The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I’ll bed down my herd alongside yours,” said Goodnight, “and our riders can work together. I won’t be going just to Weatherford and back. I’ll go to Parker County first. Before we started our gather, I bought an old government wagon and hired a man to rebuild it like I wanted. I’ll drive the wagon back to Weatherford and load up with supplies.”

  By sundown Goodnight had bedded down a thousand bawling longhorns just south of McCaleb’s herd. Since Goodnight was low on supplies, McCaleb had invited them to supper. With the time at hand when his outfit was to join Goodnight’s—and eventually Loving’s—McCaleb had misgivings as to how the transition might affect Goose and the temperamental Rebecca. Suppose the Apache gutted some thoughtless cowboy with his bowie? And what of Rebecca Nance? Out of deference to McCaleb, Brazos and Will had shied away from the girl, but the Goodnight and Loving riders had no reason to be partial to his feelings. Cowboys were unpredictable where women were concerned. He had seen lifelong friends beat each other black and blue over some whore who didn’t care a rap for either of them.

  Rebecca outdid herself, preparing sourdough biscuits and serving them with the wild honey Virg Daugherty had given them. There was plenty of beans and bacon, and they washed it all down with cup after cup of coffee. With Goodnight’s riders on short rations and hungry, introductions were left undone until after supper. As everybody nursed a last cup of coffee, Goodnight got to his feet.

  “Stand up when I call your name,” he said, “so these folks will know who you are. When I’m done, McCaleb will introduce his hands. Red Alford?”

  Reluctantly the young man got up and stood there looking sheepishly at the toes of his run-over boots. Gratefully, he sat down, and his roping pardner Langford Dill unwillingly took his place as Goodnight introduced him.

  “This ugly jaybird,” said Goodnight, pointing to a grinning Negro, “is Jim Fowler. Sometimes he calls himself Jim Goodnight, but there’s no truth to the story that he’s my illegitimate son.”

  They all laughed. Goodnight continued, introducing Charlie Wilson.

  “His family was run out of Arkansas in ’fifty-seven. His brother, ‘One-Armed’ Bill, is the best cowboy that ever worked for me. Last fall he quit, bought a few barrels of whiskey on credit, and started a saloon in Jacksboro.” He pointed at another rider, and the slender young man with sandy red hair got up.

  “This is Simpson Crawford,” said Goodnight. “He’s a fighting Irishman who’ll fight at the drop of a hat. If you don’t have a hat, he’ll loan you his and drop it for you. His friends, when he has any, call him Simp.”

  There was nothing reluctant about the Irishman. He grinned good-naturedly, caught Rebecca’s eye and winked at her. McCaleb scowled.

  “The German,” said Goodnight, pointing to a heavyset man with a flowing moustache, “is Nath Brauner. He’s cross-eyed and purely hates rattlesnakes. The old man there on the end—I reckon he’s pushing thirty-five—is Wes Sheek.”

  Quickly McCaleb introduced his small crew, employing none of Goodnight’s humor. It came as no surprise when he discovered that Goose was nowhere to be found. He did the best he could, warning them that the Apache was wary of whites but had proven himself invaluable to them in Comanche territory.

  “I don’t like Injuns,” said Simp Crawford. “None of ’em. For his sake, you’d best keep him out of my way.”

  “For your sake, my friend,” said McCaleb coldly, “you’d best stay out of his way.”

  “I’ll fire the first man that starts trouble,” snapped Goodnight, “and that goes for all of you. Mind your manners, and McCaleb can control the Indian. But if you provoke a wolf, don’t whine when you get bit.”

  “Simp ain’t seen that wolf’s teeth,” said Red Alford. “He’s got a knife as long as a cavalry saber. He’ll cut your gizzard out pronto.”

  Goodnight and his men returned to their camp, leaving McCaleb’s outfit in a somber mood.

  “I’d hoped,” said McCaleb, “that Goose could scout for all three outfits, but I’ve changed my mind. Given a chance, with all the dust and confusion, bunch-quitting, thunderstorms and stampedes, somebody might be tempted to back-shoot Goose. It could happen without us ever knowing who did it. I’m going to ask Charlie for third position, allowing his and Loving’s herds to go ahead of ours. That’ll eliminate our need for a point rider, and we’ll be eating the dust of three thousand longhorns.”

  “I don’t care,” said Rebecca. “It’ll be more like we still have our own herd.”

