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Sometimes it felt like they’d known each other for years.
When they were out riding, making their way to the next town, the next stop-over, always on the way to the city - “You’ll love New Orleans,” Goody said, and then usually waxed poetic in his gutter French, which Billy did not speak a lick of but which he liked the sound of anyway - but never quite making it to a city. Billy caught on pretty damn quick that Goody had no interest in going anywhere near any place that was going to be crowded or too noisy, and so he learned to enjoy those long swathes of America where it seemed all of the landscape was the same, or at least it changed so slowly that sometimes he’d catch himself wondering where all the rocks went and how long they’d been riding through chest-high grasses.
Often, on those rides, they wouldn’t speak at all until the sun started dipping below the horizon. Billy didn’t mind listening to the rhythmic tattoo of the horses’ hooves, or the far-off cries of birds, or the creaking and jingling of their saddles and tack. He would think about books he’d read and books he’d like to read, what they were gonna have for dinner that night, what they were gonna have for dinner three nights from now, how cold it might get, if those clouds on the horizon were going to break up or just keep on coming..
He always had one ear tuned to Goody, though, because it was part of the price of what they had. Billy didn’t pretend to understand everything about Goodnight - nor did he want to, for that matter - but he knew well enough that the man had his demons and that being in Goody’s life meant that they were his demons too. And sometimes when they were riding, Goody would jerk a little in the saddle, or catch his breath a certain way, and Billy would have the flask ready and a cigarette lit almost before Goody realized he’d done it.
But that was what it was. They knew each other like they’d been traveling together since they were boys. Every expression, every tone of voice, every nuance of body language they could read on each other like they were reading out of a child’s primer. It was the perfect partnership, each lending the other something he couldn’t get on his own, but in an amicable sort of way, a way that didn’t keep tabs.
And they got on in that way for a good long while, and Billy never saw any reason to question it.
***
They must have been somewhere out near the Oklahoma Territory the first time it happened. Billy remembered a lot of waving grasses and red dirt that caked in his shoes and dusted everything a fine, rosy pink. They made dinner and washed it down with cold, clear water from a nearby spring. Billy played with his knives, throwing them into an old tree stump where they stuck, one after the other, while Goody propped himself on the saddlebags and smoked and applauded every hit like it wasn’t something Billy could do in his sleep.
“Don’t see much reason to pitch a tent,” Goody said conversationally, while Billy gathered his knives and checked their edges. “It’s gonna be a pretty night.”
“Or you’re a lazy old man,” Billy answered. They stared at each other for a long second and then a smile, slow as syrup, curved the corners of Goody’s mouth.
“Tch.” And Goody pulled his hat down over his eyes and they slept under the stars.
It took Billy longer to fall asleep without a tent than it did with one. He found it difficult to close his eyes on the stars, especially out here on the plains, where they were a curved dome of brilliance above his head. Millions upon millions of tiny motes in the velvety blackness of the sky, each one of them incomprehensibly out of his grasp and yet so close that he could almost reach up and pluck them out of their settings.
He knew the constellations and he traced them with his eyes as the moon soared over his head, a crescent sliver that would soon be dark. They’d be in a town before then, or at least at a trading post; Goodnight swore there was one not two days travel to the east and while he was a consummate bullshitter, he had never once lied to Billy.
Billy had just found Taurus and - his personal favorite - the Seven Sisters, when he heard Goody stirring nearby. He didn’t think much of it; Goody often rolled over in his sleep and sometimes grumbled a few choice words while trying to get settled. But he made the sound again and the hackles on the back of Billy’s neck rose up. That wasn’t the sound of a man trying to get back to sleep, that was the sound of a man in pain.
Concerned, he crossed to where Goody lay. The last embers of the fire were burning down and Billy could see plain enough to know that Goody was still asleep, his eyes screwed tightly shut beneath scowling brows. He waited a second, not sure if he should wake Goody or not, and then Goody made that low noise again and bared his teeth like a frightened animal and Billy reached out, carefully taking Goody’s wrists in his hands and shaking him just a little.
“Goody,” he hissed. He could barely hear himself over the night chorus of crickets and frogs, but Goody reacted as though Billy had tossed a bucket of freezing water on him. He lurched off the ground, forehead catching Billy squarely in the mouth. Hissing, Billy fell back on his ass, releasing Goody’s wrists so that he could cover his stinging lip with both hands.
“What the fuck?” Goody was sitting fully upright now, the light of righteous fury in his eyes. “Why in hell’d you wake me up like that?” Billy spared him a look of disgust and spat blood in the dirt as he stalked away.
At first, it was hard to convince himself not to be mad at Goody. His lip hurt - it was definitely split, and he could taste blood in his mouth - but that had been an accident. He was mad at the pain, mad that he’d been stupid enough to let it happen, but neither of those things were Goody’s fault, and yet the bubbling fury he felt in the pit of his stomach was without question directed at Goody.
So he sat and he stared up at the stars and he thought and by the time Goody came shuffling over and sat down next to him, Billy had pretty well managed to push the anger down.
“I was havin’ a nightmare,” Goody stated, his voice low. When Billy didn’t answer, he added, “Wasn’t I?”
“You were,” Billy said. He touched his lip. It was swollen and tender.
“And you were tryin’ to help me. Weren’t you?”
“I was.” Billy turned his head. It was too dark to make out much, but Goody’s slumped shoulders spoke volumes.
“I… have these dreams sometimes.” Goody’s voice was hesitant in a way Billy had never heard before, like each word had to be dragged forcefully out of his gut and past his lips. “In the war… everyone thinks I’m a hero, or some kind of legend, and I’m happy to let ‘em but sometimes....” He sucked in a breath, long and slow, and then blew it out again. Billy reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of cigarettes, lighting them both and handing one over to Goody.
