Chapter Text
Texas, 1868
It was midday when Goodnight Robicheaux’s horse arrived at the top the ridge overlooking the tiny Texas town a couple miles away.
“Woah, girl,” he said to his horse, pulling at the reins to stop Cherie from immediately setting out down the marigold and cactus-studded ravine. The horse had a tendency to enthusiastically gallop into situations before considering the terrain. Goodnight had once been the same. That was a different time.
“Now what have we got here?” he said, patting the Palomino’s golden neck. “That’s gotta be the town of Gruene, don’t you think?”
Cherie’s response was to blow an unimpressed stream of air through her nostrils.
“My thoughts exactly,” he murmured, looking at the small cluster of buildings on the horizon. “Think they’ve got us some rooms for the night?”
He squinted as though he’d actually be able to make out a saloon from this far off.
Goodnight weighed the options of just stopping for a quick drink and continuing on his way, versus staying for the night. It wasn’t a hard decision. He wasn’t even sure when the next town would crop up, and the prospect of stretching out on something other than a thin blanket over a slab of rock was too tempting to pass up. Besides. It’s not like he had anywhere else to be.
“Lead the way, darling,” he said with the barest flick of his reins, and Cherie began to pick her way down the rocky bluff with sure-footed steps, Goodnight occasionally having to pull back a bit to stop her from breaking out into an overconfident trot. He relaxed when they reached flat scrubland again, and the man and his horse made an easy walk towards the outline of the town that was swimming a little in the midday sun.
He’d been on the road for about a year and a half but it felt like longer. He’d tried to reenter his old life in 1865, when his train coming home had finally pulled into Baton Rouge. He could still remember his mother’s face as he’d stepped onto the train platform, steam swirling everywhere. Families were reuniting with their sons, brothers, fathers…but not even his mother's relief at seeing Goodnight had hidden her agony when she couldn’t see his brothers with him. When she hugged him she’d been looking into the engine smoke filling the platform, as though the rest of her sons could be found in its fog.
It had never been the same. There were plenty of jobs going around to help rebuild the town, but Goodnight never lasted more than a couple of weeks in any of them. But worse than screaming foremen and dead-eyed laborers were his civilian neighbors, all of them so desperately trying to cling onto their last shreds of southern society. Goodnight felt like he could hardly breathe whenever he sat in some acquaintance’s parlor, listening to the meaningless chatter of the ladies who'd had to stay home and the men who’d chosen to, all bemoaning how hard things had been here with the rations, how many soldiers they’d had to put up in their houses, how many slaves they’d had to let go, and how dreadful Johnny Taylor looked with one arm now…
So it had been the open road ever since for Goodnight. Sometimes working on a farm for a few weeks, sometimes putting his particular skills to use if he happened across a fugitive with a bounty on him…it didn’t matter what he was doing, just so long as he could do it quickly, and leave it just as quickly. Anything was better than staying too long in a town with all its people, all its noise, all its clamoring, and the constant swell of bodies pressing in from all sides, crowding him, crushing him, suffocating him, all of them yelling, faces contorted, limbs twisted, so many faces just screaming screaming screaming –
His horse let out a whinny and Goodnight came to with a jolt. They’d arrived at the town. Shaking his head clear he squared his shoulders and rode steadily down the main street, nodding courteously to anyone who glanced up at him from their porch, only stopping when he hit what had to be the main saloon.
Sliding off his horse he tied her up in the shadiest area he could find, giving her a brief pat. He was about to go into the saloon and get a drink for them both when he was distracted by some men running excitedly down the main street.
“C’mon, we’re gonna miss it!” one of them called back to his friend.
Goodnight looked back at Cherie. She didn’t seem too thirsty yet, and Goodnight wasn’t feeling too dry from the ride either.
“Back in a bit, okay?” he told her. And he turned around and set out in the direction the men had been running off in. Washed up and useless though he might have felt these days, no one had ever accused Goodnight Robicheaux of lacking in curiosity.
He rounded the bend and saw a cluster of men all crowded around a horse pen, hollering and making bets.
“S’cuse me,” Goodnight said with the cordial confidence that someone with his upbringing could never quite manage to shake. People shuffled to let him through with barely a glance and he finally made it to the front of the crowd, standing next to a short, wiry, red-haired man. He placed his hand on the wooden rail of the horse pen and looked inside.
