The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

“That’s why we haven’t met with any resistance from them,” said McCaleb. “Before the flank groups can get organized, we’ll have time to jump that bunch attacking Daugherty’s place. Let’s go!”

  Daugherty’s store stood at the southern end of the winding dirt street, and well before they reached it, they could see activity on the flat roof. They heard the unmistakable sound of someone using an ax, but the high false front of the store kept them from observing what was taking place.

  “Sergeant Nelson,” said McCaleb, “we’re not within range, but with the needle gun, you are. I want you to swing out far enough to the east so that you can see what’s going on atop Daugherty’s store, behind that false front. I reckon those red devils are using an ax to chop through the roof. We’ll cover you, should those we just chased into the brush decide to attack. I want you to use that needle gun and pick them off the roof.”

  Leaving the main street, they trotted toward the woods into which the Comanches had recently fled. The false front of Daugherty’s building stood head high, but the front-to-back parapet on the sides sloped down to roof level before reaching the rear of the building. They immediately spotted three Comanches on the roof, one of whom was vigorously swinging an ax. There was a blast from the needle gun and the ax wielder faltered in mid-swing. The ax clattered to the flat wooden roof. Wilson’s next shot caught a second Comanche, but the third vanished over the farthermost edge of the roof. There was the twang of Goose’s bowstring and a faraway grunt. The Comanche who had ventured out of the nearby brush lay on his back, an arrow driven deep into his belly.

  “Come on,” said McCaleb. “It’s time we went on down to Daugherty’s and combined forces with whoever’s been doing the shooting.”

  They approached Daugherty’s store so that they could observe the rear of it from a distance. From there they made their way along the south side to the front. There were two separate pools of dried blood on the ground near the front door.

  “Virg,” shouted Will, “is anybody hurt? Who’s in there with you?”

  “That you, Will? Nobody hurt. Four of us old mossyhorns in here, an’ we’re almighty low on shells. Got some women an’ kids too. Who’s out there with you?”

  “Me and two of my outfit, along with Lieutenant Sandoval and a couple of his men. We just shot a pair of Comanches off your roof.”

  “Heard ’em up there,” said Daugherty. “We bored two of th’ bastards when they kicked th’ door open. You comin’ in, er you want us t’ come out?”

  “Virg, this is Benton McCaleb. We’ve hurt them. Sergeant Nelson has a needle gun and we’ve got them running scared. I reckon you’ll be more useful out here where they can see you. Even if you’re low on ammunition, the Comanches won’t know that. If you have Spencers, I reckon we can spare you some shells.”

  “Look!” shouted Sandoval.

  On the west bank of the Brazos, half a mile distant, two dozen Comanches sat their horses, watching.

  “They’re either giving us up as a lost cause,” said McCaleb, “or they’re gathering for some war talk with their medicine man. Maybe we can convince them their medicine is bad. They reckon they’re out of range of our rifles. If that’s the bunch we drove across the river when we set fire to the brush, they haven’t tasted the needle gun. If they had, they wouldn’t be so near. Sergeant Nelson, can you pick off a specific target at this distance?”

  “I can,” said Nelson. “Walkin’, runnin’, flyin’ or standin’ still.”

  “You have two choices,” said McCaleb, “and either will serve our purpose. See that one wearing the headdress and the one next to him wearing buffalo horns?”

  “I can get either one,” said Nelson.

  “The one with the mess of feathers is the chief,” said McCaleb, “and I’d say that buffalo horns is probably the medicine man. Bring down either of them and this attack will be over.”

  “Get the medicine man,” said Will. “He’s the bastard that fires them up for the attack, promising them they’ll count coup and take lots of scalps. Drop him and it’ll put the fear of God into them. They’re so superstitious, they’ll shy away from here forever.”

  Following the ominous blast from the needle gun, nobody spoke. On the distant river bank there was pandemonium, horses milling, dust swirling.

  “Damn it,” said Sandoval, “I can’t see a thing. Is he down?”

  “He’s down,” said Sergeant Nelson, aggravated. “I hit what I shoot at.”

  “The sergeant’s right,” said Will. “That’s why we can’t see anything. They’re purposely milling the horses, using the dust as cover so we can’t drop any more of them while they recover the body of their medicine man. They won’t leave him. They’ll hightail it away from here.”

