The Last Kind Words Saloon: A Novel (9 page)

Jessie soon regretted that
she had chosen to travel with Warren Earp, who was no talker. The longer the two of them jogged along in their buggy, the less Warren said. They learned about the big stampede from a cowboy who didn’t bother to give his name. He did mention to them that three huge herds had got mixed together, somewhere near Mobetie.

“You’ll be seeing dead cattle here and there,” he said. “Got trampled under.”

The cowboy was right. They began to see carcasses here and there, being pecked at by crows. Many crows, many flies.

Warren skirted the carcasses, but made no comment. He had his sign, the one that said The Last Kind Words Saloon. It filled the back end of the buggy, but Jessie, who had few clothes, didn’t mind.

Tired of silence, Jessie thought she might tease Warren a little—after all he was probably her brother-in-law, depending on whether Wyatt had actually been divorced when he and Jessie married.

“If we come on a saloon, what do we do: go in and make sure no kind words are spoken, and if not you’ll hang up your sign.”

“Silent Warren” the whores called him, and often. Warren was noted for his inability to resist the girls.

The deeper into them Jessie got, the more the plains depressed her. It would have been better to take the train to California and come to Arizona from the west, as Virgil and Morgan had done. Morgan always had a job, usually marshaling, though once he ran a fire department in Kansas City.

“Tombstone, Arizona,” Warren said, as if it meant something.

“That’s not what Wyatt said,” Jessie insisted. “Wyatt said we were settling in Texas.”

Before Warren answered they saw some antelope, about twenty.

“Better than venison,” Warren said, picking up his rifle. But the antelope were skittish and they could never get close enough for a shot.

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Goodnight grimly
backtracked through dead and dying cattle until he found his saddle, which had been trampled badly, as he had expected. It was no big loss—he could get another saddle easily enough. What he could not afford to lose, however, was his brand book, which was in his saddlebag, unharmed. The book contained the specifics of more than two hundred brands: his several and several more belonging to Dan Wagoner and Shanghai Pierce. Goodnight knew that the run had involved at least eight thousand cattle: without the brand books it would be virtually impossible to sort them out. And it would very likely take a full week in any case. It was time lost but there was no help for it.

But there was a lesson to be learned from the mix-up. Neither he nor Pierce nor Wagoner were particularly cooperative men, but they
were
greedy stockmen. What had just been demonstrated was that it was unwise to have three herds in close proximity. The plains allowed for a great deal of spreading out. And at least he had a good brand book, which is more than Dan Wagoner could say—when Goodnight came up on him he and three cowboys were digging a grave.

“How many did you lose, Charlie?” Wagoner asked. He was a short man, but durable.

“I don’t know yet,” Goodnight said. “But I have my brand book—I expect it will be helpful.”

“What about Pierce?” he asked.

“Ain’t seen him, but he’s probably off somewhere drinking whiskey,” Wagoner said.

Then he turned briefly to the freshly dug grave—with a nod he summoned his cowboys and invited them to take off their hats.

Goodnight took off his hat.

“This was Johnny Deakin, a good boy of sixteen I believe,” Wagoner said. “He rode through a prairie dog town, an infernal thing for a cowboy to encounter at night. His horse broke a leg and the cattle stampeded right over young Johnny. Such is the life and death of a good cowboy. Amen.”

Goodnight remembered the boy, who had twice asked for a job, and was turned down on grounds that he was too young. He had refused him; now he felt some regret. Many a fine cowhorse had broken a leg in a prairie dog town. Life was a peril, purely a peril.

“We’ll have to sort this out, Dan,” Goodnight said. “I’ve got pens enough for one herd but not for three. We’re looking at a week of sorting, at least.”

Later in the day he found Shanghai Pierce, who was being guided by Caddo Jake.

“Lost my skunk hides, had fifty-two,” Caddo Jake said.

“You may have lost the hides but you ain’t lost the smell,” Shanghai Pierce said. “The smell of every goddamn one lingers with you.”

Goodnight informed Pierce, whom he had never liked particularly, that he had his brand book and so the sorting could start the next day. His cowboys would be on hand to assist the work.

“I lost three cowboys,” Pierce informed him. “Wagoner lost one—you’re lucky that your full crew survived.”