Two men stood about five metres apart. The one farther away and facing Goodnight was a large, broad-chested man whose bald head was burning slightly in the sunlight. He was holding a pistol with one hand and beating his chest with the other, shouting jeers at his opponent and getting the crowd riled up. Most of the crowd seemed to be cheering for him.
The one who stood closer to Goodnight’s section of the crowd had his back to them, so Goodnight wasn’t able to make out his face. All he could tell of the man was that he had black hair, longer than normal, and that he carried himself with a quiet calm, his shoulders as still as stone.
Goodnight looked to the man beside him who was yelling excitedly into the ring.
“What’s all this?” Goodnight asked.
The man turned to Goodnight, revealing a face that was ugly as a fence post. “Fast draw competitions! Been going on a week now. You’re just in time for the final. They’re playing for real this time.”
“You don’t say,” mused Goodnight. “So who’s the talent?”
“Well that there’s my man, Alan,” the redheaded man said puffing out his chest. “He’s my bet. If you wanna place one yerself I think Josiah is still taking them.” Josiah was presumably the white-bearded moderator collecting bills in a large, wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
“So he’s the frontrunner?” asked Goodnight, raising his eyebrows at the aforementioned Alan who was now lifting his arms in an attempt to get the crowd going, encouraging bets.
The redhead scowled. “Well see the one right there in front of us? With his back turned? That one goes by the name of Rocks, Billy Rocks. Goddamn Chinaman’s been sweeping this competition all week.”
“I think I heard he’s Korean,” an old, fat man who’d been listening to the conversation chimed in.
“What the hell’s the difference?” snapped the redhead.
“Only a small ocean,” Goodnight said mildly.
“Anyways,” continued the redhead, picking at his impressive front teeth. “Wherever he’s from, his lucky streak ends today.”
“What do you mean?” asked Goodnight frowning.
The man’s face took on an even uglier twist of satisfaction. “Well see Alan? Yeah? Now see past Alan?”
Goodnight stared past the bald man to see another man leaning casually against the fence on the far side of the pen. He was as lean as the redhead, but taller. He had shaggy brown hair and he wore a red flannel shirt that must have been sweltering in the heat. The people around him were yelling and placing odds, but the man in red’s eyes never left the Korean.
“That’s Johnny,” the redhead said, voice going conspiratorial. “And he’s already got the drop on the Chinaman.”
Goodnight’s eyes narrowed and he looked closer at the man in red. And sure enough, propped up on the fence under a wide sleeve and partially obscured by the flannel cloth was the unmistakable barrel of a gun.
“When Josiah gives the all-clear, he and Alan are both gonna shoot, but Johnny’s shot is bound to make it, seeing as how his gun’s already out.” The readhead shrugged. “Easy enough to make the shot look like it came from Alan.”
Goodnight’s hand tightened on the rail, his jaw clenching.
“You alright, friend?” the redhead asked him.
Goodnight felt like he couldn’t breathe for a minute as his grip on the rail became white-knuckled. There was a sudden pulsing in his ears drumming out everything around him, the redhead’s inquiries, the commotion of the crowd… it was all sucked into the background by the screaming in Goodnight’s ears as his vision started to turn red as the man’s flannel sleeve that barely obscured the gun’s glinting steel…
“Okay,” Josiah the moderator was calling out in a voice as cracked and gravelly as a desert plateau. “You boys ready to start?”
The bald man whooped his agreement, and the black-haired man’s head dipped as though he were nodding. But just as they moved to get into position, Goodnight was vaulting over the fence and striding over to them before he even knew what he was doing. Everyone turned to look at him, the moderator surprised, Alan confused. Goodnight finally saw the Korean’s face, and unlike the other two he looked merely impassive.
“No they most certainly are not ready to start,” he said in a loud voice to the moderator, before striding confidently over to the Korean.
“I told you I’d only be arriving on Friday, and now I have to hear you’ve been the subject of betting here for a week already?” Goodnight said irately. “Did I or did I not tell you to wait?”
The Korean looked sharply at him, and Goodnight staunchly ignored the way the adrenaline of what he was doing was getting his pulse pumping.
“And what business is it of yours, might I inquire?” asked Josiah.
“As this man’s manager it’s entirely my business,” Goodnight said, wondering what the odds were of his hand getting thrown off if he placed it proprietorially on the Korean’s shoulder. He didn’t chance it and instead continued: “He knows better than to let any betting go on without my supervision.”
“I see,” said Josiah. “And does his manager have a name?”
Goodnight stared him straight in the eye. “Goodnight Robicheaux, at your service.”
