The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I want to go with you.”

  “No,” he said. “This is a one-man job. It’ll be dangerous enough when I dispose of these snipers. At least wait until I do that.”

  Without another word he eased himself out the window, slid down the length of the knotted sheets and dropped the last few feet to the ground at the west side of the saloon. He ran to the corner of the building facing the street. Suddenly there was a burst of gunfire from the saloon. From the rooftop of a vacant false-fronted building across the street came the return fire. The street seemed deserted. The only light was from the open door and the front windows of Condor’s saloon. He waited for the next volley from the saloon. When it came, with the answering fire, he sprinted across the street. He found a window in the rear of the old building from which the shutters had either rotted or been torn away. There was a crude ladder to the roof, some of the rungs missing. He tested each of them before trusting them to his weight. He came off the old ladder on his knees and there was an audible crunch as something broke under his weight. The rifleman fired first, the slug grazing McCaleb’s neck above his shirt collar. McCaleb fired once. He retrieved the rifle and stood looking down at the dead man. He spoke quietly, in disgust.

  “You should have stuck to slick-dealing, Tolliver.”

  From the rooftop McCaleb could see the hotel. Next to it was another saloon, and directly across the street from that was the Five Aces. There was lamplight streaming from open doors of both saloons and from the hotel doors and windows. Goose stood in the street—in the shadows—in front of the Five Aces. Across the street, on the boardwalk in front of the other saloon, stood a big gunman, his hands on his hips. One of the Hogues! McCaleb jacked a shell into the chamber of Tolliver’s Spencer and leaned over the false front facing the street. If one of the Hogues was facing Goose, the other would be staked out somewhere to the rear, preparing to back-shoot the Indian if possible. That would put the other Hogue on McCaleb’s side of the street, out of his reach!

  McCaleb could only watch it happen, preparing to defend the Indian as best he could. He kept his eyes on the gunman. It was Goose’s play, and it began when Hogue went for his Colt. He was fast. Almighty fast! But not fast enough. Goose fired first and Hogue’s half-drawn Colt blasted a slug into the boardwalk. On the heels of that came another shot. McCaleb’s eyes went to Goose in time to see the Indian driven to his knees. But he didn’t stop there. He twisted to his right and from flat on his back in the dusty street fired once. McCaleb fired three quick blasts from Tolliver’s Spencer to get attention and then shouted a warning into the night.

  “You men from Condor’s place, it’s finished. Tolliver’s dead; so are the Hogues. We’re going after Condor. Stay out of our way!”

  By the time McCaleb reached the street, the rest of his outfit was on the boardwalk waiting for him. Will Elliot limped, the leg of his Levi’s slit to the knee, a bandage knotted about his right calf.

  “Where’s Allison?” McCaleb asked.

  “He went out to side Goose,” said Brazos, “but not soon enough.”

  “Goose took both of them,” said McCaleb, “but the second one wounded him from behind. Let’s go!”

  There was the sound of boots on the boardwalk, coming toward them, and Salty, ex-cowboy turned cook, limped out of the darkness.

  “Condor…” he panted. “Condor’s upstairs in th’ hotel, locked in his room. Sutton, th’ gambler he run off, is up there lookin’ fer him. With a shotgun!”

  They reached Allison and Goose, finding the left shoulder of the Indian’s buckskin shirt bloody.

  “He’ll live to draw another four-of-a-kind,” said Allison.

  By the time they got to the hotel, a crowd had gathered. Some of them, now unarmed, were gamblers from Condor’s place. Judge Wolfe came out of the hotel.

  “Stay out of the hotel,” he warned. “Sutton’s gone crazy and he’s armed.”

  “If he’s after Condor,” said McCaleb, “he’s got cause.”

  “Nevertheless,” sighed the judge, “he must be stopped. It’s ironic that the man representing the law has made a mockery of it, but at least this one time Sheriff Parker’s going to earn his pay.”

  Parker arrived, taking the stairs slowly, his Colt in his hand. Judge Wolfe returned to the lobby. McCaleb and his outfit followed, along with Allison and most of the other curious. Suddenly there was the resonant bellow of a shotgun and the splintering of wood.

