Jake, aware that his source of gold was soon to depart, showed up at their supper fire with half a dozen fresh eggs and a jug of moonshine. He made the rounds, filling their tin cups. McCaleb didn’t consider himself a drinking man; he could take it or leave it alone, and mostly he left it alone. On a Texas frontier infested with hostile, marauding Indians and quick-triggered outlaws, a man was a fool to fog up his mind with whiskey. He watched Will and Brazos, realizing he hadn’t the slightest idea as to whether or not they drank. In the service as part of the Frontier Regiment on the Texas border, they’d been far removed from any such temptation. Brazos took a sip and gasped.
“My…God! What is it?”
“Snakehead,” said Jake.
Thirty-six gallons of pure grain alcohol. Add two pounds of gunpowder, four plugs of chewing tobacco for color, and one rattlesnake head to give it “bite.”
Without tasting his, McCaleb poured the contents into the fire, where it flamed up a brilliant blue. He turned to Jake.
“Where, Jake? Where’d you get this poison?”
“York Nance. Him, son, young squaw. Vagabundos. Snakehead make Indios loco, malo. Nance say hunt vaca, pay him dolla. Una vaca, una dolla.”
“York Nance,” said McCaleb. “Where do we find him?”
“Fi’ mile,” said Jake, pointing downriver.
“He sells us horses to hunt cows,” said Brazos, “and now he tells us some old moonshiner named York Nance aims to charge us a dollar a head for the privilege of draggin’ them wild cows out of the brush.”
Will chuckled. “More surprises than Christmas. Not only does this old buzzard want money for unbranded wild cows, he’s supplyin’ Comanches with whiskey. I ain’t ropin’ the first cow until we ride downriver and teach this pilgrim the error of his ways.”
“That’s the way I see it,” said McCaleb. “We’re not taking anybody’s cows as long as they’re identifiable, but we’ve as much right to unbranded cattle as anybody. I doubt we can stop him from supplying the Indians with whiskey, though, and that bothers me. The only thing worse than a hostile, bloodthirsty Comanche is a drunken, hostile, bloodthirsty Comanche. We may end up choosing between a herd of cattle and our hair.”
“Indios,” said Jake. “Malo.”
“Tomorrow, then,” said McCaleb, “we serve notice on York Nance that we won’t honor his claim to unbranded cows, not even if he holds legitimate patents on every inch of land from here to the Gulf.”
“After we show him how the cow eats the cabbage,” said Brazos, “let’s start pullin’ some cows out of the brush. Nance would need an army to stop us, and I doubt he’s got one.”
“No soldados,” said Jake. “Indios. Malo Indios.”
He twirled a finger around his graying hair. He didn’t smile. The trio of ex-Rangers watched him disappear in the gathering dusk on his way to the adobe hut. Old Jake’s words were disturbing, ominous. Suppose York Nance was sided by an “army” of whiskey-loyal Comanches?
Immediately after breakfast the following morning, they rode out for their confrontation with York Nance. Jake Narbo had grudgingly consented for them to leave their three newly acquired horses in the corral adjoining his log barn. Cattle trails were well-defined along the Trinity, and at some points the sandy banks had been caved in by animals seeking water. It had been a dry spring and there were stretches where the river ran barely hock deep. They reined up, watching half a dozen cows splash out of the shallow water, up the bank and into the brush.
“Four-year-olds,” said Brazos, “and not a sign of a brand. I reckon we can rope two thousand by the time Charlie’s ready to trail the herd.”
“You’re forgettin’ something,” said Will. “We’ll likely spend some of that time preventin’ the Comanches from taking our scalps.”
“I’d settle for five hundred cows and my hair,” said McCaleb. “While we don’t know how much truth there is to what Jake told us, I don’t like the sound of it. I have no respect for a man lowdown enough to sell rotgut whiskey to hostile Indians. I expect we’re going to tangle horns with this York Nance, and with the Comanches as well, if he has influence with them. If we have to face them, I’d as soon know it goin’ in; I don’t like surprises where Indians are involved. I want to know how the stick floats, and I expect we’ll have some better idea after we talk to Nance. Keep your Colts handy when we ride in, but no shooting unless they start it. Let them open the ball.”