An instant murmur broke out like a swarm of bees. Josiah’s mouth fell open, dropping his white beard another few inches, and the bald Alan sent an alarmed look somewhere past Goodnight, presumably at his redheaded friend.
Goodnight took advantage of the commotion, to turn to the Korean. “Now if you’d be good enough to excuse me, it seems I need to commiserate with my talent.”
And before anyone could protest, Goodnight was taking the Korean man by the elbow and turning them both away. The man gave a jerk, but before he could pull away completely, Goodnight held him there and leaned in.
“Red plaid shirt. Brown Stetson. Our five o’clock. He’s got the drop on you.”
The man’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He slouched his shoulders and angled his body in the direction Goodnight had said. He did it so subtly he might have just been turning to listen better. Goodnight was impressed with the control.
“Him and his pal, see the ginger guy over there with teeth like tombstones? They had a plan to make you buzzard bait, my friend. Guess they didn’t take too kindly to you showing them up all week or something.”
The Korean stared at Goodnight for so long that Goodnight started to wonder how much English this guy even spoke. Until the man’s eyes narrowed and he asked:
“Why are you telling me this?”
Goodnight started a bit, genuinely surprised at the question. He was also surprised that he didn’t actually have a ready answer.
“Well it’s not a fair fight, is it?” Goodnight finally said, looking into the man’s face.
They stared at each other a moment longer and Goodnight felt the back of his neck pricking, wondering if he’d just made things worse for the both of them. To cover his uncertainty he blustered on:
“Now do you still want to actually draw with Baldy, who’s probably in on this scheme too? Or do you want me to invent some excuse and get us out of here?”
The man looked at him with a face Goodnight couldn’t read, and Goodnight lowered his voice even more:
“Because I can, you know.”
The Korean nodded slowly, just once. And Goodnight clapped his hands together loudly, turning back to the crowd. It had been buzzing, but the people fell silent again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it seems like my friend here misunderstood the terms of our business arrangement. Strictly no betting to be made on his person without me there, he knows better than that.” Goodnight strode amiably over to Josiah. “Now as a gesture of good faith, why don’t you take the pot from today and divvy it up between the other contestants, and my friend and I will be on our way. How about it?”
The white-bearded Josiah looked uncertain, and the bald man looked like he wanted to throw something. But Goodnight added calmly:
“You’d have the thanks of Goodnight Robicheaux.”
The name seemed to snap everyone into action, and Josiah nodded warily.
“I don’t see why not,” he said in the voice of a man who could see plenty of reasons why not, but wasn’t actually sure what they were yet.
“Well that’s fine,” Goodnight said with a shark-like grin. “I thank you all for your understanding. And if you’ll excuse us, my friend here and I have some business matters to attend to. Let’s go,” he said to the man whose fate he’d just intervened with, and they made their way over to the rails of the pen. Someone had unlatched the gate, swinging it open, and Goodnight and the man walked through, the crowd parting silently for them. Goodnight spared a glance at the redhead, whose face now matched his hair. Goodnight raised his eyebrows at him and the man looked away.
They continued to walk away from the pen, when a shout had them both turning around. It was the bald competitor named Alan, who’d just stepped out of the pen and was staring angrily at them.
“You ain’t got no business to attend to,” he yelled, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Your friend’s just a lily-livered sonuvabitch. Yeah that’s right! You hear me? You was just scared you’d miss.”
So quick that Goodnight almost missed it, the Korean was whirling around with three small blades in hand that he sent whipping towards to the man in rapid succession. The crowd screamed and each knife landed with a sharp thwack, pinning the man’s shirt to the fence post before he even had time to blink. The bald man looked down to where he was stuck, and back up at the Korean in shock.
The man just stared him down.
“I never miss,” he said simply.
And with that, he and Goodnight were turning around again and walking away. Goodnight waited until they were out of earshot before letting out a low whistle, chuckling as he looked over his shoulder at the crowd who was busy working the knives out of the fence post. They were still deeply buried. He looked back over at his new companion who was staring right back at Goodnight like he was trying to figure out what to make of him.
“I’m Goodnight Robicheaux,” offered Goodnight. Least he could do was give him a name to work with.
To his surprise, the other man suddenly looked amused.
“So I heard. I’m Billy Rocks.”
Goodnight gave him a grin.
“So I heard.”
***
Goodnight sat at one of the saloon’s low, wooden tables, idly looking around. He’d already seen to getting a room for the night, and had taken his horse some water. He’d gotten her fixed up in one of the spare stables, ignoring the stares of his new acquaintance as he’d soothingly rubbed her down.