  “We’ll be giving up some advantage,” said Will. “Indians or outlaws don’t often strike at the point, but at the tag end of a drive, where it’s the most vulnerable. The drag rider’s got nobody to watch his back, and he’s got the stragglers from the entire herd—in this case, three herds—on his hands.”

  “That’s gospel,” said McCaleb, “and a herd of three thousand longhorns could be strung out for two or three miles. I’ll get with Goodnight and Loving and arrange some signals. Otherwise the drag riders can be cut down by Indians or outlaws and a big chunk of the herd stampeded before the rest of the outfit up ahead knows what’s going on.”

  Monte snorted. “Well, if we’re goin’ to fight all the varmints anyhow, we should of done like Brazos wanted and went ahead with our own drive.”

  “We won’t have the drag by ourselves,” said McCaleb. “I’ll see to it that Charlie has at least one rider with us and Loving another, if not more.”

  Nobody objected when McCaleb decided to take Goose with him on the trip to Weatherford. One reason, as they likely suspected, was that McCaleb did not fully trust the Goodnight outfit in their boss’s absence. They seemed friendly enough, but when it came to Indians—any Indians—most Texans saw them in the same light as Simp Crawford. Crawford could provoke Goose, kill him and, except for Goodnight’s threat to fire him, go unpunished. While it was gross injustice, it was the prevailing mood of the time, and McCaleb’s unfailing premonition of trouble throbbed anew. Somewhere on the trail that lay ahead of them, Goose would have to fight for his life, and Benton McCaleb decided that the Indian would have more than a fighting chance. Goose was panther-quick; if he had the desire to learn, McCaleb would teach him the fast draw that his infamous cousin, Cullen Baker, had taught him.

  To McCaleb’s surprise, Goodnight chose Simp Crawford to accompany him to Weatherford. He could only conclude that Goodnight had sought to avoid trouble by taking the potential troublemaker with him. Goose had already roped the three animals they would use for packhorses, and was cinching the second pack saddle in place when Goodnight and Crawford rode in. Crawford tensed when he saw Goose, but the Indian ignored him. Goodnight took in the situation, shot Crawford an unfathomable look and said nothing.

  “Brazos,” said McCaleb, “you’re in charge while I’m gone. If there’s trouble, work with Charlie’s outfit. Keep your guns ready, all of you, and don’t stray from camp alone. For any reason.” He had his eyes on Rebecca, and she returned his look without expression.

  “I’m leaving Wes Sheek in charge,” said Goodnight, “and since we’re out of grub, I’m askin’ permission for my boys to take their meals with you until we get back.”

  “Glad to have ’em,” said Brazos. “I’ll get with Wes after breakfast and we’ll lay out a day and night watch.”

  Goodnight led out, followed by Crawford, McCaleb, and Goose. The Apache led one packhorse, McCaleb a second, and Crawford the third. Goose eyed Simp Crawford warily, sensing the man’s hostility. The journey was mostly silent. They halted only to rest and water the horses, the last time at the little creek where McCaleb and Rebecca had taken their baths. Memories of her flooded his mind, and he found himself facing the dismal realization that she had made no further overtures toward him. Their relationship had become so strained that her spark seemed to have died, leaving only casual indifference. Try as he might, he couldn’t free his troubled mind of her until they reined up at Silas Moon’s store.

  Goodnight pounded on the heavy oak
door until Silas identified them and slid back the bar. Goose made no move to follow them into the store, and neither did Simp Crawford. Moon’s eyes lighted briefly when he recognized McCaleb, but he greeted Goodnight with no enthusiasm.

  McCaleb understood Moon’s predicament. Apparently, Silas Moon’s rich inventory, and the credit he must have needed to purchase those goods, had been the result of Oliver Loving’s influence with the Federals. Moon now found himself in a position where he must extend unlimited credit not just to Loving, but to Goodnight as well. It had created an uneasy alliance, which further fueled the fires of McCaleb’s misgivings about Loving’s “connections.” Before the war there had been rumors of kickbacks, short tallies, and of entire herds that existed only on paper. McCaleb wanted no part of the proposed sale at Fort Sumner if there was even a taint of dishonesty. He was glad he had paid for the goods he’d taken from Silas Moon’s store. He listened as Goodnight intensified Moon’s discomfort.

  “…all written down for you, Silas. I’m going to Parker County and get my wagon. I’ll be back about this time tomorrow; be sure all this is ready. I expect you’ll be seeing Mr. Loving by the end of the week.”

