The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “How long you been out of the saddle, cowboy?”

  “How’d you know? Was ten year this past September.” There was a spark of pride in the old eyes, and despite his hunched back, he tried to stand a bit straighter.

  “You still walk like a rider,” said McCaleb.

  “You all havin’ breakfast, er just coffee?”

  “Just coffee,” said McCaleb. “Pair of our riders got in a brawl at the Condor last night. Trial’s this morning; I reckon we’ll have to dig deep to come up with the fines.”

  Clearly it was a dangerous subject. The old biscuit shooter clammed up and turned away. McCaleb tried a different approach.

  “This Clay Allison, is he the same one that once had a ranch here in New Mexico, down near Cimarron?”

  “That’s him,” said the old rider.

  “He killed a man in Cimarron,” said McCaleb. “That why he left New Mexico?”

  “I heard so. That’s why he moved to Las Animas, Colorado, I reckon. Him an’ a neighbor had a fight over th’ location of a fence. Clay dug a grave an’ them two fools got down in it an’ fought with knives. Winner was t’ bury t’other. Clay give his neighbor a fittin’ an’ proper funeral. Th’ marshal of Cimarron went after Clay, plannin’ to git to th’ bottom of it, but all he got was th’ bottom of ’nother grave. Clay shot him dead. Some of his shenanigans wasn’t all that bad. Used t’ git drunk at Christmas an’ shoot up th’ town. Onct, he rid through town on that big black, jaybird nekkid. Swore he’d shoot th’ ones that peeked, but most o’ th’ girls took a chanct.” He chuckled.

  Suddenly the old man slid off the table on which he’d been sitting and hurried behind the counter. The sheriff came in, kicked back a chair, and without a word sat down. The old cook brought him coffee, waiting to see if the lawman wanted anything else. McCaleb’s outfit silently sipped their coffee, saying nothing. The sheriff said nothing, and the ex-puncher returned to his counter. McCaleb thought he looked worried, wondering why the town’s lawman had singled out his place and was there so early. The nearby courthouse wouldn’t open until eight, and court wouldn’t convene until nine. McCaleb finished his coffee. He paid, and the others followed him out onto the boardwalk, leaving the silent sheriff looking after them.

  “He wanted to watch us squirm,” said Rebecca, “to see how worried we might be.”

  “No,” said McCaleb, “he had a better reason than that. He was givin’ us a chance to complain about being robbed last night. He wanted to see how desperate we are. Now he’s not sure why we didn’t report the robbery. He just purely don’t know if we’ve got ten dollars or a thousand. What do you think, Will? Your daddy’s a lawyer.”

  “I don’t see how they can be charged with anything more serious than disorderly conduct or disturbing the peace,” said Will. “They might fine Allison for being drunk and disorderly, assuming he was drunk. I’d be surprised if anybody’s fine is more than twenty-five dollars. That’s too much, but we’ll come off better just paying it, if we can.”

  They sat on their straw-tick beds at the hotel. McCaleb’s door stood open and he heard the big clock in the lobby strike eight. Before they reached the courthouse, McCaleb spoke to Will.

  “When we get there, you tell whoever’s supposed to know—the judge, the sheriff, somebody—that you’re acting as lawyer for Monte and Goose. Lay on enough legal talk to keep them worried. They won’t know how much you know; might force ’em to follow the rules a mite closer.”

  “He looks more like a lawyer than a cowboy.” Rebecca giggled nervously.

  “Thanks,” said Will. “Like my old daddy always says, whatever it is, if it pays more than punching cows, take it.”

  He did look the part. Although he was within a year or two of McCaleb’s age, Will Elliot had some distinguished gray above his ears. The haircut and bath he’d had the day before helped the illusion. He wore a white shirt, a neatly knotted black string tie, and solid black pants; all he owned, as far as McCaleb knew, aside from his Levi’s. They found the courtroom surprisingly well laid out. They also found it three quarters full.

  “The native Romans are here,” said Will, “to observe the visiting Christians being fed to the lions.”

  He left them grinning at his highfalutin speech and made his way to the front of the courtroom. A little man who could have been the twin of the bald hotel desk clerk strode after him. The spectators hushed so that they might hear what he had to say.

