Chapter Text
Billy’s sitting on the bare boards of the corridor in the dark. It’s long gone midnight and the hotel is quiet. The commotion had come from them, first shouting, then struggling, and finally Goody snarling cold-eyed at him, ‘Go,’ the door slamming and the lock clicking. The owner came halfway up the stairs in her shawl and nightgown to protest, but Billy just shook his head at her, and seeing him alone and silent she shrugged and retreated. He leans his head back against the wall, the sound of stifled sobs carrying faintly through. This is a bad one, for sure, the worst he’s seen, but he understands how it works; the storm will blow over soon enough. This time, though, he’s having to confront an ugly truth of his own. He tries to swallow it down, but it keeps rising in his chest. Billy sits and listens and tries not to think, and eventually falls into a fitful sleep.
A hand on his shoulder snaps him awake, and he momentarily reels at finding himself on the wooden floor, propped awkwardly against the wall. Goody is shaking his shoulder; he’s drawn and pale, eyes still swollen. The flat grey light shows that it’s just dawn. ‘Billy. I’m sorry. Please come back.’ For a moment Billy just stares at him, then he attempts to get to his feet. He’s so stiff that he can’t stand, and Goody has to catch him as he stumbles, taking his weight. His back and legs are cramping, and he leans on him as they limp back inside. He takes only long enough to pull his boots off before he rolls himself onto the tangled bed. Goody comes to the other side and lies down, holding himself tensely on the edge of the mattress. His pain is so evident that Billy simply whispers, ‘Here. Come here,’ and gathers him into his arms. Goody curls against his chest, face pressed into his neck. Billy holds him as tight as he can, resting his chin on his head. ‘Ssh,’ he breathes, then crashes straight down into a black well of sleep.
When he wakes again, there’s sunlight coming through the thin curtain, and the noise of life in full swing outside – the rumble of carts, shouting, the thump of unloading. Goody’s still asleep, and what he most wants is just to lie there, putting off what has to come. But he’s still dressed, his bladder’s bursting and he’s dry with thirst, so he gets up, making Goody stir. He comes back with fresh water in the jug and a glass, and after drinking himself he takes it to the side of the bed. He can tell by the subtle change in his posture that Goody’s awake, but clinging to the last vestiges of sleep rather than face the morning. Billy squats down by the bed, speaking to his back, ‘Water. You should drink.’
Goody rolls over. His expression is stricken, but he takes the glass and drinks. When he’s done, Billy takes it back from him and sets it on the floor, then climbs onto the bed to sit against the headboard. He draws Goody over to lie with his head in his lap, stroking gently down his back. Goody says quietly, ‘There aren’t enough words for me to say how sorry I am.’
Billy is silent for a long time. Part of him wants to offer easy reassurance; it’s on his tongue to promise, It doesn’t matter; I’ll never leave you, but he knows he owes Goody the truth. The words come slowly.
‘When you threw me out…’ Goody makes a small sound of unhappiness and Billy rubs his back to take the sting from it. ‘…that’s not it. I know how it takes hold of you, makes you say… You won’t drive me away. But last night…’ He doesn’t want to say it. ‘I saw myself, lying outside your door like your dog. Just waiting to be let back in.’ He can’t look at Goody’s face. ‘I swore I’d never – Goody, you had my warrant, and you weren’t the first. You don’t know what it cost…’ He can’t get it to come out clearly.
Goody rolls over onto his back, and seeing the lines etched on his face Billy hates himself for not making this easier. ‘You see me at my worst. It splits me open and shows you what’s inside, and I wish it were different, but it isn’t. If I started trying to tell you how ashamed I am, I’d never stop.’
‘I’m not saying it’s your fault. I know ... but this, it makes me … I can’t be your servant.’
Goody turns to grasp his arm. ‘You can’t think I meant ... you’re never that. We’re partners. Equals. God knows, you’re ten times the man I am.’
‘That’s easier to say when you’ve always been the master.’ There it is, out in the light at last, a point so sore that they’ve always stepped carefully around it. ‘You’ve never had to fight for a place in the world.’
He can see that Goody doesn’t want to hear this. ‘Goddammit, Billy, maybe you haven’t noticed me regretting my past, all of it, every moment of every day? I know I ask too much of you, but I would never try to make you feel less than you are.’
Easy to say. ‘And yet there I was out in the corridor for everyone to see. Until you were willing to call me back in.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Billy, I don’t want to make you my servant. I’ll go on apologising for as long as you want. I’ve tried to strangle you before now, when I’ve not known what I was doing, tried to shoot you: if you can forgive that, why not this?’
It seems impossible to say what he means. ‘I came here without my freedom. You have no idea what I’ve done to be where I am. And now you, this, is making me into something else.’
Goody sits up. ‘You’re torturing both of us. What do you want me to say to you? Go if you have to? You know I can’t do without you. Don’t go? I can’t make you stay if it’s not something you can bear.’ The argument’s run into the ground.
