Our knock is answered by Newt's housekeeper who shows us into his living room. As our eyes adjust to the dim interior, we notice that Old Newt still has his bench. It is somewhat weathered and splintered from the years, much like Newt himself. He has drawn it up close to the fireplace and seems to be snoozing on it.
There's a half-finished game of Solitaire on the table. Darcie and I glance at one another. We can't help but wonder if Old Newt is playing with a full deck.
Darcie clears her throat, and Old Newt jerks to wakefulness. He gives us a malevolent glare and then looks away aloofly.
"Whadda you two want?" he asks. We can see right off that Newt is in an amicable mood.
Darcie answers him. "We're here for the interview you promised us, Mr. Call, don't you remember?"
"Course I remember," Old Newt snaps. "I'm old, not addlepated. Well, don't jest stand there takin' up space. Start askin' yer questions."
Darcie clears her throat again. "Mr. Call, before we begin, I was wondering if you would mind signing my copy of your book, "Lonesome Dove, Tales of the Plains"?
Hearing this, Old Newt reaches up, grabs the book, and tosses it into the fire. "Where the hell did you get that piece of crap? None of that stuff really happened." He then settles himself back on his bench and adjusts his blanket around his knees.
Darcie is a little taken aback, so I step up to the plate. I pick up a picture of a beautiful young woman from the mantelpiece. "Is this Hannah?" I ask him.
"Yep, that's her."
"Why don't you begin by telling us about her? We know she was the love of your life. She was very beautiful, wasn't she?"
Old Newt stares at the picture for a moment and then settles in to tell the tale.
"Now, Hannah was pretty, but by damn, that woman could nag. I never got no peace, no how. It was just nag, nag, nag from sun up to sun down. Never nuthin' but naggin'. And folks wondered why I took jobs outta town and left my pretty wife alone. I did love Hannah; I did. But by damn, the woman could NAG."
Old Newt wipes his nose on a filthy sleeve and continues. "When Hannah died, I wanted to die too. Hell, half the town wanted to die. Things was never the same after that. It became Mosbyville in all but the name."
"Tell us about Clay Mosby, revered founding father of Curtis Wells," Darcie has the poor judgment to broach at this time.
"What? That arrogant old son-of-a-biscuit-eater? And now I'm related to him by marriage. Can you believe the dumb luck? My only daughter up and marries his son! Now, I like Jr., mind you, but that don't mean I'm lettin' bygones be bygones. HELL, no! Mosby was the SOB who kissed my wife while I was at death's door. And folks thought he was a gentleman." Old Newt snorts in disgust. "I shoulda shot him when I had the chance."
About this time, some of Old Newt's grandkids come to the window, pressing their noses against the glass. Old Newt raises himself up off his bench and raps on the glass with his cane. "Get outta here, you little bastards." The children scatter. Wouldn't you?
I decide to change the subject. "Tell us about the proprietress of the LD hotel, Amanda Carpenter."
Settling back on his bench, Old Newt's expression grows thoughtful.
"Amanda, now, she was a fine figure of a woman." A wicked gleam comes into Old Newt's eyes, and he makes the shape of an hourglass with his hands, wolf whistling softly. "She shore filled out those fancy clothes of hers, yessiree. Too bad her bodice was always gettin' ripped." A smile comes to old Newt's lips, remembering, but then his lip curls up in a snarl. "But, hang it all, she used to throw me outta my room in the hotel every time I turned around. All I did was use some dusty old furniture fer target practice. Guess she had it in fer me all right, and then Mattie wouldn't even let me sleep on her floor. By damn, that woman was crotchety."
"You seem a bit crotchety yourself today, Mr. Call, if you don't mind my saying so," I have the misfortune of saying aloud.
"Well, hell, I DO mind, and don't call me that. The name's Call, just plain Call." Old Newt glares at us and chaws his tobaccy.
"Anyways, this ain't one of my crotchety days. Now, last week I was crotchety. I had a touch of the lumbago, and my gout was actin' up. You'd be crotchety too if your toe felt like it was bein' et by fire ants." Old Newt scratches himself thoughtfully.
"Now, as I was sayin' before I was so rudely interrupted. Mattie, now that woman was crotchety. Tried to change me all the time. What kind of woman does that to a man? Tried to take me apart like a two dollar watch, shore as spittin'." Old Newt expectorates a fine stream of tobacco juice into the fire thru a gap in his mouth where one of his teeth used to be.
For some reason, this reminds Darcie of another question she wants to ask Old Newt. "Ever have the toothache, Mr. Call?"
"Now, let's get one thing straight, you young whippersnappers. Name's Call--don't need no fancy titles." Old Newt glowers at us. "Toothache? Did I ever have the toothache? Hell, yes! The dentist in Curtis Wells was named Dr. Payne fer good reason. I never went near the man. When my tooth got to hurtin'', I just drunk me a fifth of red eye. Gettin' rip-snortin' drunk took keer of it every damn time, yessiree."
I ask the next question. "What was it like to be the son of a famous Texas Ranger?"
Old Newt snorts and looks into the fire in disgust. "Why, that old man never give me nothin' his whole life, ceptn' a broken pocket watch and a used up flea-bitten old nag he got tired of ridin'. That hoss damn near kicked me t' death! My old man never even give me his name till I finally stole it, jest outta pure orneriness. Cain't say as it ever done me no good, neither." He lapses into silence.
"That so?" Darcie asks. Call glares at her. "Well, what was it like being a famous gun slinger?" she continues.
"It was like watchin' yer back all the damn time, that's what it was like. Why, I still have low-down, no-account varmints tryin' t' sneak up on me all the time. Hell, I sleep with one eye open."
Old Newt looks around suspiciously as though he expects to find at least one varmint in his living room. He places his hand conspicuously on his big gun.
There's one stone left unturned, and I decide to turn it. "What about Hannah's family? Did you ever make peace with Austin? And what of Josiah? Did he stay crazy, or did he eventually come around?"
Old Newt suddenly gets very quiet as an old pain etches itself across his features. I have the feeling that it has rested there many times before.
"They're gone now. I don't wanna talk about that."
Suddenly, there is a tap on the door, and a stately old gentleman with a fine head of snowy white hair and a mischievous grin lets himself into the living room. He doffs his hat to us.
"Excuse me, ladies, Clay Mosby, at your service." He kisses each of our hands, and we are charmed, of course.
Darcie and I explain to the Colonel our reason for being there, and he tells us his.
"I'm here to pick up the grandchildren. It's time for their music lessons. Now, if you'll be so kind as to excuse me."
Old Newt interrupts him. "Now, you just keep those little bastards away from me."
"Now, Call, that's no way to speak of little Beauregard and Mary. Pay him no mind," Mosby says to us with a wink. "You can come talk to me, and I'll tell you my side of the story. I'll tell you how it really was." He picks up Hannah's picture and bestows a kiss upon it. "That Hannah was a fine woman, a fine woman indeed."
Old Newt grows agitated, banging his cane on the floor. "You bastard, Mosby, get your hands offen my wife!" He rises unsteadily, and Darcie and I rush to help him. "Git, git away from me. Now, GIT." Old Newt brandishes his cane at us, and we back off all right.
"Let it go, Call, it's been fifty years," Mosby admonishes him. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a bottle. "This should calm him down," he says, grinning at us.
He ushers himself out, and we turn to see Old Newt dancing around the room in glee.
"Hee heeeeee! Works every time. Mosby brings me the good stuff fer my lumbago. Thinks it improves my disposition or somethin'. Glad that old coot's gone. Hell, where's Luther? Let's party!!"
The End ???
5/2002