  From the look on Moon’s face, McCaleb decided that Mr. Loving would be about as welcome as the Angel of Death. Goodnight had turned to go, when his eyes fell on a gun rack pegged to the wall beside the door. Two rifles rested on wooden pegs, and hanging from its trigger guard was an obviously new nickle-silvered .44-caliber Colt revolver. It had bone grips and, even in the poor light, the silvered surface of the weapon glittered. Goodnight hefted it, border-shifting it from hand to hand. Silas Moon looked like he was about to be sick.

  “Put this on my bill, Silas, along with a couple boxes of shells,” said Goodnight. Without a word, Moon went into the back of the store and returned with the shells. Suddenly there was a cry of pure terror from outside that froze them in their tracks. McCaleb recovered first and flung open the heavy door. Simpson Crawford stood on tiptoe, his back against the log wall of the store. His shirt had been slashed and hung in tatters. His right arm hung at an awkward angle and his unfired Colt lay at his feet. Goose held the glistening bowie’s point at Simp’s throat. A thin rivulet of blood ran down the cowboy’s neck. Simp’s eyes bugged out like a toad’s and his face and neck were frog-belly white.

  “Goose!” said McCaleb. “Ninguno!”

  The Apache turned savage eyes on McCaleb and returned his murderous gaze to the terrified Simp. For a moment it seemed he would plunge the huge knife into Crawford’s throat. Reluctantly he lowered the bowie and backed away. Crawford slumped down against the wall, moaning. McCaleb turned to Goodnight.

  “Get up, Simp,” said Goodnight, without a trace of sympathy in his voice.

  Crawford stumbled to his feet, ignoring the Colt. He looked about, the expression in his eyes bordering on madness. McCaleb said nothing.

  “Mount up, Simp,” said Goodnight.

  Despite Crawford’s former arrogance, McCaleb felt a touch of pity for the man. Grasping the horn with his left hand, Simp made three attempts before he was finally able to pull himself into the saddle.

  Goodnight turned to McCaleb. “I ought to be back here before noon tomorrow,” he said.

  Seeing no evidence of further trouble from Crawford, and no impending retribution from Goodnight, Goose returned the bowie to its thonged position around his neck. Like McCaleb, he waited, each of them aware that the next move was Goodnight’s. It was an awkward situation, from which the man couldn’t extract himself without some conciliatory act. But when it came, it was all wrong, despite Goodnight’s obvious intentions. Impulsive to a fault, he extended the new .44 Colt to Goose, butt first. With his big left hand he motioned toward himself, toward the Colt and then toward the Indian. Goose accepted the weapon and then carefully, deliberately, dropped it in the dust at Goodnight’s feet. Still facing Goodnight, he back-stepped to the log wall of the store, his craggy face expressionless.

  Despite his rough manner and often brusque speech, Charles Goodnight was a sensitive man, and the show of contempt—without a word being spoken—cut him deep. It was the first and only time McCaleb had ever seen him so totally embarrassed, so at a loss for words. His face flamed crimson down to his beard and he seemed to shrink before McCaleb’s eyes. Silently he swung into his saddle, kicking the big black into a lope. Simp Crawford followed.

  CHAPTER 15

  After McCaleb had paid Moon, only fifty dollars of their original stake remained. The sun was a good four hours high, but with nothing better to do, they pitched camp. McCaleb had bought some tins of sardines, and they washed them down with strong coffee. Goose wolfed down the oily little fish like he’d been eating them all his life, his bronze face devoid of expression. You never knew, McCaleb reflected, whether Goose was happy, sad, or just didn’t give a damn. The only thing he displayed in unbridled abundance was murderous anger. Something that had long puzzled McCaleb became even more puzzling after the Indian’s confrontation with Simp Crawford. There was no doubt that Crawford had gone for his gun or that Goose had taken it away from him, breaking or dislocating his arm while doing so. The Indian had a .44-caliber Colt revolver, yet he rarely used it, preferring the bowie. He could have used the gun on many occasions at far less risk to himself. Why hadn’t he? He had disdained the use of belt and holster, preferring the weapon against his belly, its muzzle tucked under the waist of his buckskins. Brazos and Will never tired of pointing out that the accidental firing of the Colt could cost Goose some vital parts of his anatomy.