After a while Goody speaks again, a line of verse: ‘L’amour, si doux comme c’est amer: un fil de soie, une chaîne de fer. Means-'
The clarity of anger comes as a relief, and Billy lets it wash through him. ‘Don’t patronise me. You think telling me poetical shit in a language you know I don’t understand is going to help?’
‘No,’ says Goody, ‘I don’t think anything is going to help. If you’re looking to me for help you’ll be disappointed. Billy, if you can’t live with me like this, I’ll understand, but I can’t carry a load of shame for you too.’
‘So I fix this myself, or I don’t fix it? Fuck you.’ Billy’s on his feet, grabbing for his boots, and this time the hand slamming the door behind him is his own.
--
Goodnight lies in the tangle of sweaty sheets, weight on his chest like a stone. It’s true: he doesn’t know where to begin or end blaming himself. In his rage and despair he’d turned on Billy, and a confused memory of some of the things he shouted last night surfaces to make him flinch. Well, pride has been a luxury beyond his own reach many years since, the weakness in him so great that hiding it is impossible. But now Billy’s strangling in his own feelings, and he’s the cause. I’d lie down at his door. Hell, I’d kneel at his feet. But Billy’s right, he’s never known servitude. He’s said exactly the wrong thing, made a bad situation worse, then worse again. If it’s got Billy talking about his past, then it’s serious: he knows next to nothing about the road that brought him to that bar in Texas. He read the bare details of the warrant when he took the job on – killing two men to break his indenture – but he’s never pressed to find out more: it never seemed like his business, and Billy certainly never indicated that it might be. Though the uncomfortable thought has occurred to him, more than once, that if events had gone a different way that day, he might have ended as just one more in Billy Rocks’ considerable trail of corpses.
In the end hunger drives him out to face the world. He knows that Billy won’t be welcoming the looks of any guests who might have heard the disturbance or possibly seen its aftermath, so he seeks him out in the anonymity of the daytime saloon; sure enough, there he is in the second one he tries. It’s not busy, but drinking’s always someone’s business; a couple of card games are going on, and the girls huddle together at the back of the room, largely ignored. Billy’s on his own, and as usual, he’s attracting attention. Goodnight himself could sit alone and unnoticed in any bar from here to Baton Rouge, but Billy, quite apart from being Asian and strikingly good-looking, doesn’t exactly work to blend in. Of course he could cut his hair short to his skull, could sheathe his knives in leather, keep his gloves in his pocket, but then he wouldn’t look so … remarkable.
Goodnight still vividly recalls the effect Billy had on him the first time he laid eyes on him. He understands that it’s partly a way to protect himself – he’d be out of place, stared at, however he dressed, so why not give them something to look at? – but he’s also something of a peacock, not above courting admiration. Today, even without his belt of fancy knives, his long pinned-up hair and fighter’s gloves draw open stares all round, which he’s currently meeting with a challenging scowl.
Goodnight fetches a bottle from the bar and orders what there is to eat, then carries bottle and glass back to the table and asks meekly, ‘May I join you?’ Billy pushes out a chair with his foot. The barkeep jerks his head towards one of the girls, and she comes to lean over the back of his chair. ‘Hi. I’m Lizzie; would you like to buy a girl a drink?’ She’s pretty enough and half-dressed, but he’s hardly in the market for her charms; he pats her hand and tells her, ‘Maybe later, sweetheart. We’d make poor company for you right now.’ Indifferent, she hitches a shoulder and turns her attention to the cardplayers behind them.
Billy’s concentrating on his plate, tearing into his food as usual. When he finally pushes it away and drains his glass, Goodnight reaches for the bottle to refill it. Billy draws his cigarette case out of his vest, takes out a cigarette and lights it. When Goodnight realises he’s not going to share, it’s like the flick of a lash; he wonders if anything’s going to set this right. He takes out one of his own, and asks, ‘Light?’ To his surprise, Billy curls his gloved fingers around his hand to steady it as he dips his head and touches the lit end of his cigarette to Goodnight’s. His face is impossible to read, but Goodnight murmurs an experimental ‘Chéri,’ in return. As he smokes, he feels Billy’s arm along the back of the chair pressing against his back, then a warm hand drifts under his collar to stroke his skin. So this is the way it’s going to play, he thinks. He’s desperately tired.
The poker players’ chatter behind them dies, then there’s an explosion of over-loud laughter. ‘…wonder Lizzie weren’t to their taste.’ The way the comment’s directed it can’t be anything but a challenge, but Billy evidently doesn’t feel inclined to react, or to move his hand. Sure enough, a chair clatters out and he hears more snorts as the same voice says from closer behind them, ‘Go on, mister, why don’t you just put him on your knee and kiss him?’
Goodnight turns to see who this loudmouth is. He’s a hefty man, shirt one size too small to emphasise his bulk, and obviously enjoying the chance to intimidate; his leer suggests that this particular opportunity has an added piquancy for him. The saloon’s gone quiet. Goodnight looks at Billy’s expressionless face. Plainly the situation’s already beyond redemption, but for form’s sake he tries. ‘I don’t know what the problem is here, my friend, but there’s no cause to involve yourself in our affairs.’
