“I reckon we know that too,” said McCaleb, looking at the girl. “I—We—Rebecca thinks that the Comanche—Blue Feather—wants her. She fears that Nance, whether he intended to go through with it or not, may have led the Indian to think—”
Seeing the unbelief and disgust in their faces and the tears streaking the girl’s cheeks, he couldn’t go on. But enough had been said. Monte got to his feet, stumbling out into the canyon.
“I’m glad they’ve got him!” he shouted. “Glad!”
Will and Brazos said nothing. The girl’s tears continued unabated. Although McCaleb had expected some macabre scheme on Nance’s part, he was shocked that the old reprobate had come up with something of this magnitude. For a minute he forgot their precarious position, watching Goose. His eyes were on the girl, knowing the message he had brought was the reason for her tears.
“Comanch’ bastardos!” he said.
McCaleb got up and stepped out into the canyon. Fifty yards away, Monte Nance stood on the bank of the stream, his head down, looking into the water.
“We’ve got some talkin’ to do,” said McCaleb. “You still with me?”
Monte walked along the bank of the stream until he faced McCaleb.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m with you if we have to fight ever’ damn Injun in Texas!”
Rebecca had dried her tears, built up the fire, and had a fresh pot of coffee boiling. Monte seated himself next to Goose, and McCaleb remained standing. He walked to the very back of their shelter, picked up the saddlebags they had taken from Nathan Calvert’s horse and returned to the fire.
“This is the end of the gather,” he said. “We’re moving out muy pronto, but we can’t outrun the Comanches. I have a surprise for them, but they’ll come after us; I want us to have the protection of this camp until we take some of the fight out of them. Come dark, with Goose to guide us, I’m taking Will and Brazos on a visit to Blue Feather’s village.”
“Why can’t I go?” growled Monte.
“Same reason as last time,” said McCaleb impatiently. “Besides, we’re not attacking the camp. The fewer there are of us, the safer we’ll be. I want to sneak in, defang this rattler and be gone before they know we’re there. We’ll need someone here to guard our camp, same as before.”
“What are you planning to do?” Rebecca inquired anxiously.
“I’m planning to take Nance out of there,” said McCaleb, “if he’s still alive. And then I’m going to make use of the dynamite the Baker gang left us. I aim to scatter that wagonload of Spencers from Hell to breakfast.”
“My God,” said Brazos. “Twelve sticks of dynamite and a dozen cases of ammunition! When that lets go, it’ll rattle the windows in New Orleans! There’ll be Spencer barrels and wagon wheels fallin’ for forty years!”
“Why don’t we take a packhorse,” said Will, “and bring back some of that Spencer ammunition? If we’ve got to snatch Nance out of that wagon, why not take one more minute and get something that’s useful to us?”
“No,” said McCaleb. “Just a saddled horse for Nance. No more.”
“Amen,” said Brazos. “Let’s go in there with nothin’ on our minds except grabbin’ Nance, scatterin’ that wagonload of rifles all over Texas, and gettin’ the hell out with our hair in place.”
“Just blow the wagon where she stands,” said Monte callously. “Let the old fool go up with it. He got himself into this mess. He deserves it!”
“Monte!” cried the girl.
“Nobody deserves being in the hands of the Comanches,” said McCaleb. “Not even York Nance. You saw what they did to Goose.”
They saddled an extra horse for Nance, using one of the saddles left by the Baker gang. Goose, beginning to think like a cowboy, had already taken the best one for himself. Nobody talked. Foremost in their minds loomed the potential consequences of their after-dark visit to the Comanche village.
They rode out at moonset, Goose taking the lead. Will Elliot led the saddled horse intended for York Nance. Brazos had carefully explained their mission, and when the Apache had learned they were going after the much-hated “Comanch’,” his joy knew no bounds. McCaleb carried the saddlebags with the dynamite. Having had experience with the explosive, he had carefully capped two sticks, cutting a thirty-second fuse for each. The remaining ten sticks he capped and tied in a bundle, attaching the rest of the fuse—maybe fifty yards—to the center of it. They forded the Trinity at the Nance barn.
In the starlight they could see the shadowy hulk of the abandoned wagon, its hooped canvas top a ghostly gray-white. McCaleb estimated they had ridden no more than five miles from the Nance place when Goose reined up. Brazos nudged his mount alongside for a whispered conversation with the Apache. Brazos then spoke to Will and McCaleb.
