The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “A western man dares not ask another man about…himself,” she began, “but I’m not a man, McCaleb. What are the rules…for western…women?”

  “They stay out of a man’s business,” said McCaleb gruffly.

  “All right!” she flared. “I told you I didn’t know how to be a lady, and that’s the truth. But I…I’m a woman, and sometimes I…I let my heart get in the way.”

  “Like this morning,” he growled.

  “Yes,” she sighed. “You’re never wrong, McCaleb, so you don’t know how it feels, standing up for something—or somebody—and making a complete fool of yourself. My daddy’s never had the…the sand…to stand up for anything, and as hard as I try not to be like him, I…I play the fool as often as he does.”

  She became aware that he was watching her from the corner of his eye and that the hard lines of his face had softened. In a brief rise of fury, she thought he was going to agree with her unflattering self-appraisal, but he didn’t.

  “You decided that I’d never been wrong,” he said. “I’ve been wrong and I have the scars to prove it. I added another this morning.”

  “Thanks to me. You might have been killed.”

  “I’ve never been that wrong. While I was wrong in not stringing up that little sidewinder, I was right in my certainty he was going to try and kill me. It’s a sixth sense that’s kept me alive.”

  “How did you…?”

  “In Texas, ma’am, when a man vows he’s going to kill you, believe him. Especially when he’s ridin’ with a band of cutthroats like this Baker gang. I knew, when he raised his offside stirrup, he’d pull a gun when he had the horse between us. A man just out of the saddle after a long ride don’t need to bother his stirrups. The kid was buyin’ time, needin’ an edge.”

  He spoke softly, patiently, realizing it was just about the first time he had spoken to her without anger, almost the first time either of them had spoken without shouting. His voice died away; his eyes were on the locket she held in her hand.

  “Will you tell me about her…and about Cullen Baker?”

  He was silent for so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He seemed to be fighting a battle within himself, and she held her breath. If he didn’t talk to her now, she feared he would remain trapped forever within the past, where she couldn’t follow. With a sigh, reluctantly, he spoke.

  “Her name was Laurie. I gave her the locket the day were were married, in New Orleans. The pictures were taken there. We had been married barely three months. I hired on to boss a herd to Shreveport, where they would be shipped north by boat. Our nearest neighbors were ten miles away. I wanted her to stay with them, but she wouldn’t. She had chickens to feed, cows to milk, and we had some new calves. She was stubborn and headstrong, like…like…”

  “Like I am?”

  “Like you are,” he said. “That was the one thing I didn’t like about her. That, and the fact she never believed the tales about Cullen Baker.”

  “Do you really believe that he…Baker…?”

  “I believe he did it or had it done, although I have no proof. He’s the kind who enjoys seeing living things suffer. She had been stripped, raped, tortured, and finally gut-shot, which is the slowest, most painful way to die. But that wasn’t enough. Her body had been mutilated with a knife.”

  “Dear God! Perhaps Indians—”

  “No,” said McCaleb. “They ransacked the place, taking things Indians wouldn’t bother. Such as a little gold I had put away. When the neighbors got worried and went to see about her, every track they found was left by a shod horse. Just as a posse was about to ride, a storm came up and rained out the trail. I learned that some of the Baker gang had been seen within a few days after I’d moved out with the herd. That’s all the proof I need. Cullen Baker’s my cousin, and I have every reason to believe he’s responsible.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she rejected him and married me. He vowed he’d see her dead, but Laurie didn’t believe me. She just laughed and said I was jealous. I know for a certainty what I only suspected then: Cullen Baker is nothing but a cold-blooded killer. I was born in eighteen thirty-seven, two years after Ma and Pa left Tennessee. Cullen’s family came here in eighteen thirty-nine, when he was four years old. Ma tried her best to keep me away from Cullen. He’s from her side of the family, and she’s always been scared to death of him, even when he was just a kid. Anyhow, he could pull pistol like hell wouldn’t have it, and it was him taught me how to draw and shoot.”

  “This man, Nathan Calvert, is dead. Can’t you forget Cullen Baker?”

