The Good Name

John Cody Wallace III

Arizona, 1872

He crawled over cool red rocks and into the sun, and suddenly he was in the open and could see for miles. The dust and wind howled around him, and the shades of morning painted the canyons in soft hues of red. "I think I see it," Tom Kelly said on his stomach beside him. He was holding a pair of wood and brass binoculars tightly to his eyes, his floppy hat blowing in the desert wind. "Way out there, just to the left of the horizon," Kelly handed the binoculars over to Wallace.

Far in the distance, a prison wagon was trundling towards them through the canyon, a cacophony of iron and chains and rapid beating hooves over sand and stone. "Do you see Sam?" Kelly asked.

Wallace focused the binoculars. There were six men in the caged wagon, laden with blackjack chains and grim, solemn expressions. It was difficult to tell them apart in their tattered uniforms of black and white stripes.

"Well?" Kelly prodded.

Wallace waited, looked, said nothing. Then he saw one of the men throw his head back and give a wild _howl_. "Hoooooowwwwwlll!"

The rest of the prisoners joined in, and soon the prison wagon sounded like it was heading to the pound.

"Yep, I think I see Sam," Wallace mused. "Even on his way to the gallows, he's a'howlin."

The two guards riding alongside the wagon rattled the iron bars with the butts of their rifles. One of them shouted while the other unraveled his black snake whip and cracked it in the air, and the prisoners fell silent again.

Wallace tapped Kelly on the shoulder, and they got to their feet and hurried down the trail to camp. Slopes of scattered sage and chatter mark covered the narrow path, snaking down into the red basin as far as the eye could see. Wallace was the faster runner, but Kelly managed to stay right behind him, hopping down from one unlikely rock to another, sliding and laughing like children as they came.

The rest of the crew was finishing breakfast when they returned, talking the fresh talk of morning and polishing the last of the beans from their plates with some week-old bread. They were hard men, tempered in brutal ways by a rugged land. Julian was the hardest of all. He learned from the desert, and the desert had no mercy. He sat at his camp table scribbling in that little black book of his. Nobody knew what was in that book.

"They're coming!" Wallace called with cupped hands, and suddenly the whole camp was moving in a flurry.

"Now, everyone knows the plan, but it bears repeating," Julian said as the crew gathered. "Almanza is on overwatch. He'll cover everyone from a good vantage point above the canyon. Kelly and Crowfeather have set the dynamite and will blow the cliffs in front of the wagon to stop it. Hope you boys didn't get too carried away."

Everyone laughed. Kelly and Crowfeather had never set the charges before, and it was easy to go overboard.

Julian continued. "Once the wagon stops, the rest of us move in. I want Wallace and Johnny at the rear covering the escape route, and the rest of us will cover the front and sides. But make sure to watch your lines of fire. Sam is down there, and we don't need an accident."

"Any bounty?" Johnny asked with crossed arms and a bored look.

"Anything you find on the men you kill is yours. But remember, gentlemen, this is a rescue, first and foremost. Let's go."

Everyone moved. Johnny Ram spat.

Wallace led the way down the snaking trail with Johnny behind him.

"You know I heard a story around the ol' campfire last night about your granddaddy," Johnny said ruefully.

Wallace didn't take the bait; he knew Johnny would try and get a rise out of him sooner or later. He was hoping it would be later.

"Heard he was a big hero back in the war: A real crack shot with a pistol."

Wallace said nothing. Kept walking.

"So that got me wondering'. Are you adopted, or was your daddy just a dud, and you took after him?"

Wallace felt his temper flare. He stopped, turned, and stared down Johnny.

"Do it," Johnny said, a wicked smile curling up his face, his fingers twitching near his holster. "Let that hand drop. I want to see who you are: You're Grandpa, the hero? Or your daddy the failure."

Wallace ignored him, turned, and walked on.

"Yeah, thas what I thought," Johnny mused. "No hero in you. Must take after your daddy after all."

"You don't know nothin' about my pa," Wallace said, looking straight ahead. "Just leave it."

"Or what?" Johnny prodded.

Wallace said nothing. He kept walking, eyes going distant, remembering.

It was raining the day of their last argument. His pa was riding him about the friends he kept. "Those boys are no good for you, Cody," the old man had said. "They're cowards. And they'll dump you for the first money they see."

"What do you know about it?" Wallace raged. "You've never had any schoolin' or money in your whole life! All you got to show for yourself is a broken-down ranch!" he straightened. "I ain't gonna turn out like you, pa! I ain't gonna waste my life as a nobody!"

His father's eyes fell to the floor. He waited, looking old, then he regarded his son thoughtfully. "You're right, son. I don't have a lot. But I have you. And You ain't like those boys. You're not a thief. Not a coward. You have the fire of your grandpa. So much fire."

Wallace shrugged. "I don't even know what that means, pa."