“Thanks.” Goody blew smoke into the night and Billy couldn’t see it, but he knew a wry little smile had curved Goody’s mouth.
“I knew a man,” Billy said, conversational, like it wasn’t a big deal. “One night someone broke into his house. He was afraid the burglar would hurt his wife and his baby son, so he killed the man with his own two hands.” He felt Goody’s eyes on him, burning into him. He resisted the urge to look over. “Afterwards, he swore he could see the man if he walked around a corner too fast, and his face haunted my friend’s dreams.”
“Maybe your friend was a little on the crazy side,” Goody suggested, laughing softly.
“It isn’t easy to kill a man,” Billy countered. Goody’s back stiffened. “But sometimes it’s necessary.”
“Sometimes you gotta kill him before he kills you, huh?” Goody flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt and nudged a rock on top of it. Billy had a new one lit and ready by the time he finished. “That ain’t very neighborly.”
“Goody…”
“What?” There was an edge in Goody’s voice now, just the slightest drop of warning. “What do you want me to say, Billy? That sometimes I have nightmares about the war?” There was a crack now, a tremble, like an earthquake about to start. Billy edged closer, slipping an arm around Goody’s shoulders and pulling him close. It wasn’t the first time they’d touched like this, but it was the first time Billy had initiated. Usually it was Goody who leaned on him or pulled him close, but Goody was shaking, full of emotions that he had been keeping pent up inside and Billy recognized that the initiative had to be his this time.
“There’s no shame in it,” Billy said.
“Like hell,” Goody spat. “They tell you to be a good soldier, kill as many of the enemy as you can, but they don’t tell you that they’re just a bunch of boys. Some of ‘em weren’t even old enough to be away from their mamas.” He sucked at the cigarette, picked tobacco off his lower lip. “I used to think that shooting was just for fun. Back at home, shooting leaves off of trees, drawing targets on rocks, smaller and smaller until I could damn near thread a needle with a bullet. I was proud of myself.”
“You have a gift,” Billy said.
“I thought so.” Goody just sounded tired now. His head drooped, leaning against Billy’s. “I did real good in the war, you know? People knew my name. Hell, they still do. Boys I ain’t ever met before call me Mister Goodnight like I’m some kind of gentleman or some damn thing.” He laughed softly. “Can you believe that? Mister Goodnight. My mama would shit a brick.”
Billy was quiet, pressing his fingers against Goody’s side, feeling the tremors that ran through his body. He had some inkling of what this was about - he hadn’t been lying about his friend - but he wanted to hear Goody say it himself and Billy got the feeling that if he pressed, Goody would clam up. So he waited and the night settled around them like a cool blanket, and finally Goody spoke.
“I hear their voices sometimes, Billy,” he breathed. He twisted his head, tucking it close against Billy’s neck. “All those men I killed. It’s like they’re following me. I saw so many men dying, and I mourned my friends. I was sick over it whenever one of them died. And I realized at Antietam… those other boys, the ones I was shooting at, they were feeling just the same as I was. The enemy wasn’t the enemy, they were just a bunch of boys called up from home, same as we were, and every time I pulled the trigger, I was taking another one away from the people that loved him.”
“Goody…” What could he say to that? He had killed men before and it didn’t trouble him, but he had little taste for it. Mostly it had been necessity, situations where his hand had been forced. It was the same for Goody, kill or be killed, but it was a conflict that existed before him and one that would have continued if he had died. To be a cog in a machine of merciless destruction… Billy shuddered. No wonder Goody had nightmares.
“No, I’m just being a stupid old man,” Goody murmured. All the emotion had drained from his voice and the tension was slowly draining from his body. It had been good for him to talk about it, good to get it out in the open. “I don’t even care to shoot anymore, and it used to make me happy, Billy. But every time I pull the trigger, I see them.”
“You don’t have to shoot anymore,” Billy said. “Everyone knows who you are. No one would dare question you. I’ll do all the sharpshooting and you just collect the bets.” Usually Billy warmed up the crowd and won a few minor pots by hitting targets with his knives, but Goody was the draw. Goody was the famous one. He thought it could work, though, if they upped the ante.
“Billy, you’re gonna baby me into an early grave.” Goody sighed and shifted away, and Billy got goosebumps where the cold air hit the spots Goody had been touching. “I’m going back to sleep.” He stood and shuffled over to his bedroll and stared at it, like he was afraid to lay back down. Billy rose and followed him.
“I’m tired, too,” he said, dragging his roll over so that it was touching the edge of Goody’s. “And it’s cold.”
Goody fixed him with a long, calculating stare, which Billy returned steadily. They both knew it wasn’t cold enough for him to sleep so close, just like they knew that if he didn’t, Goody wouldn’t get a wink. But Goody had his pride. So damned much of it, too; Billy had never met a man with more pride than Goodnight Robicheaux.
Finally, Goody nodded, the flicker of a smile crossing his face. “Never met a man that gets as cold as you do, Billy,” he sighed, settling onto the ground.
“The sky is too big out here,” Billy answered, tucking himself up behind Goody so that they lay spooned together. He could smell Goody’s hair, feel the warmth of his body bleeding through the layers of clothes they both wore. His arm draped across Goody’s waist, fingertips resting against the soft, slim curve of his belly.
“You’re full of shit,” Goody laughed. After a moment, his rough fingers brushed Billy’s hand, fluttered away, and then came to rest again, four spots of fire against Billy’s skin that kept him awake long after Goody’s breathing had evened out.