“They’re liquored up on Nance’s rotgut whiskey. Only one guard on the wagon with Nance and the guns. Goose wants us to take a look.”
They came to a creek, following it upstream for maybe a hundred yards before Goose halted them. It was the last decent cover they’d have before entering the clearing in which the Indian village stood. The fire had long since died to a bed of coals. A fitful breeze flirted with a still-red ember, raising a few sparks quickly swallowed by the darkness. The canvas-topped wagon had been left with its tailgate next to the creek, and the bank was high enough that a man on hands and knees might reach the wagon unseen. McCaleb touched the Indian’s shoulder, pointing back the way they had come. When they had reached the horses, McCaleb spoke in a whisper.
“All of us will go to the wagon. Will, you and Brazos keep below the bank of the creek. Goose will go into the wagon and I’ll follow. If Nance is still there, we’ll cut him loose and boost him out. Get him back to the horses if you can. He gives you any trouble, bend a pistol barrel over his head and rope him to the saddle. I’ll give you a slow count of fifty before I light the fuse; after that, we’ll have maybe five minutes before the big charge blows. You should reach the horses ahead of me and Goose; mount and ride for camp. If there’s pursuit, we’ll cover you.”
On hands and knees, Goose leading the way, they crept along the bed of the shallow creek. So slowly did the Indian lead them, pausing often to listen, there was no betraying sound of their movement. In McCaleb’s shirt pocket there was an oilskin pouch of matches, and he’d slung the saddlebags around his neck to protect the dynamite. Finally the wagon stood above them and Goose lifted his hand, bidding them halt. The Apache had tied a rawhide thong to the haft of the bowie McCaleb had given him, allowing the formidable weapon to hang down his back. Starlight glinted dully on the foot-long blade as the Indian drew the knife and melted into the shadows beneath the wagon’s tailgate.
There was a soft grunt and then silence. For what seemed an eternity they waited, hardly daring to breathe. Then the grisly thing that descended upon them from the darkness startled even McCaleb. Goose dangled the dead Comanche over their heads, holding him by the ankles. With Brazos’s help, McCaleb lowered the macabre burden into the creek. When he touched the Indian’s head, his hand came away bloody. Goose had taken his first scalp from the hated “Comanch’.” Just as McCaleb was wondering how many more there might be, the Apache climbed to the tailgate. There had been only one guard. Slowly McCaleb rose to his feet, the water dripping from him sounding unnaturally loud as it pattered into the creek.
The wagon was a huge Studebaker, but it was stacked to the bows with wooden rifle and ammunition cases. By the time McCaleb had moved up beside Goose, the Indian had cut Nance’s bonds. McCaleb wrinkled his nose at the stink. Nance had been there maybe three days, and the Comanches obviously hadn’t loosed him even long enough to tend to his personal needs. He took one of Nance’s arms while the Indian took the other. Nance grunted.
“Quiet!” hissed McCaleb. “You bring them down on us, and we’ll leave your stinking carcass right here among ’em!”
Taking every precaution, they lifted Nance out of the wagon and down into the creek. Will and Brazos steadied h
im and they all waited, listening. There was only the sigh of the wind. McCaleb lifted his hand, starting his count. Will and Brazos moved slowly, half dragging Nance between them. They had thirty yards to go before leaving the creek; until then they could be seen from the Comanche camp. Could they get the old man to the horses in time? He stopped the count, watching them out of sight before turning to his task of placing the dynamite. Goose touched his arm and he froze. The Apache gripped the bowie in his right hand. The Comanche rounded the wagon box, and Goose, like a striking rattler, had his left arm around his enemy’s throat. A violent, deadly thrust to the belly silenced the Comanche. Goose withdrew the bowie and stood there, his head up, like a lobo wolf keening the wind. Finally he touched McCaleb’s arm.