“It’s too early to say,” Goodnight said. He was not certain about his own cowboy count until Bose Ikard showed up later in the day and said all hands had survived.

“We’re lucky,” he told Bose, at which point he realized that in his concern for his hands he had totally forgotten his wife and the women who were with her.

“Oh damn,” he said. “I got to thinking about the cowboys and totally forgot Mary and the girls.”

Bose was silent. He had not known what to tell the women. Anyway, once they saw him, what they wanted to know was about Boss Goodnight. “Maybe you could go tell ’em I’ll be home when I get these cattle sorted,” Goodnight said.

Bose didn’t answer. Goodnight knew that meant he didn’t think much of his idea.

“Oh hang it!” Goodnight said. “Mary will never let me live this down. I might as well go take some of my medicine now.”

And off he went, in a lope.

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Jessie was uncomfortable
in the presence of respectable women—she didn’t know why. It’s true that she herself had been born in a whorehouse in Kentucky—at least that was what her grandmother told her; but she had never sold herself for money, though in the barkeeping environment where she worked she often got offers that were in no way proper.

Wyatt told her once that if he ever caught her whoring he would shoot her in the back of the head.

“That way you’d never see it coming—that’s the best I can give you,” he said.

“Sneak,” she said, and he was one too. Sleepy and careless as he seemed, Wyatt didn’t miss much.

She and Warren buggied up to the great prairie castle just at suppertime and were promptly asked to take a meal.

San Saba was quiet, but Nellie Courtright chattered away.

“I’ll be glad when Charlie shows up,” she said. “I’d like to know how many cattle ran in that stampede—I think it was probably the worst stampede ever. I’d write an article about it if I had more information.”

Mary Goodnight gave a kind of snort.

“Charlie Goodnight don’t release information,” she said. “If I asked him which boot he put on first he’d put me off.”

Jessie found it puzzling: why would anyone care which boot a man put on first? But Nellie was a pretty woman, and pretty women had a strong effect on any of the Earps, particularly Warren.

“I see you’ve still got your sign, Mr. Earp. Your Last Kind Words sign,” Nellie mentioned. “Were you planning on hanging it up anyplace around here?”

Warren, who had taken his hat off, immediately clapped it back on his head.

“We mean to get us a saloon in Arizona,” Warren said. “Arizona has a fine climate—have you ever been?”

“Just to a dude ranch,” Nellie told him. “Didn’t care for the dude ranch much.”

“Virg is sheriff of a place called Tombstone,” Warren said. “Morg’s his deputy. He says the thieves and murderers are too much for him. Guess we’ll have to go help him and bring my sign.”

“Tombstone’s a mining town,” Mary said. “They’re usually rough.”

Then Warren began to guzzle whiskey, from a bottle he had in the buggy.

Jessie had no way to stop him; she knew better than to come between an Earp and his bottle.

“Arizona,” he said, to no one in particular, and then he slid slowly out of his chair and under the table.

“If I had a dollar for every man I’ve seen passed out drunk, I’d be rich,” Nellie said.

Nobody disputed her claim. Jessie knew a few of her stars. On this occasion Venus shone bright in the west, while Jupiter was nearly as bright in the heaven straight above. Jessie thought it was mean of Wyatt to send her off with his brother. She was not convinced that there even was a place called Mobetie: unless it had a bar there’d be no place for her to work. But Wyatt and Doc just saddled up one day and rode off, but not before Wyatt borrowed fifty dollars from her.

“How you going to pay me back, Wyatt, you don’t even have a job and it’s still hundreds of miles to Arizona?”

Wyatt mounted up and rode off as if no one had spoken, taking the fifty dollars. He knew she was upset but he chose to ignore it. His view was not only that he got to borrow the fifty dollars but he shouldn’t have to endure a discussion about it. So he didn’t.

Jessie cried off and on all that day. Warren showed up eventually and drove the wagon over the endless plain.

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Doc began to have
long coughing jags, bringing up copious quantities of phlegm. Wyatt was a light sleeper at best. Doc’s coughing always woke him and that would be the end of sleep for that particular night. The two of them had gone back to Long Grass because of the rail—which would route them here and there and maybe bring them to Arizona in a week or two.

