'Out late, and far from home,' Goodnight admitted. He himself had never had any difficulty with Wesley Hardin, but Hardin was a nervous man who was known to kill from whim. It wouldn't do to get too jocular with him. If you didn't manage the jocularity to suit John Wesley, he might flare up and yank out a gun.
'Are you still in the cattle business?' Hardin asked.
'Yep,' Goodnight said. 'Still in it. Why?' 'Thought you might want to switch to the crow business,' Hardin said, in a whinny of a laugh.
'There's a lot of fine crows around here, and they're going cheap. The best crow in Crow Town wouldn't sell for more than a penny.' 'In fact, I'm looking for Woodrow Call,' Goodnight said. 'Any news of him?' 'Yes, and I'm the only man that's got it,' Hardin said. 'I ought to charge you for it, Charlie, since I've got a monopoly, but being as it's you, it's free. Woodrow Call done for Mox Mox.' 'Now that's news, all right,' Goodnight said. 'Are you sure?' 'Sure as daylight,' Hardin said. 'I went down to Piedras Negras to whore, because the Garza boy's mother took the women out of Crow Town.
I'm coming from Mexico, and I'm heading for Denver. I believe I can do better in Colorado than I'm doing in Texas.' 'Where is Mox Mox?' Goodnight asked.
'I want to see his body.' 'I'm surprised you'd doubt my word, Charlie,' Hardin said, with a touch of irritation.
'I don't doubt it, John,' Goodnight said. 'But I am determined to see the man's body. He burnt four of my cowboys, on the Purgatory River, and I want to be sure it's him, so I can stop chasing him in my head.' 'Well, the sonofabitch froze to death in a gully about a hundred miles south of here,' Hardin said. 'Call killed all but one of his men about twenty miles farther on. All of them were laying there dead, except that quick Cherokee boy.
Him and Mox Mox made a run for it, but Mox Mox was shot in the lights. He played out and froze. I expect the Cherokee is still running.' 'Let him run,' Goodnight said. 'Call done a good day's work.' 'No, he done a sloppy day's work,' John Wesley said. 'He's lucky he got the six men down, shooting as bad as he was.
He knocked them over, but they were still kicking, and if any one of them'd had any fight they'd have got him. He had to finish them off with his pistol, which is a disgrace if you're in good range and have a decent rifle to shoot.' 'The fact that he gave Mox Mox a mortal wound makes it a good day's work, in my opinion,' Goodnight said.
'Mox Mox was just a mean bandit, Charlie,' Hardin said. 'I wouldn't call him a man of talent. The sonofabitch should have been a cook, since he liked fires so much. I could have killed him in a blink, and all his men, too.
'I wonder where that Cherokee boy has run to?' he added. 'That Cherokee boy is quick, and he ain't wasteful. He didn't leave Mox Mox even so much as a match.' 'I'd appreciate it if you'd direct me to that gully,' Goodnight said. 'I'd like to see the body before some varmint drags it off.' 'Backtrack me for two days, and you'll run right into it, Charlie,' Hardin replied. 'It ain't more than twenty-five miles south of the railroad.' Goodnight was anxious to get going. He had been thinking about his old partner, Oliver Loving, a man he had cared for greatly, and with whom he had camped on the very spot where he was conversing with John Wesley Hardin. Oliver Loving, a fine cattleman, had been dead for many years; John Wesley Hardin, a pure killer and a man who respected no one, was still alive and still brash. It was not justice, it was just life.
'Well, I'll be going,' Goodnight said.
'Much obliged for the news. Once I've seen what's left of the manburner, I guess I'll go home. Captain Call done the job I ought to have done ten years ago.' 'He done it, but he was lucky,' Hardin said.
'If you see him, tell him that for me.' 'It might have been luck, and it might have been preparation,' Goodnight said. 'Call was always known for his careful preparation.' Hardin laughed his whinny of a laugh, again.
'He can prepare till doomsday. What he needs to do is shoot a little better,' Hardin said.
'He was just fighting louts. If he thinks he can saunter up to the Garza boy and be that lucky, then he ought to retire. The Garza boy will pick him off before Call even knows he's there.' 'Have you met this boy?' Goodnight asked.
He didn't necessarily believe what Hardin was saying; on the other hand, what he was saying couldn't be lightly disregarded. Wesley Hardin had been in several penitentiaries, and undoubtedly knew something about killers.
'Why, yes, he showed up in Crow Town,' Hardin said. 'That was before the whores left. I found him rather standoffish. I started to kill him, but then I decided it was the wrong day for hostilities.' 'Why?' Goodnight asked.
'Well, it just was,' Hardin replied.
'I've got to the age where I don't tempt fate. At least, I don't if I'm drunk, and I was drunk.' He cackled, lit a cheap cigar, and left.
Goodnight looked around; Hardin was the kind of fellow who prompted you to watch your back. But all he saw was a quick arc of red. Hardin had thrown the cheap cigar away.
Two days later, Goodnight found the gully and inspected the remains, which were a little scattered by that time. The buzzards had helped him locate the correct gully, in a country where there were many.
Hardin had been right. The manburner was dead.
There was also a dead horse a few hundred yards from where Mox Mox lay; run to death, Goodnight felt sure. Mox Mox wore a noticeable belt--the belt buckle had a red stone of some kind set in it. Goodnight took the belt and put it in his saddlebags. When he next ran into Call, he planned to give him the belt. If Mox Mox had run far enough to ride a horse to death, Call might not even know that he had killed him. The belt ought to convince him.
Then, since he had ridden that far to see one body, he rode another twenty miles to the camp where the battle had taken place. He didn't have to search, either. He could see buzzards the whole way.
Goodnight had surveyed many battle sites. He could usually figure out what had gone on and what mistakes had been made, from looking at the scattered cartridges, the lost hats, and the dead bodies. In this case, he dismounted and inspected the area carefully. He was forced to conclude that John Wesley Hardin had been correct in his assessment: Woodrow Call had been lucky. Probably only his willingness to keep pumping in bullets while his opponents were confused, had saved him. There was cover within a few steps of the campsite. If one or two of the men had had any presence of mind, they could have quickly dug in and made a fight of it.
They had horses, too; a couple of them could have flanked Call and cut him off.
