The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  They returned to the point where McCaleb and Goose had observed the Comanches and found it silent and unchanged. McCaleb proceeded down the river bank to the farthest position. He counted to a slow one hundred, checking his Colts, giving the others time to adjust to the darkness beneath the opposite bank’s overhang, twenty yards away. Reaching the end of the count, he drew his Colt and began firing. The others opened up, and almost immediately there was return fire. McCaleb fired at a muzzle flash and the weapon was silenced. He counted just four more shots from the besieged side of the river, and when the fire was returned, the Comanche weapons spoke no more. McCaleb’s second Colt clicked on empty. It was time to go!

  “Move out!” he shouted.

  Brazos and Will dropped back to help McCaleb cover their retreat. But there was no pursuit. Had their fire been so devastating that the survivors—if any—were unable to pursue? McCaleb didn’t think so. Far more likely that most of them, although taken by surprise, had slipped away in the darkness. Those directly in the line of fire hadn’t been so fortunate, but how many below or above their ambush had escaped? Had their losses been high, had Blue Feather been seriously wounded or killed, they might see it as bad medicine and forsake the fight. But McCaleb had a nagging suspicion they hadn’t done nearly as well as he’d hoped, and a premonition that this wasn’t going to end until somebody put a slug between Blue Feather’s eyes or a bowie in his gizzard. They had reached the horses before McCaleb realized the Indian wasn’t with them.

  “Goose is missing,” he said.

  “He was next to me,” said Monte. “When you hollered ‘move out,’ he dropped back and I reckoned he was joining you. His Colt must’ve been empty; he holstered it and pulled his bowie.”

  “We have to help him!” cried Rebecca.

  “We’re getting out of here,” said McCaleb. “Goose is taking scalps. If the live ones who escaped headed for the brakes, he’ll be all right, but if they return for their dead, there’ll be roast Goose for breakfast. He’s on his own; let’s ride!”

  They found their supplies intact and their extra horses grazing peacefully. But there wasn’t a cow in sight. Clouds had again moved in from the west, and in the absence of the starlight, the darkness seemed more intense than ever. Still damp from the soaking rain, a chilling west wind had their teeth chattering.

  “I’m goin’ to have me a cup of hot coffee,” said Brazos, “if I have to fight every damn Indian in Texas.”

  “Let’s move to the north side of that ridge,” said McCaleb. “They can smell a fire forty miles away, but we’ll at least keep them from seeing it. I could use some coffee myself, and the stronger the better.”

  They cut some limbs from the underside of a fallen pine and soon had a fire going. Rebecca put a double handful of coffee beans in an old four sack and crushed them with a butt of her Colt. Gratefully they sipped the strong brew. It was just two hours from first light when Goose returned. Rebecca’s joy at his return was marred by the gruesome trophies he’d brought with him. Tied with a piggin string, he held the bloody, hairy bundle over his head.

  “Comanche,” he said triumphantly. “Muchos muerto!”

  “Cuantos?” inquired Brazos. “Cuantos muerto?”

  Goose held up both hands, fingers spread. Then he fisted the left hand, leaving the right open, fingers extended.

  “Fifteen of them!” shouted Monte. “Maybe now they’ll leave us be!”

  “Don’t count on it,” said McCaleb. “We’re going after the herd at first light; anybody wants to sleep, you’ve got maybe two hours. I’ll keep watch.”

  McCaleb sat cross-legged like an Indian, his back to the dying fire, facing south. His hat tipped low, Henry rifle across his knees, he might have been asleep. By now the girl knew better. She sat on the opposite side of the fire sipping coffee, and apparently, as far as McCaleb was concerned, she might not have existed. Finally she spoke.

  “Before I do anything else, McCaleb, I’m riding far enough upriver to take a bath.”

  So long was he silent that she became angry, convinced he was asleep or ignoring her, suspecting the latter. When he finally responded, there was a hint of amusement in his voice that further irritated her.

  “You’ve just been through a frog strangler of a storm. There’s another cloud bank buildin’ in the west. Be another storm by the day after tomorrow.”

  “McCaleb,” she said in a pitying tone, “it’s not the same. I haven’t had these clothes off in more than a week.”