  “No!” screeched Condor, in mortal terror. “No! Please, no…”

  A second blast from the shotgun ended his pleading. Parker had paused at the head of the stairs. He fired once, twice. A third time the shotgun roared, and as though by an unseen hand, Parker was lifted off the landing and flung halfway down the stairs. Before anyone could speak, Sutton, hard-hit, lurched to the head of the stairs. He tried to speak but couldn’t. The shotgun clattered to the floor and the gambler fell face down. Slowly, McCaleb, Allison, and Judge Wolfe climbed the stairs. They had no trouble finding Condor’s room. The door had been blown off the hinges. The second blast from the shotgun had caught the saloon owner in the chest and flung him against the wall.

  “My God,” breathed Judge Wolfe. “My God!”

  McCaleb found their gold in a canvas bag in a closet. They followed Judge Wolfe to the stairs, where he paused long enough to rip the badge from the dead sheriff’s shirt. Reaching the lobby, Judge Wolfe spoke.

  “Condor’s finished. Those of you who worked for him, it’s time to move on.” He then turned to McCaleb.

  “At the risk of seeming inhospitable, I’m asking you folks to ride out. Immediately.”

  Salty was waiting outside the hotel. McCaleb shook the old cook’s hand.

  “Hasta luego, cowboy; you’re a man to ride the river with.”

  “Tarnation,” said Will as they mounted. “At least the judge could have given us time to see a doc and get ourselves patched up.”

  “Better doc at Fort Union,” said Allison.

  CHAPTER 20

  They remained at Fort Union just long enough for the post physician to see to the wounds of Will, Brazos, and Goose. There was a peculiar wistfulness in Rebecca’s eyes when they parted with Clay Allison. He shook hands with everybody except Rebecca. When she threw her arms around him, Allison actually blushed.

  “Why don’t you throw in with us,” invited McCaleb, “and ride to Texas for another herd? We’ll be returning to southern Colorado in the fall.”

  “They’d hang me in Texas on general principles,” said Allison.

  He rode away on his big black, resplendent in his solid black suit, ruffled white shirt, and flowing black tie. Before he rode out of sight, he turned and waved his big gray Stetson.

  “There goes a man,” said Brazos. “A bueno hombre with the bark on.”

  “He’s considerably more than just another gun-thrower,” said Will. “I doubt he’ll cash in during some saloon shootout.”

  McCaleb said nothing. From the look in Rebecca’s eyes, he counted himself lucky that Clay Allison had returned to Colorado. They rode south for what might be the last time, their saddlebags heavy with gold.

  March 9,1867, they reached their old camp south of Fort Sumner, finding that Goodnight and Loving had departed for Fort Belknap. Goodnight had taken their horse remuda and extra mules.

  “With them taking the chuck wagon and extra stock,” said Will, “we’ll catch them before they reach the Llano.”

  On March 12 they caught up with Goodnight and Loving at Horsehead Crossing. While Goodnight seemed happy to see them, Loving showed little interest. On April 1 they reached Elm Creek range, south of Fort Belknap. There they split up. Goodnight moved fifteen miles south to set up his camp. Loving returned to Palo Pinto County. McCaleb took his outfit forty miles east, toward the headwaters of the Trinity. The three outfits were to meet at the Elm Creek tributary of the Clear Fork of the Brazos in two months: June 1, 1867.

  “This time,” said McCaleb, “we’ll shoot for two tho
usand head. Since we plan to drive all the way to Colorado, let’s make it something to remember.”

  “Last time,” said Rebecca dryly, “you said we only had enough riders to handle a thousand head.”

  “This time,” said McCaleb just as dryly, “our riders are experienced and we know the trail; at least as far as Fort Sumner. Most trail bosses allow one rider for every four hundred cows.”

  “Let’s buy two thousand and five, then,” said Will. “With two thousand even, each of us will be responsible for three hundred thirty-three and one-sixth cows. It’s hell trackin’ one sixth of a cow after a stampede.”

  “We’re not having any stampedes on this next drive,” said Rebecca. “I have been involved in enough stampedes to last me a lifetime. Like McCaleb said, we’re experienced riders.”

  They found more and more Texas cattlemen planning their own drives, but for those who could pay, big steers were still available at seven dollars a head. They bought and branded two 2015 steers, and by mid-May were camped on the Brazos, twenty-five miles south of old Fort Belknap.

