The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I suppose you think I inherited my daddy’s selfishness,” she said.

  “No,” said McCaleb, “I think you’re ornery enough to cultivate some of your own. I’m wondering how long it’ll take you to grow up enough to quit blamin’ your daddy for all your bad habits.”

  Damn it, if she was looking for an excuse to fight, he’d give her one! She sighed, perhaps in exasperation, and then she laughed.

  “I’m torn between admiring you and hating you,” she said. “It does me no good to become angry with you, because you don’t really care. Do you?”

  “No,” said McCaleb. “You can be angry and still be a lady. But not if you cuss and fight like a bobcat. If you ever cuss me again, I’ll take the quirt to your backside.”

  She laughed and reached for him. He leaned out of his saddle and met her halfway….

  CHAPTER 12

  With the first hint of approaching dawn, the eastern horizon had gone from gray to pale rose. Rebecca had the breakfast fire going. McCaleb and the others had unsaddled the picketed horses, allowing the animals to roll. They would rope new mounts from their remuda for the day’s drive. The wind had shifted, coming out of the west, so they almost didn’t hear the shots. Goose heard them first. He pointed to the south.

  “Comanch’ bastardos. Matar.”

  McCaleb held up his hand for silence. Then, sounding faint and far away, they heard the ominous crack of rifles.

  “Rope me a fresh horse,” said Rebecca. “I’m riding with the rest of you.”

  “Rifles fully loaded,” said McCaleb. “Brazos, keep a rein on Goose until we’re close by. If they’ve surrounded the town, where we hit them won’t make much difference, but if they’re attacking from the south, we can circle around and catch them in a cross-fire. Let’s ride!”

  McCaleb led them down the west bank of the Brazos, halting less than a mile north of the besieged town. He pointed to Goose, then toward the sound of shooting.

  “Comanch’,” said McCaleb. “Paradero. Muy pronto.”

  Goose nodded his understanding. Taking his Spencer, he dismounted and quickly disappeared into the brush along the river. The rifles had momentarily gone silent, but suddenly there was a new burst of firing.

  “Soldier rifles,” said Brazos. “These war whoops may be all bows and arrows.”

  “Won’t it be better for us,” asked Rebecca, “if they don’t have rifles?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Will. “Them Comanches can nock and loose an arrow about as quick as I can cock and fire a rifle. Most of them are god-awful accurate.”

  From his saddlebag McCaleb took a slender parcel, unwrapping the oilskin to reveal the last two sticks of the Baker gang’s dynamite. With his bowie, he nipped off two thirds of the fuse from each of the sticks.

  “Less than ten seconds left,” he said. “This was bad medicine to the Comanches before; maybe it can be again.”

  Goose returned with disturbing news. His quick drawing indicated that although the Comanches had attacked from the south, part of their force had been deployed to the east and west in a horseshoe pattern.

  “Fire and brimstone,” snorted Brazos, “why didn’t they split the band into quarters and just surround the town?”

  “Because the soldiers are camped at the north end of town near the jail,” said McCaleb. “They’ve crept in on the three unprotected sides, using the buildings for cover. Soon as Sandoval and his boys are concentrating their fire on Indians they can see, some of those from the flanks will slip into the brush and launch a surprise attack from the north.”

  “Dear God,” cried Rebecca, “there’s so few of us; what can we do?”

  “Hit them with a surprise attack of our own,” said McCaleb. “I reckon we’ll have just about enough time to move in behind these flankers as they begin to sneak in from the north. We can cut them down before they know what’s hit them, if we play our cards right.”

  Brazos fed the instructions to Goose with a series of quick drawings in the sand. He drew lines to indicate movement of the Comanches from east and west flanks to create an attacking force from the north. He then pointed to Goose, to himself, and to each of the others, drawing a series of lines taking them behind the Comanches advancing from the north. He looked at Goose and the Indian nodded. Brazos brought his Henry into firing position and simulated the firing of it. He then pointed to Goose, to himself, and to each of the others, drawing six lines away from the scene of the attack, to the north.

  “Comanch’ bastardos,” grunted Goose. “Matar.” He understood.

  “We advance together and retreat together,” said McCaleb. “Let’s go.”