  “If you’ve got the sense God gave a tumbleweed,” said McCaleb, “you’ll not take them off until this Indian trouble’s behind us.”

  She said no more, but she didn’t need to. She would do it now if for no better reason than to prove to him that she could. He sighed.

  When they neared the river, McCaleb was relieved to find what appeared to be the biggest part of their herd, grazing peacefully in the river bottom. Rebecca didn’t waste any time. She trotted her horse a few yards upriver and then reined him around to face them.

  “I’m going up there around the bend to take a bath,” she said, “and I’d better not be disturbed.”

  “Tell that to the Comanche,” said Brazos. “Don’t let her go, McCaleb.”

  “McCaleb knows I’m going,” said the girl. “I’m taking my pistol; the first man—red or white—that pokes his nose out of the bushes, I’ll shoot him like the sneaking coyote he is!” She rode angrily away.

  “Reminds me of one of them Greek stories,” said Will. “This feller was out hunting, and accidental like comes up on this pretty girl, Artemis, who’s taking a bath. It ain’t even his fault, but she gets a real mad on and turns him into a deer. Then his own dogs jumped on him and killed him.”

  “Good thing our little filly ain’t got that power,” said Brazos with a grin. “McCaleb would be wearin’ the biggest pair of antlers in Texas.”

  McCaleb didn’t join in their laughter. While their eyes were on the departing Rebecca, McCaleb watched the Apache. Like a lobo wolf keening the wind, Goose canted his head toward the south. In his right hand he held the lethal bowie knife and when he kneed his horse around to face them, McCaleb didn’t like the bleak look in those obsidian eyes.

  “Ten minutes,” said McCaleb. “If she’s not within sight of us, I’m going after her.”

  “Not me,” said Brazos. “Not while she’s…” His voice trailed off as he caught the look in the Apache’s eyes and saw the bowie in his hand.

  McCaleb pointed to Goose, then to himself, and then in the direction the girl had gone. The Indian nodded his understanding.

  “I’m taking Goose with me,” said McCaleb. “The rest of you hold fast. If she’s all right, no use in all of us getting shot.” He tried to grin but didn’t quite make it. “Goose believes something’s wrong, and when it comes to the Comanches, I’ll take his feelings over my own. If you hear just one pistol shot, come a-running.”

  They rounded the bend in the river and there was no sign of the girl or her horse.

  “Rebecca!” shouted McCaleb, “where are you?”

  But there was no sound other than the sighing of the wind and the distant cawing of a crow. They quickly located the secluded little pool to which the girl had gone. On a huge flat stone at the shallow end, they found her hat, her boots, her Levi’s, and the faded old blue shirt of Monte’s she’d been wearing. Goose quickly found the trail. The faint tracks of an unshod horse led upriver, followed by the plainer tracks of Rebecca’s shod roan. McCaleb drew his Colt and fired one shot. Goose swung into his old saddle from the off side and kicked his horse into a run.

  “Matar!” he shouted. “Matar!”

  McCaleb was right behind him. The others would have no trouble following. He hoped they would have the sense to do what he had failed to do, and bring the girl’s clothes. Had the fool Indian dragged her away stark naked? Her embarrassment would be nothing, McCaleb decided, compared to whatever the Comanches had in store for her. He had no doubt they were after
none other than Blue Feather, but why had he done this alone? Had their devastating ambush of the night before been more bad medicine than Blue Feather’s band was willing to swallow? If it had come down to a personal vendetta on Blue Feather’s part, then all they had to do was kill the troublesome bastard and the threat from this particular band of Comanches would be over.

  McCaleb grew more and more anxious. Why hadn’t they sighted the fleeing Blue Feather? He had no more than a ten minute start and he couldn’t travel as fast with Rebecca’s horse on a lead rope. What did the Comanche have in mind? There was no way he could escape, unless McCaleb was reading the wrong sign. Suppose he and his little group was riding into a well-planned ambush? But Goose still pounded ahead; even in his zeal to kill the hated “Comanch’ ” it would be unlike him to overlook such a possibility. On a ridge less than a mile ahead, McCaleb saw them. Angrily he slid his Henry back into the boot. The range was still too great.