  “I reckon,” said Virg Daugherty, “we can all git back t’ doin’ what we was doin’ b’fore that bunch of red coyotes interrupted us.”

  “I don’t suppose,” said Lieutenant Sandoval, “you’ve seen the sheriff?”

  “No,” said Daugherty, “I ain’t, an’ th’ less I see of him, the better I like it.”

  “Lieutenant,” said McCaleb, “unless you have further need of us, I want to get back to the jail and see how Brazos is doing.”

  “Go ahead,” said Sandoval. “We have to search the town for our missing sheriff. Or his body.”

  “McCaleb,” said Will, “Goose is gone. I’d best stay with Sandoval and look around.”

  It was sound thinking. Goose, with bow and a quiver of Comanche arrows slung over his shoulder, might look like just another Indian to Virg Daugherty and his cronies. Since Goose spoke no English, it would be wise to have Will there to speak for him if need be.

  Walking toward the opposite end of town, McCaleb could hear the shouts of children as they escaped from their confinement in Daugherty’s store. It was a cheerful note that helped to dispel the gloom and lessened the ghost-town atmosphere. When McCaleb reached the old boarded-up store building the first party of Comanches had taken refuge behind, something seemed out of place. While the glassless windows had been boarded up, the door had not, and it stood partially open. He was dead sure that door had not been open when they had chased the Comanches away from the abandoned building. McCaleb drew his Colt, and when he stepped up on the dusty porch, his right foot went through the rotten floorboards. He extracted his foot and, testing the floor before trusting all his weight to it, made his way to the door. Peering into the dim interior, he could see nothing. He nudged the door with the toe of his boot, and on creaking, rusty hinges, it opened the rest of the way. Cautiously he stepped inside and a huge cobweb caught him full in the face. He sleeved it away and went on. Suddenly, between his shoulder blades, there was that creeping chill that never failed to warn him when there was danger near. The voice behind him was gloating and ugly, the Colt’s cocking sound loud in the musty stillness. He froze.

  “Drop the pistol. None o’ yer tricks. I’ll cut you in two.”

  “So this is where you’ve been hiding. Shag Oliver, you’re a gutless, yellow-bellied coyote.”

  “But I’ll be alive and you’ll be dead, you self-righteous bastard. Now you drop that pistol or I’ll kill you where you stand. Drop it, damn you!”

  McCaleb dropped the Colt.

  “Now,” said Oliver with a chuckle, “you got any last words, any prayers, you’d best be sayin’ ’em. On the count of five, I’m aimin’ to blow you to hell an’ gone. One…”

  McCaleb weighed his odds. While his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, it was still dark enough that he was unable to see the Colt he had just dropped. If he threw himself to the dusty floor, he might not find the pistol at all, or if he did, not soon enough to save himself.

  “Two…”

  McCaleb, never one to fool himself, recognized his predicament for what it was. He had everything to gain and nothing to lose. He would make his desperate move at the count of four.

  “Three…”

  But the count ended there. It was the last word
Shag Oliver spoke or would ever speak. The blast from a rifle was cannon-loud in the closed-up building, and in contrast, with the ringing in his ears, McCaleb barely heard the body strike the dusty floor. Slowly McCaleb turned. In the dim light from the open door stood Lieutenant Martin Sandoval. Muzzle down, he held a still-smoking Spencer rifle.

  “It will be my sad duty,” said Sandoval, “to inform my superiors that Sheriff Oliver died heroically during an attack by hostile Indians.”

  CHAPTER 13

  McCaleb returned to the jail to find Brazos and Private Hardesty mumbling in feverish sleep. Monte, despite his lesser wound, was still unsteady on his feet. Except for the fate of Shag Oliver, McCaleb explained what had happened.

  “Dear God,” exclaimed Rebecca, “it’s not even noon. We’ve only been here five hours and it seems like days. Where’s Will and Goose?”

  “Goose drifted off somewhere and Will’s looking for him. From the look of Brazos, I reckon we’ll be here awhile. We’ll need to bring the herd a mite closer to town.”

  “Here come Will and Goose,” said Monte.

  “I found him on the roof of Daugherty’s store,” said Will. “He was takin’ scalps from them two Comanches Sergeant Nelson dropped with the needle gun.”

