The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “My God!” cried Rebecca. “Did you have to be so…so brutal? Is there no other way?”

  “Reckon there is,” said Brazos grimly. “We could of saved him some hurt now and cost him a leg next week.”

  They salved the wound. Rebecca built up the fire and put the coffee on to boil. It was a good four hours to first light, but nobody slept. Their eyes were on McCaleb. Despite the cooling night wind, there were patches of sweat on his denim shirt. Coming out of it, he blinked his eyes. Struggling mightily, he tried to rise to a sitting position. Knowing him, Will and Brazos made no move to help; wisely, Monte and the girl followed their lead. Goose sipped his coffee in silence, his face expressionless. Hands on the ground behind him, McCaleb, like a huge crab, backed up until his back was to the wall of their hollowed-out shelter.

  “Coffee,” he muttered.

  Silently Rebecca handed him a tin cup of the scalding brew. His hands trembled and he used them both to steady the cup. Still nobody said anything. None of them paid the slightest attention to York Nance when he stalked back into their shelter and flopped down against the wall as far from McCaleb as he could get. McCaleb held out his cup and Brazos refilled it. McCaleb’s hands no longer trembled. He spoke.

  “I’ll keep watch until first light; the rest of you, get what sleep you can. God only knows what we’ll be up against, come morning.”

  McCaleb sat before the graying embers of the fire, hat tipped over his eyes, Henry rifle across his knees. The others slept, except for Rebecca. The girl sat on the other side of the fire, silent. York Nance snored to the extent that McCaleb wondered how anyone else slept. What were they to do with the old fool? He was ample excuse for the Comanches to murder them all at first opportunity, and if that wasn’t enough, that dynamited load of Spencer rifles would be.

  “McCaleb,” said the girl, “why don’t you let me keep watch? You need sleep yourself.”

  McCaleb said nothing. The girl’s temper flared.

  “Here you sit,” she snapped, “drunk on rotgut whiskey and in pain, but you still won’t turn loose. You hurt, you bleed, you…Damn you, Benton McCaleb, when are you going to…to…”

  “Don’t you swear at me,” growled McCaleb. “Next time I take a quirt to you, I’ll lay it on a mite harder.”

  He tipped his hat still lower, but try as he might, he couldn’t ignore her. His eyes felt gritty, like he’d been through a sandstorm. He took off his hat, wiping his still-sweating face on his shirtsleeve. And then, for some reason he didn’t understand and against his will, he looked at Rebecca and found her watching him. She wore that disturbing little half smile that left him with the uneasy feeling that she knew something about him that even he didn’t know and likely didn’t want to know. He remembered the time she had shamelessly watched him bathing jaybird naked in the Trinity, and felt his cheeks, neck, and ears going red. He was thankful for the darkness surrounding them, and as the night wind brought new life to the dying fire, he again tipped his hat over his eyes.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dawn brought McCaleb some fever, but still no sign of the Comanches. It was a strange game and he hadn’t the faintest idea what kind of hand they might draw next. The very last thing he expected was the predawn appearance of Jake Narbo. The sun was barely pinking the eastern horizon when the old half-breed rode into their camp. Hands shoulder high, he reined up, silent. McCaleb, despite the pain in his thigh and a giddiness as a result of the fever, hobbled out to confront Narbo.

  “Get down, Jake.”

  But Jake Narbo remained in his saddle. His hard old eyes touched them all, remaining the longest on York Nance.

  “Many die,” he said. “Now you die.”

  In the dust at McCaleb’s feet he dropped a gold eagle and two double eagles. He reined his horse around, kicked it into a lope and rode away.

  “They’ve purely scared hell out of him,” said Will. “He wants no part of us, not even our gold.”

  “And he lives with a Comanche woman,” said Brazos. “That don’t say much for our chances, does it?”

  The morning passed without any attempt at retaliation by the Comanches. Despite their fortified camp, McCaleb had expected them to make some show, if only to fire on their mud-and-log wall from the opposite rim of the box canyon. But there was no attack. Within minutes after Jake Narbo had ridden away, however, a Comanche brave appeared on the east rim. He sat his mustang for a minute or two and then vanished as silently as he had come. An hour later, almost to the minute, he appeared again. The strange ritual continued, never varying, until darkness hid the canyon wall.