  McCaleb hadn’t ben following Blue Feather’s trail; he simply kept Goose in sight, trusting the Apache’s unerring skill. Finally it occurred to him what Goose was doing. The Lipan was veering to the east, toward the river. At some point Blue Feather must cross to the east bank of the Trinity and work his way back toward the Comanche camp. When he did, Goose meant to be there waiting for him! McCaleb slowed his mount, sparing the animal, and splashed across the river right behind the Apache. Goose reined up, listening. McCaleb drew his Henry, jacking a shell into the chamber, but Goose shook his head. He lifted his own Spencer from the boot, letting it slide back. He meant to take the Comanche himself! Goose raised his right hand over his head, brandishing the huge bowie.

  They waited in a pin oak thicket until their quarry was close enough for McCaleb to hear the thud of the horse’s hoofs. Without warning, Goose kicked his horse into a run, carrying the huge bowie in his right hand like a cavalry saber. McCaleb was right behind him. Blue Feather’s horse was done. The Comanche dropped the lead rope and drew his own knife.

  McCaleb kicked his own mount into a run and caught Rebecca’s roan, calming the tired and frightened horse. Rebecca had been roped belly down across the saddle. Rawhide thongs had been looped about her wrists and they passed beneath the horse’s belly, securing her ankles with the other end. She was wrapped from head to toe in an Indian blanket. He cut the thongs and, doing his best to keep the blanket in place, lifted her off the horse. Suddenly she exploded into a kicking, clawing fury that resurrected vivid memories of a time, when just a boy, he’d tried to free a young bobcat he’d managed to catch. The blanket went flying and in the next instant the furious girl made two startling discoveries. The first, that she was not fighting the hated Blue Feather, and second, that she was stark, jaybird naked!

  McCaleb freed himself of her, appearing not to notice her as she lay sprawled on the ground. He slapped his hat against his thigh, freeing it of dirt and leaves, and then placed it carefully on his head. Gingerly he felt his nose and his hand came away bloody. There was a salty taste of blood on his tongue. There was a trio of livid bleeding scratches extending from below his left eye to the collar of his shirt. He felt like he’d been pawed by a cougar. Still doing his best to ignore her, he looked around. The horse Blue Feather had ridden stood with its head down, spent. Goose’s mount was calmly cropping grass. The fight had shifted into the brush and both the combatants were afoot. Rebecca Nance refused to be ignored any longer.

  “Damn you, McCaleb, where are my clothes?”

  “Why shucks, ma’am,” said McCaleb in that exaggerated drawl she’d used on him. “Ah reckon Ah doan’ know.”

  In the next few seconds McCaleb discovered that Rebecca Nance had an even larger vocabulary of unladylike words than he’d suspected. With his fists or his guns, he’d have killed a man for what she called him. He’d had more than enough of her sharp tongue. Grimly he took a piggin string from his belt, doubling the yard-long rawhide strip. It wasn’t a quirt but it would serve his purpose. The girl’s angry tirade lessened as she realized what he intended to do. She tried to roll away from him but wasn’t quick enough. He caught her wrist, lifted her up, and flung her belly down over the saddle to which she had so recently been tied. Startled, her horse sidestepped and looked around at him; had McCaleb not been so angry, he’d have laughed at the look of patient disgust in the roan’s eyes. He moved up against the horse, trapping the girl’s flailing legs with his body. With his left hand across her shoulders so she couldn’t throw herself backward, he laid the rawhide across her bare backside, raising some satisfying red welts. She couldn’t have screeched any louder if Blue Feather had scalped her. Finally McCaleb turned her loose and stepped away from the horse, allowing her to slide off and fall on her bare bottom. He picked up the Indian blanket, flapping it to free it of leaves and dirt. He was listening for approaching riders; Brazos, Will, and Monte would be coming.

  “McCaleb,” she snapped, “if you don’t give me that blanket, when I get my hands on a gun, I’ll shoot you. I swear to God I will!”

  Carefully, deliberately, McCaleb folded the blanket and put it under his arm. When he spoke, it was in that infuriating Texas drawl.

