The Last Kind Words Saloon: A Novel Read Free

footbath.
    “Very important to keep the feet clean,” he went on. “Many infectious evils come in through the soles of the feet.”
    “Fifty eunuchs?” Goodnight said; the morning was rich in surprises.
    “My mother was the Rose Concubine, which was a very high position in the harem. But one day she refused the sultan, which was not done.”
    Goodnight waited.
    “He had her blinded, sewn in a sack, and thrown off a cliff into the Bosphorus. I was kept a virgin until the sultan got around to me. Fortunately Benny showed up and bought me.”
    “Rather filthy specimen, that sultan,” Lord Ernle said. “Hamid something. I couldn’t see wasting such beauty on Orientals. But that’s a long story and I think Charlie and I ought to be thinking about our announcement.”
    “Okay,” Goodnight said. “There’s a newspaperman wandering around here already and there’ll soon be a passel more. I’m sure Nellie Courtright will soon be along—she runs the telegraph in Rita Blanca, which ain’t far—at least not as the crow flies.”
    He was trying to learn a new virtue: patience. He was known all over the West for exactly the opposite quality: impatience; and, in his impatience, he was known to be exceedingly profane—and loud to boot. His own wife, Mary Goodnight, had threatened to leave him twice because of the cussing, although in neither case was it her he was cussing.
    Though impatient, Goodnight wasn’t daft. He had met Lord Ernle in Chicago, where an effort was made, although a feeble one, to form a stockmen’s association, and he liked Lord Benny Ernle immediately, while recognizing that he wasn’t an ordinary partner. He was the tallest man in England, and also the richest: one of his many country houses, he told Goodnight, required thirty-eight gardeners.
    “Weeds, I suppose,” Goodnight said, but Lord Ernle didn’t hear him. He was left to wonder what thirty-eight gardeners did. Though he had known Lord Ernle only a few months he realized that he would be wasting his time trying to understand English ways; maybe his wife would have better luck when they met up, as they would soon.
    “What’s the word on my house? San Saba and I are looking forward to moving in soon,” Lord Ernle said.
    Even before the partnership with Goodnight had fully evolved, Lord Ernle had made himself a legend in the West by ordering the construction of a vast castle on a bluff overlooking the Canadian River. Miles of train track had been laid just to bring workmen and equipment to the castle site. Though still a vast shell, travelers who happened on it were left speechless by the scale. Even Mary Goodnight had been struck speechless, a rare occurrence in Charlie’s experience.
    “I fear I had no time for architecture,” Goodnight said. “But I did bring up about fifteen hundred yearlings for us to put in play.”
    “Not to worry, Mr. Goodnight,” San Saba said. “We left a foreman there to see that construction is moving along. I even have photographs. There’s a lot to do yet but it’ll get done in time.”
    “I rarely do worry,” Goodnight said, while wondering exactly what role San Saba—once maybe the most beautiful woman in Asia, now no longer in Asia—would have in this hastily evolved partnership. Though gossiped about endlessly in the cow country, not much was actually known about her. She called Lord Ernle Benny, but what did that mean? There was said to be measuring of penises at the Orchid, but was it true and if so what did that mean?
    “What about the savages, Charlie?” Lord Ernle inquired. “All subdued, I trust?”
    Goodnight shook his head.
    “The Comanches are through—they’ve accepted reservation life,” he said. “With the Kiowa it’s a shakier situation. There are twenty or thirty renegades who keep breaking loose and causing trouble.”
    “Why not raise a private militia and go wipe the devils out?” Lord Ernle said. “I’m sure there are plenty of fine killers for hire in these