The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Goose understood little if any of what Goodnight had said, although his eyes lighted briefly at the sound of Flacco’s name. McCaleb didn’t believe the Indian was going to accept Goodnight’s extended hand, so long did he hesitate. Finally Goose gripped Goodnight’s brawny paw and their eyes met. McCaleb had a strange feeling that Charles Goodnight was on trial, that the Indian had accepted him only because he was Benton McCaleb’s friend. How strange, thought McCaleb, that Goose had been with them for months without any outward show of friendship on their part, not even a handshake. He was one of them and somehow he was not. Goodnight’s booming voice brought McCaleb back to the present.

  “I reckon you’re stayin’ for supper?”

  “No,” said McCaleb, “I just wanted you to know we’re maybe fifteen miles south of you. Why don’t you ride down to our camp tomorrow? I want all my outfit to sit in on our conversation, and it’ll be easier for you to join us than for all of us to leave the herd and come here. We had a run-in with Comanches at Waco and Brazos caught a bad one. He’s still weak, but we couldn’t keep him out of the saddle any longer.”

  “Very well,” said Goodnight. “See you tomorrow. Hasta luego, Goose.”

  At sunrise Charles Goodnight rode into McCaleb’s camp. He greeted Goose with a lifted hand and McCaleb with a nod. He dismounted and in his bow-legged lope went to meet Will and Brazos. When all the hand-pumping and back-thumping was over, Goodnight’s eyes sought out Monte and Rebecca Nance. They had approached timidly; having heard so much about Goodnight, they stood quietly before him.

  McCaleb cleared his throat. “Charlie, this is Monte Nance and Rebecca, his sister. Their daddy was killed by the Comanches and they asked to throw their herd in with ours. We got out with our hair and not quite a thousand cows.”

  Gravely Goodnight took Monte’s hand and then turned to Rebecca. She was hatless and her long raven hair curled around her shoulders. Faded Levi’s hugged her slender hips, and Monte’s old denim shirt, a bit too small to begin with, stretched tight across her breasts. Sun and wind had so tanned her face and neck, the freckles splashed across her nose seemed almost white. None of this was lost on Goodnight; he looked her over from head to toe and grinned appreciatively.

  He chuckled. “Well, Bent. I see you haven’t spent all your time catching longhorns.”

  Monte, Will, and Brazos shared his laughter, but McCaleb did not. It was cowboy humor at its worst, and he expected the girl to flare up like hell with all the fires lit. She exceeded his every expectation. Throwing her awe, timidity, and caution to the wind, hands fisted on her hips, she stalked over and confronted the big man. McCaleb had never seen her so on the prod.

  “Mr. Señor Charles Goodnight,” she bawled, “how dare you insinuate I’ve been roped and branded like a maverick heifer! I don’t care if everybody else thinks you’re nine feet tall and solid gold! I think you’re just a…a…big dumb cow wrassler!”

  Nobody loved to laugh more than Charles Goodnight, and he laughed loudest and longest when the joke was on himself. He threw his big hat to the ground, slapped his thighs and laughed until he could laugh no more. Brazos, Will, and McCaleb matched his unbridled mirth with their own. Monte stood there with an uncertain grin, while Goose’s expression could only be described as puzzled. He hadn’t understood Rebecca’s words or the reason for them, but he knew anger when he heard it. His was a world of black and white, without shades of gray. Anger begat anger and then somebody died.

  Quickly Rebecca’s face changed from the white of anger to the red of embarrassment. How did you vent your anger on one who laughed at your insults? The man was every bit as insufferable at Benton McCaleb; no wonder they were friends!

  “Ma’am,” said Goodnight, dusting off his hat, “I meant no harm. You’re a beautiful lady; even a big dumb cow wrassler can see that.”

  “Thank you,” said Rebecca, blushing even more furiously. “I’m sorry—”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” said Goodnight cheerfully. “I rode bareback all the way from Illinois when I was nine. Growed up amongst rustlers, outlaws, Injuns, and jaybirds like this bunch standin’ here looking at me. So what else could I be, except a big dumb cow nurse? Somebody fetch me a cup of that six-shooter coffee and let’s get on with our talking.”