McCaleb climbed into the back of the wagon, finding barely enough room to stand. He took the ten-stick bundle of capped and fused dynamite from the saddlebags and shoved it between two wooden cases near the floor of the wagon bed. For a few seconds he stood there mentally cursing himself. For all his careful planning, he had overlooked something! He could not string the fuse on the ground! A heavy dew fall had wet the grass, and a damp fuse would just sputter out. Barring that, a watchful or restless Comanches might see the fiery trail in the darkness. He dared not shorten the fuse, lest the charge blow before they were safely away. How in tarnation was he going to unwind fifty yards of dynamite fuse in the cramped confines of the wagon? It must not “overlap” or cross itself in any way, lest the fire take a shortcut and the explosion come too quickly. He found he could reach two of the wooden bows supporting the wagon canvas, and he spiraled the fuse around them like a vine. It was painfully slow going, working by feel and the meager starlight that crept in through the canvas pucker. Needing more space, he stood on the two-foot-high side of the wagon box, stretching to loop the fuse across the front of the wagon’s load. He dragged down one of the long wooden cases into the small area where he’d been standing. With a dozen feet of fuse remaining, he wound it lengthwise around the box, careful to keep each turn separated from the last. Finally, when there was nowhere else he could stretch the fuse without it crossing or touching itself, he reached the end of it. He hunched down, took a match from his oilskin pouch and popped it alight with his thumbnail. The fuse caught, sputtered and died. From somewhere in the Indian camp came the exploratory yip of a dog. Goose gripped his arm with an urgency McCaleb could feel. Time and luck had run out. He lighted a second match, and when the fuse caught, wasted precious seconds until a yard of it had been consumed. Again the curious dog yipped, and by the time McCaleb swung off the wagon’s tailgate, he knew they were in for it.
He followed Goose’s lead, dropping quietly into the creek. They had maybe a few seconds before the Comanche pinpointed the reason for the dog’s excited yipping. As they moved away from the wagon, the creek bank sloped to a height of less than three feet; poor cover if they had to make a stand. Discovery came quickly. An arrow whipped out of the darkness, slashing into McCaleb’s right thigh. Goose caught his arm, pulling him down to the meager protection of the creek bank. No sooner had they dropped to their knees in the water than a fusillade of rifle fire shattered the silence, the deadly slugs whipping the air barely above their heads. All the Spencers weren’t in that wagon; some of them had been broken out for use!
Gritting his teeth against the pain, McCaleb snapped off two thirds of the arrow’s feathered shaft, getting it out of the way. They would have to make a run for it, Spencer-armed Comanches or not. Drunken as they probably were, he had little doubt the Indians were already crossing the creek to the north of them and that they’d soon be trapped in a deadly cross fire from the opposite bank. But there was a clock ticking in McCaleb’s mind, warning him of a far more imminent danger. In three minutes the dynamite would blow, scattering them all over Hell and half of Texas!
McCaleb drew his Colt. At least he would find the Comanche position. Keeping his head down, he fired twice in the direction from which the first Comanche volley had come. The response was instantaneous. There was a muzzle flash from half a dozen rifles, closer this time. Then in answer, like an echo, came the most beautiful sound McCaleb had ever heard! Maybe fifty yards to the south, from the brush on the opposite side of the creek, two Henry rifles laid a devastating fire on the Comanche riflemen! It was all the opportunity McCaleb and Goose needed, and more than McCaleb had dared hope for. Splashing through the shallow water of the creek, they ran for the sheltering darkness of the cottonwoods.
Will and Brazos! Despite his pain and their predicament, McCaleb was elated. He’d given them specific orders to take Nance and ride. Silently he thanked God that Rangers and ex-Rangers never let “orders” stand in the way of doing what necessity demanded. Their horses had been brought much nearer, and McCaleb sighed with relief. He and Goose pulled the slipknots and swung into their saddles, pain a fiery reminder in McCaleb’s thigh. At the sound of horses coming hard, they drew their Colts. Brazos rode in first; Will followed, with Nance’s horse on a lead rope.
Not a word was spoken. Goose led out, followed by Will and Nance, with McCaleb and Brazos bringing up the rear. McCaleb listened, hearing nothing. Where was that explosion? After the Comanches had discovered them, had they become suspicious and found the burning fuse? He didn’t think so; it would be unlike the Comanches to put anything ahead of pursuit. Suddenly the earth trembled, reminding McCaleb of a long-ago buffalo stampede. It began slowly, rose to a sustained rumble and then faded, like the angry mutter of faraway thunder. They reined up, listening. McCaleb felt blood soaking the leg of his Levi’s; his wound hurt like seven shades of Hell.