  McCaleb got up and the Apache’s eyes followed him. In a blur, McCaleb drew his Colt and pretended to fire it. He returned it to its cross-hand position on his left hip and then pointed to Goose. The Indian seemed in doubt as to what was expected of him. Again McCaleb drew, and this time there was a drumroll of sound as he fired, striking one of the empty sardine tins. Each successive shot sent the tin bounding farther away, until the Colt clicked on empty. McCaleb punched out the empty casings, reloaded from his cartridge belt and holstered the Colt. Then he pointed to Goose and to another of the tins a dozen feet away. The Apache drew and fired four times. Only his first shot struck the tin; the last three were clean misses. McCaleb saw that his reflexes were good and his hand as swift as a striking rattler, but his draw was awkward. The Colt was in an unnatural position for a fast draw. McCaleb shucked his gun belt, took the Colt and shoved its muzzle under the waist of his Levi’s at the same position the weapon normally rode in the holster. Goose slid his own Colt around on his left hip and with a faster, far less clumsy motion drew and fired twice, striking the sardine tin each time. The Colt clicked on empty and McCaleb handed him enough shells to reload. Then to McCaleb’s surprise, Goose positioned the Colt butt forward on his right hip. Left-handed, he drew and fired three times. Not once did he miss!

  Goose returned the Colt to its butt-forward position on his right hip. McCaleb took one of the now-battered sardine tins and tossed it into the air. Again the Indian drew left-handed, and his first shot struck the tin before it hit the ground. His second shot sent the tin bounding into the air, and the third struck it before it hit the ground! McCaleb snatched off his hat, swatting it against his thigh in delight. Drawn by the gunfire, Silas Moon stood in the doorway shading his eyes. McCaleb waved his hat, lest the old man think there was an outlaw or Indian attack coming. So limited was his vocabulary, Goose rarely said anything, and it came as a surprise when he suddenly spoke.

  “Rapido?”

  “Mucho rapido!” McCaleb replied.

  Demonstrating with his own Colt, McCaleb was able to convey to Goose the idea that he should practice his draw without actually firing. He had witnessed the Apache’s accuracy; there was little room for improvement except in his ability to get the pistol into action quickly. Practicing the fast draw wasted no ammunition. His back to a pine, McCaleb tilted his hat over his eyes and sorted things out in his mind. Everybody in his outfit was right-handed. He doubted that Goose had ev
er had a Colt in his hand until he had been given the one he now carried. It seemed he had adopted their custom, and finding himself uncomfortable with it, had avoided using the Colt. Goose was naturally left-handed, and only when he had been encouraged to emulate McCaleb’s fast draw had he really lived up to his potential. McCaleb hadn’t gone out of his way to communicate with the Apache, depending on Brazos. But today Brazos hadn’t been around, and McCaleb for the first time felt he had gained some ground with Goose. The only thing diminishing his pride in the Apache’s dexterity with a pistol was the sobering awareness of Goose’s volatile temper. He believed, however, that Goose was more than just the bloodthirsty savage he often appeared. He could easily have killed Simp Crawford instead of disarming him and scaring him out of his wits.

  Before dark, McCaleb filled the coffeepot at the spring and doused all that remained of their supper fire. They rolled in their blankets near the picketed horses, depending on the sensitive animals to sound a warning at the approach of man or beast. They slept undisturbed, had their breakfast of broiled bacon and hot coffee, and waited impatiently for Goodnight’s return. The wind being out of the southwest, they heard the approaching wagon long before they were able to see it. They saddled their mounts and, leading the three packhorses, rode to Moon’s store. Finally the wagon, drawn by six yoke of patient oxen, rattled into view. McCaleb wasn’t in the least surprised that Simp Crawford hadn’t returned, but Goodnight wasn’t alone. Two strange riders, one of them leading Goodnight’s mount, rode alongside the wagon. Goodnight’s early years as a bull whacker served him well; he handled the six yoke of oxen expertly.

  He clambered down from the wagon and swatted his dusty hat against his thigh. The accompanying riders sat their saddles in silence until Goodnight bid them dismount. They were Mexican vaqueros, so alike that McCaleb couldn’t tell one from the other. They wore tight-legged dark breeches, matching dark jackets that ended at the waist, and white shirts. Their boots were solid black, and each wore a wide-brimmed, tall-crowned sombrero and a Colt on his right hip. They looked more like dandies or gunslicks than cowboys, McCaleb thought. Each rode a big gray whose Arabian ancestors likely weren’t too many generations back. Silas Moon stood in the open door watching. Goodnight didn’t waste time.