  McCaleb covered their months in the brakes, dwelling mostly on their trouble with the Comanches. He mentioned none of the difficulties encountered as a result of York Nance’s skulduggery and was rewarded with the gratitude in Rebecca’s eyes. He told Goose’s story, praising the Apache, and finished with their part in the defense of Waco during the Comanche attack. McCaleb handed Goodnight the letter Lieutenant Sandoval had given them.

  “Won’t hurt your case,” said Goodnight, after reading it. “God knows, we need all the help we can get. Like we figured, carpetbagger courts have come in and taken over the state, leaving us disenfranchised. A puppet legislature with carpetbaggers and scalawags pulling the strings. By the time I got home, they’d stolen every cow I ever owned, and now they’re running a bill through the legislature to make it legal!”

  He glared at them like a fierce old buffalo bull surrounded by wolves. Nobody said anything, and in a milder tone he continued.

  “They call it the ‘tallying law,’ and it allows anybody to build a herd by just going out on the range and gathering everything he can find, brands and earmarks be damned! It’s made official by having the herd ‘tallied’ by an inspector appointed by the carpetbagger court. From all I’ve seen and heard, these court-appointed inspectors are the most unreliable, no-account bastards to be found. Slip them a pint of whiskey or a dollar—anything to make it worth their while—and they’ll tally anything you want, falsifying earmarks and brands in any manner that suits you. Then all the rustler or rancher has to do to make it legal is to record the tally at the county courthouse. The law then allows the herd to be sold, assuming that the original owners were paid, assuming that every man is honest!”

  “Texas is broke except for cattle,” said McCaleb, “and now they’ve come up with a legal way to rob us of them.”

  “Possession has always been nine tenths of the law,” said Goodnight, “and we’ll make that law work for us. But we’ll do it legal and honest by taking only unbranded animals. We stand to be hurt only to the extent that thieves could take our herds, dispose of them, and disappear. We’ll play by their rules and have our cows tallied by one of their ‘inspectors’ before we try to leave Texas.”

  “It’s true, then,” said Will, “that we need permission to leave?”

  “It’s the law,” said Goodnight, “but like everything else in this carpetbagging administration, it can be bent hell-west and crooked, if you know somebody.”

  “I’m assuming,” said McCaleb, “that you know somebody.”

  “I don’t,” said Goodnight, “but Oliver Loving does, and he’ll be trailing his herd with us.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Brazos. “He’s been around awhile. Been up the Shawnee to Sedalia and took a herd to Illinois in ’fifty-five. I’d calculate he’s a mite…uh, old…for a drive as long and hard as this.”

  Goodnight chuckled. “He’s fifty-four, and I didn’t hog-tie him, he volunteered. He’s a veteran on the trail. He sold beef to the military before the war, and one of the officers he dealt with is at Austin, part of this occupation.”

  Having recovered her composure and self-confidence, Rebecca spoke for the first time since her confrontation with Goodnight.

  “There’s been a war, Mr. Goodnight, and everybody’s against us. Why should this one officer feel any different?”

  He groaned. “Don’t call me Mister Goodnight. I’m Charlie. To answer your question, the military, despite this foolish occupation, needs beef now more than ever. Believe me, Loving knows what he’s doing. Now that the war is over, more and more Union soldiers will be moving west to fight Indians. That means more forts and more people to feed. What most concerns the military right now is the more than eight t
housand hungry Navajos in northern New Mexico Territory, at Fort Sumner. Other trail herds are going north into Kansas; we’ll be driving near Fort Sumner. Does that tell you anything?”

  “That we won’t be going to Colorado,” said Rebecca.

  “Some of us will,” said Goodnight. “Quite a bit of Loving’s herd is suitable for breeding stock. Few of mine are; just beeves and dry cows.”

  “That’s about all we’ve got,” said McCaleb. “Can’t afford to be too choosy when you’re dragging ’em out of the chaparral. There’s a chance, then, that we could sell our herd at Sumner?”

  “I’d say so,” said Goodnight. “I aim to sell off as many as I can, hit the trail back to Texas, and buy a bigger and better herd while prices are rock bottom. I reckon Colorado will still be there.”