  “Hey,” he half shouted, “you can’t go up there.”

  “The hell I can’t,” snapped Will. “I’m counsel for the defense. I am from a prominent family of attorneys in the state of Texas. My name is Will Elliot. See that it’s duly recorded in the court’s records.”

  “Never heard of you,” said the little man stiffly. “I’m bailiff for this court; George Washington Chandler’s the name.”

  “I never heard of you either,” said Will coldly.

  McCaleb grinned. He suspected they were about to see a whole new side to Will Elliot.

  “Everybody stand,” said Chandler. “This court, of the town of Santa Fe, Santa Fe County, New Mexico Territory, is now in session. Judge Jeremiah Wolfe is presiding. Edgar Sutherland is the attorney for the prosecution, and Will Elliot is the attorney for the defense. Sheriff Parker, bring in the defendants.”

  There were gasps when the three were led into the courtroom. They had been beaten unmercifully. Their noses and mouths were smashed and swollen. Clay Allison came first. His once-white shirt hung in bloody tatters and he seemed barely able to lift his head. When he did, they saw a nasty bloody gash across his forehead and his eyes were swollen shut. The musical chime of his jingle-bob spurs sounded strangely out of place. Monte Nance had dried blood crusted down the left side of his face and his straw-yellow hair was matted brown. The sleeves of his shirt were gone, and when he turned to face the judge, every blow of the lash was marked with a trail of dried blood in the faded denim.

  Of the three, Goose’s beating seemed the most brutal because he was without his buckskin shirt. Every bloody welt that crisscrossed his chest and back was visible. Fresh blood still oozed from a wicked slash above his left ear, and a similar wound over his right eye had closed it. His wrists were lashed behind his back. Indian though he was, sight of him brought a spark of pity to some eyes. Goose didn’t face the judge; instead, he turned, his one good eye sweeping the courtroom. His malevolent gaze settled on a big man in a derby hat and dark suit, with an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. A gold watch chain snaked across his ample belly. The Indian said nothing but his look said much. The object of his interest cringed visibly.

  “You,” shouted Chandler, “face the judge. You…”

  Slowly, Goose turned to face the little bailiff, and Chandler got a dose that was more than he could swallow. His face went white and he stumbled back against the defense attorney’s table where Will sat. Will lifted his hand in a way that meant little to anybody except Goose. Even McCaleb did not understand it. The Indian turned his back on the bailiff and faced the judge’s bench. The episode had taken but a few seconds. McCaleb sighed in relief. One threatening move out of Goose and somebody would use it as an excuse to kill him. Chandler had regained enough of his dignity to read the charges. He put on his glasses and took a sheet of paper from an inside coat pocket.

  “These men,” he intoned, “are charged with—”

  “Judge,” said Will, “one of my clients has been brought here with his hands bound; I respectfully request that his bonds be removed.”

  “Judge, that Indian’s a killer. A savage,” said the large, well-dressed man. “He—”

  “Mr. Condor,” said Judge Wolfe coldly, “you are out of order.”

  McCaleb verified what he already suspected. It was the portly saloon owner Goose had singled out. On the other side of the room, from behind the prosecuting attorney’s table, Edgar Sutherland got to his feet. He was a cadaverous man. He was dressed entirely in black except for his white shirt. In h
is swallowtail coat he could have been a misplaced undertaker. Or a buzzard, thought McCaleb. Sutherland cleared his throat.

  “Your honor, what Mr. Condor, er, my client, means is that this particular defendant—this savage—has proven himself especially dangerous. It required a dozen men to subdue these three. It took six of them just to beat this savage senseless and bind his hands. Prior to that, he cut two of them badly and broke Mr. Tolliver’s arm. We object to counsel’s request.”

  “Judge,” said Will, “I object to the manner in which the prosecution’s judging this man guilty before the charges have even been read.”

  “The objection is sustained,” snapped Judge Wolfe. “The prosecution will refrain from leveling any charges based solely on what the attorney for the prosecution thinks. Sheriff, loose that man and seat the three defendants at the defense table. Bailiff, prepare to read the charges against these men.” Chandler began to read.