Warily they rode, but there was no Indian sign. As every Ranger knew, that was the time to worry; in a matter of seconds you could be surrounded. Each man carried his second Colt next to his belly, tucked behind the waistband of his Levi’s, and in his pocket rested a fully loaded extra cylinder that would interchange with either Colt in a matter of seconds.
Somewhere ahead, a horse nickered. McCaleb’s horse answered and they reined up, listening. There was no other sound and they rode on. Rounding a bend in the river, they could see a log barn in the distance. Within an adjoining pole corral, a dozen horses milled restlessly about. They were almost to the barn before they saw the house. It stood on a treeless knoll a thousand yards from the west bank of the Trinity. They reined up, regarding the place in silence. Brazos said what all of them were thinking.
“What kind of damn fool builds his barn and corral on one side of the river and his house on the other?”
They paused midway in the shallow stream, allowing their horses to drink before riding on to the house. It proved to be nothing more than a log hut, as unimposing and as uninviting as Jake Narbo’s adobe. Each end of the roof overhang that served as a porch was supported by an unskinned cottonwood pole. There was a mud-and-stick chimney and the place was roofed with cedar shakes. What might have been a window was shuttered. The gaps between the logs had been mud-chinked; the mud, baked brittle by the merciless Texas sun, had long since crumbled and had not been replaced.
The door swung open on rawhide hinges, and the young man who stepped out couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or-two. He wore down-at-the-heel cowman’s boots, Levi’s pants, and a much-washed faded blue shirt. His old flat-crowned black hat was tilted over his eyes, and on his right hip, in a tied-down holster, rode a Colt revolver. He hooked his thumbs in his pistol belt and kept his silence, a half smile on his lips. Clearly, he wasn’t going to invite them to dismount. It was an affront, an insult, but McCaleb ignored it.
“We’re here to see York Nance,” said McCaleb. “Get him.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll bend a pistol barrel over your head and get him myself.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the gloom of the cabin.
He filled the small doorway, a big man gone to fat. He might have been fifty, with white hair, moustache, and the florid, lined face of a drinking man. He wore a not-too-clean white shirt, black string tie, a white linen suit, and gaiters. A gold watch chain was draped across his ample belly. An enormous diamond sparkled on the ring finger of his left hand.
“Step down, gentlemen. Allow me to apologize for Monte’s total lack of courtesy. Young hell-raiser; one of these days somebody’s goin’ to kill him.”
“Ain’t nobody fast enough to kill me,” bawled Monte. “I’ll—”
The old man’s huge fist silenced him, catching him on the point of the chin and slamming him against the log wall of the cabin. Monte slid down to a sitting position, his head slumped forward. Ignoring him, the old man again turned to them.
“Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
They followed him into the gloomy interior of the cabin, and to their surprise, it was neat and clean. Little care had been devoted to the outside, but the inside was something else. There was a stone fireplace and hearth, hewn log walls, and a smooth, split-log floor. There was an eating table with benches, several backless, three-legged stools, and a pair of crude, wooden bunks. A cow hide hung over the door to another room. A coal oil lamp flickered on the table, its meager flame wrestling with the shadows.
“Be seated, gentlemen. A bit primitive, but livable, thanks to the diligence and civilizing influence of my daughter. I believe I know why you’re here, but it would be uncivil of me not to hear you out. Proceed.”
“I’m Benton McCaleb. My partners are Brazos Gifford and Will Elliot. We’re here to gather a herd of unbranded maverick cows for a trail drive. Jake Narbo tells us you’re making some kind of claim on these cows to the tune of a dollar a head. Well, we don’t recognize whatever claim you have or think you have. You’ll have to justify it, if you can.”
“You are a very direct young man, McCaleb, but you’ve been misinformed. I make no claim to any cows except those wearing my Box N brand. As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to as many as you can catch. I believe the ‘dollar a head’ Jake mentioned is for my assurance that the Comanches will allow you safe passage with your newly acquired herd and your scalps.”
“I reckon you’ve said enough, Nance. We’ve sampled the rotgut poison you’re using to buy Comanche friendship.”
