#so there's a striking difference in writing dialogue for a piece about goody and a piece about red harvest

[coffeeandtin]

Couldn’t Ever Make the Comfort Stick

Anon requested: The Reader, who knows Goody (He’s like an uncle/father figure to them.), joins The Seven. (I had such a good time writing this! The title is from the song Ghosts of Old Highways by Lovett. It’s one of those songs that is in my personal Magnificent Seven playlist.)

           You’d already made a name for yourself by the time you tracked down Goodnight Robicheaux and the rest of The Seven. You hadn’t seen each other since you were a child and Goodnight had been a much younger man. He’d recognized you right away, though; and he pulled you into a back-breaking embrace.

           “I ain’t seen you since-”

           “Just after the war,” you supplied.

           He pulled you into another hug, and kissed your temple.

           “You got taller,” Goodnight said as he held you at arm’s length with a hand on each of your shoulders.

           “Indeed, I did,” you confirmed.        

           Excelling in height as you aged was inevitable, but you felt a swell of pride at Goodnight’s observation, nonetheless.

          He introduced you to his companions, and the eight of you spent hours exchanging tales, though these eventually turned to your reminiscences of Goodnight, and his of you.

           “What brings you here?” Goodnight asked when conversation finally died down in the wee hours of the morning.

           He gave you a smile that looked like home; but his eyes searched yours, telling you that he knew your presence was more than just a happy coincidence.

           You shrugged. It was a more flippant motion than you’d intended.

           “See an old friend. Make some new ones. Maybe join up?” Try as you might, you couldn’t hide your giddy expectation as your gaze roamed from face to face.

           All eyes turned toward Sam Chisolm, who sat in quiet deliberation before rendering his verdict.  

           “Up to you, Goody,” Sam said as stood, crossed the room and squeezed Goodnight’s shoulder. “What do you think?”

           Something in Goodnight’s expression soured in a nearly imperceptible way; and you guessed that he hadn’t expected to have the decision placed in his hands. Your pride smarted a little, but you smiled nonetheless. You knew the Angel of Death wouldn’t deny you. And judging by the look on his face, he knew it, too.

           “I think,” Goodnight said, “That that kid would give the devil a run for his money.”

           Sounds of approval rose up from the rest of the group, and more drinks went around. You rode out with them two days later.

           “Their mama would have my hide if she knew,” Goodnight confided to Billy when you were well out of earshot.

           Billy just smiled and reflected on the way Goodnight’s accent, and your own seemed to compound each other when you were together.

***

          Most of The Seven called you “Kid,” or “The Kid.” You bit back any initial chagrin you might have felt for the moniker. There was no scorn in the use of the nickname; it was purely affection. Red Harvest called you by your given name, though; and you wondered if he was expressing some sort solidarity with you, as you took over the mantle of “youngest.”

         While you itched to prove yourself in battle, you settled in all too quickly; and after a week of riding, the road seemed to have become a place of routine. Sam and Red Harvest took the lead. Faraday and Jack rode behind them, followed by you, Billy and Goodnight; while Vasquez kept watch at the back of the party. If the road became narrow, you would all ride single file. Mountains gave way to hills. Those hills gave way to flat terrain; and the scenery became much less dynamic for that fact.

          Your eyes scanned the horizon. Unless it was a flight of fancy on your part, you could have sworn you saw an outline of a town in the distance. Your hand searched your pockets for your packet of cigarettes.        

         “Goddammit, Faraday,” you muttered when you found them missing.

         Alcohol and tobacco weren’t, strictly speaking, communal property within the group; but Faraday seemed to have a knack for borrowing those items and failing to return them. Your eyes narrowed on his back, and as though he sensed this, he turned in his saddle to face you.

        “You can get more in town, Kiddo.” The cigarette that was nestled between Faraday’s lips bobbed up and down as he spoke.

        “Gee, thank you kindly, Faraday.”

        Your southern drawl was colored with annoyance. As if sensing your mood, the paint mare you rode (the most ill-tempered creature you’d ever owned) tossed her head. With gentle tension on the reigns, you advised the horse against rash behavior. You continued to ride along in silence with the The Seven. Or was it eight, now? At your side, Billy proffered a cigarette, and you accepted gratefully. You lit it, inhaled, and decided the number was inconsequential. The pace picked up and you drew nearer to the town.

        “Y’all settle in,” Sam’s voice floated back from the front of the procession. “I’m gonna talk to the Sheriff, and we’ll all meet later.”

***

           Two days later, you found yourself sitting with Goody atop the tallest building in that little town. The place had developed a problem with a sizable pack of bandits.

           “Why am I up here, instead of down there?” That was the most pressing among the many questions you wished to ask Goodnight.

           “Sam designated our positions,” Goodnight said as he shrugged and made no attempt to look at you.

           You neither expected, nor wanted any special treatment within the group; you didn’t need to be kept safe. You inhaled a breath, ready to accuse Goodnight of intervening in Sam’s plans, but Goodnight continued before you could voice your thoughts.

           “You’re a good shot with a rifle,” he said, without taking his eyes off of his own.

           “You know, somehow, I feel like that should mean more comin’ from Goodnight Robicheaux, himself. Besides, I’d be better at ground-level.”

           “Then ain’t this the perfect opportunity to practice long-range?” Goodnight asked.