  “Clay Allison is charged with being drunk and disorderly. He accused Mr. Tolliver of cheating at cards; when asked to leave, he refused, starting a fight. The other two defendants have refused even to reveal their names. They joined in the brawl, going to Mr. Allison’s aid, and have been charged, on John Doe warrants, with disturbing the peace.”

  “You’ve heard the charges,” said Judge Wolfe. “How do you plead?”

  “Guilty to bein’ drunk,” said Allison, “but not guilty to disorderly. Since when is it disorderly to call a cheat a cheat?”

  “He was cheated,” bawled Monte. “I saw it happen!”

  “Silence!” shouted Judge Wolfe. “You’re out of order. Another such outburst and I’ll declare you in contempt. Your fine will be increased accordingly.”

  McCaleb would have swapped his horse and saddle for a chance to tell Monte Nance they were within $160 of being broke and in no position to pay exorbitant fines resulting from his temper. Judge Wolfe spoke to Monte and Goose.

  “You’ve heard the charges; how do you plead?”

  “Not guilty,” snapped Monte. “Either of us.”

  “Let the Indian speak—or make some sign—for himself.”

  “He can’t talk so’s you can understand him,” said Monte. “He wasn’t doin’ anything except watchin’ the game, like I was. All he done was help me. I’ll plead guilty if you’ll let him go.”

  “The prosecution won’t accept that, Your Honor,” said Sutherland. “We are going to insist that the Indian be punished to the limit of the law. I am prepared to put a dozen witnesses on the stand who can and will testify to the guilt of these three. We are not prepared to bargain; we’ll accept nothing less than a guilty plea.”

  “Counsel for the defense has heard what counsel for the prosecution has proposed,” said Judge Wolfe. “Unless defense has witnesses or wishes to rebut, I have no choice but to render a guilty verdict and impose sentence.”

  They had played out the string. Will got to his feet.

  “Judge, we don’t have any witnesses. We have legitimate business here and planned to leave today. In return for some reasonable fine, we’ll go along with the prosecution’s demand for a guilty plea.”

  Sutherland got to his feet. He had the flush of victory in his sallow cheeks, and the enthusiasm, McCaleb thought, of a stalking mountain lion about to pounce on three helpless and unwary calves. He cleared his throat.

  “This is the third time Mr. Allison has visited our town. It is also the third time he’s gotten drunk, gambled away his money, and then accused someone of cheating him. I will agree to defense’s proposal on just two conditions. The first, that his fine be set high enough to discourage his coming here in the future, and the second, that he leave town immediately with his, ah…friends.”

  “We’ll accept that,” said Will.

  “Very well,” said Judge Wolfe. “Mr. Allison, I have heard something of your penchant for hoorawing towns. While I doubt we can stop you, we can make it almighty expensive. The court fines you seventy-five dollars.”

  The palms of McCaleb’s hands were sweating. They had to take Allison with them to satisfy the court, but suppose similar fines were levied on Monte and Goose? They couldn’t pay!

  “…John Does, the court fines you each twenty-five dollars.”

  McCaleb laid out $125 and they left the courtroom in silence. Allison walked ahead of them, passing Condor and Sutherland. Condor was chuckling at something Sutherland had said, but his laughter died when he saw Goose. The Indian looked at the saloon owner and spoke just three words in Spanish:

  “Busardo bastardo. Matar.”

  Somberly, silently, they made their way to the livery, and when the hostler brought out their horses, McCaleb paid the bill from their dwindling funds. Clay Allison stood there futilely searching his pockets while the liveryman waited impatiently. Even the dried blood and mass of bruises on Allison’s face didn’t hide the big man’s flush of embarrassment. Without a word, McCaleb handed the hostler the money and he passed the reins of the big black horse to Allison. He waited until the man returned to the livery office, then turned to McCaleb.

  “That was white of you.”

  “Why not?” said McCaleb. “We’ve already got seventy-five dollars tied up in you. Anything else you need before we leave town?”

  The big man flinched under the cruel words, and McCaleb felt a stab of remorse. Painfully, Allison grinned.

  “I reckon I deserved that. The only thing worse’n knowin’ you’re a damn fool is havin’ everybody else know it too. I’m lucky you didn’t gut-shoot me.”