  “I hate to leave Charlie,” said Will, “but I’ll purely be glad when we get to Fort Sumner and leave Mr. Loving behind. This same time last year we was sittin’ on our hunkers, waitin’ on him.”

  “We’re waitin’ for Goodnight too,” said McCaleb. “I’m hoping he’ll get here ahead of Loving or that Loving will arrive ahead of him. Some of us need to ride to Weatherford for more supplies, and I don’t dare leave the herd short-handed. When one or the other of them show up, there’ll be enough riders to discourage any Comanche mischief.”

  As McCaleb had expected, Goodnight arrived early; a week ahead of their planned departure. He would drive the chuck wagon to Weatherford for his own supplies, and a pair of McCaleb’s riders could accompany him. He brought with him twenty-five hundred head of trail-branded steers.

  McCaleb sent Will and Brazos to the trading post with Goodnight and the trip was uneventful. Oliver Loving rode into camp on May 31, trailing a herd of twenty-five hundred. Combining the three outfits, they had twenty-six riders and 7025 steers. Charlie Wilson eyed the sea of bawling, milling cattle skeptically.

  “Mix this many critters together an’ toss in a few stampedes, and we’ll be till Christmas roundin’ ’em up.”

  They moved out on June 1, 1867, on schedule. Two days west of Elm Creek range, Indians attacked during the night, stampeding most of the herd. With recent rain, tracks were plentiful. McCaleb’s outfit joined Goodnight’s at dawn, ready to ride. Goodnight had some instructions for Oliver Loving.

  “Mr. Loving, these Comanches are likely headed for the chaparral along the Clear Fork bottom. I won’t be surprised if they hit us again tonight. Drive the rest of the herd into the valley west of here. At least there’s some hope of defense.”

  They avoided a confrontation with the Comanches, seeking only to recover their cattle. They spent the day chasing the animals out of the brush, and darkness overtook them.

  “We’ll have to take a loss on the rest,” said Goodnight, “or spend more time beatin’ the brush.”

  “Let’s beat the brush some more, then,” said McCaleb. “We can’t afford a loss like this, two days on the trail.”

  It was dark when they reined up on the hill above the valley where Loving had bedded down the rest of the herd. They stared, incredulous, and Goodnight swore. Near the end of the valley, Oliver Loving’s campfire blazed brightly, snapping sparks into the starlit sky. Impulsive and quick to anger, Charlie Wilson nudged his mount alongside Goodnight’s. Bitterly, he said what the rest of them were thinking.

  “If there’s a Comanche within fifty mile that didn’t know we was here, he does now. How’n hell has that pilgrim rode so many trails an’ managed to keep his hair?”

  “Mr. Loving is a religious man,” said Goodnight. “He knows no fear.”

  “He will when the Comanches get done with him,” said Brazos. “If he’s got no worry for his own hide, he could show some for ours.”

  Goodnight kicked his big black into a lope, leaving them to move the recovered cattle into the valley with the rest of the herd. They had no idea what Goodnight might have said to Loving, but within minutes the fire was out.

  Shortly before dawn, despite their precautions, the Comanche struck again. Their only warning was a frightened nicker from the horse remuda.

  “Roll out,” shouted McCaleb. “They’re after the horses!”

  There was a mix of arrows and gunfire from the attackers, and while the outfits rode frantically to head off the threatened remuda, a second party of Comanches stampeded the newly assembled herd. Nobody had been hit, but they were an impatient and angry lot as they gathered to wait for first light. There were still cattle missing from the stampede the night before. Now the herd was off and running again, taking the horse remuda with it. Will Elliot echoed the sentiments of them all.

  “I just hope Mr. Loving don’t get too impatient with the delay.”

  Mr. Loving didn’t. Nor did he ever build another fire after dark. After two days of hard riding, they were still missing two hundred head and five horses. In the afternoon of the second wasted day, McCaleb sent Goose to scout the Clear Fork bottom. The Apache’s report was not good.

  “Mucho Comanch’,” said Goose, shaking his head. “Malo medicina.”

  The risk was too great. With all his hatred for the Comanches, Goose was no fool. Neither was Charles Goodnight.

