“Yes, you’re a practical man,” she said.

“If I weren’t practical where would we be?” he asked.

“I don’t know where you’d be, mister,” she said. “Probably looking at the back end of a cow.”

“That’s the likely thing,” he said, refraining from asking where she’d be: that was too big a question to tie into.

TOMBSTONE

-
47
-

Doc’s health was failing:
most days he just sat in the sun, of which, usually, there was an abundance in southern Arizona. He spat frequently, and dosed himself with morphine saved up from dental operations, what few there were; they took place in the Last Kind Words Saloon, itself still run by Warren Earp, with Jessie still the bartender.

Wyatt was not often seen, thanks to his dislike of drinking in saloons where his lovely wife worked behind the bar. Jessie, though, thrived in her job.

“I need gamblers and whores and plenty of drunks to keep me perking,” Jessie once said to Doc. She liked her job and didn’t care that Wyatt, her husband, frequented the bar up the street.

When he did drift down to the Last Kind Words he mainly sat with Doc, trying to come up with ways to get rich without really working.

“I’ve got plenty of brothers who can work,” Wyatt said. “Virgil and Morgan constitute what there is of a police force here. I see no reason to burden myself with marshaling, though of course if some drunk gets too disorderly I might lend a hand.”

Doc was of the opinion that Wyatt was too cavalier about the prospect of sudden gunplay.

“There’s enough weaponry in this town to outfit the Union army. And yet you walk around unarmed, although you have plenty of enemies.”

“Oh, just the Clantons, I suppose you mean,” Wyatt said. “I reckon I can handle the Clantons and that riffraff if I need to.”

“Unarmed?” Doc asked.

“No, of course not,” Wyatt said. “Wells Fargo keeps a shotgun ready, which I’ve been able to borrow from time to time.”

“I’ve heard that Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce works for Old Man Clanton now,” Doc said. “And there’s the McLaury brothers, and Curly Bob Brocious and Johnny Ringo and a few more.”

“Shucks,” Wyatt said. “Most of those fellows live a hundred miles away. I could have a war and finish it before they could even get here.”

“Maybe, but I still think a pistol would be a reasonable precaution.”

But Wyatt had become bored with the topic and gone into the saloon to have a word with Jessie, who happened to be deep in conversation with the last man mentioned, Johnny Ringo.

The two men had not met before.

“Hello, I’m Wyatt,” Wyatt said.

“Hello, I’m Johnny,” Ringo said, shaking hands. He wore an expensive hat, and sported a thin mustache.

“What did you want, Wyatt, Johnny and I were talking,” Jessie said.

“Now that you put it that way, nothing,” Wyatt said; he immediately walked out.

“Why didn’t you tell me that damn outlaw was courting my wife?”

“Courting, oh come now,” Doc said, and spat. “He reads, you know,” Doc added. “He can quote; Shakespeare and all sorts of poets.”

Wyatt in fact had known that Johnny Ringo had literary inclinations.

It didn’t raise his opinion of Ringo by much.

“He won’t be spouting it for me,” Wyatt said, frowning as hard as he could frown.

“If he ain’t careful I’ll throw him off this porch,” he added, looking hot.

-
48
-

As soon as Jessie
stepped into their room Wyatt uncurled himself out of a chair and punched her full in the face, knocking her almost across the bed and splitting her lip, which bled profusely on her new blouse. It also made her head ring: Wyatt had never hit her with his closed fist before.

But she had been expecting it. She was the bartender and she was supposed to be nice to customers, who paid good money for their drinks—unlike Wyatt, who seldom paid for his drinks. He’d get a dude to pay for them, and allow the dude to have his picture made with the great Wyatt Earp.

Jessie had a derringer in her bag but before she could level it Wyatt yanked it away from her and gave her a hard slap.

“That’s twice you hit me, you cowardly son of a bitch,” Jessie said. “Do it once more and I’m gone.”

She saw that Wyatt was trembling; in a minute he would start crying, and that’s exactly what he did.

“Oh Jessie, why will you provoke me? I don’t mean to hit you—it just wells over.”