The shack sat not far from the north rim of the Palo Duro Canyon. Often the two men would sit, largely in silence, looking down into the canyon until dusk and then darkness filled it.
In the dusk and shadows they saw their history; in the fading afterlight they saw the fallen: the Rangers, the Indians, the cowboys.
'Let a man give you a fancy gun and he'll tell everybody in five counties that he's your friend, when in fact, you may despise him,' Goodnight said, spitting. 'I don't number too many rich fools among my friends--how about you?' 'I have not had a friend for several years,' Call said. Only after he said it did it occur to him that the remark might sound a little odd--as if he were asking for sympathy.
'Of course, there's Pea and there's Bol,' he added, hastily. 'Bol's out of his head, but I count him a friend.' 'Oh, your cook, I think he fed me once,' Goodnight said. 'If he's out of his head, how do you keep up with him?' 'I left him with a family in San Antonio,' Call said. 'When I get a job down near the border I sometimes put him on his mule and take him with me. There's another family in Nuevo Laredo I can board him with when it comes time to do the work.
'He enjoys a little travel,' Call added.
'He's still got his memories--he just can't put any two of them together.' 'Hell, I can barely sort out two memories myself,' Goodnight said. 'It's what I get for living too long. My head fills up and sloshes over, like a damn bucket.
Whatever sloshes out is lost. I doubt I still know half of what I knew when I was fifty years old.' 'You take too many train trips,' Call observed, in a mild tone.
'I thought we were talking about my bad memory,' Goodnight said, squinting at him. 'What's train travel got to do with it?' 'All this traveling by train weakens the memory --it's bound to,' Call said. 'A man that travels horseback needs to remember where the water holes are, but a man that rides in a train can forget about water holes, because trains don't drink.' Goodnight let that observation soak in for a few minutes.
'I was never lost, night or day,' he said finally. 'How about you?' 'I got turned around once, in Mexico,' Call said. 'It was a cloudy night. My horse fell and got up pointed in the wrong direction. I was yawny that night and didn't notice till morning.' 'Was you mad at the horse when you did notice?' Goodnight asked.
'I was mad at myself,' Call said.
'Well, this is a pointless conversation,' Goodnight said, turning abruptly toward his horse. Without another word, he mounted and rode away. He had always been abrupt, Call reflected. When Charles Goodnight concluded that a conversation had overrun its point, he was apt to make a swift departure.
While Mr. Brookshire was walking back across the street, trying to whack the dust out of his fedora by hitting it against his leg, the train he and Call had been waiting for came in sight. It was the train that would, in time, deliver them to San Antonio.
Call was trying to think of a polite way to inform Mr. Brookshire that the fedora wouldn't do in a windy place like Texas. A hat that kept blowing off could lead to no end of trouble when dealing with a bandit as advanced as Joey Garza.
Even more, Call wished Brookshire could be persuaded just to go on back to New York, leaving him to deal with the young Mexican bandit alone.
Traveling across the West with errand boys such as Mr. Brookshire took considerably more energy than tracking the bandits themselves. Call had little to say to such men, but they invariably had much to say to him. Six hundred miles of Mr.
Brookshire's conversation was not something he looked forward to.
'This wind puts me in mind of Chicago,' Brookshire said, when he returned to where Call was standing. He didn't bother putting his hat back on his head. Instead, he clutched it tightly in both hands.
'I've not visited Chicago,' Call said, to be polite.
'The wind's not like this back home,' Brookshire said. 'Back home I can go for months without my hat blowing off my head a single time. I got off the train here yesterday, and I've been chasing my hat ever since.' The train wheezed and screeched to a halt. When it had come to a full stop, Captain Call picked up his saddle and duffle roll.
Brookshire, to his surprise, suddenly found that he was feeling a little desperate--he felt that he didn't dare move. The wind had become even more severe, and he had the sickening sense that he, not his hat, was about to blow away. There wasn't a tree in sight that he could see: just endless plain. Unless he could roll up against a wagon wheel, as his hat had, there would be nothing to stop him for days, if he blew away. He knew it was an absurd feeling: grown men, especially heavy men such as himself, didn't just blow away. Yet the feeling persisted, and every time he happened to glance across the street and see nothing --nothing at all except grass and sky--the feeling got worse.
Call noticed that Brookshire had an odd look on his face. The man stood with his fedora clutched to his stomach, looking as if he were afraid to move, yet he was standing on perfectly level ground on a sunny winter day.
'Are you ill, Mr. Brookshire?' Call asked. After all, the man had been polite; he had agreed to Call's terms and had cheerfully paid for the coffee as well.
'I'd like to get on the train,' Brookshire said. 'I believe I'll soon perk up if I could just get on the train.' 'Why, here it is, right behind you,' Call told him. 'I assume you've got the tickets. We can step right on.' 'I'm afraid I've left my valise--you see, that's my problem,' Brookshire admitted.
'Oh, at the hotel?' Call asked.
'Yes, it's right in the lobby,' Brookshire said, looking at the ground. He did not feel it would be wise to look across the street again. It was when he looked across the street that the blowing-away sensation seized him the most fiercely.
'Well, the train just pulled in--it'll be here awhile, I expect,' Call said. 'You've got plenty of time to go get your valise.' Then he looked again and realized that his traveling companion was having some sort of attack.
Brookshire was frozen, his eyes fixed on his feet. He didn't appear to be capable of moving--walking the hundred yards to the hotel was, for the moment, clearly beyond him.
