The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Might as well bed ’em down,” said McCaleb, “and prepare for the worst. Wherever the lightning strikes, look for ’em to run the opposite direction. When they start to run, our only chance is to get ahead of them and turn the leaders, forcing them to circle. Push ’em, from the flank. For God’s sake, don’t let them overrun you and trap you in the stampede. If your horse goes down, you’re done.”

  McCaleb knew they were in for it when the herd refused to bed down or graze. They just stood there lowing mournfully, waiting for the moment when something set them off. Strangely enough, it wasn’t the storm that started them running. Goose had tied a blanket behind his saddle, as he often did, with the idea he might use it to turn the stampeding herd. Making ready, he loosed it. The rising wind caught one end of the colorful blanket and billowed it out. Bawling in terror, the herd lit out.

  Goose was nearest the leaders to the north, but they veered southeast, putting Monte Nance closest to the front of the stampede. The others, including McCaleb, were to the rear of it. They lit out, hell-for-leather, but if the herd was turned, it was up to Monte or Goose. Monte had the advantage as the herd swerved toward him. Overconfident, he did the very thing McCaleb had warned against. Pulling his Colt, he rode directly into the path of the charging herd! Lightning struck somewhere close, shaking the earth. Monte’s horse reared, stumbled, almost fell. McCaleb heard Rebecca cry out somewhere behind him as the kid was piled out of the saddle a hundred yards ahead of the stampeding herd. His frightened horse was off and running. McCaleb kicked his bay all the harder, fighting the sickening realization that there was nothing he could do except watch it happen. But no! There was the Apache pounding ahead of the herd on the upper side. He had the blanket tied around his middle, trailing behind. He leaned out of the saddle, reins in his teeth, guiding the horse with his knees. He was going to try and grab the kid before the charging herd cut him to ribbons!

  But the thundering herd cut a hundred-yard swath, too wide for Goose to snatch the fallen Monte before they both were lost in a sea of lethal horns and pounding hooves. McCaleb heard his own anguished voice crying out over the fury of the storm and the thunder of the herd. What happened next, none of them ever forgot. Goose reached the kid, but instead of attempting a rescue, loosed the Indian blanket he’d tied about his waist. Even amid the thunder from the heavens and the thunder of the charging herd, McCaleb heard the whooping of the Apache. He held the blanket by two corners and the storm-bred wind did the rest. Slowly but surely, the herd split around the fearful apparition. McCaleb rode wide, firing his Colt and yelling himself hoarse. Old brindle led the half of the herd that had split his way. Seeing him pounding beside her, the brute continued to turn until she was heading in the direction the frightened herd had come. When the herd had split, it had also slowed, allowing Will and Brazos to head the other half.

  McCaleb slowed his bay; the thunder had diminished, and although there were brilliant displays of lightning on every horizon, it was no longer striking. The wind was whipping the rain into his face so that it stung like sand. Rebecca trotted her roan up alongside his bay. Her face was chalk-white and he was sure her tears were mixing with the driving rain. The girl slowed her horse and McCaleb looked back. Goose again had the Indian blanket knotted about his waist, and Monte sat behind him. McCaleb reined up and waited for them. They both wore foolish grins, reminding him of a pair of kids who, having barely escaped being victims of their own folly, now expected praise for having survived.

  “By God,” said McCaleb grimly, “I ought to shoot both of you. Him for starting the stampede, and you for getting caught in it!”

  They swallowed their grins and Rebecca glared at him in amazed anger, but he didn’t care. He kicked his bay into a lope and followed the now slow-moving herd.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was a perfectly miserable day. Darkness would come early and be all the more intense because of the storm. Despite their good fortune in turning the herd, they had lost some cows. Come daybreak, McCaleb intended to double back and round them up. With that in mind, as well as their need for shelter, he didn’t plan to travel much farther. They followed what had but hours before been a dry creek bed. It now ran bank-full, the brown water rolling on its way to join the Trinity somewhere to the south. McCaleb hoped by following the stream to a higher elevation they might discover some natural bulwark—perhaps a ridge or bluff overhang—that would provide some shelter from the storm.