  “Goose is right,” said Goodnight. “Too many Comanches is always bad medicine. Our scalps are worth two hundred steers and five horses. We’ll graze ’em till dark and then move out.”

  During the night a storm struck and the already skittish herd stampeded again. Nobody slept. Night after night the herd ran, the worst stampede of all taking place after they’d passed through Buffalo Gap. In predawn darkness the herd overran the camp. Only by flapping the blankets under which they’d been sleeping just seconds before were the riders able to turn the herd and avoid being trampled.

  “Damn it,” growled Bill Wilson, “I never seen such a spooky herd. We’ve spent ever’ blasted day huntin’ the critters that’s run off durin’ the night. Much more of this, an’ I’ll find me a little town somewhere and start me a saloon.”

  “Starting today,” said Goodnight, “we’ll drive them at least twenty miles a day. Normally I wouldn’t; thins ’em down. But not as much as a stampede. From here on when we bed ’em down, they’ll be too tired to run.”

  “We must make better time,” said Oliver Loving irritably. “I intend to be in Santa Fe on August first for the letting of those beef contracts.”

  “You may be there on August first,” said McCaleb, “but this herd won’t be at Fort Sumner. This is a spooked bunch, and we’ll spend more time rounding them up than driving them.”

  It wasn’t what Loving wanted to hear, but the prediction proved very, very accurate. Despite the long days and exhausting drives, the herd continued to stampede night after night. They didn’t reach Horsehead Crossing until mid-July. No sooner had they crossed the Pecos than a storm again sent the herd on the run. At dawn Goodnight took Bill and Charlie Wilson, Red Alford, and Wes Sheek in pursuit of the missing cattle. Twenty-five miles later they found their cattle in the possession of a band of Comanches. A large band. They barely escaped with their lives, losing the redskins in the high, thick mesquite.

  When they left Horsehead Crossing, their unbelievable run of bad luck changed. Whatever demons had possessed the herd seemed to have quietly departed. But for Oliver Loving, time had run out.

  “I’m riding on to Santa Fe,” said Loving. “I intend to reach Fort Union in time for the letting of those beef contracts.”

  “No beef contract’s worth the risk of being murdered by the Comanches,” said Goodnight. “I say don’t chance it.”

  “I am going,” said Loving. “If God intends for me to die at the hands of Indians, then I will. Otherwise, I won’t. I have faith.”

  “In Indian
country,” said McCaleb, “you also need common sense.”

  “You’re entitled to your beliefs and I to mine,” said Loving. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions, so I am not asking permission. I am simply informing the rest of you as to my intentions.”

  “If you insist,” said Goodnight, “let me offer some suggestions. I’ll send Bill Wilson with you. Don’t, under any circumstances, travel in the daytime. Travel only at night, and when you hide out during the day, do so with an eye for defense.”

  “Very well,” said Loving.

  McCaleb had the feeling that Loving would soon forget Goodnight’s words of caution. Nor did he have that much confidence in One-Armed Bill Wilson. While Wilson wasn’t likely influenced by Loving’s religion and consummate faith, he was brash and reckless in his own right. They rode out at dawn, the start of the last week in July.

  “Mr. Loving purely hates riding at night,” said Goodnight.

  “He’ll hate bein’ scalped by the Comanches a hell of a lot worse,” said Charlie Wilson. “I just hope Bill’s got sense enough to hold him to your advice.”

  But Loving detested riding at night, and when he chose to abandon it, he got no argument from Bill Wilson. Just north of Pope’s Crossing, in the afternoon of their first day of daylight travel, they were sighted by a large band of Comanches. Desperately they rode for the Pecos, taking refuge on a sandbar among weeds and scrub oak.

  Just below the Texas-New Mexico line, Goodnight halted the herd for a two-day rest. There was plenty of water, good graze, and everybody needed a chance to wash clothes and blankets.

  “I suppose there’s no hurry now,” said Goodnight, “with Mr. Loving on his way to Fort Union.”

  Oliver Loving lay in the cool darkness, weak from loss of blood and feverish from his wounds. Shortly after being trapped by the Comanches in a sandy bend of the Pecos, Loving had been shot in the wrist and in the side.