Bullets had killed men fighting at his very elbow, but no bullet had ever struck him. He had taken herds across almost one hundred waterless miles, and not starved. He had raced to turn stampedes, in pitch darkness, over broken country on unreliable horses, and had not once fallen or been thrown. He had been in barrooms and other crowded situations with outlaws who would shoot you if they didn't like the way you removed your hat; yet, he had removed his hat pretty much as he pleased and had never been shot.
He knew he was fortunate, not merely because none of his own blood had ever been spilled in battle, but because he himself had spilled only a minimum, considering the circumstances under which he had to operate. He had killed three Comanches and one Kiowa, and hung three determined horse thieves, a modest tally by the standards that had prevailed on the frontier in his youth.
A man like Woodrow Call, a lawman most of his life, had far more on his conscience, when it came to taking life, than he himself had.
It was Call, mainly, that Goodnight had on his mind, as he sat in the kitchen by the little fireplace. That night, after consuming his lightly singed beefsteak, he had taken his rifle from behind the door and cleaned it. He did the same with a .44 Colt he had carried daily until a year or two before, when the spread of the settlements had made such a frontier artifact unnecessary, unless one was on a trip. Goodnight knew that it had mainly been the fact that he was there, on his ranch with his wife and cowhands, that had encouraged the first trickle of settlements into the Panhandle.
Thereafter the trickle had increased; soon the trickle grew until there were towns and villages and sufficient law that sidearms gradually ceased to be a part of everyday dress.
All his cowboys still wore pistols, of course; they claimed they kept them to use on snakes, but in fact, few of them could shoot well enough with a pistol to hit a rattlesnake in under ten shots at point-blank range.
The cowboys wore the guns from wi/lness, Goodnight supposed. They wanted to feel that they were living in a West that was still wild. It was harmless nostalgia, for the most part; as long as they didn't injure themselves or the livestock, he put no strictures on their use of firearms.
But the Panhandle was no longer the wild West --not by a long shot. The cowboys could play and posture all they wanted to, adjusting their holsters and practicing fast draws. The fact was, they were herdsmen, not gunfighters, and it would be colossal bad luck if their herding ever brought them inffcontact with a real killer, of the sort that had once been common in the West. If any of his cowboys were that unlucky, they would certainly be killed. Roping and branding and riding pitching horses was no preparation for dealing with deadly men.
Goodnight had cleaned the rifle and oiled up the pistol restlessly, with a troubled mind. He could not get Lorena, the young schoolteacher, out of his thoughts. She had left to find her husband; and her husband, at Goodnight's own insistent urgings, had left first, to go to the assistance of Captain Call. Goodnight had a nagging feeling about the whole business--it nagged him so severely that he had scarcely slept, for three nights. If Mary had been home, she would have been having conniptions, at the thought of all the kerosene he was burning in the kitchen lamp.
The fact was, there still were deadly men in the West, and there was a vast space in which they could operate. The country between the Pecos and the Gila was still mostly no-man's-land. Its emptiness made it a magnet for killers, and at least two of some determination were operating there right now. Mox Mox was probably only a paltry bandit, with a few horse thieves for companions, but he was the man who had piled brush on four cowboys and burned them to death near Pueblo, Colorado.
And he had been ready to do the same to Lorena.
The Garza boy didn't seem to be as morbid, or afflicted with the need to burn, but he, too, was a deadly killer who executed his victims at random, and without remorse.
Goodnight felt oppressed by his own thoughts. He had made a serious mistake, when he hectored Pea Eye at the blacksmith's in Quitaque. He had been too blunt, and had acted as if things had to be as they had been in the past. Lorena did not stay a whore; no more did her husband have to stay a Texas Ranger.
Except for the meeting at the blacksmith's, these two people, both a credit to their little community, would be at home with their children, the husband farming, the wife teaching school. And, what was most important, they would both be safe.
Now, they were far from safe. They were in the great emptiness of the Pecos country, where Mox Mox and the Garza boy were, too.
Perhaps Woodrow Call would eliminate the outlaws. He had eliminated a good number, some of them formidable, in his day. But he couldn't be everywhere, and he couldn't work miracles. He was one man, trying to find two killers in a big country.
Goodnight had supposed that he was past having to take up the gun. He hadn't had a serious encounter with an outlaw in twenty years. He had thought that sort of conflict behind him; certainly, Mary thought it behind him. If she had been home, he would not have been able to clean the rifle without a debate, probably vigorous. Mary believed in professionals: cattlemen ought to raise cattle; bankers ought to handle money; lawmen ought to deal with outlaws; and wives ought to run their households without interference from the men.
But Mary wasn't home, and anyhow, although he had often let Mary slow him, she had never stopped him, not when he felt he had a task that he should do.
'No, and God and his lightning bolts don't stop you either, Charlie,' Mary had observed once, when he was about to leave for Colorado, in uncertain weather.
The weather was uncertain again, but Goodnight had never let weather interfere with him. No one who worked on the plains could afford to bend to weather, if they hoped to accomplish anything.
At four a.m., Goodnight strapped on his pistol, put his rifle back in its saddle scabbard, and went to the lots to catch his horse.
It was sleeting again. Dawn was nearly three hours away, but he was restless. He had decided to go, and was soon saddled and ready.
There was a light on in the bunkhouse kitchen.
Muley, for all his flaws, at least wasn't lazy. He was in the kitchen, arms white with flour, making biscuits for the cowboys, all of whom were still asleep except his yawning foreman, Willie Bascom, who was sitting up in his bunk trying to pull on his stiff boots.
'Breakfast ain't ready, I just got up,' Muley said, the minute Goodnight stepped in the door.