“I hope that loudmouth dog was under the wagon when it went up,” said Brazos. “Hadn’t been for him, that blast might’ve took all them war whoops off our trail in a bunch.”
“No chance of that,” said McCaleb. “Soon as you and Will let up with the rifles, I’d bet every brave old enough to fork a pony lit out after us. After the blast, I don’t look for them to trail us tonight. It got some of them, and I reckon it’ll draw the others back to camp to have a look at the damage. But come tomorrow—and from now on—we’ll have a fight on our hands.”
When they rode into camp, Rebecca stared in fascinated horror at the two grisly Comanche scalps Goose had thonged to the waist of his buckskins. York Nance all but fell out of the saddle, surly and silent. The girl regarded him in tight-lipped anger while Monte pointedly ignored him.
“Monte,” said McCaleb, “will you stir some life into that fire and put on some water to boil? Brazos, I’ll need you and Will to help me take out this arrow.”
“McCaleb,” snapped the girl, “I’m not going to bite you; why won’t you let me help?”
“Because you don’t know how,” said McCaleb. “They do.”
Monte took the fire-blackened bucket off the coals; the water was boiling. Will Elliot took his own bowie and cut away the right leg of McCaleb’s Levi’s at the hip, slitting the fabric down to the arrow shaft to expose the angry, purpling wound. Without a word, Rebecca brought McCaleb the quart jar with what was left of the whiskey. He twisted off the lid and regarded the vile stuff without enthusiasm. It was a poor excuse for painkiller, but all they had. There was maybe a third of the original quart, and he downed half of that. It had about the same effect as swallowing a handful of live coals. When he recovered from a fit of coughing and wheezing, he sleeved the sweat from his eyes. When at last he could breathe, he took the rest of the fiery liquid, enduring a second siege of choking and coughing. Brazos and Will chuckled. The Apache had a half grin on his usually stolid face; this he understood. Monte and the girl weren’t watching McCaleb’s unwilling performance; their eyes were on York Nance. Nance eyed the jar of moonshine hungrily as McCaleb drained it. For the first time since his arrival, he spoke.
“McCaleb, you’re a glory-seeking damn fool! Why didn’t you take your herd and go, while you still had a halfway chance?”
McCaleb wiped his still-sweating face on the sleeve of his
shirt and turned grim eyes on Nance. Through gritted teeth he spoke.
“Because we’ve never had anything even close to a halfway chance, thanks to your greed and stupidity. If six of us against God-knows-how-many Comanches armed with Spencer rifles sounds like decent odds to you, it’s no wonder your life’s been one busted flush after another. If you aim to spend the rest of the night in this camp, then get out there to the branch and wash the stink off yourself.”
Nance was unable to meet McCaleb’s grim blue eyes. He got up and disappeared into the darkness of the canyon.
Will allowed enough time for the whiskey to take hold. To cauterize the wound, two bowies lay with their blades in the coals. McCaleb, sweating, clenched his teeth on a rimfire cartridge. He nodded to Will. Everybody, except for Monte and Rebecca, knew what was coming. Will drew his Colt and twirled it, gripping the barrel. With his left hand he steadied the broken shaft of the arrow and with his right he swung the Colt, bringing the butt down on the protruding wooden shaft. McCaleb grunted in pain and there was an involuntary cry from the girl. Sweat dripped off McCaleb’s chin and pain turned his eyes to blue ice. Again he nodded to Will and again Will swung the Colt. Despite the cartridge clenched in his teeth, McCaleb cried out. There was a splattering of new blood as the head of the arrow emerged from the flesh. Brazos took hold of the barbed tip, pulling the broken shaft through the wound and out. A white-faced Monte watched, but the girl had turned away.
“The easy part’s over,” said Will. “You ready to finish it, pardner?”
“Finish it,” said McCaleb, through still-clenched teeth.
Will took one bowie from the fire and Brazos the other. The foot-long blades, glowing red, were allowed to cool slightly, to a silver-gray. Will held his hot blade an inch away from the angry wound where the arrow had entered; Brazos held his blade near the wound where the arrow head had been driven out. Will nodded and they moved as one, pressing the flat of their blades to bloody flesh. With an anguished cry McCaleb lay back, his eyes glazed, unconscious.
The Goodnight Trail Page 9