  “I have forgotten him, damn it, as far as killing him’s concerned. I thought if I killed him, I could put her memory to rest. Charlie Goodnight convinced me I was a fool for trailing Baker, and by the time we were discharged from the Rangers in ’sixty-five, I thought I could forget. I jumped into this trail drive up to my ears, and drove Cullen Baker from my mind. I won’t ever stop hating the bastard, but I stopped thinking about him.”

  “You’ve forgotten Baker, but you haven’t forgotten…her.”

  “Killing Baker a hundred times wouldn’t help me,” said McCaleb. “It’s not how I lost her, but the losing of her, that haunts me. If only I could forget her, put her memory to rest, then maybe I could rest. It’s hard to look to the future, when I’m chained to the past.”

  When McCaleb and the girl reached the mouth of the canyon, they found the branding fire going, the irons ready. Silently their three companions watched them approach, relaxing when they could see no evidence of battle. They had removed the pack and pack saddle from the mule and were spreading the contents of the pack on a blanket.

  “My God,” said Will, “them jaybirds carried enough artillery and shells to start a war. This is what the kid pulled on you.”

  He tossed the weapon and McCaleb caught it.

  “An 1850 Colt pocket revolver,” he said. “Don’t see many of these. Four-inch barrel, .31 caliber, nine inches long. That’s almost a sleeve gun. Here,” he said, handing the pistol to Rebecca. “Be a mite easier for you to handle than a .44 Colt.”

  “Thank you,” said Rebecca. She tucked the weapon under the waistband of her Levi’s.

  “We got two more Spencer .52’s and a needle gun,” said Brazos. “It’s a genuine U.S. Army Schroeder carbine, .53 caliber. It’ll fell a buffalo from a mile away. We picked up three more Colt six-shooters, and the daddy rattler had a poke with two hundred dollars in double eagles. Mostly grub on the mule. That bunch must of robbed a trading post. There’s two sacks of coffee beans, salt, flour, two sides of bacon, some airtights of peaches, tomatoes, and condensed milk. In a saddlebag there’s a dozen sticks of dynamite with caps and fuses.”

  “We now have fifteen horses and a mule,” said McCaleb. “That’s enough to whet the Comanche appetite. I look for them to try pulling down our fence while a second bunch comes down the canyon wall to spook our horses. Monte, one of these extra Spencers is yours; Rebecca, you take the other. Tonight and every night, we’ll watch that fence. Whoever’s on sentry, sing out at the first sign of Indians.”

  McCaleb sat up, reaching for his Henry in the dark. Brazos peered over the breastwork toward the shadowy bulk of the fence. He hadn’t awakened them; the Comanches had done that.

  “Comanche coyotes out there,” said Brazos.

  “I heard ’em,” said McCaleb. “Cut down anybody near the fence, but don’t forget there’s likely another bunch upcanyon. They may try using some of the horses for cover, getting as close as they can. Be sure of your targets before firing upcanyon, lest you hit a horse or cow.”

  Suddenly an arrow thunked into the breastwork. In quick succession there were three more.

  “They’re on the other wall of the canyon,” said McCaleb, “right in front of us. They may try getting our attention while another group drops loops over our fence posts. Hold your fire until you have a target.”

  The Comanches came at them from three directions. They cam
e down the east wall of the canyon like shadows. Upcanyon, others spooked the horses and some of the captured longhorns, sending them in an uneasy trot toward the fence at the lower end of the canyon. A horse galloped past, a Comanche clinging to the offside. Using the animal for a shield, he flung a lance under the horse’s neck.

  “Keep to cover,” shouted McCaleb. “Use your Colts. Hold your fire and make them come to us.”

  The rush came when the attackers who had slid down the opposite wall of the canyon tried to come over the barricade to get at the defenders. Colts roared and as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. McCaleb used his hat to fan the powder smoke away so that he could breathe.

  “Thank God for this wall!” cried Rebecca. “It’s all that saved us.”

  “Is anybody hurt?” McCaleb asked.

  There were no injuries.

  “I cut down a couple of ’em at the fence,” said Will, “but I think we lost a horse or two, either to gunfire or arrows.”