           He smiled at his own joke, but his eyes asked you, in the quietest of ways, to understand. Goodnight had been grateful that you’d been too young to truly be involved in the war, but he was not surprised that you’d grown into a life that was far more unruly than what your upbringing would have allowed. When you were small, you’d listened to innumerable adventure stories from a perch on Goodnight’s knee. Now you were living your own, and the danger was more than just a fanciful part of the plot.

           This ain’t what I wanted for you, he thought, the words stopping just shy of finding his voice. Please don’t be like me.

           “Goody, I…” You were unsure of what to say, but whatever it was went far beyond squabbling about battle tactics.

The joie de vie and gentility that you and your family had had such fondness for had not fled Goodnight in the least; but there was something else now. Or maybe it had always been there, and you’d been too young to understand. You shook your head and gave Goodnight an ear-to-ear smile that he returned without hesitation.

        “What are we doin’ here?” You asked, unable to prevent laughter from bubbling up.

        “Philosophically, or just generally?”

        “Both, I suppose?” Your voice cracked with laughter.

        “Well, you remember Old Man Thibodaux?” Goodnight asked, as his own mirth jostled his words.

       You didn’t have to delve far into your memory to recall your town’s noted curmudgeon.

      “Yeah,” you said as you raised an eyebrow at Goodnight’s conversational tack. “What about him?

      “Anyone ever tell you how he got that limp of his?”

      “Not that I recall.”

      Goodnight cradled his rifle.

       “He had this mare. Sweet little thing, but he beat her anyway. Drop of a hat. Well, one day she got fed up, and she kicked him. He was laid up for a couple months.”

       Any encounter you’d ever had with Old Man Thibodaux didn’t make you sorry or surprised to hear the story.

      “What happened to the horse?” You asked.

      “I bought her.”

      The two of you whooped and sniggered until the bandits rode into view.

      “So, here we are, then,” you said as you raised your rifle to your shoulder.  “Some swift and terrible hoof of justice?”  

      On the top of an adjacent building, Red Harvest nocked an arrow. Even at a distance his black, red and white war paint was as vibrant as it was daunting.

     “That’s more or less the size of it. Only, these boys won’t be limpin’ outta here,” Goodnight said before taking a breath and squeezing the trigger.

***

           Billy tightened a bandage around your arm, and you sucked in air through your teeth. He paused in his ministrations, and looked at you; his expression advised you not to be a baby. In return, you looked at the assassin as balefully as you dared before taking a pull on your flask of whiskey. The two of you sat on the bed, in the room that Goodnight and Billy had been sharing.

           “Could have stayed on the roof,” Billy said, remaining focused on the task at hand.

           “You know, Goody said something similar,” you confessed, as you tried to recall the particularly inventive language he had used. “Though, he heavily implied that he may as well have shot me himself.”    

           Billy smiled at this.

           “Just the same, I’m sure Vasquez appreciates it,” Billy said as he finished tying your bandage. “There. Done.”

           “Thanks,” you said, moving your arm and testing Billy’s handiwork.

           You offered Billy a drink, but he put a hand up, declining the gesture. You took another sip for yourself, and your shoulders began to relax as you felt the manic energy of battle ebb away. Your limbs felt heavier, and you became very much aware of how empty your belly felt.

           “Goody. Is he…” you began with the certainty of youthful weariness that Billy would have the answers to the questions that you didn’t quite know how to ask. “Is he…okay?”

          ��Billy sighed, but there was a warmth in his expression that prevented you from blurting all of the concerns you’d developed for Goodnight since you’d started sharing the road with The Seven: How sometimes Goody stared into the fire a little too deeply, like he was somewhere else entirely. How he flinched at nothing then looked to see if anyone had noticed. How he was the man you knew so many years ago, but goddammit, there was something, something, there. And maybe it wouldn’t be there if you’d been there for him, somehow. And it wasn’t fair.

           You drew your sleeve down, over your arm, and your posture sagged a little lower.

           “He’s still Goodnight,” Billy said, as though he’d seen the thoughts playing through your mind. “And he’s better off now than he’s been in the past.”

           Billy was a man of few words, but his face made it clear that he had played host to the same worries about Goodnight. You nodded, and absently turned your flask over in your hands. Its fleur de lis design reminded you of your home, and for the first time in a long time it felt far away. The two of you sat in the quiet dimness of the room.

           “How long can I expect the silent treatment to keep up?”

           Billy glanced at you, and you both shared a grin.

           “Right,” you said, stifling a yawn with the back of a hand. “He’s still Goodnight.”

           Brisk footsteps approached then stopped outside. There were two knocks, and the door opened. Goodnight entered, carrying two plates of food.

           “Thought you could use something to eat,” Goodnight said as he handed a plate to Billy, who gave a nod of gratitude.

         Goodnight handed you the second plate, but he barely spared you a glance.

        “Thank you,” you said as your stomach snarled at the scent of beans and bread.

         Goodnight made no reply, but you began to eat, displaying only the minimum amount of decorum. After pacing the length of the room several times, Goodnight sat in the chair opposite the bed. Perhaps for the first time, you noticed the lines in his face, and the silver that was starting to work its way into his hair.

         “Sam says we’ll move out in the morning,” Goodnight said, still addressing Billy.

         You paused in your chewing, and regarded Goodnight. For a horrible time, you were certain you would be excluded from the group’s departure. Goodnight’s gray eyes wandered over to you, and he allowed the silence to hang over you like a judge’s sentence.

        “All of us,” he said, at last.