“Don’t be a fool, McCaleb. That’s how life is; you have to trade something another party wants to get something you want.”
“I wouldn’t pay you one dollar for every damn cow on the Trinity River. We’ll protect our own cows and our scalps!”
Benton McCaleb got up, kicking his stool out of the way, furious. Will and Brazos, nearest the door, went out ahead of McCaleb. He had barely cleared the porch when, to his left, from the corner of the cabin, the challenge came.
“Draw, you bastard!”
A blur of motion, McCaleb turned and fired. Monte’s pistol had barely cleared the holster when McCaleb’s slug flung him against the cabin wall. There was a dark patch of blood on the right sleeve of his faded blue shirt, just above the elbow. Through gritted teeth he cursed McCaleb.
“Next time—”
“Next time,” McCaleb interrupted, “I’ll kill you.”
York Nance stood in the doorway, saying nothing. McCaleb holstered his Colt. Will and Brazos mounted first, backstepping their horses away from the cabin, covering McCaleb as he swung into the saddle. They forded the Trinity, reining up on the east bank for a last look at the Nance cabin.
“Well, I reckon that splits the blanket,” said Will. “Now he knows we ain’t buyin’ his shakedown, I reckon he’ll loose them pet Comanches on us.”
“Maybe,” said Brazos, “we should’ve kept him in the dark and let him think we’d pay up after the gather. Worst he could have done is sic his Injun army on us at the finish. Now we’ll likely be fightin’ Comanches with one hand and ropin’ cows with the other.”
“He’s the kind to demand an advance,” said McCaleb. “What would you have used for money? Besides, I don’t ride under false colors. Get in the mud to wrassle with a hog and you never come out clean.”
They were no more than two miles from the Nance cabin when they heard the drum of hoofs on the trail behind them. They reined up, turning their mounts to face the oncoming rider. The horse was a young mare, solid black except for a blaze on her forehead. The rider was a girl dressed in scuffed, rough-out boots, faded Levi’s pants, and a red-and-white checkered blouse. Black hair curled to her shoulders, and a floppy old gray hat rode the nape of her neck, secured by a leather thong under her tilted chin. Reining the mare to a lope, she rode up to McCaleb. She had a three-foot rawhide quirt in her hand and fire in her green eyes.
“Are you the damn skunk-striped gunman that shot my brother?”
“Your brother’s a hotheaded young fool,” said McCaleb, “and the way you’re pawin’ the ground, I won’t be surprised if it runs in the family.”
When she swung the rawhide quirt at his head, McCaleb dodged, seizing the startled girl by the arm. He snatched the quirt with his right hand, dragged her bodily out of the saddle with his left and flopped her belly down in front of him. Ignoring her screams, he swatted her well-rounded bottom with the quirt. Then he loosed his hold and she slid off, raising a small cloud of dust when her backside met the ground.
Brazos chuckled. “My God, ain’t he got a way with the ladies?”
“Ladies don’t swear and wear britches,” said McCaleb.
That did it. With a shriek that would have raised the hair on the head of a dead Indian, the girl sprang to her feet and ran to the mare. Instead of mounting and riding furiously away, she dragged a Spencer .52 from the saddle boot. When she had it free and McCaleb was sure he wouldn’t hit the mare, he drew and fired, splintering the weapon’s walnut stock. The force of the blow ripped the rifle from her hands and its heavy octagonal barrel broadsided the mare’s flank. The horse reared, neighing in fear and pain, and then lit out for home.
“I once saw a dancing bear in a traveling medicine show,” said Will, “but it couldn’t hold a candle to this.”
It wasn’t over. Wearily, McCaleb braced himself for the next attack. This time she launched herself like a timber wolf, caught one hand in his pistol belt and hung on. McCaleb tried to dismount, but she had come at him on the offside, the weight of her body trapping his right foot in the stirrup. He freed his left foot, allowing her to drag him from the saddle.
