When the seven teamsters came into view Satank was disappointed that no women were with them, but seven white men were better than nothing.
The teamsters were using oxen, rather than mules, which made them easier to catch, but, even so, one white man got away into the chaparral. That left six, and two of them put up such a stiff fight that it was necessary to kill them directly, rather than with torture. Of course they castrated and scalped them anyway, although they weren’t alive to feel it.
That left four teamsters and they each paid a heavy price for having blundered into the People’s country. The leader, a stout man who yelled the loudest, was chained facedown from a wagon tongue and slowly burned alive—his screams could be heard for a long time, along with those of a tall boy who had his genitals cooked over a small fire that Satank himself had carefully nursed along.
The other two teamsters were disemboweled, their guts pulled out so some hot coals could be stuffed into their stomach cavity. Satank also cut off their noses and forced them to eat some of their own offal.
Afterwards the members of the little war party felt fine. Torturing whites was a splendid way to spend the afternoon. Seeing to it that your enemies died as painfully as possible was the best revenge for what the whites had taken from them. It was a little disappointing that no women had been caught. Women’s breasts could be cut off or their privacies invaded with thorns or scorpions or hot coals; but sometimes they could only catch men.
Satanta rubbed some of the red clay with which he covered his body on the corpses of the dead men. “I want everybody to know it was me that killed them,” he said.
“Don’t be bragging, you fool,” Little Wolf said.
“He always brags,” Satank reminded them. “We all killed them together, but he wants the whites to think it was only him.”
“It was mostly me,” Satanta protested.
The others decided to leave. Satanta, the Red Bear, was often difficult. It was best to leave him alone and savor the happy day a little.
-
7
-
San Saba wore a
big floppy hat out to the cattle count, which took place early in the day, by the ramp up which the cattle were crowded into the boxcars. She had a pad in her hand and sat on a high chair provided by the railroad.
Goodnight was startled to see the tall woman preparing to count cattle, but not as startled as Brownie, his horse, by the big floppy hat.
To Goodnight’s embarrassment Brownie began to crow-hop, something he had not done in years. He soon brought him under control.
San Saba secured her hat with a drawstring.
“At home in Derbyshire I mainly count sheep, but Lord Ernle thinks I’ll do fine with cattle.”
Goodnight could think of nothing to say, so he said nothing and nodded to Bose. Soon cattle began to surge up the ramp, into the waiting boxcars.
Goodnight prided himself on his ability to count cattle. What it took was concentration, and he could concentrate when it was called for.
San Saba occasionally made a mark on her pad. Some cattle were reluctant to load and had to be quirted.
“I measure them in tens, which seems prudent,” she said. When the loading was complete she showed Goodnight the total on her pad: 1,266, exactly the total. Goodnight had arrived at the same number by the use of his two eyes.
“I confess I’m surprised. I had not expected the two of us to have exactly the same count,” Goodnight said. “You’re a fine counter. Very few cattle men can count yearlings on the hoof.”
“I concentrate,” she said. “But I write down numbers. I didn’t see you write anything down.”
“What bothers me, ma’am, is that Lord Ernle must not have trusted my count. If Ben ain’t going to trust me, then this partnership ain’t like to work.”
San Saba gave him a long look.
“He trusts you, Mr. Goodnight. But the English are different, and they don’t know how to be other than different. Particularly not dukes.”
“Did he really give you a diamond, back in Turkey or wherever you were?”
“Yes, the San Soucis diamond, it’s very famous.”
Then she turned and walked off. Mary had turned and walked off. He wondered what prompted females to keep showing him their rumps.
-
8
-
The sun was blazing
hot and Wyatt and Doc had just settled down on the porch of the Last Kind Words Saloon when they saw a buggy coming from the east—and coming at a furious pace, too. Doc was savoring an early morning brandy, while Wyatt was drinking black coffee and trying to sober up. He had slept in the stables most of the night, driven out by Jessie’s sharp tongue. Lately she had seemed to find life with him most disagreeable. He didn’t know why.
“That buggy’s practically flying,” Doc observed. “Why would anyone be in that big a hurry to arrive in no more of a town than this?”
“Maybe it’s the Pony Express,” Wyatt said. Often he wished Doc would just shut up.