  McCaleb was tense. Would the Comanches split their forces, expecting to converge on the soldiers from the north? Common sense told him the Indians would send a few of their number from the band to the east of town and a few from the force to the west, creating a fourth attacking force from the north. McCaleb and his outfit had only to wait until this band had gathered, and to fall in behind them. With Sandoval’s soldiers ahead of them and McCaleb’s outfit behind them, the Comanches would be caught in a cross-fire. It might well eliminate a fourth of the attackers without risk to the defenders. Goose raised his hand and they halted, waiting. The Apache pointed west. They hunkered down in a thicket, watching seven Comanches advancing eastward in a stealthy line.

  “My God,” whispered Will, “if there’s seven more coming from the east flank, that means there’s maybe sixty in the band.”

  It was poor odds. Once the seven had advanced past their position, Goose led them carefully ahead. Again Goose raised his hand, halting them. Silently, swiftly, the seven Comanches from the east flank appeared, joining their comrades from the west.

  “Fourteen of them,” said Brazos, “and they’ll move fast. We’ll have to hustle if we’re leavin’ ourselves room to retreat.”

  “Come on, then,” said McCaleb. “Let’s not lose sight of one another. See that scrub oak thicket ahead? Once they pass through it, we’ll use it for cover. Fire when I do. Keep firing until they’re all down.”

  McCaleb’s outfit moved into the thicket as their quarry left it.

  “Now,” said McCaleb, “while they’re without cover, cut them down!”

  Six Comanches fell with the first volley and five with the second. The twelfth, wounded, tried to crawl away; Will fired once and the brave didn’t move again. The last two had fled toward the town, vanishing into the nearest concealing brush. Goose was already after them.

  “Retirada, Goose,” shouted Brazos. “Retirada!”

  But there would be no retreat. Monte Nance went down with a Comanche arrow in his side. There was a yelp of terror from Rebecca. Behind them—God alone knew how many—was yet another party of Comanches!

  “Move ahead,” shouted McCaleb. “It’s our only chance!”

  Rebecca helped the wounded Monte as best she could. Goose looked back and Brazos waved him on. Then, as though on command, he and Will dropped back to join McCaleb. Each of them had a sixteen-shot Henry, and they would try to buy enough time for the others to reach Sandoval’s position in or near the jail. By now, McCaleb suspected, the Comanches had begun flanking movements. By falling back, the trio had greatly increased their danger of finding Comanches before and behind them. Rebecca screamed. A hundred yards ahead Goose was locked in a fight to the death with one of the Comanches who had escaped their attack. Knives flashed in the early morning sun as the combatants circled, each seeking an advantage. With a spiteful bark, Rebecca’s .31 Colt spoke and a second Comanche staggered to his feet behind Goose. He lunged at the Apache’s back and coolly the girl fired again. The Indian fell and lay still. Goose had a bloody knife slash across his bare torso and some lesser cuts on his brawny upper arms. There was no more time for hand-to-hand fighting. Just as McCaleb was about to shoot the Comanche, Goose made his death thrust. Despite their predicament, the Apache took time to scalp his victim.

  “Go on!” shouted McCaleb.

 
The Comanches closing in from behind had drawn closer. One arrow whipped through McCaleb’s shirtsleeve, ripping the flesh above his left elbow. A second one whispered past his ear. McCaleb, Will, and Brazos continued to advance, pausing to fire at their pursuers. Suddenly a rifle slug thunked into a cottonwood trunk above McCaleb’s head. In quick succession there were two more shots.

  “Sandoval,” shouted McCaleb, “hold your fire! We’re coming in!”

  There was no vocal response, but McCaleb received his answer. While the firing continued unabated, none was directed at them. Goose, Rebecca, and Monte were far ahead and had vanished into a dense thicket of young pines.

  “Come on,” said McCaleb. “We’re close enough to make a run for it!”

  They ceased firing and ran for the sheltering thicket, a shower of arrows falling around them. They caught up to Goose, Rebecca, and Monte just as the trio emerged from the thicket. Thirty yards away was the rear of a squat adobe building. On each side of a heavy oak door was a barred window, and from each window protruded the muzzle of a rifle. The first voice they heard belonged to one of the riflemen behind a barred window.

  “Halt and identify yourselves. If that savage is your prisoner, why is he armed?”