His father shrugged. "You'll find out. There are things in life that money can't buy. You'll see."

The boy didn't know how to respond, so he was silent.

"I want you to make me a promise, son—just one. You can throw out everything else I ever taught you. Just keep this one promise for me."

Wallace watched, waited.

"Keep a good name. That's it. The rest will follow."

That was the last time they had spoken, and his Pa had died a couple of years later of consumption.

Wallace often wondered at his father's words. A good name was a fine thing, but ultimately it was better to have friends that could help you fight and take what you wanted rather than surround yourself with good men who were starving and lonely and desperate. And yet, something had been gnawing at him for some time now—something that he couldn't point to, that he couldn't drink away or pay to leave—a dull and growing boredom with life that left a hollow vacancy in his chest.

"Wake up over there!" Johnny said, wrenching Wallace back to the present. The two of them had taken their positions behind a boulder near the road. They would hide until the wagon moved past them and stopped at the roadblock of boulders, then they would take care of anyone who tried to escape.

Wallace loaded his rifle and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.

"You ever seen that little black book that Julian's always writing in?" Johnny asked.

Wallace said nothing, trying to avoid eye contact.

"You know what it's for?"

Wallace shrugged, uninterested.

"It's a book of names."

Wallace paused. "Names?"

"That's right," Johnny said with a rueful grin. "Traitors. Cowards. People Julian just flat out doesn't like. If your name gets put into that little black book, well…" Johnny smiled that wicked smile.

"Why are you telling me this, Johnny?"

Johnny shrugged. "Let's just say that little thing you pulled back in Tombstone last week didn't go unnoticed," he said. He took a practiced aim with his pistol and mouthed "Pow."

The sound of horse and iron brought them to attention. The wagon appeared from the bend, flanked by the two guards Wallace had seen with Kelly. Everyone was ready, and somewhere Kelly was watching from the side, both hands on the detonator and waiting for Julian's signal.

It came.

The world exploded, and heaps of rock and earth plumed and scattered in all directions. Wallace covered his ears in pain. They were ringing so loudly that he didn't even hear the next chain of blasts. The heat from the explosions seared his face, and when his hearing finally returned, Johnny was yelling. "What did I say?! I told you they would use too much! What did I say?!"

Wallace staggered to his feet, his ears still ringing. He moved out from behind the boulder and stared in disbelief. The canyon's tall faces were gone; no more than massive piles of rubble on the road. Almanza was gone, his perch an empty hole, and there was no sign of the crew. Johnny had both pistols out, his ears bleeding, shooting wildly at the remnants of the prison wagon. He hit the horse guards while they were already down and the wounded driver when he tried to stand.

Wallace dropped his rifle, looking on in horror. Firey debris lay everywhere, and he saw a piece of Almanza's rifle, Kelly's glove, and Julian's hat. There were other things too. Terrible things that he later didn't care to remember. Then he heard a cough and saw a young boy no older than eight struggling to his knees. Wallace caught him just as the boy was collapsing again. The kid was missing a leg, an old wound, but his ears were bleeding, his face slightly burned.

"You wanna finish him off, or do you need me to?" Johnny said, reloading his pistol.

Wallace looked at the boy. He was hurt, but he could pull through. The boy opened his eyes and looked up at him. "Where's pa?" He muttered.

Wallace looked at the destruction, then back to the boy. "Was your pa with you today?"

The boy nodded, his face twisting into tears.

"Put him down and let's get this over with," Johnny said with disinterest. He spun the chamber of the pistol.

"You're not harming the boy," Wallace said. He stood, putting himself between the wounded child and Johnny.

Johnny's mouth twisted up into a smile. "Or what?" he said, his fingers twitching by his holster.

A fire ignited somewhere in his chest, warm and full, and John Cody Wallace III stared down his opponent, took a deep breath, and his hand dropped.

Three shots cracked the air, stabbing flame, the reports echoing from the walls of the canyon.

Johnny went to his knees, his face a mask of disbelief, his arms struggling to raise his irons. Cody Wallace walked toward him, coming close enough to touch him, his pistol poised for another shot. Wallace tilted his head, unafraid, and watched as Johnny suddenly realized that death was upon him. He fell forward into the dirt, breathing his last.

There was glitter to the sand, and Wallace noticed something black, half-submerged. It was Julian's old moleskin book. He dusted it off, opened it, and thumbed through the pages, disbelieving. There were rows of numbers and accounting: When added together, it came to no less than $20,000, and in the back was a map: An old abandoned church in Tombstone where Julian had buried the fruits of their labor for himself.

He turned to the kid, considering the boy's physical condition. There would be challenges for him that Wallace couldn't imagine. He felt his own body, a few scratches, a bit shook, but lucky, ready for honest work. Ready to make a life he could be proud of, and most of all: A Good name.

He closed the old black book and turned to the boy. "Hey, kid," he said, smiling. "I have something here for you."