  The perverse mood of the herd seemed inspired by the elements. Cattle normally drifted with a storm, tails to the wind, and driving them into it was so difficult it bordered on the impossible. Constantly they broke away. McCaleb headed one bunch-quitter on the very bank of the creek. The sodden bank crumbled, the bay went down, and McCaleb was piled head first into the dirty brown water. Despite the fact that he had ridden four hours in the cold driving rain, he came out of the creek with his teeth chattering, his hands, face, and ears numb and hurting. He stomped about, trying to restore feeling to his half-frozen body. Brazos loped his horse along the creek, leading McCaleb’s bay. He tried to mount, and at first was unable to do it. Gritting his teeth, trembling with exertion and cold, he swung into the saddle.

  “We’ve played out the string,” said Brazos. “We got to bed down these critters and find some shelter, if it’s nothing but a stand of cottonwoods. We’re less than an hour from full dark and there’s snow on the way. This creek has to start somewhere, and I’m bettin’ there’s a ridge or shelving rock at its head. I sent Goose to look around.”

  “Get to the others,” said McCaleb through chattering teeth, “and start the herd milling. No sense in pushing them any farther unless there’s some hope of shelter. We’ll hold them until Goose returns.”

  McCaleb was all too familiar with the winter storms that blew out of the Texas Panhandle. There was, indeed, a feel of snow in the air, and with such a dramatic drop in temperature, it would likely last until the storm blew itself out. That could take three days. The driving rain changed swiftly to sleet and just as quickly to snow. The ground and the backs of the longhorns wore a coat of white by the time the Indian rode in. Goose held up two fingers and pointed to the west, into the worsening storm.

  “Move ’em out!” shouted McCaleb, the wind whipping his voice away.

  Each of them had anxiously awaited the Indian’s return, and they were already on the move. Once halted, the herd had little desire to resume the drive. Most of them stood with their tails to the storm and would freeze in that position unless forced to move. The men swung doubled lariats against snow-whitened flanks, their cowboy yells seemingly unheard, swallowed up by the howl of the wind. Monte swatted old brindle until the brute, bawling, lunged ahead into the storm. The exertion restored some life to McCaleb’s numbed body. He groaned through clenched teeth. What a blessed relief it would be if only he could remove his sodden boots and rub some feeling into his frozen feet! But there was no time. Time was their enemy. Time and the deepening snow…

  It seemed like an eternity of wind-driven sleet and snow before the shelter they sought loomed ahead of them. The wet-weather stream they had followed was the overflow from a larger, more permanent creek that ran due south along the foot of a ridge. Even in the gloom of twilight and swirling snow, they could see the cottonwoods and willows lining the banks of the creek. They swatted the lagging longhorns all the harder with their lariats, driving them into the protection of the brakes. The ridge, their bulwark against the fury of the storm, seemed to tame the wind. McCaleb breathed a long sigh of relief. It was infinitely more than he’d hoped for!

  At one point the creek swung forty feet away from the ridge, ovaling around a flat stone outcropping that was the west bank. High above, like the prow of a sailing ship, was a stone overhang. In the dry, protected area beneath it was the months-old remains of a fire. There were even a few chunks of dry wood, and with a windblown accumulation of dried leaves, they soon had a fire of their own. Goose, Monte, Will, and Brazos immediately b
egan searching for more wood. They insisted that McCaleb, having been piled in the creek, remain by the fire. He didn’t argue. Rebecca began breaking out the contents of the pack saddle.

  “We don’t have a dry blanket among us,” she said, “or you could get out of those wet clothes. We’ll just have to build a big fire, if there’s enough dry wood.”

  “There is,” said Monte, returning with a load, “but if there’s Comanches, they’ll see or smell our fire.”

  “I don’t care,” snapped Rebecca. “Let every Comanche in Texas see and smell it. We were all half frozen. I’d as soon fight Indians as freeze.”

  “I’d have to agree with that,” said McCaleb. “There’s a good stand of trees in this creek bottom, so I reckon it won’t be seen. As for the smoke, the force of the wind will scatter it. Some things in life are worth whatever risk is involved. This fire is worth an Indian attack.”