  It was a drastic change from their original plan, and McCaleb wasn’t at all sure he liked it. Or was he a little jealous of Oliver Loving, Goodnight’s newfound friend he had yet to meet?

  “That’s a whole new direction,” said McCaleb. “You still planning to move out in mid-April?”

  “I reckon not,” said Goodnight. “Mr. Loving won’t be ready until June first. So far I have eight hundred and forty head; I’d like to make it an even thousand. Then we’ll move upriver, joining herds with Loving twenty-five miles south of old Fort Belknap. You can wait here and we’ll go together, or you can wait there for me and Mr. Loving.”

  “I think we’ll move on,” said McCaleb. Just who was Oliver Loving to hold up their drive for two months until he got ready?

  Goodnight studied their faces, lingering the longest on McCaleb, Brazos, and Will. He knew they were impatient and unsatisfied. He’d known them too well for too long. While he liked and believed in Oliver Loving, these men had long been his friends, and he wanted their approval. He played his last card.

  “I realize we’re getting a later start, but we’ll need time to ready ourselves for the trail. I’m having a government wagon completely rebuilt with the toughest wood to be had. Iron axles too. I’m taking twelve yoke of oxen, using six at a time. Go to the general store in Weatherford and tell Silas Moon who you are. We’ve made arrangements for supplies, including sufficient grain for the horses and ammunition. If you need credit, buy what you need and pay when you sell the herd.”

  “I never liked counting my chickens before they’re hatched, Charlie,” said McCaleb. “We’ll pay for what we get; in advance.”

  Goodnight got up, tipped his hat to Rebecca and shook hands with everybody except Goose. The Indian remained where he was, dark eyes inscrutable. Goodnight swung into the saddle, lifted a big hand in silent farewell and rode out.

  “Supplies,” said Brazos. “Grain and ammunition. Sugar, tea, and rock candy, I expect. How in tarnation did he do that, with Texas occupied and dirt poor?”

  Will chuckled. “I’d imagine, if Oliver Loving can talk the Federals into lettin’ us out of Texas with three thousand cows, he can shake ’em down for grub and ammunition.”

  “I’m starting to despise that man,” said Rebecca, “and I haven’t even met him. We’re not going to accept that offer, are we?”

  “Why not?” said McCaleb. “We need grain for the horses and grub for ourselves, not to mention ammunition for our Colts and rifles. Where else are we likely to find what we need, at any price?”

  “Well,” said Rebecca defiantly, “if you know where we’re joining herds with this…this Yankee-lover, then let’s get our herd there ahead of his and use the best grass to fatten our cows while he piddles around!”

  They took their time, allowing the herd to graze along the way, and arrived on Elm Creek range the first Sunday in April. It had been a wet spring and Elm Creek ran bank-full.

  “It’s beautiful,” cried Rebecca. “So peaceful!”

  “Don’t let it fool you,” said McCaleb. “This is about where Charlie was holding his herd last fall when the Comanches stampeded them.”

  Feeding into the creek was a shallow, willow-lined stream which they followed until they found a shaded, secluded spring. The remains of several old fires were testimony to its popularity as a campsite.

  “There’s somethin’ serious we need to take care of,” said Brazos. “We been out of coffee for a week. I can eat turkey or deer if I got to, but I ain’t goin’ another day without coffee if I got to ride to Weatherford and get it myself.”

  “We do need to replenish our grub and get some grain for the horses,” said McCaleb. “It’ll take some time to get them back in shape. I reckon I’ll have to go, since I’m bossin’ the drive, and I’ll take one of you with me. We’ll take two packhorses. Any volunteers?”

  “Take Rebecca,” said Brazos, “unless somebody’s got a better idea. I don’t care who goes as long as we get some coffee. The cook ought to have some say-so when it comes to choosin’ the grub.”

  “We’ve got time to get there and back before dark,” said McCaleb, “if we start early in the morning. Is there anything the rest of you need that we might find at Weatherford? Brazos, see if you can get through to Goose.”

  “If I could have at least one pair of socks,” said Monte, “I’d be happy.”

  “The same for me,” said Will, “and for God’s sake, some soap. It purely wasn’t meant for a man to shave without soap. My face looks and feels like I been shavin’ in the dark with a dull bowie knife.”