On their trip back to Long Grass cattle were everywhere—there had been a big stampede. Doc was outraged. He had never been fond of cattle and could barely even tolerate horses.

“If the cowboys had been doing their job these plains would be empty.”

“Yes, and then what would we eat if we were hungry?” Wyatt asked him.

“And I don’t know why you’re in such hurry to get to Arizona—it’s just a place, and at the end of the day, most places present mostly the same problems.”

“You have no optimism, Wyatt,” Doc said. “We might break the bank in Arizona, if we can just get the cards to go our way.”

He was holding back a cough, though.

“I won’t lag around a pistol, though,” Wyatt said. “A dern pistol’s heavy on the hip.”

“Jessie’s a qualified bartender,” Doc reminded him. “I bet she’d support you until you’ve got on your feet.”

“No she won’t, the hussy,” Wyatt told him. “And she said she’d leave me if I tried to take any of her earnings.”

“Do you ever wonder what it will be like to die?” Doc asked.

“No, I spend very little time in idle speculation,” Wyatt said.

Then he had an idea.

Out back of what had once been called the Last Kind Words Saloon was a considerable dump, where the townspeople threw their trash; the dump was full of bottles and cans and other likely targets for rifle or pistol. What better time or place to practice.

“Let’s go shoot,” he said to Doc, who immediately drew his gun and whirled around. To his surprise the streets of Long Grass were empty.

“Shoot who?” he asked.

“No, no . . . not a cowboy or even a person, just shoot for practice, in case some show like Cody’s comes along and hires us to do an act like we did in Denver.”

Doc followed him around to the dump and watched him line up about thirty targets, mainly bottles and cans.

“This is a silly business,” Doc said, but he allowed himself to be persuaded and was soon popping away at the various targets and missing most of them.

“Cody did mention that there were other shows like his.”

Doc allowed himself to be persuaded, there being little else to do in Long Grass. Besides it was always fun to poke around in dumps and see what kinds of stuff human beings felt they could afford to throw away.

“Why here’s a full bottle of hair lotion, somebody must have shot the barber,” Doc said.

Wyatt found a solitary stirrup: no saddle, no cowboy, no horse, just a stirrup.

Doc sniffed the hair lotion and made a face. He threw the lotion back on the dump and shot at the bottle three times, missing clean.

“Whoever ordered that lotion probably got snake-bit and expired soon after,” Doc said.

Wyatt didn’t answer. Nine out of ten statements Doc made were nonsense, but it was dangerous to stop listening because the tenth statement might be really smart.

“Thirty bottles is enough,” he said, once he had lined his thirty bottles on a low wall more or less behind the town. “The way to hit your target is to sight right down your arm and squeeze off a shot real slow.”

He leveled his arm and sighted down his arm and squeezed off a shot very slowly. No bottles shattered.

“I have heard that the prone position is the more reliable when shooting Colt revolvers,” Doc said.

He dropped to his knees but stopped there.

“There’s cowshit everywhere here,” he informed him. “I’ll soil my vest if I lie prone.”

Wyatt fired three times, shattering no bottles. Annoyed, he threw his pistol at the line of bottles, knocking over three. Then he took a derringer out of an inner pocket and shattered two, to his surprise.

Doc was still struggling with the difficult prone position. He shot but no bottles shattered. He drew back his arm to throw the gun but then caught himself at the last second.

“Throwing guns is a bad habit,” he said. “You might throw your gun away just as some loose Indians come charging down upon you.”

“There ain’t no more loose Indians, Doc,” Wyatt said. “But if there were, throwing your gun wouldn’t help you.”

He fired once more with the derringer and shattered a bottle.

“Good lord, I hit one,” he said. “Luck ain’t to be despised.”

“Who said I despised it?” Doc said, dusting off his vest.

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Later Doc paid a
visit to the barbershop, which was also the blacksmith shop. The barber, a wizened little fellow named Red, was also the blacksmith. He’d be shoeing horses one minute and shaving whiskers the next.

“Somebody threw away a bottle of hair lotion,” Doc said. “It’s over in the dump, about two-thirds full. I hate to see such a fine product go to waste.”