Now he was just sitting here waiting at the scuffed table, suddenly feeling awkward about the whole thing. But before he could make sense of what he’d just done, Billy was returning with two frothy mugs of ale.
“Here,” he said, setting one in front of Goodnight. It was the one with the least amount of foam. Goodnight’s hand curled around the glass handle.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass and taking a sip, flicking some of the foam out of his whiskers. He looked back up at the man seated across from him, finally getting what felt like a proper look at his face.
It was smooth and angled. Riding in the sun had given it a slightly bronzed look, but it was hardly weathered. The man could have been anywhere from his mid twenties to almost forty. But Goodnight guessed the man was somewhere in his thirties, if only because of the cropped black facial hair around a wide mouth. Not to mention the faint lines beside the man’s eyes, which were were inspecting Goodnight from under the thick black hair that fell in his face.
“Are you Korean?” asked Goodnight because he suddenly and uncharacteristically couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Billy nodded as he took a sip of beer. He did it casually, but Goodnight could see the tension in the man’s broad shoulders like he was waiting for some kind of judgment.
But Goodnight just asked: “How long have you been in America?”
Billy shrugged. “Most of my life. Came here when I was ten.”
“But not to Texas,” said Goodnight, thinking out loud. “You must have landed somewhere west if you came from Korea and then worked your way inland, no?”
Billy stared at him. “Landed in Oregon if you need to know. Went down to California pretty soon after. Stayed there until I was a bit more grown up and then spent most of my time in Arizona and New Mexico. Been in Texas a couple years now.”
It was the longest sentence Goodnight had heard him say so far. He liked the man’s accent, his control of English absolute, but with a peculiar inflection like he was tasting the words in his mouth before trying them out. It was a hell of a lot more appealing than half the turkey’s gabble that Goodnight had heard so far in this state. In some ways it reminded him more of the gentle, polished drawl he’d heard growing up in Louisiana, when visiting his cousins in the country on their plantation, sitting under the trees and having conversations and late summer picnics beneath the Spanish moss.
“That’s quite a trail,” Goodnight said. “You do this the whole time?” he asked, jerking his head towards the door, referring to the fast draw competition they’d just left.
“All kinds of things,” Billy said, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t mean any offense,” Goodnight said raising his hands amiably. “That was just some fancy throwing I saw back there. I mean hell, they’re probably still working Baldy out of that fence you pinned him to. Seems like a guy like you could be doing a lot more specialized work with those skills, rather than scamming every backwoods’ hillbilly from here to Oregon.”
He met Billy’s eyes which were staring at him hard, like Goodnight was accusing him of something definite.
“No judgment,” Goodnight felt compelled to breezily add.
Billy leaned forward, eyes fixed to Goodnight’s. “The knives you saw? That’s what you want to know? Okay. For the right price, and the right mark, that used to be for hire. Got it?”
Goodnight nodded silently and Billy leaned back, lifting his mug of beer. He raised it to his lips, when he suddenly paused.
“But for Baldy it was for free,” he added thoughtfully, his lips twitching up. And Goodnight was surprised enough to let out a huffing laugh.
“You pick up all that fancy silverware spinning yourself, or someone teach you?” he asked curiously, between sips of beer.
“Myself,” said Billy. The he was looking at Goodnight seriously. “And now I have a question.”
Goodnight was suddenly nervous as he took another sip, waiting for it.
“You always this fucking nosy?” Billy finally asked, with a quirk to his mouth.
“Oh no, I used to be way worse,” Goodnight said cheerfully. “I find in my old age I’ve really discovered the virtues of silence. I’ve picked up a lot of patience.”
“And what, stared at it and put it right back down again?” Billy asked, snorting a little, and Goodnight finally felt more relaxed.
“Something like that,” he said smiling. He went to take another sip, and noticed with a start that his mug was empty. So was Billy’s.
Billy noticed too. “I got it,” he said, already standing up.
“You don’t have to do that,” Goodnight protested insincerely.
“You saved my life, I think I can buy you another drink,” Billy said dryly. Goodnight chuckled as he watched him approach the bar, holding up two fingers to the innkeeper.
When Billy came back the drinks, Goodnight felt a hell of a lot less awkward than he did the first time he’d waited for the man to approach.
“Gamsahamnida,” he said, taking the proffered drink. And he looked up just in time to see Billy’s eyebrows shoot all the way up to his hairline.