  “Come first light,” said McCaleb, “we’ll have a look. I doubt they’ll try anything else tonight. Rest of you get what sleep you can; I’ll watch for the rest of the night.”

  They found only two bodies the following morning.

  “They came back for their dead,” said McCaleb. “They had to leave these two because they didn’t want to come under our guns again.”

  Will and Brazos returned, having gone to see about the horses.

  “Couple of the horses have arrow wounds,” said Brazos. “With some salve to keep the blowflies out, they’ll be all right. The mule’s dead. Poor little bastard took an arrow in the throat.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said McCaleb. “They like mule better than beef. If you can find a gully deep enough and close by, take your catch rope and snake the carcass into it. Drop those two Comanches in there too. Then cave in the sides good and deep. Will, you and Brazos have seen the signs. How many did we kill?”

  “Two at the fence,” said Will, “and maybe five more from that bunch that tried to come over the wall. That’s a hell of a loss, not to have counted coup or taken even one scalp. That might be enough bad medicine to spook ’em into stayin’ away from here.”

  “Maybe,” said McCaleb, “but that won’t help us while we’re in the brakes ropin’ wild longhorns. They won’t forget this.”

  CHAPTER 6

  McCaleb, expecting trouble in the brakes, was sorely tempted to leave Rebecca in camp. He caught her covertly watching him, as though suspecting just such a move. He was getting tired of this aggressive female’s demands, so he left their arrangement alone. Anyhow, the day following the attack was Rebecca’s turn in camp; that allowed him a little time to study the situation. Right after breakfast, he had some words of caution for them.

  “From now on, whoever’s in camp stays in camp; no wandering upcanyon to the spring or anywhere else. We came here to gather wild longhorns, not to fight Indians, but the choice is no longer ours. Dodging these Comanches is like trying to hide from a prairie fire. God knows how many we’re up against, so they have us by the short hairs when it comes to strength. We have to finish this gather and keep our hair. After last night, we know we have a camp we can defend. The Comanches know it too. I’m looking for them to come after us while we’re in the brakes, roping longhorns. If either team gets in trouble—Indian trouble—fire three quick shots. Any questions?”

  There were none. The rest of them rode out, leaving Rebecca to defend the camp. McCaleb tried to relax. Their camp was safe and they had repulsed an Indian attack, inflicting heavy losses. What else could go wrong?

  But something could and did. Sunday, while they were branding their week’s gather, York Nance rode in.

  Nance dismounted without an invitation and didn’t beat around the bush. He was disheveled, his personal attire showing the lack of Rebecca’s care. The girl and Monte said nothing, waiting.

  “McCaleb, we need to talk. We must talk.”

  “I have nothing to say,” said McCaleb. “My position hasn’t changed.”

  “Unfortunately, mine has,” said Nance. “Thanks to you.”

  “Would that have anything to do with us cuttin’ down on your Comanche friends when they made a run on our horses?”

  “It would,” said Nance. “I have three of your animals. If you are prepared to listen to reason, you’re welcome to them.”

  “I’m not prepared to listen to anything you consider reasonable,” said McCaleb. “You just keep the three broomtails; it’s worth that to me, just to get your measure. Now mount up and ride.”

  “I’ll have my say, McCaleb. You’ve lured my son and my daughter into your camp, and I demand that you release them. I forbid them to remain here another day.”

  “Forbid and be damned,” snarled Monte, “and don’t go layin’ this on McCaleb. Me and Rebecca asked to join his gather. We’re buildin’ us a herd, and when McCaleb moves out, we’re ridin’ with him. We’re in this to the finish!”

  “Then so be it,” said Nance curtly, “but you won’t like the finish, boy. It don’t matter that you’re forted up in this canyon. It don’t matter if you catch a thousand cows or five thousand. What does matter is that you’re three hundred miles into Comanche territory. Not one of you will live to see the end of the drive.”

  “I’ve been ashamed of you before,” cried Rebecca, “but never so ashamed as I am now! It’s a poor excuse for a man who would send Indians to murder his own flesh and blood.”