  “It crossed my mind,” said McCaleb, “but it would have pleasured that bunch of thieving coyotes too much.”

  “They cheated him,” said Monte Nance, unrepentart, “and after they beat us, they robbed us. Someday I’m comin’ back here and drilling Condor right through the gizzard.”

  “Kid,” said Allison, “when you brace Condor, you’d better have some good men to side you. He’s got money and he owns half this town. He’ll take some killing.”

  “His day will come,” said McCaleb, “but this isn’t it. Mount up; let’s shake the dust of this town.”

  McCaleb needed time to think, to plan. Nothing had ever rankled him as much as the theft of their gold, and he had more in mind than the simple retribution that Clay Allison and Monte Nance yearned for. He aimed to reclaim that gold, with interest, before they departed New Mexico. Loping his horse alongside Allison’s, he spoke.

  “Do you know the way to Fort Union?”

  “Yeah. Twelve miles or so. I got a horse ranch in southern Colorado, and the officers at Union like my horses. They think more highly of me than them pilgrims in Santa Fe. There’s a doctor on post; Doc Griffith. He’ll patch us up. Feel like I got some busted ribs.”

  “We have a thousand head of Texas beeves,” said McCaleb. “We’re asking eight cents a pound on the hoof. I’d aimed to just hold them where they are, south of Sumner, and drive them to Colorado in the spring. But now I wouldn’t mind selling this herd and returning to Texas in the spring for a larger one. What are our chances at Fort Union?”

  “Good, if you’ll split it up into monthly deliveries. Feller named Belton has the beef contract. I know him. He won’t cheat you, long as you run a close tally and keep an eye on him.”

  Will and Brazos had jogged their mounts close enough to hear this conversation. They had known Benton McCaleb long enough to have some idea as to what he planned to do. He would fill in the details when he was ready.

  They found Fort Union as hospitable as Clay Allison had promised. They also had Doc Griffith examine Monte and Goose. The two cuts on the Apache’s head required stitches, and he accepted the doctor’s ministrations without complaint. Despite appearances, Monte’s injuries weren’t serious, and he seemed more brash than ever. McCaleb wondered if the kid had learned anything from the experience.

  They had to wait until the following morning to meet with Hodge Belton. The man was in his fifties, graying, and gone to fat. He dressed well—like a banker�
�but he had a good-natured affability that belied his appearance. He showed up driving a fancy buckboard, behind a pair of matched grays. He listened carefully to McCaleb. With a little gold pen knife, he nipped the end off a cigar. He chewed the end of the cigar until he had positioned it to his satisfaction and lighted it. Then he spoke around it.

  “Bring me two hundred head before the tenth of each month, and I’ll write you a check. That satisfactory?”

  “Not entirely,” said McCaleb. “We prefer gold.”

  “So do I. So do scoundrels and outlaws. You can easily ride from here to Santa Fe in less than an hour. My check will be drawn on the bank there. I can arrange for them to honor it in gold.”

  McCaleb put aside the little nagging doubt that often plagued him when something wasn’t just right. He looked to Will, to Brazos, to Rebecca, to Monte. Even to Goose. They would go with his decision. He turned to the buyer.

  “You have a deal. Starting November tenth and ending March tenth. The last drive to run maybe fifteen head higher; remnant of the herd.”

  While they prepared to ride south, Clay Allison was saddling up to ride to his ranch near Las Animas. He had recovered rapidly, and although swathed in bandages to protect some broken ribs, he seemed hardly the worse for his recent ordeal. He wore a black suit, flowing black string tie, and white ruffled shirt. Bloody and bruised as his face had been, he had taken the time to shave. He spoke first to McCaleb.

  “Pardner, I drink too much, gamble too much, raise hell too much, but Clay Allison never forgets a kindness. You ever need help—gun help—send for me; I’ll side you till Hell freezes, and we’ll skate on the ice.”

  He held out his big hand and McCaleb took it. Allison dug into his pocket, came out with a handful of double eagles and passed four of them to McCaleb.

  “That squares us. They still owed me for that last bunch of horses. I never take all my money to Santa Fe. Reckon I needn’t explain why.”

  “I reckon not,” said McCaleb.