“You speak Korean?” he asked incredulously as he sat down, in the most open show of surprise Goodnight had seen from him yet. He seemed more shocked than he had when Goodnight had told him about the men trying to kill him.
“I do not,” Goodnight said. “But the town where I grew up had a Korean laundryman. So I can say hello, thank you…and don’t wrinkle my dad’s shirts or I’m the one he’ll be giving a whipping to.” He looked at Billy deadpan.
Billy stared back at him until finally the corner of his mouth curved up. “No you can’t.”
“No I can’t,” Goodnight agreed, raising his fresh glass to his lips, fighting against the laugh that was bubbling up. “But I fucking wish I could, I’ll tell you that right now.”
Billy burst out laughing and so did Goodnight, glowing a bit at finally having gotten the man to crack.
Billy was covering his mouth as he shook with laughter, and Goodnight took another sip of beer through his grin. He swallowed and added, “But I can say hello and thank you though.”
“Alright,” Billy said, settling down, still with the ghost of a smile on his face. He twirled his glass around on the table before taking a sip. He looked back a Goodnight, seeming a little more animated.
“Robicheaux…you French?” he asked.
“My grandparents on my dad’s side,” Goodnight said. “I’m from Louisiana which is where they met. They never got my daddy to learn much of it though. Insisted he only speak English.”
“What about you?” Billy asked. “You speak any?”
“Used to,” Goodnight said. “But not with them. Mostly with my nanny. Well, our main nanny,” he corrected himself. “She was a true Louisiana Creole and only spoke French with me and my brothers and sister.”
Goodnight suddenly felt a bit gauche by having admitted to a nanny. Billy had come here on what was likely some tin can of a cargo ship, and here was Goodnight talking about his family with multiple servants like the rich townie that he was.
But Billy just looked amused. “So you learned Korean from your laundryman…French from your nanny…don’t tell me you learned Spanish from your gardener?”
Goodnight shook his head. “Nah,” he said, already losing against the fresh wave of laughter that was swelling. His lips twitched as he looked at Billy. “He was from Kentucky.”
He and Billy lost it again, bent double over the saloon’s table laughing, until the other grizzled patrons started glancing over their shoulders at the two strangers from out of town.
“Shut up, everyone’s looking,” Goodnight said, trying not to laugh as he handed Billy his handkerchief for the man’s drink, which had sloshed onto the table a bit from his laughter.
Billy got himself under control, wiping up the bit of beer that had splashed out, and pinching his mouth almost like he was trying to squeeze the corners together to stop from smiling. Goodnight looked away in case it set him off again.
Billy reached out for his mug, still grinning a bit. “So I’ve heard your thank you,” he said before taking a swallow, the line of his throat bobbing. He set the glass back down, staring intently at Goodnight. “But what about your hello?”
Goodnight knew he was asking about Korean again. He cleared his throat.
“Annyeonghaseyo,” he said, trying to mimic the exact enthusiastic inflection he’d always gotten from the laundryman every time Goodnight would walk in with a large pack of clothes slung over his back that his daddy had insisted ‘built character’.
Billy raised his eyebrows. “Good,” he said, sounding impressed. “You never learned goodbye?”
“Never could quite catch it,” Goodnight admitted. “He’d say it when I left, but it just sounded like ‘hello’ again, with a bunch of extra junk at the end.”
Billy snorted. “Similar. Depends on if you’re staying or leaving though.”
Seeing Goodnight’s confusion, Billy pushed his drink aside, leaning forward and sketching it out with his hand. “If you are staying and I am leaving, you tell me annyeonghi-kaseyo. If am staying and you are leaving, then you say annyeonghi-keseyo.”
Goodnight stared at him. “Pal, I hate to break it to you, but you just said the exact same thing.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “You stay? Annyeonghi-kaseyo. You leave? Annyeonghi-KEseyo.”
In Korean, Goodnight felt like he could finally hear the man’s true vocal inflection. It was richer.
“One more time,” he said.
“Stay? Kaseyo. Leave? Keseyo.”
“Kaseyo. Keseyo,” Goodnight repeated to himself, taking a sip. “Kaseyo, keseyo, kaseyo, keseyo, kaseyo, keseyo…”
Billy watched Goodnight’s attempts. “So which one is it?” he asked, interrupting Goodnight’s repetitions.
“Pardon?” asked Goodnight, derailed.
“Which one is it?” Billy repeated, amused. “You staying or leaving?”
Goodnight hesitated. “Right now?” Billy nodded.