  The storm continued until almost noon of the following day. They went into the cottonwoods and pines along the creek, spending the morning gathering wood. Even when the storm blew itself out, the next several days would be abysmally cold. Having lived so far to the south, Monte and Rebecca were not prepared. Neither of them had a coat.

  “We’ll stay here another night,” said McCaleb. “New cloud bank in the west. Don’t ever trust a Texas blue sky when there’s clouds building and the wind’s cold. Besides, I aim to back-trail to where the herd split at the tag end of the stampede. We lost some cows, and we can use this snow to track them. We’d best recover what we can, while we can. It’s a long trail to Colorado, and I reckon we’ll lose some stock.”

  Despite the passing of the storm and patches of blue sky, there was still a cold west wind. McCaleb, Will, and Brazos rode out, back-trailing to where they had broken up the stampede by splitting the herd.

  “Just one thing wrong with this idea of yours,” said Will. “It’s been twenty-four hours since them cows cut and run. You know how they drift with a storm. They may be back on the Trinity by now. And there won’t be any tracks in the snow unless we trail ’em to the place where the storm passed them. Up to there, the tracks will be snowed over.”

  “You’re right,” said McCaleb, “if they drifted with the storm until it died. But even a fool cow gets tired, and I’m counting on them sheltering in some thicket until the snow stopped. From there on, they’ll be leaving tracks.”

  Their search was rewarded and McCaleb shouted triumphantly when they found fourteen of their herd forlornly awaiting salvation or starvation, whichever came first. McCaleb twisted around in his saddle and found the sun had already dipped behind a cloud bank.

  “God knows how far we’ll have to ride to round up some more,” said Brazos, “and there may not be any more.”

  “If these fourteen pilgrims get troublesome,” said Will, “we’ll be doin’ right well if we get ’em back with the rest of the herd before dark.”

  “I’d have to agree with both of you,” said McCaleb. “With our luck, all fourteen of these brutes may be bunch-quitters. We could be until after dark getting them to camp, if we start now. Even if we had the daylight, it wouldn’t make any sense to go hunting more cows when we’re not sure there are more to be found. We’ll take what we’re sure of and ride. In the morning, I’d say let’s make a rough tally and see how close we are to the nine hundred and eighty we started with.”

  They found that in their absence Monte and Goose had shot a young buck and were broiling venison steaks. Rebecca had heaped hot coals on top of the kettle and they could smell the sourdough biscuits. Coffee bubbled in the blackened pot. It was the only decent camp they’d had since leaving the box canyon near the Trinity.

  “This is a beautiful place,” said Rebecca. “It saddens me to think we may never pass this way again, that I’m seeing it for the first and last time.”

  “Aw hell,” said Monte callously, “you felt like that when we sneaked out of St. Joe. We nearly starved to death there, and half the town was tryin’ to hang the old man.”

  “It’s a shame and disgrace,” snapped Rebecca, “to speak ill of the dead. He was your daddy.”

  “He was also a no-account old scutter who would of been hung for mule rustling if he hadn’t run out while the mob was hangin’ his brother. Him bein’ dead don’t change none of that. Them Comanche arrows don’t sanctify a man, do they, McCaleb?”

  McCaleb had been half listening, enjoying the good food and warm fire. Suddenly everybody’s attention was focused on him. Damn the kid for dragging him into a fool situation that might further antagonize the girl!

  “I reckon,” said McCaleb deliberately, “before he died, your daddy faced up to the poor showing he made in this world. We had our differences, but he died like a man, and I respect him for that.”

  Right after breakfast Will and Brazos went into the brakes along the creek. Taking separate counts, they tried to decide if they were missing enough cows to justify another search.

  “I reckon,” said Brazos, “we’re within fifteen head of what we started with. That’s close enough for me.”

  “I figure it within twenty head,” said Will, “give or take a few.”

  “It’s time to move out, then,” said McCaleb.