  “If he shows in the morning,” vowed Brazos, “I’ll put a couple of Henry slugs right under his wishbone.”

  “No use,” said McCaleb. “I was afraid of this. They’re playing a waiting game and time’s on their side. They know we’ll soon be forced out of this canyon. There might be enough graze to last another week, but no more. After moonset, I’ll send Goose to scout their camp; it’s time we found out how many we’re up against.”

  “Don’t be a bigger fool than you’ve been already, McCaleb,” said Nance. “Leave the cattle, saddle up and ride out; it could save your life.”

  “And yours?” snarled Monte. “You’re the cause of this, and now you’re expectin’ us to give up our cows and get you out of it!”

  “We’re not giving up our herd,” said McCaleb. “You’re the fool, Nance. With or without the cattle, we’ll have to fight. While we’ve done enough on our own to bring the Comanches down on us, thanks to your foolish promises, they want more than just our scalps.”

  “If McCaleb won’t spell it out,” said Rebecca, “I will. You promised me to that Indian, didn’t you? They’re just waiting for us to leave here, and when we do, with or without the herd, they’ll strike. McCaleb means to fight for me, something that would never cross your mind!”

  “I ought to gut-shoot you,” snarled Monte. “You promised my sister to Blue Feather; that’s why the greasy, low-down son’s been follerin’ us around like he’s staked a claim!”

  “But I didn’t promise her!” cried Nance, finally showing some emotion. “I just…I didn’t…”

  “You didn’t promise him,” said McCaleb, “but you didn’t say no, did you? You allowed him to think what he wanted to think, using her to sweeten the pot. We’ve cost Blue Feather his Spencer rifles; if he takes our hair in revenge, that leaves Rebecca as the only chip in the game. Blue Feather aims to finish us and then take her. She’d be better off dead.”

  “If he takes her,” said Nance, “he might—”

  McCaleb knew what was coming. He caught Nance by the front of his dirty shirt, lifting him off the ground, choking off his words.

  “You double-dealing old skunk,” he gritted, “don’t you even think of such a trade!” Furious, his face a mask of disgust, he flung Nance to the ground.

  Supper was a painfully silent meal. Nance had again become surly and mean, his eyes flickering malevolent daggers at McCaleb. Monte didn’t eat; just stared at Nance with undisguised hate. The girl kept her head down, biting her lip, saying nothing. McCaleb nodded to Brazos and the two of them stepped out of the camp, into the canyon.

  “Get with Goose,” said McCaleb. “He can ride anytime it feels right to him. I want to know how many there are and where they are.”

  His wound bothering him, unable to sleep, McCaleb took first watch. Fed up with Nance’s snoring, he slipped out of camp, hobbling to the fence. He hunched down to sit on the third rail, taking his weight off the still-hurting right leg. The moon had just slid beyond the horizon, and with only the starlight, the world seemed a pit of blackness. He could see nothing, and though the footsteps were soft, McCaleb was ready. When the girl spoke, he eased the hammer down and holstered his Colt.

  “Do you always expect an enemy, never a friend?”

  “I reckon I have more enemies than friends. It keeps me alive.”

  “Your wound’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

  “H
urts some; fever’s down. It’ll heal.”

  “What are we going to do? We can’t stay here much longer.”

  “We’re moving out,” said McCaleb. “When Goose returns, we’ll know how many there are and where they are. Indians are superstitious; they’re likely to see the loss of a battle or anything unusual as bad medicine. Many a tribe has ended the fight with the death of a chief.”

  “They might think of the explosion as bad medicine?”

  “I’m counting on it,” said McCaleb. “If some of them were killed, it might buy us a little time. But we’ll have to fight; Nance has seen to that.”

  For a long moment she was silent. She stood facing him, so close he could hear her breathing. When at last she spoke, her voice was soft.

  “McCaleb?”

  He said nothing, waiting.

  “Thank you,” she said, and then she was gone.