Goodnight looked at the man’s face.
“Staying,” he said. And he reached for his mug and the two clinked glasses.
***
Staying consisted of two more drinks apiece and some easy chatter over the next couple of hours. It was some of the easiest company Goodnight had had in over a year of being on the road. Which is why it felt like only five minutes later when Billy was casting a look out the window at the sun that was getting lower in the sky.
“I should be going,” he said. Goodnight wasn’t sure but he thought the man sounded a bit regretful.
“What, you’re not staying here?” he asked surprised.
“I had rooms over the butcher’s shop,” Billy said as he started collecting his things, absently throwing the handkerchief Goodnight had lent him into his bag without noticing. Goodnight didn’t point it out. “But after today I think it’d be best for me to - as you all say - 'get out of dodge', don’t you think?”
Goodnight did think. He nodded and they stood up, walking slowly out to the saloon’s porch. He watched while Billy hitched up his horse, a large mahogany coloured beast.
Billy glanced up at him from beneath his hat. “Sure you should be staying here? It’s me those guys had it out for, but they’re probably not happy with you either.”
“You think so?” Goodnight asked, frowning at the thought.
Billy shrugged. “I’m going nowhere in particular but you’re welcome to join.”
Goodnight looked at the man he’d just met. ‘Nowhere in particular’ suddenly seemed like a more appealing option than it had this morning. He had half a mind to say ‘hell with it’, forego his deposit on the room he’d gotten in the saloon, saddle up Cherie and join this Billy Rocks to nowhere and anywhere.
But then his back gave a twinge and he shook his head a bit reluctantly, tucking his hands into his jacket. “Thanks but I really ought to stretch out for a while. Been riding for an age.”
“Suit yourself,” Billy said. “Only if you’re sure those men don’t have it in for you too though,” he added, a faint crease between his eyebrows.
“I like my odds,” Goodnight said. He tossed Billy a cocky grin. “You saw them when I gave my name. I’m Goodnight Robicheaux, pal.”
“So you said,” Billy said wryly but with a bit of a smile. He looked like he was about to get on his horse when he turned back extending his hand. Goodnight took it in his own. It was calloused and warm. They shook.
“Thanks for my life, Goodnight Robicheaux,” Billy said, eyes crinkling.
“Thanks for the drink, Billy Rocks,” Goodnight said.
They let go and Billy swung himself up on his horse, wheeling it around. He touched his fingers to the tip of his hat at Goodnight, and was off cantering down the main street, back straight, heading out into the desert sunset.
Goodnight watched him go for a while, suddenly wishing he was there, riding alongside. He spent so much time on a horse he took the freedom in it for granted. The long stretches of desert between towns could get repetitive. But watching someone else do it…he had to admit the lifestyle did have a certain kind of glamour.
But he’d have to save the glamour for another day, Goodnight thought, turning back into the saloon. He was exhausted. He got a glass of whiskey from the bartender as well as his key, and made his way up the saloon stairs to his room.
The sun had gone down completely by now and it was dark in the room. He tossed his drink back in one go and fell onto the flimsy mattress that gave a muffled squeak, not even bothering to undress. He stared up at the ceiling as he kicked off his boots, and tried to focus his breathing the way some quack of a doctor had once suggested. The advice had actually helped to settle his pulse a little, but it was too bad the doc didn’t have a way for Goodnight to shut off his brain as well.
Goodnight adjusted himself on the bed, curling in on himself a little. Breathe in…out…in…out…
His eyelids began to droop…
in…out…in…out…
His breathing settled…
in…out…out…out…
out…out…
“Out! Out! We’re out of bullets!”
The gunfire rained down around them, grey jackets jerking as they got hit before crumpling down onto union soil.
Goodnight kept the blue union jackets in his crosshairs, and every one he took aim at went down in a heap. But it wasn’t enough. The grey coats were going down thrashing, being picked off like fish in a barrel. Men were trying to reload, clutching their rifles with shaking hands. Those were the ones that still had bullets. Something exploded near him with a deafening boom, making him jump.
“The hell was that?” he yelled out at one of the officers, ears ringing.
“Shut your mouth and keep shooting, Robicheaux!” was the hollered response.
Goodnight took five more rapid shots, five more lives snuffed out, before turning back to the officer, his face streaked with soot and blood.
“It’s our left flank, I’m telling you they’re crushing our left!” he shouted. “They’re gonna have us choked if we don’t spread out!”