  Despite the continued presence of clouds to the west, the day turned pleasantly warm and the sun made muddy slush of the snow. They crossed the herd at the south end of the ridge and headed them northwest. McCaleb took the point position, again sending Goose to scout the country ahead. He wasn’t too surprised when Rebecca trotted her roan alongside his bay. He only hoped this visit would be more pleasant than the last, when he had confronted her with her deceit and lies.

  She spoke. “The cows look terribly thin, don’t they? You can see their ribs.”

  “You’re seeing the effects of the snow. They haven’t grazed since the day before the stampede. Horses will paw through the snow to get at the grass underneath. Cows won’t. Cover the grass with snow and a cow will stand there and starve to death. I’ve sent Goose to find water, but we’d be better off in a dry camp tonight, if there’s good graze for the herd.”

  “McCaleb?”

  He allowed himself a cautious look at her from the corner of his eye. She wore that strange little smile that always bothered him.

  “Thank you for last night, McCaleb. It was kind of you to say what you did. Monte looks up to you, despite the way he acts and talks. What you said to him after the stampede, that cut him deep.”

  “I aimed for it to,” said McCaleb. “I don’t praise a man after he’s done the very damn thing I’ve warned him not to do. A rider trapped in a stampede on the Shawnee wasn’t so lucky. Do you know what was left of him? They found his Colt and the heel from one of his boots.”

  She shuddered. What he had said was all the more frightening because he had stated it matter-of-factly, without anger.

  “You were right, then,” she said, “but don’t you think you were a little unfair to Goose? Even if he didn’t understand your words, the meaning got through to him. We owe him so much. The herd was going to run; it was just his bad luck the wind took hold of the blanket and finished what thunder and lightning had started.”

  This time he looked directly at her. He was silent for so long, she was afraid he wasn’t going to respond. Still she saw no anger in his eyes; only what might have been tired resignation. Finally he spoke. Quietly.

  “I was hard on Goose for the same reason I was tough on Monte. I care what happens to them. While the rest of you were crowing because they came out of it alive, I was thinking of what might have happened. Suppose the herd hadn’t turned, had just kept running? I reckon I had my mind on those unmarked graves we might have left behind us on the prairie. It’s almighty hard staying alive when you do everything right, without making fool mistakes that can get you killed. I didn’t want either of them forgetting that.”

  The Indian’s scouting expedition took longer than usual, and when he returned, he had a surprise for them.

 
; “Fish!” cried Rebecca. “Fish for supper!”

  Goose grinned at everybody, even McCaleb. They had no idea how he’d caught them. There was a dozen or more, strung on a rawhide thong, and he presented them to the girl. Goose led them to a grassy knoll where the snow had been burned away by an enthusiastic sun, providing graze for the herd. Just as McCaleb had hoped, normally dry water holes and streams were full as a result of the storm, so water was plentiful. He estimated they’d covered ten miles. They spent a pleasant hour around the supper fire, drinking hot coffee and eating broiled trout.

  “We’ll be in Waco in another week,” said McCaleb, “if nothing else goes wrong. Will, what day is this?”

  Will Elliot had kept track of the days and months by tying knots in a piggin string. Each week ended with a double knot representing Sunday. He retired a string at the end of the month, starting a new one.

  “This is February twenty-first,” he said.

  While at night there were faraway signs of lightning, there were no more storms or stampedes. On the seventh day they bedded the herd on the east bank of the Brazos River, a few miles south of Waco. They were near their appointed rendezvous point with Goodnight and his cattle. At a low point in the river—a crossing—they found tracks of unshod horses. Goose hunkered down and studied them.

  “Indios,” he said, looking at McCaleb. “Muchos Indios.”

  “Maybe it’s just a herd of wild horses,” said Rebecca hopefully.

  Goose looked at her pityingly, as though he understood her words. He shook his head. With his left hand he pointed toward the setting sun; he fisted his right hand and then held up two fingers.

  “These horses had riders,” said McCaleb. “Depth of the hoofprints says that. Unshod horses tells us they’re Indians. Goose says the tracks are two days old. Twenty or more riders. I reckon that’s bad news for somebody. We’ll continue our night watch, two riders in three-hour shifts. Still an hour of daylight; I’d feel better knowing which way that bunch is riding.”