They slid to the ground in an ignominious tangle of arms and legs. McCaleb’s horse, alarmed at such peculiar antics, backstepped. Will caught the reins before it could run. For a few confused seconds, like puppets with strings cut, McCaleb and the girl sat facing one another. There were tear tracks on her cheeks and fury in her eyes. Suddenly, with all the strength she could muster, she slapped McCaleb. A trickle of blood ran from his nose across his lips, dripping off his dusty chin. Without a word, he got up and helped the girl to her feet. She drove the toe of her boot into his shin just above his boot top. Barely did he recover from the shock of that in time to avoid the knee aimed at his crotch. He caught her around her slender waist and hoisted her into his arms like a disobedient child. While she kicked, screamed, scratched, and clawed at his face and eyes, McCaleb carried her to the bank of the Trinity and pitched her into the knee-deep water. Without a backward look, he took the reins from Will, mounted his horse, and led out toward Jake Narbo’s.
“You bullying bastard,” screamed the girl, “I’ll kill you for this!”
“McCaleb,” said Will admiringly, “you purely got that female’s full and undivided attention. She’s sweet on you, and you didn’t even ask her name. Before she’s done, she’ll stir up more trouble than all the Comanches in Texas.”
“The pretty ones are always poison mean,” said Brazos with an exaggerated sigh. “That’s why they pass up gentle hombres like me and throw themselves at bullying bastards like McCaleb. I can hear weddin’ bells already, and my God, they’re more fearsome than Injun war whoops.”
Will chuckled. “Wait’ll Charlie Goodnight hears about this.”
“A word of this to anybody,” growled McCaleb, wiping his still-bleeding nose, “and I’ll gut-shoot the both of you!”
They found that most of Jake Narbo’s friendliness had departed. Again he accompanied them to the coulee. McCaleb chose a sorrel, Will a gray, and Brazos a black. Jake led the horses out of the coulee corral and departed without a word. They spent the rest of the day making friends with their new mounts. Taking supper early, they doused their fire well before dark. As Rangers, they had eaten cold biscuit and drunk creek water when they dared not light a fire. After their falling out with York Nance, they could be no less cautious.
“Somebody’s got the word to Jake,” said McCaleb. “He values that greasy scalp of his more than the gold coins we’ve been feedin’ him.”
CHAPTER 3
Jake Narbo soon confirmed their suspicions. The morning after their return, he showed up at their breakfast fire with his Spencer and without any show of friendliness.
“Take caballos,” he said. “Vamoose.”
Without another word, he walked away. They watched him disappear into the adobe hut.
“Wherever he stands,” said Brazos, “it ain’t with us. Let’s ta
ke our broomtails and ride. We’ll be as well off in the brakes as we are here.”
Each of them leading two extra horses, they started downriver to an area McCaleb remembered from his boyhood.
“Maybe twenty miles south of the Nance place,” he said, “the Trinity kind of curves back on itself and forms a small lake. In dry years, when the river’s low, there’s always water in this lake area. There’s a blind canyon a couple of miles west, and at the head of it there’s a big spring. Runoff feeds the lake at the bend of the Trinity.”
“We can use a blind canyon,” said Will. “How big?”
“Big enough to hold five hundred head,” said McCaleb. “Maybe more. It’s shaped kind of like an Indian canoe; narrow at the front, gets wider near the middle, and becomes narrow again at the blind end. When I was just a boy, I was there with my pa and some other riders on a wild horse hunt. A thirty-foot fence at the entrance will be all we’ll need.”
“We’ll need grass,” said Brazos. “How long can we hold five hundred cows without starvin’ ’em?”
“One thing at a time,” said McCaleb. “It’s been fifteen years since I was there. If it’s been recently used, overgrazed, we may have a problem. But with the state at war the past four years, I doubt our canyon’s had many visitors, except for varmints and maybe some of these wild cows we’re looking for. If we catch so many cows that graze becomes a problem, we may have to scout the brakes for a second holding pen.”
There was no sign of life at the Nance cabin. The horse corral was empty and not a sound came from the barn. How had Nance disposed of that many horses in less than twenty-four hours?
“I wonder what her name is,” said Brazos innocently.
“Ride over there and ask her,” said McCaleb. “We’ll wait for you.”
“Since we had a fallin’ out with her daddy, and her brother’s so almighty gun happy, I’ll just wait till she comes lookin’ for you again. A man could get a real education around that woman; she cusses like a bull whacker.”
The Goodnight Trail Page 3