“I’m gonna have you choked if you don’t shut up!” said the officer. Suddenly he jolted hard, a look of surprise on his face. He opened his mouth as though to say something else, but all the came out was blood, trickling into his beard that was grey from soot. He swayed and landed in front of Goodnight with a thump, letting out a gurgling sound.
Goodnight frantically tried to kick his legs out to get away from the body. He clutched his rifle holding down the whine that was steadily rising up in his throat before it could be released into the fiery air like a howl. No one would have heard it though, not through all the commotion of people shouting, cannons going off, bullets ripping through the sky, horses letting out whinnying death cries, the moans of men everywhere, the bursting of artillery shells, -
- the cocking of a gun.
Goodnight’s eyes flew open and he shot up in bed.
“Oh god no,” his whispered, his blood turning to ice, because this was his nightmare, this was his nightmare and it was here standing in front of him, its face a ghastly moonlight-soaked white that floated in the dark room, a specter that had followed Goodnight out of his mind until it was standing here, pointing a rifle straight at him.
“Teach you to make a fool of me, smart guy,” it whispered, lifting the gun, and Goodnight knew he was going to die.
Just then a figure was lunging out of nowhere as it rushed the specter, planting a steel knife right into its side. Before it could make a sound the figure was yanking the knife out from between its ribs, and jabbing it into its throat. With a twist of the knife the specter’s eyes bulged out beneath its red hair and it let out a faint rasp as blood started to trickle down its neck. It slowly slumped lower, revealing the face of the assassin. Goodnight’s eyes widened.
Billy stood behind the man, eyes black, hair wild like he’d been galloping through the night. One hand was holding up the slowly expiring redheaded man, and the other was clenched around the handle of the knife. He slowly pulled the knife out of the man’s throat, the blood on it almost black in the moonlight. His eyes were fixed on Goodnight who couldn’t breathe.
And then the red-haired man was finally slumping to the floor, dead, and Billy was wiping the knife blade on his pants, the spell broken.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Goodnight finally managed, his blood still cold, and his heart practically beating its way out of his chest.
“You said they weren’t gonna come after you,” Billy said, turning the man’s body over with his boot to make sure he was dead. He looked back at Goodnight. “I wasn’t so sure.”
Goodnight tried to ease his heart rate down as he looked at the dead man’s face, finally fully registering him as the spectator from the fast draw competition.
“His friends are waiting downstairs,” said Billy like he was reading Goodnight’s thoughts, reaching for the dead man’s rifle. “Get your stuff and come on. I’ve got our horses in the alley out back.”
Goodnight’s head was spinning but he did as the man said, leaping to his feet and hastily shoving the few things he’d unpacked back into his bag. He was pulling on his boots when a loud bang had him whirling around in shock.
“The hell was that?” he asked, his heart leaping up into his throat, remembering in the knick of time not to shout.
Billy dropped the rifle back onto the dead man’s chest, which he’d just shot a bullet through. “Buying us time. His friends would expect to hear a shot by now, otherwise they’d be coming up to check what’s wrong.”
“Well have you ever heard of warning a fellow, Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Goodnight hissed, torn between wanting to yell in rage and nerves, but not wanting to give the game away. “You can’t just go around shooting things up and not expect a man to jump, what’s the matter with you?”
Billy was giving him an odd look, and Goodnight realized he’d overreacted in his panic.
“Sorry,” Billy said, sounding sincere. “You packed? Let’s go.”
They left the room and crept through the upper halls of the saloon, Goodnight copying Billy’s steps. The man was slinking in an odd pattern, and Goodnight realized he was avoiding the floorboards that creaked. They arrived at a window in the back of the saloon, which was already propped open. A rope trailed out and over the windowsill into the night.
“After you,” Billy said and Goodnight climbed out of the window, glancing down to see Cherie saddled up underneath the rope. Her ears pricked up and she shuffled nervously to see him shimmying down the side of the building, but relaxed when he dropped lightly onto her back.
“Hey girl,” he said soothingly, feeling relieved when he heard her familiar nicker.
“Your damn horse almost bit my hand off,” Billy hissed as he shimmied down the rope after Goodnight.
“Yeah how did you manage to get her out of the stable?” Goodnight asked frowning, shuffling Cherie over to make room for Billy’s horse. “She never lets anyone else touch her.”
“Had to make her smell this so that she’d trust me,” Billy said, dropping onto his own horse and tossing a small bundle at Goodnight. Goodnight unfolded it to see it was his own handkerchief he’d lent Billy earlier.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to walk off with it,” Billy said apologetically.
