Larry McMurtry - Comanche Moon

This night, he decided not to gamble on the cabin. A dog began to bark but Augustus left it to its barking and slipped on by. He rode only another few miles before making camp. It was rocky country, the footing in some places so uncertain that he felt he risked laming the black mare if he travelled further.

In any case, he was not going anywhere in particular and was on no schedule except his own.

The cedarwood and low mesquite burned nicely; he soon had a fragrant fire going. It was not cold; he only fed the fire a stick now and then because he liked to have a fire to look at.

Over the last years he had looked into many campfires and only seen one face: Clara's.

His fat wife, Geneva, and his skinny wife, Nellie, were dead; the memory of their forms and faces didn't disturb him. That night when he looked into the fire he saw no one. Women had been constantly in his thoughts since his youth, but that night he was free of even the thought of them. He thought he might just keep on riding west, into the desert, where there were neither governors nor women.

His absence would vex Woodrow Call, of course, but he didn't see that he needed to live like a bound servant, just to spare Woodrow Call a little vexation. The bright stars above him seemed to act like a drug. He dreamed of floating on air like a gliding bird, gliding into a slumber so deep that, when he woke, the stars had faded into the light of a new day. At the edge of sleep he heard a clicking sound, the sort a tin cup might make, or a coffeepot; the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a pair of legs standing by his campfire, which blazed beneath the coffeepot.

"The coffee's hot, I suggest you rouse yourself up, Captain," a voice said. Recognizing that his visitor was none other than Charlie Goodnight, Augustus immediately did as the man suggested.

"Howdy--I'm glad it was you and not Buffalo Hump, Charlie," Gus said. "I may have taken ill. Otherwise I fail to understand why I would sleep this late." "You don't look ill to me, just idle," Goodnight observed. He was a stout man, a little past Gus's age, fully as forceful in speech as he was in body. He had been at times a superlative scout and ranger, but lately his interest had shifted to ranching; he now only rode with the rangers when the need was urgent. He was known for being as tireless as he was gruff.

Conversations with Charlie Goodnight were apt to be short ones, and not infrequently left those he was conversing with slightly bruised in their feelings.

"Heard about the war?" Augustus asked.

"Heard," Goodnight said. "I'd appreciate a bite of bacon if you have any.

I left in a hurry and took no provisions." "It's in my saddlebag, with the frying pan," Gus said. "You'll pardon me if I don't offer to cook it. I prefer to contemplate the scriptures in the morning, at least until the sun's up." Goodnight got the bacon and the pan. He didn't comment on the war, or the scriptures.

Gus saw that a fine sorrel gelding was nibbling mesquite leaves, alongside his mare. Not only had he not heard the man approach, he had not heard the horse, either. It was fine to be relaxed, as he had been last night, but in wild country there was such a thing as being too relaxed.

Goodnight's silence irked him a little: what good was a guest who consumed bacon but didn't contribute conversation?

"Do you fear God, Charlie?" Augustus asked, thinking he might pursue the religious theme for a moment.

"Nope, too busy," Goodnight said.

"Are you a God-fearing man? I would not have supposed it." "I expect I ought to be," Gus said. "He keeps taking my wives, I suppose he could take me at any time." "He might as well, if you're going to sleep till sunup," Goodnight said. He had already cooked and eaten fully half of Gus's bacon. He stood up and returned the rest to the saddlebag.

"Are you going somewhere?" Goodnight asked.

"Why yes, west," Augustus said. "How about yourself?" "Colorado," Goodnight replied.

"There's a lively market for Texas beef in Denver, and an abundance of beef on the hoof down here in Texas." Augustus considered the two remarks, but in his groggy state failed to see how they connected.

"Have you got a herd of cattle with you, Charlie?" he asked. "If so, I guess I'm blind as well as deaf." "Not presently," Goodnight said.

"But I could soon acquire one if I could find a good route to Denver." "Charlie, I don't think this is the way to Colorado," Augustus said. "Not unless your cattle can drink air. There's no water between here and Colorado, that I know of." "There's the Pecos River--t's a wet river," Goodnight said. "If I could just get a herd as far as the Pecos, I expect the moisture would increase, from there to Denver." Mention of Denver reminded Gus of Matilda Roberts, one of his oldest and best friends. In the old days everyone had known Matty, even Goodnight, though as one of the soberer citizens of the frontier he had no reputation as a whorer.

"You remember Matty Roberts, don't you, Charlie?" Gus inquired.

"Yes, she's a fine woman," Goodnight said. "She's in the love business but love ain't been kind to her. I've not visited her establishment in Denver but they say it's lavish." "What do you mean, love ain't been kind?" Gus asked. He realized that he had no recent information about his old friend.

"Matilda's dying, that's what I mean," Goodnight said. He had unsaddled his horse, so the sorrel could have a good roll in the dust; but the sorrel had had his roll and in a few minutes Goodnight was ready to depart.

"What--Matty's dying--what of?" Augustus asked, shocked. Now another woman of his close acquaintance was about to be carried off.

The news struck him almost as hard as if he had been told that Clara was dying. Even Woodrow Call would admit a fondness for Matty Roberts; he would be shocked when he heard the news.

"I don't know what of," Goodnight informed him. "I suppose she's just dying of living--t's the one infection that strikes us all down, sooner or later." He mounted and started to leave, but turned back and looked down at Augustus, who still sat idly at the campfire.

"Are you poorly today?" Goodnight asked.

"No, I'm well--why would you ask, Charlie?" Gus said.

"You don't seem to be in an active frame of mind today, that's why," Goodnight said. "You ain't ready to die, are you?" "Why, no," Augustus said, startled by the question.

"I'm just a little sleepy. I was sitting up with Nellie quite a few nights before she passed away." Goodnight did not seem to be satisfied by that answer. The sorrel was nervous, ready to leave, but Goodnight held him back, which was unusual.

When Charlie Goodnight was ready to go he usually left without ceremony, seldom giving whomever he was talking to even the leisure to finish a sentence. He had never been one to linger--yet, now, he was lingering, looking at Augustus hard.

"If you were under my orders I'd order you home," he said bluntly. "A man who can't get himself in an active frame of mind by this hour has no business travelling in this direction." "Well, I ain't under your orders and I never will be," Augustus retorted, a little annoyed by the man's tone. "I ain't a child and nobody appointed you to watch over me." Goodnight smiled--al a rare thing.

"I was concerned that you might have lost your snap, but I guess you ain't," he said, turning his horse again.

"Wait, Charlie ... if you're bound for Denver I've got something for you to take to Matty," Gus said. The news that she was dying struck him hard--he was beginning to remember all the fine times he had had with the woman. He went to his saddlebag and pulled out the sock where he kept his loose money. The sock contained about sixty dollars, which he promptly handed to Goodnight. As he did his face reddened, and he choked up. Why were all the good women dying?