  “Bring us some tobacco,” said Brazos, “and if they got any, a bottle of paregoric. Goose just shakes his head; what do you get for an Indian that’s already got a horse, a bowie, a new Spencer, and a bagful of shells?”

  McCaleb and Rebecca rode out at first light. Each led an extra horse, McCaleb’s bearing the pack saddle. Weatherford, as best McCaleb remembered, was slightly to the southeast of Belknap, and since they were now some twenty-five miles southwest of the old fort, he judged they were a good forty miles from the little town.

  “How much of a town is Weatherford?” inquired Rebecca.

  “Mostly in name only,” said McCaleb. “It’s never been much more than a watering hole about two ax handles west of Fort Worth. I doubt it’s any more substantial now, unless there’s a saloon.”

  “No whorehouse?”

  “I reckon not. Why? You tired of punching cows?”

  How far dared he go with this unpredictable female? If he had fanned the flames of her volatile temper, the best he could expect would be a long silent trip, with her sulking there and back. The worst, of course, would be her backsliding and cussing him like a bull whacker. To his surprise, she laughed, her green eyes twinkling.

  “Would you be my first customer, McCaleb?”

  “I reckon not,” he said, matching her tone. “Way you scratch and claw a man, I’d be plumb scared to get close to you with my britches off. I might end up missin’ some parts I’d have trouble gettin’ along without.”

  “Wal,” she said, in that perfectly ridiculous drawl, “Ah reckon Ah’ll jus’ keep on a-punchin’ cows.”

  He laughed until he cried, and she joined in. It was a milestone he’d never expected to see. Only too well did he remember her pawing the ground when Goodnight had jokingly implied that McCaleb might have some kind of hold on her. He did and he didn’t, he decided. He believed he was mostly responsible for that. He had made her so aware of her unladylike behavior that the mere suggestion of impropriety prodded her into a defensive fury. Recalling the lengths to which she had gone to attract his attention and win his approval, he believed he understood her. With others she flared up at the slightest implication that she was less than a highborn lady. But with him she was an impudent, fun-loving woman.

  “Who are you thinking about, McCaleb?”

  “Why do I have to be thinking about anybody? Maybe I’m thinking about the herd.”

  “I’d take that as an insult if I didn’t know you better. You think about the herd when you’re with the herd.”

  “And when I’m with you, I think about you?”

  “Don’t you? Sometim
es?” She sounded more wistful than sarcastic.

  “Ah reckon Ah do,” he said, mimicking her drawl.

  She laughed, pleased. Her green eyes softened. “McCaleb, on the way back, let’s find a secluded creek and take a bath.”

  “Together? Naked?”

  “Have you ever taken a bath in your entire life when you weren’t?”

  “In the saddle,” he said, “but never possum-naked with a female lookin’ at me. Not since I was five and my mama stood me in a washtub and scrubbed my back and ears.”

  “I’m not your mama; you can wash your own back and ears. Ever since I was carried away by that Indian, I…I’m nervous about…taking off all my clothes.”

  “But you won’t be nervous if…I’m there?”

  “No.” She blushed only a little. “You care about me…don’t you?”

  “Ah reckon Ah do,” he said. “If’n a Injun come along an’ wanted you, Ah wouldn’t take nary less’n ten ponies fer you.”

  He was serious enough to restore the confident twinkle to her eyes and humorous enough to make her laugh. The ride to Weatherford seemed entirely too short.

  They bypassed the little town, riding three quarters of a mile beyond it to a low rambling log building without a sign of a window.

  “That’s it?” she asked. “Why is it stuck out here by itself?”

  “That’s it,” he said. “Unless it’s changed hands, an old coot named Silas Moon owns it. He lives in a kind of lean-to behind the place. He used to buy, sell, and trade livestock. He’d have horses, mules, cows, hogs, sheep, and goats. Most town folks don’t want to see and hear the stockyards from their front porch.”

  There was no sign of life. They dismounted, half-hitched their horses to the rail, and McCaleb tried the front door. It was barred from the inside. He rapped on it with the butt of his Colt.

  “How does he run a store with the door locked?”