“I’m mighty glad you did,” Goodnight said, his head still reeling. He shoved it in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
Their horses walked carefully down the back alley, not wanting to gallop in case the clattering of hooves alerted anyone inside.
“Alley ends up there,” Billy said. “We’re just gonna have to go around the side of the saloon and hope no one inside turns around. When we hit the end of main street we gallop, alright?”
They leaned down lower on their horses as they moved breathlessly past a window, Goodnight first. He tried to flatten himself as much as he could, feeling the sway of his horse as they walked past the open window. He could hear someone inside running up the stairs.
Once he passed the window he straightened up a little bit, glancing around at Billy who was passing the window now. For a minute it seemed like he’d make it unseen.
Just then there was a shout from the upper level of the saloon. “Hey! Ron’s dead he got Ron!”
And then another shout from the bottom level: “Outside, they’re outside! Two of ‘em!”
“Damn,” Billy swore. “Go!”
They both snapped their reins and their horses broke into a sprint as they galloped around the rest of the saloon, taking the corner as tight as any barrel race, before they were speeding down main street.
“Yah!” Billy yelled at his horse, catching up to Goodnight and galloping alongside him. They reached the end of the street and the ploughed road gave way to desert scrubland as their horses kicked up dust and dirt as fast as they could go.
Goodnight craned his neck around to see one of the redhead’s friends speeding after them on his own horse. The moon was turning the desert into a shadow storm of silver and black, and Goodnight could faintly make out the red flannel shirt of the man who was going to shoot Billy earlier.
“Behind us!” he yelled. Billy looked back and his eyes narrowed, recognizing him. He kept hold of his reins with one hand, drawing a large blade out of his vest with the other. It glinted wickedly in the starlight. He waited carefully, slowly drawing up the knife. And with one swift motion he whipped his arm down, sending the knife whistling directly into the man’s chest. Goodnight saw the man’s figure slump atop his horse before quietly slipping off.
“Nice one,” Goodnight panted, as they rode at a harder gallop. “You think Baldy’s after us too?”
A shot rang out.
“Yes,” Billy said.
Goodnight turned back again, to see another figure indeed gaining on them.
“The way I see it - ,” he yelled to Billy over their trampling hooves. “- is that we oughta leave one of them alive. Otherwise we just look like murderers who killed three of the town’s men and made off in the night. If we leave that one alive then he’ll have to do the explaining as to why that body was in my room in the first place.”
Another shot went sailing somewhere past their heads.
“Well if you got a better idea than killing him I’d love to hear it,” Billy shouted.
Goodnight reached behind him, pulling his rifle up and over his shoulder, the smooth-handled gun a familiar weight in his hand. He veered his gallop until he was bringing his horse right up next to Billy’s. He prayed the racing legs of the horses wouldn’t get caught in a tangle.
“Hold these,” he said, thrusting his own reins at Billy. And before Billy could ask what the hell he was doing, Goodnight eased himself up in his saddle, balanced precariously on Cherie’s racing back for a moment, and turned around dropping right back down into the saddle. Backwards. He lifted his rifle.
“You crazy?” Billy yelled, now frantically trying to steer both his and Goodnight’s horses at the same time. “And what happened to not killing him?”
“I’m not,” Goodnight murmured, trying to keep his rifle steady as he raced backwards on a horse through a desert at night, the only visibility coming from the moon up above.
“What, you’re gonna shoot the horse?”
“Horse’s saddle-strap,” Goodnight replied, cocking the gun.
“What the hell? You can’t make that shot, that’s impossible even during the day, you’re just gonna miss and –“
The blast of the rifle interrupted Billy. The bald man in pursuit let out a shout as the bullet went clean through the inch of leather holding his saddle in place. And before he knew what had hit him, the saddle gave an unmistakable snap and the man was sent tumbling off his horse, down into the desert rocks.
“Annyeonghi-KEseyo, you piece of shit,” Goodnight hollered after him. He slung his rifle back around his shoulder, carefully turning back around on his horse, and took his reins back from Billy. He looked over at him.
“I never miss.”
Billy’s stunned face stared back at him. And then just like that, the man burst out laughing, his face breaking into a huge smile. He threw his head back and let out a gleeful whoop over the thundering hooves, and Goodnight couldn’t have held back his own grin if he tried.
And as the silver scrubland before them slowly became tinged the dusky golden rose of dawn, the pair dug in their spurs and snapped their reins as they sped across the open desert, both of them racing to beat the sunrise.