  “Ma’am, Ah been needin’ a new saddle blanket and Ah reckon this’ll do. Old Blue Feather ain’t gonna need it and you don’t really want it, else you wouldn’t of flung it away when Ah helped you off youah hoss.”

  Her face paled and she turned her back to him, drawing her knees up under her chin. He grinned to himself, enjoying her predicament. But she couldn’t bear it; she began crying, great heart-wrenching sobs. Then came the sound of approaching riders. Brazos, Will, and Monte! She turned to him, arms outstretched like a repentant child, forgetting everything except her need.

  “Please…oh, please, McCaleb! The blanket…please! Don’t let them see me…like this!”

  “Do you promise not to take any more baths in Comanche country?”

  “Give me the da—the blanket, McCaleb, and I promise I’ll never take another bath anywhere within a hundred miles of you!”

  “What are you going to do about my broken nose and my face? I feel like I’ve been in a knife fight and everybody had a knife except me.”

  “I’m…sorry, McCaleb. I thought you…I thought it was…him…when you took me off…the horse. Please…give me the blanket. Must you shame me before the others? Before my brother?”

  McCaleb heard the horses splashing across the river. She stood before him so dejected, so defenseless, he did what he’d planned to do at the start, if she hadn’t cussed him. He draped the blanket over her shoulders, allowing her to wrap herself in it. She dried her eyes with the heels of her hands and then she smiled.

  “Thank you, McCaleb. Now we’re even; for that day at the river.”

  The three riders dismounted, their concern turning to grins. Brazos was the first to speak.

  “They’ve been at it again, and we missed it! My God, they are serious! Goose had to fight the Comanches while they fight each other!”

  “I once knowed a prize fighter,” said Will, “that never won a fight, and he had a better-lookin’ nose. Goodnight’s got to hear about this!”

  “If he does,” snapped Rebecca, “I won’t make another sourdough biscuit from here to Colorado Territory. I was wrapped in this blanket and I…I couldn’t see. When McCaleb cut me loose, I thought it was the Indian. I was afraid. I’m sorry….”

  “Where’s Goose?” Monte asked.

  “Taking another scalp,” said McCaleb. “I planned to put a couple of slugs in the Comanche, soon as I got close enough, but Goose wouldn’t have it. They’ve hurt Goose more than they’ve hurt us, so if Blue Feather had to die, I thought Goose had earned the right to handle it his way. I just hope he’s not cut too bad; they finished it with knives.”

  Goose was a fearful sight. His bare arms, his upper body—even his face—had been splattered with blood. But most of it wasn’t his own. He wore yet another scalp thonged to his waist, and the grisly thing dripped fresh blood as he walked. Re
becca shuddered.

  “Comanch’ bastardo,” said Goose through a rare grin. “Muerto!” From his waistband he took the .31-caliber Colt, handing it to Rebecca butt first.

  “I thought you were going to shoot whoever followed you,” said Monte.

  “He threw a blanket over my head,” said Rebecca. “I suppose I’m not very good at protecting myself. Thanks to all of you for coming after me.”

  “Wasn’t us,” said Brazos with as straight a face as he could muster. “It was McCaleb. He ain’t never had a woman that was fool enough about him to bust his nose twice!”

  Except for McCaleb, they all laughed. Even the Indian.

  “Let’s get those cows ready for the Goodnight Trail,” said McCaleb.

  Monte had brought Rebecca’s clothes, boots, and hat. They waited while she made her way to dress in a nearby thicket.

  They rode out, following the Trinity’s east bank until they reached the point where the stampeding herd had hit the river. Just as McCaleb had hoped, the east bank had been steep enough to double the herd back on itself and start them milling. They found no tracks on the east side of the river. By sundown the herd was again pointed north. To everyone’s surprise, that troublesome brindle cow gave up her bunch-quitting ways and decided to lead the herd.

  “That’s my brindle,” said Rebecca smugly.

  “I reckon that’s what you expected all the time,” said McCaleb dryly.

  “Of course,” said the girl just as dryly.

  McCaleb waited until after supper to say what was on his mind.

  “There’ll be a moon tonight, and we’re going to drive as far as we can before moonset. I mean to leave this part of the country behind as quick as we can.”

  CHAPTER 10