  Goose had tied one of his gory trophies to each end of a rawhide thong and had looped it around the muzzle of his Spencer. Privates Kenton and Dennis looked as though they were going to be sick.

  “Monte,” said McCaleb, “keep an eye on Brazos while we move the herd.”

  Goose trotted ahead, McCaleb, Rebecca, and Will following. They saw no sign of the Comanches. Not even the dead.

  “However spooked they were at Sergeant Nelson’s gulching their medicine man,” said Will, “they came back and removed their dead.”

  They found their horses still safely picketed and the herd grazing peacefully along the river.

  Virg Daugherty had or was able to get some moonshine, and the vile stuff soon had Brazos and Private Hardesty sweating.

  “So that’s how it is,” said Sergeant Nelson. “Unless he’s shot full of arrows, a man can’t get any whiskey in these parts.”

  “Bullets or arrows,” said Will. “A man’s got to be too near dead to help himself or resist; elsewise, you can’t get him to drink this rotgut.”

  Brazos was on his feet within a week. The rest of the outfit was kept busy moving the herd to new graze. They also found time to wash their clothes and blankets. When Brazos was well enough to ride, and they were about to move the herd out into the mid-March dawn, Lieutenant Sandoval presented McCaleb with a brown envelope.

  “For what it’s worth,” said Sandoval, “it’s a letter stating that you and your outfit took up arms on behalf of the Union, that you fought for the United States of America against hostile Indians. I’ve recommended that you be allowed to keep your arms, and in view of your willingness to pledge your loyalty to the Union, I believe my recommendation will be honored. You’ll not be permitted to leave Texas without permission, as required by the Reconstruction Act of 1865, but permission will be granted. Good luck, McCaleb.”

  Five days north of Waco, they came upon the first of Charles Goodnight’s holding pens. A dozen longhorns milled about in a small coulee whose mouth had been barricaded by horizontal cottonwood rails rawhide-lashed to heavy vertical cedar posts. Backwater from the Brazos backed up far enough into the coulee for the penned animals to satisfy their thirst.

  “No brands,” said Will with a chuckle. “Pretty a bunch of Mavericks as I ever seen. We ought to hair-brand the lot of them and throw ’em in with ours, just to bullyrag Charlie.”

  “Too much work,” said McCaleb. “You get a hankering to wrassle them twelve-hundred-pound varmints for fun, count me out.”

  They bedded down the herd early, a good two hours before dark. There was good graze, and McCaleb wanted to make contact with Goodnight. Taking Goose with him, he rode north, following the river. They had ridden maybe ten miles when they heard the familiar bawling and thrashing about of a captured longhorn. McCaleb drew rein and the Indian halted beside him.

  “Hello,” shouted McCaleb. “Hello the camp!”

  “Who might you be?” inquired a cautious voice from the brush.

  “Benton McCaleb, friend of Charlie Goodnight. Are you part of his gather?”

  “Might be,” said the voice. “Stand down an’ keep your hands in sight. I ain’t got a pile of confidence in a white man what slopes around with a Injun. They stampeded our herd to hell an’ gone las’ fall. Never did git ’em back. Whatcha want with Charlie?”

  “Got a herd ten miles downriver. Me and a couple of my pardners were in the Rangers with Charlie. We aim to trail our herd along with his to the high country, to Colorado Territory. The Indian’s a Lipan Apache and one of my riders. The Lipans scouted for the Rangers and they’re enemies to the Comanches. Charlie can tell you that.”

  McCaleb and Goose had dismounted, backstepping their horses until the animals were between them and their unseen challenger. There was a sound somewhere to the rear, but McCaleb resisted the urge to turn. While he had been talking, the cautious, unseen wrangler had worked his way around behind them. Finally he spoke.

  “You can turn around, but keep your hands shoulder high.”

  McCaleb lifted his hands and Goose followed his lead.

  He was a young man, redheaded, maybe twenty-one or -two, dressed in dirty range clothes and run-over boots. A dusty old black Stetson rode his shoulders, secured by a rawhide thong. Out of the brush behind him stepped a second man, similarly attired, except he was dark-haired and had no hat. Both men wore belted Colts, and the redhead carried a new-looking Spencer, muzzle down but still cocked.