  “He’s Apache,” said McCaleb,” and part of my outfit. Lieutenant Sandoval knows me; get him.”

  “Hello, McCaleb,” said Sandoval. The heavy oak door swung open.

  “Don’t know how many are chasing us,” said McCaleb. “We ambushed a war party sneakin’ up on you, but when we tried to retreat, there was another bunch right behind us. Left us no choice except to join you. One man’s been hit; don’t know how bad.”

  “Come on in,” said Sandoval. “Private Hardesty is a medic.”

  Rebecca led Monte in first. Goose refused to enter the building. He held the Spencer over his head and pointed back in the direction they had come.

  “Comanch’ bastardos. Matar.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” said Brazos. “With that thicket so close to hide ’em, four of us won’t be a bit too many.”

  That was gospel. That thicket, providing abundant cover to within a few yards of the jail, worried McCaleb too. Put enough Comanches out there, and half the Union army couldn’t root them out. Up till now Sandoval’s small force hadn’t had to defend the vulnerable rear of the jail, but that was about to change. The jail had four cells and an outer office that boasted a battered desk and half a dozen ladder-backed, cane-bottomed chairs. McCaleb wasn’t surprised to find only Sandoval’s sergeant and all five of his privates defending the jail. It would be impossible to defend the entire town, with it strung out along a single street that meandered along the river. Suddenly there was a burst of fire somewhere to the south of them. McCaleb looked at Sandoval.

  “They took us totally by surprise,” said the lieutenant. “There’s only a few townsmen; it was their firing that alerted us. I sent three men to investigate and they were driven back. Best we can tell, everybody else is forted up in Virgil Daugherty’s store. The devils have taken over some of the unoccupied buildings. See that old saloon building out there with the high false front? They’re on the roof, and any man stepping out that front door takes his life in his hands. We have the worst position in town, with the jail at the very end of the street, and woods on both sides and behind us. In front, as I’ve already told you, is that false-fronted building with God knows how many of them camped on the roof.”

  There was a window on each side of the heavy oak door. The oiled paper that had covered them had been cut to ribbons.

  “We can’t remove the woods,” said McCaleb, “but we can eliminate that old building they’re roosting on.”

  “I’ve thought of that. I’m planning to fire it after dark.”

  “You don’t have until dark, Sandoval. Where’s that appointed sheriff?”

  “He bunks in a cabin at the other end of town. It’s possible he’s dead.”

  “I doubt it,” said Will. “Our luck’s been lousy all day; why should it improve now?”

  “He’s sheriff,” said McCaleb, “and we need every man who can fire a gun. Even Shag Oliver. His place is here at the jail.”

  “Couldn’t none of us stand the bastard,” said Private Hardesty.

  “That will be enough, Private,” said Sandoval.

  Will grinned. Hardesty said nothing but continued cleansing Monte’s wound. Monte, his shirt off, lay belly down on the desk. The arrow had left an angry bloody wound where it had gone in. It had then struck a rib, tearing its way out of the flesh, leaving an equally bloody gash. It was serious enough but had missed his vitals. Whatever else went wrong, thought McCaleb, at least the kid had medicine and medical attention.

  Sandoval spoke. “Then you don’t believe we can make it until dark?”

  “No,” said McCaleb. “Do you?”

  He sighed. “No. They’ll overrun us. The Alamo was under siege for thirteen days. Without a miracle, we won’t last thirteen hours.”

  Ridding themselves of the Comanches lurking behind the roof parapets of the abandoned saloon wouldn’t solve all their problems, but they had to begin somewhere. McCaleb turned to Sandoval.

  “Put two riflemen at each window to cover me. I’m going out there and flatten that buzzard perch.”

  McCaleb unbuttoned his shirt, removing the two sticks of oilskin-wrapped, capped, and fused dynamite. He ripped off a strip of the oilskin, using it to bind the two sticks of explosive together. He twisted the two short lengths of fuse together, tying them tight with another strip of oilskin.

  “I reckon this will bring the building down,” said McCaleb, “and when it does, cut down on any of them that come out of it alive. In fact, Sandoval, leave my two men to cover the rear of the building, and station all your men with rifles at the windows. Rebecca, when that building comes down, swing the door open. You men cut them down; don’t let any of them out of there alive.”