“Nope, the Pony Express is out of business,” Doc announced cheerfully—“it was a darn slow way to get mail, anyway, if you ask me.”
“I hope the dern buggy plans to pass on through,” Wyatt said. “It’s crowded enough here already.”
“Crowded? Not that I notice,” Doc said.
The buggy slowed as it passed the livery stable and finally pulled to a stop right in front of them. The dust of its passing took a while to settle.
A tall man wearing a long coat and a soft felt hat extracted himself from the buggy and looked the two of them over before committing himself to speech.
“Does this settlement have a name, gentlemen?” he finally asked, as he handed some bills to the man who drove the buggy.
“Most of us call it Long Grass,” Doc said. He had an impulse to shoot the man, but managed to hold off—sometimes he couldn’t manage restraint, in which case his victims often required medical care. He decided not to shoot the tall stranger, mainly because he admired his soft felt hat.
The stranger managed to heave a well-worn satchel out of the buggy before it left—which was immediately. The satchel looked heavy.
“What’s in that valise, ingots?” Doc asked.
“Everything I own, which doesn’t include many precious metals. I’m Russell of the
Times
.”
He seemed to think they would know what he meant, but neither of them bothered to look up. Surprised, the man then took out two business cards and handed one to each of them.
“Which
Times
are you of, Russell?” Doc asked, as Wyatt stared rather dubiously at the card he had been handed.
“Fine print, can’t read it,” Wyatt said. He tried to hand the card back to the stranger, but the stranger declined to take it.
“London, sir—the
Times
of London,” Russell said.
He seemed a little vexed, Doc didn’t know why. He and Wyatt could not be expected to know the identity of every fool that rides up.
Now the stranger was looking closely at the sign, a normal enough sign, Doc felt, though the only important word on it was “saloon.” The rest was the sort of nonsense that interested Warren Earp.
“I was told about your sign, and there it is,” Russell said. “Myself, I rarely frequent barrooms if I’m hoping for kind words.”
“That driver of yours looked familiar,” Doc said. “But I can’t call his name.”
“Willy Bones, once a trapper on the Missouri,” Russell said. “I fear prospects are thin for trappers now.”
Neither Doc nor Wyatt had any interest in trappers, so they held their peace, as the tall reporter gave Long Grass a thorough looking-over.
“Would the cattle on that train belong to Lord Ernle, by any chance?” he asked.
“Charlie Goodnight brought those cattle here,” Doc said. “I believe his partner is an English fellow—he might be your lord, and he might be in that fancy car, unless he’s in the whorehouse.”
The stranger emitted a guffaw.
“Lord Ernle has two wives, one French and one English,” he said. “You must understand they leave him little time for whoring. How far away would you reckon Arizona to be?”
“Why, Arizona’s to hell and gone,” Wyatt said. He felt like he might be ready for a whiskey.
“It’s two or three states to the west,” Doc said. “I wouldn’t attempt it in that buggy.”
“I hadn’t planned to,” Russell said. “I might catch this train here to Chicago, where these cattle are bound. From Chicago I ought to have a chance of reaching Arizona.”
“Well, but there’s Apaches,” Doc said. “It would be a pity if you got scalped.”
The Englishman’s cool tone irritated him. Why would someone from London show up in Long Grass if Arizona was where he really wanted to go? The last twenty-four hours had produced more surprises than were welcome, he considered.
Across the way, on the balcony of the Orchid, two young whores stood with San Saba, just looking around. A young whore whose name was Flo was combing out San Saba’s abundant black hair. San Saba herself was looking at nothing; and certainly, on the vast windy plain, there was plenty of nothing to be looked at.
-
9
-
The village of Long Grass
, which some thought to be in Texas, was suddenly startled by a high-pitched squealing, so taxing to the ear that most citizens assumed that massacre was at hand, or had already happened. Wyatt, who had been drinking in the livery stable, came running out with a pitchfork, the only weapon he could lay a hand on quickly.
But, once in the street, he saw no Indians to stick a pitchfork in.
Doc’s predicament was even worse: he had won considerable money at poker during the night, and was standing on the porch, with most of the money in his hand, when the squealing started. The terrible sound confused him so that he dropped the bills, which were at once picked up by the brisk prairie wind and blown every which way.