  “I’m Benton McCaleb. The Indian’s name is Goose.”

  “That his first name or his last name?” inquired the dark-haired rider, speaking for the first time.

  The pair of them broke into a fit of laughter, but it died on their lips when Goose moved closer. In his left hand, having appeared as though by magic, the lethal foot-long blade of the bowie glinted in the westering sun. The look in the Apache’s obsidian eyes could only be described as murderous.

  “He doesn’t like being laughed at,” said McCaleb.

  “S-Sorry,” said the redhead.

  “Goose,” said McCaleb.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, Goose lowered the formidable weapon until he held it at the same angle his adversary held the cocked Spencer. It was an affront that needed no words. Carefully, the redheaded young man took the Spencer off cock and eased the butt of it to the ground, holding it by its muzzle. Just as carefully, Goose returned the bowie to its rawhide thonged position around his neck and the huge knife disappeared over his shoulder. Only then did the two wranglers swallow hard and seem to relax.

  “That’s better,” said McCaleb with a grin. “When he knows you better, maybe he’ll show you his collection of scalps. Now who are you?”

  “I’m Red Alford,” said the redhead, “and this hombre is Langford Dill. His friends—what few he’s got—call him Dill.”

  “If it’s all right with the two of you,” said McCaleb, “I’d like to ride on into Charlie’s camp, let him know we’re just downriver, and get back to my herd before dark.”

  “Why don’t we ride in with you,” said Alford, “and show you the way? By the time you’re ready to head downriver, we can ride back this far with you. By then, this old cow ought to have thrashed some of the meanness out of her carcass, so’s we can throw her in with the others.”

  “By then,” said McCaleb with a chuckle, “it’ll be near suppertime and too near dark to go looking for another mossyhorn.”

  The three of them laughed, and even Goose looked a little less murderous. The two Goodnight wranglers mounted their horses and led out, followed by McCaleb. Goose brought up the rear. They had ridden perhaps half an hour when McCaleb smelled wood smoke. Some of the other riders had already called it a day, and half a dozen gathered around the fire
over which hung a huge blackened coffeepot. Each of them dropped their tin cups and got to their feet. While somewhat reassured by two of their own outfit accompanying the strangers, they were wary, hooking their thumbs in their belts near the butts of their holstered Colts. Alfred and Dill reined up and dismounted.

  “This gent hailed us downriver,” said Red. “His name’s McCaleb and he claims to know Charlie. The Injun’s one of his riders.”

  None of the men around the fire said anything. Due to the continuous problem with the Comanches, any Indian was suspect, and they eyed Goose with undisguised suspicion. Finally one of the riders spoke.

  “Charlie ain’t here. Reckon he’ll ride in ’fore dark. You’re welcome to step down an’ wait. They’s coffee in th’ pot.”

  Goodnight’s men were decidedly cool, extending only the range courtesy that western custom demanded. McCaleb couldn’t fault them for that, because they had no proof of his relationship with Goodnight. It wasn’t uncommon for rustlers and outlaws to ride in, take the measure of an outfit, and at a time and place that suited them, gun down the crew and take the herd. McCaleb and Goose dismounted. They led their horses away from the camp until they found suitable graze, picketed them and returned on foot. The fire had died down to a bed of coals and only two of the riders remained. Alfred and Dill had gone, presumably to wrassle their captured longhorn to a holding pen. Goose knelt down, his back to a pine, saying nothing. McCaleb grew increasingly impatient at the delay.

  “Bent McCaleb! You old cow thief!”

  Charles Goodnight hit the ground running. His hair was longer and more unkempt than usual, and despite his being barely thirty, there was some gray in his dark hair and beard. He was a big bear of a man, and while he wrung his friend’s right hand with his own, he pounded McCaleb on the back with his left. In his enthusiasm, he almost overlooked Goose.

  “Charlie,” said McCaleb, “this is Goose. He’s a Lipan Apache, one of the survivors from Chief Flacco’s tribe. You remember Flacco?”

  “My God, yes,” said Goodnight. “The best scout Captain Jack Hayes and the Rangers ever had. Captain Jack personally hunted down the bastards that killed Flacco, and I didn’t blame him. Howdy, Goose.”