The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “We’re aimin’ to drive the herd to Denver in the spring,” said McCaleb. “That might be a good time for you to take a look at them and make us your best offer.”

  “I am an impulsive man, Mr. McCaleb. I don’t believe in putting things off. After Christmas, perhaps I shall visit your camp in the valley of the Arkansas. I have heard much of your friend Charles Goodnight and I would welcome the chance to meet him. For the time being, you are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of my ranch. I have more than enough room for you to stay the night. The Indian is welcome as well.”

  “The Indian,” said Brazos, speaking for the first time, “is just a mite particular about the company he keeps.”

  Brazos’s voice fairly dripped sarcasm, but it was a point well-taken, and McCaleb said nothing. It was a deliberate insult to Wickliffe, and Rebecca’s eyes were ablaze with anger. Wickliffe said nothing, enjoying the girl’s reaction.

  Jonathan Wickliffe was an enigma. McCaleb sensed the man wore two faces and that somewhere beyond this pleasant exterior there lurked a devious, cruel counterpart. McCaleb had no desire to stay the night, but no logical reason not to. It seemed Wickliffe had unlimited help; all Indian, all Ute. The man was resourceful as well as diplomatic. He sent an Indian hostler to stall, rub down and feed their animals. The Ute, apparently upon instructions from Wickliffe, established communication with Goose and lured him into the house. But it was a limited compromise. Goose refused to enter the huge dining room with its chandelier of half a dozen shaded brass lamps, a polished oak dining table that would have seated twenty, real cloth napkins, and genuine silver. The Ute woman who brought the food to the dining room served Goose his supper in the kitchen. McCaleb never learned where the Apache spent the night.

  Wickliffe did most of the talking, pausing occasionally to partake of some food or to sip his coffee. His conversation consisted almost entirely of inconsequential things of no possible interest to any of them except possibly Rebecca. To McCaleb’s disgust, she hung onto every word.

  “You gentlemen must excuse me,” said Wickliffe, smiling. “It is seldom I have so charming a guest; I have been neglecting the rest of you. Please, you must have questions or comments.”

  “I have,” said Will, looking him square in the eye. “Is it just our Indian your segundo hates, or is it all Indians? You don’t strike me as a man to take chances.”

  Rebecca glared at Will and he ignored her. Wickliffe was silent for a moment and then he laughed.

  “You are a perceptive man, Mr. Elliot, and very blunt. I presume your question is prompted by my employing Ute help. I have found them faithful and dependable. In all honesty, I’d have to say that Dobie Hobbs has nothing against your Indian rider. I suspect he’s taken a dislike to some or all of you and his remark was intended to antagonize you.”

  “We don’t take well to bein’ antagonized,” said McCaleb, “when we’re here to talk business. You used considerably better judgment in choosing your house help than you did when you hired your segundo.”

  Wickliffe’s cordiality vanished and his eyes frosted. When he spoke, his voice was flat, cold.

  “I do not employ Dobie Hobbs for his charm or his tactfulness, McCaleb. Were he weighed in the balance, I am sure he would be found wanting on both counts. There have been some indiscretions on his part, but he serves me well. I find the frontier exciting, but barbaric and uncivilized. So I use Dobie as a buffer. He has none of my reservations against sinking into the mire and violence of this land. Now I have bared as much of my soul as I intend to. Come. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  Having beheld the opulence of the living and dining rooms, McCaleb found the bedrooms unsurprising. He pulled off his boots and stretched out fully clothed. He blew out the lamp and lay in darkness. Rebecca’s room was next to his and he didn’t have long to wait. He heard the door close softly. He rolled to the edge of the bed, got to his feet and crept to the door. He listened, and hearing nothing, eased the door open. The house, but for the flickering firelight in the living room, was dark. He closed the door quietly and set off down the long hall toward the enormous living room. It occupied one shoulder of a T, the dining room and kitchen the other. He reached the end of the hall and found the living room in shadows. The fire had burned low; the long sofa had its back to him and he could see nothing. But he could hear. There was the pleasant drone of Wickliffe’s voice, but he couldn’t understand the words. Then Rebecca laughed. It was a mischievous giggle. Pursuing his advantage, Wickliffe continued, and the girl laughed again. McCaleb fisted his hands so hard the nails dug into his palms. His head pounded, bile rose in his throat, and he longed to beat Jonathan Wickliffe within an inch of his life. Common sense came to his rescue. Rebecca Nance was a grown woman. Trembling, he forced himself to swallow his anger and quietly made his way back to his darkened room. He didn’t sleep until he heard Rebecca’s door open and close.