  Goose rode in an hour before dawn. McCaleb had slept little. He built up the fire and, with the exception of York Nance, they gathered around to learn what the Apache had to report. Brazos began his patient interpretation, and by the time Rebecca had the coffee ready, he had the information McCaleb wanted.

  “They’ve moved the village upriver to within a mile of Narbo’s place,” said Brazos. “Goose believes twelve or more were killed when the wagon went up, and that’s why they moved. Bad medicine. He reckons there’s fifty of ’em at the village. He found nine more in a camp between here and the river, where we’ve been grazing the herd. There’s four staked out on the canyon rim to keep us nervous.”

  But the Apache wasn’t finished. With his finger, he drew in the dust his familiar twisted line representing the Trinity. A stick horse became Narbo’s ranch, an arrow the Comanche village, and dots on the east and west banks of the Trinity placed the Nance buildings. To the south, paralleling the river, he drew a second line with an arrowhead at the end. Then he held up both hands, fingers extended.

  “Comanch’,” he said. “Comanch’ bastardos!”

  “Ten Comanche ridin’ south,” said Brazos. “I purely don’t like the looks of that.”

  “Neither do I,” said McCaleb. “God knows, there’s enough of them without going after reinforcements, but that’s what they’ve got in mind.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Monte. “There’d be more than seventy of ’em, if what the Indian says is true. Why do they need more than that just to come after six of us?”

  “There’s a hell of a bunch you don’t know about the Comanches,” said Brazos with a hint of contempt. “They don’t understand dynamite; way they see it, there’s just a few of us, but we’re makin’ powerful medicine. They plan to hit us with a bigger war party, just on the chance we got some more of that strong medicine. Right now they’re uncertain; a little scared of us.”

  “That’s our only ace,” said McCaleb, “and we’re going to play it. God help us if we’re readin’ the wrong sign, but it’s the only chance we have of leavin’ here with the herd and our hair. We’re movin’ out within the hour.”

  They broke camp swiftly, making good use of the double-rigged pack saddle the unfortunate mule had left behind. The crucial time had come when they must drive the unwilling longhorns to open range and head them north to Fort Belknap on the Brazos. Two hundred of the brutes had been in the box canyon less than a week, not nearly long enough to become accustomed to any degree of captivity. These unruly ones would become bunch-quitters, breaking madly away at the slightest opportunity, determined to return to the chaparral from which they’d been unwillingly taken.

  In silence they reined up at the head of the canyon. It was a critical moment; once they moved the herd to the open prairie, danger—and perhaps death—would be riding with them.

  McCaleb spoke. “The first four or five days will be hell on the flank and drag riders. These newest ones—the wild ones—with ideas of quittin’ the herd, will be breakin’ to the flank or the rear. Until they decide to trail with the others, I reckon we’ll be almighty busy. I expect the Comanches to trail us, so I’m keeping Brazos and Will with me, ridin’ drag. When they attack, it will likely be from the rear. Monte, you take the right flank, Rebecca the left. While I’m looking for the Comanches to hit us from behind, we can’t gamble on it. Goose will be riding point, and I’m depending on him to warn us of trouble ahead. Especially Comanche trouble. Once we’re past their village and Narbo’s place, we can pretty well follow the Trinity. Whatever it takes, I’d like to get beyond that Comanche village before their reinforcements arrive. It’ll be a long, hard twenty-five miles.”

  Until York Nance spoke, McCaleb had forgotten him.

  “Am I to ride with you, or would that only encourage them to attack?”

  “They’ll attack whether you’re with us or not,” said McCaleb, “and you know why. If you aim to ride with us, stay with the drag and don’t cause more trouble than you already have. There’s a pair of extra .44 Colts on the packhorse, if you’re of a mind to arm yourself.”

  McCaleb swung his lariat, popping the knotted end against a longhorn flank. With a startled bellow the cow lurched into a trot. McCaleb’s cowboy yell echoed down the canyon and the drive began.

  The first day was a nightmare of confusion, more difficult than any of them had imagined. At every opportunity the latest additions to the herd—the wild ones—lit out like hell wouldn’t have it, bound for the brakes. By the time—or before—they headed one bunch-quitter, there was another. One troublesome old cow—twelve hundred pounds of brindle fury—refused to turn, almost goring Rebecca’s roan. Had it not been for the girl, McCaleb would have shot the ornery beast.

