Free The Last Kind Words Saloon: A Novel by Larry McMurtry Page B

broke a leg and the cattle stampeded right over young Johnny. Such is the life and death of a good cowboy. Amen.”
    Goodnight remembered the boy, who had twice asked for a job, and was turned down on grounds that he was too young. He had refused him; now he felt some regret. Many a fine cowhorse had broken a leg in a prairie dog town. Life was a peril, purely a peril.
    “We’ll have to sort this out, Dan,” Goodnight said. “I’ve got pens enough for one herd but not for three. We’re looking at a week of sorting, at least.”
    Later in the day he found Shanghai Pierce, who was being guided by Caddo Jake.
    “Lost my skunk hides, had fifty-two,” Caddo Jake said.
    “You may have lost the hides but you ain’t lost the smell,” Shanghai Pierce said. “The smell of every goddamn one lingers with you.”
    Goodnight informed Pierce, whom he had never liked particularly, that he had his brand book and so the sorting could start the next day. His cowboys would be on hand to assist the work.
    “I lost three cowboys,” Pierce informed him. “Wagoner lost one—you’re lucky that your full crew survived.”
    “It’s too early to say,” Goodnight said. He was not certain about his own cowboy count until Bose Ikard showed up later in the day and said all hands had survived.
    “We’re lucky,” he told Bose, at which point he realized that in his concern for his hands he had totally forgotten his wife and the women who were with her.
    “Oh damn,” he said. “I got to thinking about the cowboys and totally forgot Mary and the girls.”
    Bose was silent. He had not known what to tell the women. Anyway, once they saw him, what they wanted to know was about Boss Goodnight. “Maybe you could go tell ’em I’ll be home when I get these cattle sorted,” Goodnight said.
    Bose didn’t answer. Goodnight knew that meant he didn’t think much of his idea.
    “Oh hang it!” Goodnight said. “Mary will never let me live this down. I might as well go take some of my medicine now.”
    And off he went, in a lope.
     

 
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    Jessie was uncomfortable in the presence of respectable women—she didn’t know why. It’s true that she herself had been born in a whorehouse in Kentucky—at least that was what her grandmother told her; but she had never sold herself for money, though in the barkeeping environment where she worked she often got offers that were in no way proper.
    Wyatt told her once that if he ever caught her whoring he would shoot her in the back of the head.
    “That way you’d never see it coming—that’s the best I can give you,” he said.
    “Sneak,” she said, and he was one too. Sleepy and careless as he seemed, Wyatt didn’t miss much.
    She and Warren buggied up to the great prairie castle just at suppertime and were promptly asked to take a meal.
    San Saba was quiet, but Nellie Courtright chattered away.
    “I’ll be glad when Charlie shows up,” she said. “I’d like to know how many cattle ran in that stampede—I think it was probably the worst stampede ever. I’d write an article about it if I had more information.”
    Mary Goodnight gave a kind of snort.
    “Charlie Goodnight don’t release information,” she said. “If I asked him which boot he put on first he’d put me off.”
    Jessie found it puzzling: why would anyone care which boot a man put on first? But Nellie was a pretty woman, and pretty women had a strong effect on any of the Earps, particularly Warren.
    “I see you’ve still got your sign, Mr. Earp. Your Last Kind Words sign,” Nellie mentioned. “Were you planning on hanging it up anyplace around here?”
    Warren, who had taken his hat off, immediately clapped it back on his head.
    “We mean to get us a saloon in Arizona,” Warren said. “Arizona has a fine climate—have you ever been?”
    “Just to a dude ranch,” Nellie told him. “Didn’t care for the dude ranch much.”
    “Virg is sheriff of a place called Tombstone,” Warren said. “Morg’s his