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

were other shows like his.”
    Doc allowed himself to be persuaded, there being little else to do in Long Grass. Besides it was always fun to poke around in dumps and see what kinds of stuff human beings felt they could afford to throw away.
    “Why here’s a full bottle of hair lotion, somebody must have shot the barber,” Doc said.
    Wyatt found a solitary stirrup: no saddle, no cowboy, no horse, just a stirrup.
    Doc sniffed the hair lotion and made a face. He threw the lotion back on the dump and shot at the bottle three times, missing clean.
    “Whoever ordered that lotion probably got snake-bit and expired soon after,” Doc said.
    Wyatt didn’t answer. Nine out of ten statements Doc made were nonsense, but it was dangerous to stop listening because the tenth statement might be really smart.
    “Thirty bottles is enough,” he said, once he had lined his thirty bottles on a low wall more or less behind the town. “The way to hit your target is to sight right down your arm and squeeze off a shot real slow.”
    He leveled his arm and sighted down his arm and squeezed off a shot very slowly. No bottles shattered.
    “I have heard that the prone position is the more reliable when shooting Colt revolvers,” Doc said.
    He dropped to his knees but stopped there.
    “There’s cowshit everywhere here,” he informed him. “I’ll soil my vest if I lie prone.”
    Wyatt fired three times, shattering no bottles. Annoyed, he threw his pistol at the line of bottles, knocking over three. Then he took a derringer out of an inner pocket and shattered two, to his surprise.
    Doc was still struggling with the difficult prone position. He shot but no bottles shattered. He drew back his arm to throw the gun but then caught himself at the last second.
    “Throwing guns is a bad habit,” he said. “You might throw your gun away just as some loose Indians come charging down upon you.”
    “There ain’t no more loose Indians, Doc,” Wyatt said. “But if there were, throwing your gun wouldn’t help you.”
    He fired once more with the derringer and shattered a bottle.
    “Good lord, I hit one,” he said. “Luck ain’t to be despised.”
    “Who said I despised it?” Doc said, dusting off his vest.
     

 
    - 36 -
    Later Doc paid a visit to the barbershop, which was also the blacksmith shop. The barber, a wizened little fellow named Red, was also the blacksmith. He’d be shoeing horses one minute and shaving whiskers the next.
    “Somebody threw away a bottle of hair lotion,” Doc said. “It’s over in the dump, about two-thirds full. I hate to see such a fine product go to waste.”
    “Oh it came from Scotland,” Red said. “It belonged to one of them bagpipers.”
    “If Scotland’s that smelly I believe I’ll give it a pass. I will take a shave and try not to cut my throat.”
    “Shouldn’t tempt me,” Red said. “Only I can’t afford to cut nobody’s throat. There’s few enough customers in this town anyway.”
    Later in the day Doc heard the same sentiment from an aging whore named Edna, his favorite local whore. She still worked out of the Orchid Hotel, which had grown shabby since San Saba left. The famous Twelve Inches Free sign had been dusted over. Edna’s breasts had fallen and she smoked cheroots but she was tolerant of Doc’s coughing and she had a fine sense of humor—often she giggled a girlish giggle, which Doc liked to hear. He liked her so much that he asked her about that famous local sign—the man with a twelve-inch member gets to visit free. Doc had always figured the twelve inches was just a joke, but when he brought it up with Edna she giggled and looked coy.
    “I doubt there’s a man alive with a dick that long,” he said.
    “You ain’t a whore, Doc,” Edna said. “It ain’t common but it ain’t unheard of, either. Now and then a cowpoke will walk in with a thing on him you wouldn’t believe.”
    “What do you do when that happens?”
    Edna shrugged. “Same as we do for