“Goddamn the goddamn Indians!” he exclaimed, though for some reason he could see no Indians as he continued to chase his money, catching a bill here and there but letting two get past him for every one he caught. He had his pistol in his right hand and had to grab at the blowing bills with his left, which was not ideal by any means.
Goodnight had a small house arranged for him by Lord Ernle—he was dozing when the squealing started; in jerking awake he bumped his head on a shelf he hadn’t noticed. He had merely used the house as a place to trim his beard. He preferred to sleep outside unless it was wet.
The only people not bothered by the squealing were San Saba, and Russell of the
Times
; these two citizens of the world had encountered one another, over the years, here and there, in places no less prepossessing than Long Grass.
“It’s just Benny’s bagpipes,” San Saba said, as Flo, the Creole girl, arranged her hair, watched by Russell of the
Times
.
“Dreadful sound, except to the Scottish ear,” he said. “I don’t happen to have a Scottish ear.”
“At least the cattle left,” San Saba said. “What a stench! There was a train that came in late, which probably accounts for the bagpipers, and a good many more reporters. Uncle Benny does love publicity: he wants the world to know he’s setting up to be a cowboy.”
“Rather late in the day to be starting up a ranch,” Russell said. “Them blizzards cost the cattlemen fifty million in frozen stock. Taught most of them a lesson.”
San Saba fell silent. Lord Ernle was so rich that it had never occurred to her that any enterprise of his might fail. And yet her own experience should have made her skeptical. Her own mother had been the most pampered woman in Turkey, and yet she was sewn in a sack and drowned.
“He’s taken a very able partner, at least,” she said. “I believe Mr. Goodnight will protect him well.”
“Yes, he was once a Texas Ranger, I believe—they have to be able if they hope to survive,” Russell said. “I endeavor to draw him out about frontier conditions, if I can get him to sit for an interview.”
San Saba liked it that Goodnight had complimented her fairly for her accurate count; still there might be something in him that was too hard, that probably wouldn’t tolerate the feminine element to any serious degree.
And yet a woman, Mary Goodnight, had not only married him: she had followed him into the wilderness, where San Saba hoped to meet her. Now, San Saba wondered, could any woman live every day with that level of masculinity?
It certainly wasn’t there in Benny Ernle, who ignored his two wives while enjoying his many boys.
“I think the frontier is safe now,” she said; but the reporter shook his head.
“Nope, there’s just been a massacre,” Russell said. “I picked it off the wire before I came. Some Kiowa did it, they think. The usual tortures, six teamsters butchered and burnt. General Sherman was nearby and he’s pursuing.”
“I remember Mr. Goodnight mentioning some Kiowa. Benny says he knows the West better than any man since Kit Carson.”
“I interviewed Kit Carson twice, but now he’s dead,” Russell said.
“Perhaps Mr. Goodnight will do just as well. Benny says he’s never been lost, night or day, in any weather.”
Russell had been sitting; he stood.
“If I may say so, Miss San Saba, you’re just as beautiful as ever.”
San Saba didn’t answer. She was thinking of Mr. Goodnight. Why, she couldn’t say.
-
10
-
“Satank,” Goodnight said at
once, when the tall Englishman told him about the massacre. “The son of a bitch, he’s the worst Indian still out. Although Satanta ain’t far behind. Satanta tried to hug me once, but since he smears himself with red clay I declined the hug.”
“He was there too,” Russell said. “And several others whose names I didn’t recognize.”
“If you got Satank and Satanta you’re damn well informed, for a person from as far away as London.”
“Yes, that’s what we English do now: we stay informed,” Russell said.
“And invest,” Goodnight added. “If it wasn’t for Lord Ernle’s investment I wouldn’t be here flapping my jaw with a scribbler like you.”
Goodnight was restive: the minute he heard about the massacre he wanted to get home to Mary. But he was trapped. Lord Ernle, his partner, was bringing in three special train cars full of dignitaries. At least three governors were there, plus big lawyers and bankers, a few millionaires, and, of course, many journalists. Benny Ernle had to be allowed his party. While the townsfolk and cowboys looked on in amazement, a huge tent was erected, champagne popped, a beef was roasted, chilled pheasants were brought in from Virginia, a thousand quail’s eggs were served up as appetizers, and nearly everybody got drunk.