sure, there’s what y’all’d call a real forest or two in Texas, but they ain’t a day or two’s ride away from the mountains, it’s more like weeks, an’ they’re over toward Loosiana. And there ain’t never been no carbine ever shot 25 bullets without reloadin’. Only thing close is the Henry Rifle, an’ thet’s sixteen iff’n you got one in the chamber. But—” he continued, holding up his hand to keep her from speaking “—here’s the thing. We ain’t sellin’ the gold. We’re sellin’ the treasure-map.”
She knitted her brows in consternation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, hesitantly.
“We ain’t here t’edumacate nobody,” he explained. “Back home, you bet we gotta be careful. There’s plenty of people that’d call us phonies in the papers if we got it wrong. Here, well, what you jest tol’ me is thet what people know is what they read in this May feller’s books. It ain’t our place t’tell ’em they’re wrong. We don’ need t’sell ’em gen-u-wine gold, we jest sell ’em a treasure map they ain’t never gonna foller, an’ it don’t matter if thet map’s a Lost Dutchman. So, I reckon you an’ Kellermann kin go right on tellin’ ’em what they wanta hear, an’ that’ll be all right. An’ I’ll pass word on thet if any of us tell ’em somethin’ thet don’t agree with what they think they know, not to argue ’bout it, jest say somethin’ like, ‘Oh, well, thet’s ’cause we’re from Wyomin’, or Colorado, an’ thet’s what it’s like there.’ You jest pick me out a couple’a places this May feller never wrote ’bout, an’ thet’ll do.”
She must have looked crestfallen—and she certainly felt somewhat crushed to have discovered that this idolized writer had betrayed her faith in his words. Here, all these years, she had been dreaming about Old Shatterhand and Winnetou, and those sweeping landscapes through which they traveled, and now to discover it was all a lie—she could scarcely bring herself to answer Cody.
And he looked sharply at her, then reached for her hand. “See here, liebchen,” he said, squeezing her hand comfortingly. “Don’t go thinkin’ just ’cause he made it all up, thet means them stories ain’t no good! Hellfire, people been makin’ stories up fer as long as they been people t’hear ’em! It ain’t whether th’ stories is true, doncha see?”
“No,” she said, choking back a sudden sob, “I don’t see!”
He patted her hand, his moustache drooping with distress.
“Stories ain’t about the feller what wrote ’em, even if he pertends they are. They don’ even hev t’be true to be right! Stories are ’bout what they make you feel. If’n they make you feel good, an’ make y’all wanta be brave, an’ good, an’ do what’s right, thet’s the important thing!” He suddenly seemed to realize he was holding her hand, and let it go with a laugh. “Think ’bout that there Odyssey! Hunnerds an’ hunnerds of years, people been listenin’ to it, an’ readin’ it, an dreamin’ bout it, people make up their minds what a hero is, ’cause of it! An’ there ain’t a word of truth in it! Pshaw! You think there ever was them one-eyed giants, or men thet was part horse, or big brass stachoos what fight? ’Course not! It’s all made up! But thet don’t matter, not one particle! So what if’n this May feller made it all up? Ain’t that what storytellers is supposed t’ do? He jest made up a liddle more’n y’all thought he did, makin’ out like he did all thet stuff. Thet’s all right. Reckon ol’ Homer made out like he was right there an’ heerd it all firsthand too.”
She nodded, slowly.
“Give him this fer bein’ honest. He tried t’find out stuff best as he could. An’ it weren’t like he were makin’ all thet up for a guidebook, where he could git people in trouble with what he wrote.” Cody leaned back, evidently seeing that he was convincing her, and took a long pull on his beer. “There you go. Jest go right on readin’ an’ likin’ the books. You wanta look at a fine man what’s a Injun, you don’t haveta look no further’n Fox an’ his boys. An you was disposed t’like ’im on account of that there Winnetou. So ain’t no shame in still likin’ them books. I’m mighty partial t’Mister Verne an’ Mister Twain, an’ there ain’t a word of truth in thet, neither, an Mister Twain right often makes