As expected, it fails. ‘Well I think there is cause for in-vol-ving myself when I see a pair of cocksuckers sitting as brazen as day right in front of me.’
Billy stands up in one fluid motion. Compared to his opponent he’s slight, and one of the other players jeers, ‘Now, Steve, you know it ain’t fair to be hitting girls.’
‘You get one chance to apologise,’ Billy says, but Steve laughs in his face. ‘I ain’t apologising to you, you Celestial cocksucker. Is that what you do for him: run his errands, wash his clothes and suck his dick?’ Merciful God, thinks Goodnight.
Billy hisses, and too quick to see, Steve’s head snaps back. He touches a hand to a split lip, then reaches to grab Billy’s vest, but the click of the barkeep’s shotgun stops him. Gun levelled between them, he orders curtly, ‘Outside. I’ve no quarrel with either of you, but you don’t brawl in here.’
‘You going to come out and take your kicking, boy?’ sneers Steve.
Billy fixes him with a passionless stare. ‘I can teach you to show some respect.’
‘Teach?’ Steve shoulders past Billy, followed by his friends and most of the saloon’s patrons. ‘Ain’t your place to teach me anything.’
Goodnight pulls his chair back to the table and sighs. Billy’s unlikely to need his help, and even less likely to accept it right now. He’s obviously trying to punish somebody, though it’s not entirely clear to him who; he feels an unlikely twinge of pity for Steve.
--
A fight never fails to draw a crowd of interested spectators, and they’ve resolved themselves into a loose circle with Billy and Steve at the centre. ‘Fair fight,’ announces a self-appointed marshal, but that’s the last thing that’s going to happen. Steve is flexing, pacing, spitting insults, working himself up, but Billy holds himself still. This is his arena, his dancing-floor: it brings him to a clear space, setting his divided halves back together and uniting them into a seamless whole. He’s fought all types: sly ones, fingers hooking for soft targets, enraged flailing drunks, cool disciplined ones; he knows exactly what to expect here.
Sure enough, Steve comes charging at him straight off, trying to use his weight to take him down and pin him, but Billy stands off, catching his impetus, spinning and sending him sprawling. A better opponent would learn, but this one, Billy guesses, has never learnt finesse, weight, strength and ferocity usually enough of an advantage. He curses and comes barrelling back in with a roar, and Billy catches him with knee and foot to send him down again. He could finish this quickly, but what would be the point? This is going to be an exhibition. Billy makes himself the fulcrum, flickering from stillness to motion, and methodically, blow by blow, crack of shoulder by twist of leg by crunch of cartilage, he beats Steve into submission.
By the time Steve rolls headlong in the mud and doesn’t get up again, Billy is panting for breath. He takes a moment, hands on knees, then straightens up to stares down the crowd. No one else seems keen to stand up for the public morality of the town, so he turns his back on the slumped figure and walks deliberately back up to the saloon. Goodnight’s still sitting at the table. Billy thumps down next to him, all over dirt, knuckles bloodied and one eye already swelling. ‘Enjoy the show?’ he asks sourly.
Goodnight raises an eyebrow. ‘Was it for my benefit? I didn’t realise.’ He signals to Lizzie: ‘A cloth and some water, if you’d be so obliging.’ She brings a bowl, clearly willing to attend to Billy herself, but Goodnight takes it from her with his most charming smile. He must reckon they’re far enough in credit here for him to be able to clean the blood from his partner’s face in public.
--
It’s not usual to set out so late in the afternoon, but with the town gone this bad on them it’s nothing but a relief. Once the storefronts disappear below the horizon it’s just the two of them in an emptiness of sky and brush, under the fading sun. The tension drains from Goodnight almost instantly; for all he values what civilisation has to offer – a soft bed, hot water, good food – the unrelenting scrutiny of his fellow men always has him fleeing back to the open plains before too long. There’s no sound beyond the creak and jingle of saddle and bridle, and the occasional skittering jackrabbit. Billy’s a silent companion at the best of times, but now as they ride Goodnight can all but see the air waver from the simmer of his thoughts. For once he’s not tempted to chatter to fill the silence, though the verse runs through his mind. Fil de soie, chaîne de fer. He wouldn’t recommend his condition to anyone, but perhaps it is simpler when you wear your chest wide open, beating heart on display for all to see. At least he’s still here, for now. Can’t let him go, can’t make staying easy for him.
It’s a bare couple of hours before they have to camp, and the light is almost gone when they find a likely spot, where a dry wash comes down between rocky walls. Billy winces as he gets off his horse, the effects of the fight caught up with him, but Goodnight’s offer of help dies in his throat at his expression. The rhythm of horses, wood, fire, cooking, is at least familiar, talk unnecessary. By the time they’re eating it’s already dark. Afterwards, Goodnight sets himself up with his flask and a smoke, stretches his legs by the fire and waits. Billy’s settled himself up against the canyon wall a little distance away, tossing pebbles at some unseen target. He doesn’t know where Billy is with this, doesn’t know whether to expect accusation or self-reproach, but he’s not expecting the question that comes out of the darkness:
'How much do you know about the railroad?’