  Rebecca tried to head the brute as it broke from the herd, but the longhorn wouldn’t yield. She wheeled her horse, escaping a savage horn, but not quickly enough to spare her roan a wicked cut along its left flank. Furious, recovering quickly, she pounded after the wayward longhorn, uncoiling her lariat. She heard but ignored McCaleb’s shouts. Angrily he slammed his Henry into the saddle boot and lit out after her, readying his own loop, praying he reached her in time to spare her the consequences of the fool thing she planned to do.

  Hanging off the side of her horse like an Indian, the girl galloped alongside the brindle, catching the brute’s hind legs with an underhand loop. She had double-dallied her lariat around the horn, and when the rope went tight, the roan stood fast. When the brindle cow hit the end of the line, the ornery brute went down in a cloud of dust. But one catch rope wasn’t enough. The longhorn came up fighting the rope, killing-mad. The valiant roan stood fast, seconds away from the lethal horns, when McCaleb’s loop snaked out. The steeldust back-stepped, snugging the horn loop while Rebecca’s roan kept a tight loop on the longhorn’s hind legs. Rebecca had dismounted and used her handkerchief to swab the bloody gash on the horse’s flank. She appeared not to notice the furious McCaleb as he threw himself out of his saddle and came after her. Roughly he grabbed her shoulder and flung her around to face him.

  “Nobody with the brains God gave a Texas jack would rope a wild cow without a backup rider!” he shouted.

  “I had a backup rider,” said the girl mildly. “You.”

  “Nobody,” bawled McCaleb, “but a mule-headed female Missouri tenderfoot!”

  “I saved us a cow.”

  “No cow is worth havin’ a horn shoved through your own gut or gettin’ your horse gored! You little fool, you could have been killed!”

  “Ah reckon Ah could,” she said, mimicking the Texas drawl. “Would it have bothered you, McCaleb, if Ah had been?”

  “Yeah,” he gritted, “it would. We’d be even more short-handed.”

  Without another word he went to his saddle and snatched off the yard-long rawhide strips they used for piggin string. He grabbed the flailing front legs of the ornery old brindle cow and tied them securely. After tying the hind legs in similar fashion, he loosed Rebecca’s catch rope and then his own. He coiled his loop and swung into the saddle, but try as he might, he was unable to avoi
d the girl’s eyes. She had controlled her temper while he had lost his. Even now she wore that enigmatic half smile that bothered him. Why hadn’t she cussed him, kicked his shins or slapped his face? That he could have understood.

  A good day’s drive with a seasoned herd would have taken them ten miles, but when sundown forced them to a halt, McCaleb judged they hadn’t traveled even half that. Theirs had been a perfectly wretched day, and the night promised to be no better. Goose had scouted the area before and guided them to a low-banked willow-shrouded section of the Trinity where the herd could be watered. Will and Monte rode back and loosed the brindle bunch-quitter. Having been hog-tied and helpless for three hours, the troublesome brute was exhausted and had no objection to being led back to the herd. McCaleb dared not leave the restless herd unattended, even for a few minutes; they ate their meager supper two at a time.

  “No sleep for any of us,” said McCaleb, “until they bed down. When they do, three of us will sleep while the other three stand watch. Brazos, when the herd quiets down, have Goose scout our back trail.”

  Not until after midnight did the herd finally settle down. McCaleb and Monte took first watch; Goose vanished quietly into the night, riding south. The Apache returned two hours later. McCaleb wasn’t surprised to find Will, Brazos, and Rebecca awake, awaiting the Indian’s report. Even York Nance appeared interested.

  “Seguir,” said Goose. He spread both hands, then clenched his fists and raised three fingers.

  “Thirteen of them,” said Brazos. “That means the four from the canyon rim and the nine that was staked out where we used to graze the herd.”

  “That’s an unlucky number,” said Rebecca. “Thirteen.”

  Will Elliot chuckled. “Any number’s unlucky when you’re dealin’ with the Comanches. But that’s good news; they don’t aim to jump us until the reinforcements arrive.”