  Nance paled, swallowing hard. When he finally spoke, his voice shook.

  “It’s out of my hands, girl. The Comanches don’t want white men comin’ here. Blue Feather’s no fool; if he allows this gather—this drive—to succeed, there’ll be more. I tried to discourage you, McCaleb, just as I have discouraged others, because this is my last chance for a stake. My life has been just one busted flush after another. The moonshine, the horses, just pocket change. There’s one hand left to play, and I aim to win, even if I have to side with thieving, murdering Comanches. There’s something they want and something I want; God help anybody that gets caught in the middle.”

  Without another word he mounted and rode out. There were tears sliding down Rebecca’s cheeks. Monte’s lips were a thin angry line. Will and Brazos stood with their thumbs hooked in their pistol belts.

  “I reckon that tears it,” said McCaleb. “Monte, you and Rebecca are free to pull out if you don’t like the way the stick floats.”

  “I told you I’d ride to hell with you,” said Monte, “and I will.”

  “And so will I!” snapped the girl, knuckling tears from her eyes.

  “I wonder what kind of trade he’s cooked up with them Injuns,” said Will. “He thinks he’s using the Comanches and they reckon they’re using him. My God, if that ain’t the makings for the biggest double-cross since Cain bushwhacked Abel!”

  “He’s asking for it,” said McCaleb, “and there’s nobody more capable of seeing that he gets it than the Comanches. They’ll take him for what they can get. Then they’ll take his hair, stake him out and build a fire in his crotch.”

  “One thing he told us—if we can believe him—is that our real danger will come after the gather,” said Brazos.

  The winter was mild in southeast Texas, and by December 1, 1865, they had eight hundred longhorns. But the very success of their gather created two serious problems. As the herd grew, so did their risk. The more wild cows they caught, the fewer they found near the safety of their camp. With each passing day they rode farther downriver. Finally the limited graze within the canyon forced them to move the herd to open range. Contrary to McCaleb’s prediction, branding and confining the cows to the canyon hadn’t tamed them much, if at all. It took all of them, riding hell-for-leather, to keep the ornery brutes in line as they drove them to open range at dawn. To their dismay, they found dozens of old bunch-quitters with no purpose in life except to return to the chaparral. The five riders spent the entire day swinging doubled lariats, popping flanks, convinc
ing the deserters they belonged with the herd. Come sundown, forcing the unruly herd into the narrow mouth of the canyon was the most difficult part of an unbelievably trying day. Exhausted, they slumped around the supper fire drinking coffee. Nobody had the strength to prepare anything more elaborate. Brazos spoke.

  “I reckon we might as well end this gather right now. It don’t matter that we’re still four months away from the start of Goodnight’s drive. If we start tomorrow, I ain’t sure we can have these damn stubborn cows at Fort Belknap in time.”

  “He’s got a point,” said Will. “A good half of this herd, if they don’t change their ways, we’ll have to rope the bastards and drag ’em to Belknap one at a time.”

  Nobody laughed. Tiredly McCaleb got up, poured himself some coffee and hunkered down. Finally, with a sigh, he spoke.

  “I reckon we got our work cut out for us. But if we can’t handle these brutes here, how can we ever trail ’em through that two thousand miles of wilderness Goodnight’s talking about? As for adding to the gather, we’ll lay off for a few days, until we’re able to control what we have. After the day we’ve just had, I’d say we can’t spare even two riders for cow hunting.”

  “I’d like to catch two hundred more,” said Monte. “That would be an even thousand. If we can tame this eight hundred, we can tame two hundred more.”

  Everybody, including Rebecca, just looked at him.

  “That’s after we tame the bunch we already got,” he added quickly.

  The second day was no better than the first. By the fifth day, the herd seemed more content to graze and there were fewer bunch-quitters. By the eighth day, the moving out at dawn, the grazing, and the return drive at sundown had become routine.

  “From here on out,” said McCaleb, “we’re going to protect the herd we have, even if it means a smaller gather. Starting tomorrow, we drive all the longhorns and the extra horses to open range. At noon, we move them back into the canyon and spend the rest of the day increasing our gather.”