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

anybody, only it’s free.”
    Doc looked around the shabby room—there was dust on the pillows.
    “What’ll you do when this place shuts down?”
    Edna shrugged. “Go back to some place where they don’t know me. Pennsylvania, maybe.”
    Doc felt it unlikely, but Edna looked hopeful. Why shatter a dream?
     

 
    - 37 -
    It was two weeks after the big stampede, and Charlie Goodnight had been home only twice—if it was his home—and Mary Goodnight had stopped being worried and began to be annoyed.
    “I guess Charlie would rather work than be married,” Mary said. “The way I see it he’d rather work than do anything.”
    “Many men would rather work than be married,” San Saba said. “Your husband is not abnormal in that respect.”
    “That’s true of my husband,” Nellie put in. “Zenas would throw any ball that’s handed to him.”
    Then they saw a rider coming from the north, though not coming very rapidly.
    “Is that fellow riding a mule?” Mary asked.
    “He is,” San Saba said. “In fact I know him: it’s Russell of the Times .”
    “That’s right,” Nellie said. “I remember him now. I wonder where he found the mule, and why he’d want it, anyway. He’s the most famous journalist in the world. It’s rumored that the Queen intends to knight him someday.”
    “That’s very unlikely,” Russell said. “Queen Victoria has a lot to do—she needn’t start giving knighthood to hacks like yours truly.”
    He dismounted and Mary Goodnight gave him a forthright handshake, which he took.
    “I apologize for my husband,” Mary said. “I suppose he’s off sorting cattle.”
    “He is,” Russell said. “Yesterday I met a Mr. Pierce, who’s at the same task. And I understand there’s a Mr. Wagoner, whom I have not met.”
    “I hope to see your husband tomorrow,” he said.
    “Why?” Mary said. “If he’s in a bad mood, as I suspect he is, then he’ll hardly be worth seeing.”
    “I was hoping he’d show me the place where Lord Ernle died,” Russell said. “I’ve been asked by the family to do a short book about him.”
    “Goodness, do you write books too?”
    “Trifles, yes,” Russell said. “I’m quick though. I should be able to do the career of Lord Benny Ernle in about two weeks.”
    “Who would want to read it?” Nellie asked. “The man was a fool, else he’d be alive.”
    Howard Russell was amused. The unschooled American lady had posed a good question. Who would want to read about the late Lord Ernle, clearly a very rich but very foolish man.
    “I’m surprised to find you here, Madame Saba,” he said. “I had supposed you’d want to go home.”
    San Saba nodded her head.
    “It’s a fine question, where my home is, Mr. Russell,” she said. “I was raised in Turkey but I’m sure not going back there, after what happened to my mother.”
    “I recall some irregularities about your mother—the Rose Concubine. I met Sultan Hamid once. Nothing nice about him that I recall,” he said.
    “I wonder where the eunuchs went?” he asked.
    “To hell, I hope,” San Saba said.
    A great red sun was just then setting to the west. In the sky the planet Venus shone brightly.
    “I customarily enjoy a brandy at this hour,” he said. “I’ve a bottle in my saddlebags. Would you ladies care to imbibe?”
    San Saba declined. She had never cared for brandy, or, indeed, for anything stronger than beer.
    But Mary and Nellie did care to imbibe. After all they were married, and yet where were their husbands?
    “If there was a band we could dance,” Mary said. She went to every dance she could find, though getting Charlie Goodnight on a dance floor was seldom worth the effort. But, somewhere in the crowd, there was usually a cowboy who wasn’t afraid to dance with his boss’s wife.
    Nellie danced a few steps by herself. The prairie winds sighed through what was left of Lord Ernle’s great house.
    Russell of the Times found Mary Goodnight very appealing. He offered her his