  Sandoval brought the two soldiers who had been stationed at the rear of the jail. Briefly, McCaleb told them what he planned to do.

  McCaleb clenched his teeth on the stems of half a dozen sulfur matches. He judged the old saloon was maybe sixty or seventy yards away. The closer he got to it, the more difficult for the defenders on the roof to loose their arrows at him without revealing themselves to the men who would be covering him. He took a deep breath and opened the big oak door just enough to squeeze through. Clutching the dynamite in his left hand, he lit out in a zigzagging run. Behind him the rifles roared. An arrow cut through his Levi’s just below the knee, falling away when it struck the leather of his boot top. Ahead of him the body of a Comanche toppled from the roof, crashing into the dust with a thud.

  Twenty yards. Thirty. Forty. Fifty! He drew up to the building and whipped a match against the rough fabric of his Levi’s. Nothing! His second and third attempts were similar failures. Had his matches gotten wet through their oilskin pouch? Two Comanche arrows thudded into the dirt at his feet. His fourth and fifth matches failed. With his heart in his throat he tried the last one. With a sputter it caught, almost died, then leaped to life. He touched it to the dynamite fuse, and when the sparks told him it had caught, he flung the explosives in an arc that would drop them on the roof of the old saloon. Then he ran toward the rear of the building, but away from it, taking himself out of the line of fire when the structure came down and the riflemen began shooting the survivors.

  When the dynamite blew, he couldn’t resist turning to witness the result of his handiwork. The old saloon came down in a clatter, dust rising like smoke in the morning sky. From the jail the firing continued, and he hoped, despite the dust, they were finding some targets. He shied away from the front of the jail, approaching it from the east side. Suddenly from the brush came a deluge of arrows. Two of them came close enough that he felt the wind of their passing. He drew his Colt and fired three quick shots into the brush. Drawn by the roar of rifles and the explosion, Brazos and Goose saw his predicament and opened up with their rifl
es. With their fire covering him, he made his way around to the rear of the adobe jail.

  The firing from the jail ceased. Inside, the main room in front reeked of powder smoke.

  “McCaleb,” said Sandoval, “that was as neat a maneuver as I’ve ever seen. I don’t suppose you have more dynamite?”

  “No,” said McCaleb. “But the Comanches don’t know that. They won’t know what hit them, and they’ll take what just happened as bad medicine. They’ll learn from their mistakes, and I doubt we’ll find them using these buildings for cover; especially the rooftops. Any idea how many we just took out of the fight?”

  “Six,” said Sandoval, “including the one that was shot off the roof before you threw the dynamite. There might be others who didn’t survive the blast.”

  “I doubt it,” said McCaleb. “Six of them could have pinned you down until dark and overrun your position. Have you fought Indians before?”

  “No. I saw action with Sherman at Atlanta. What do these savages want, McCaleb?”

  Will Elliot stepped away into the corridor and headed for the back door, lest the Union soldiers witness his look of extreme disgust. Monte and Rebecca eyed McCaleb. It was a moment before he trusted himself to speak.

  “They want your horses, your weapons, and your hair, Lieutenant. Don’t take it personal; they hate all white men. Texans have been fightin’ them a century before we ever heard of Santa Ana. Welcome to the party.”

  “I won’t be intimidated,” said Sandoval. “While they are demoralized, I’ll take some men and—”

  “Get your gizzard shot full of arrows,” said McCaleb. “There is no such thing as a demoralized Comanche, Sandoval; just one more cautious. And dangerous.”

  “I’m in command here,” snapped Sandoval angrily. “I—”

  He was interrupted by a burst of fire from the rear of the jail. With a startled cry, Private Hardesty went down, an arrow through his shoulder. McCaleb swept Rebecca to the floor, drew his Colt and dropped beside her. Despite his wound, Monte crouched behind the battered desk, his Colt ready. Three more arrows whipped through the tattered remnants of oiled paper that had covered the front windows. McCaleb fired twice and there was a roar behind him as the soldiers opened up with rifles. The attack ended as suddenly as it had begun. Beneath Sandoval’s left ear, an arrow had cut an angry gash. The wound bled profusely, soaking the front of his blue tunic. Ignoring his own wound, the lieutenant turned to the fallen Hardesty.