  McCaleb was up before daylight and found the house ablaze with light. The dining table was being set for breakfast. He didn’t like the excitement in Rebecca’s eyes, and he liked what she had to say even less.

  “Jon’s going to Denver with us. He’s asked me to ride in his buckboard.”

  “You have a horse to ride and a mule to lead,” said McCaleb.

  “Dobie Hobbs is going with us,” said Wickliffe with a self-satisfied smile. “He can lead both animals.”

  Breakfast was a silent meal. Once McCaleb caught Monte’s eye and the kid tried to grin, but it didn’t come off. That old premonition that warned McCaleb of impending disaster began to stir.

  CHAPTER 21

  They departed Wickliffe’s ranch before daylight, and it was after dark before they saw the lights of Denver. They had paused only to rest and water the horses. It was hard on horse and rider, a far lengthier journey than should have been attempted in a day, but they pushed on. McCaleb was anxious for the ordeal to end. Wickliffe’s buckboard often fell behind, but Dobie Hobbs—leading Rebecca’s horse and one of the mules—kept pace with it. Once the lights of town were in view, McCaleb reined up, waiting for Wickliffe’s buckboard to catch up. But Wickliffe sensed what was coming and spoke first.

  “The Tremont House is Denver’s finest hotel. The ranch has reservations there and I have offered Rebecca the use of one of the rooms. There is an adequate hostelry—the Vasquez House—at Eleventh and Ferry.”

  With that, he flicked the reins, urging the horses into a trot. There was little McCaleb and the others could do except follow. They came first to the Tremont House, at Sixteenth and Wazee streets. It was elegant, probably the most expensive hotel in town, but McCaleb resented Wickliffe’s implication it was more than they could afford. To the rear, across an alley, the hotel had its own livery, and they rode in behind Wickliffe’s buckboard. He handed his reins to a stableman, swung off the seat, and helped Rebecca down. The girl seemed self-conscious, averting her eyes as they rode past. Goose, having accepted the hotel in Santa Fe, didn’t balk at this one. By the time they reached the desk, Wickliffe and Rebecca had already started down the hall. The clerk, well-dressed in suit and tie, studied them. He fixed his gaze on Goose, and the Indian stared back, unblinking.

  “Three rooms for the night,” said McCaleb.

  “Thirty dollars,” said the man, still glaring at Goose.

  Seldom was payment demanded in advance unless one’s ability to pay was questionable. McCaleb ignored the insult and produced the outrageous sum of money.

  “Third floor,” said the clerk, dropping three keys on the counter.

  “You put that dude in the Yankee suit on the first floor,” growled Monte. “Ain’t we as good as he is?”

  “Mr. Wickliffe has standing reservations.” The man sniffed. “I can guarantee you the first floor only if you make similar arrangements with the hotel. Otherwise, you take what’s available.”

  McCaleb took a room for himself, assigned the second to Monte and Goose, and the third to Will and Brazos. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast and
the hotel dining room was closed. Two blocks down the street they found a café.

  “Thank God,” sighed Brazos. “I’m near dead; nothin’ short of steak, onions, fried potatoes, pie, and coffee will save me.”

  While McCaleb’s belly was lank, his mind wasn’t on food. He wanted only to have this day—and this night—done with. He longed to make their purchases, to extricate Rebecca from Wickliffe’s grasp, and to return to the solitude of Apishapa Canyon. They found a confectioner’s shop that sold ice cream. Brazos, Will, and Monte insisted that Goose have some. Despite his anxiety, McCaleb chuckled at the Indian’s first experience with the frozen treat. When they returned to the hotel, McCaleb stopped at the front desk.

  “I need the room number of the lady who arrived with Jonathan Wickliffe.”

  The clerk lifted his eyebrows as though this were the most outrageous request he’d ever heard in his life. Finally, with all the indignation he could muster, he spoke.

  “Sorry. I am not permitted to divulge that information.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to break any rules,” said McCaleb. “She’s on this floor somewhere; I’ll just knock on doors until I get to hers.”

  “I can’t permit that,” said the man stiffly. “If you disturb our other guests, I shall be forced to call the sheriff.”

  “Friend,” said McCaleb coldly, “maybe there’s something you can do. I have business with Wickliffe; which room is he in?”

  “Eleven. Now if there’s trouble—”

  “There won’t be,” said McCaleb. “At least not in here.”

  McCaleb turned to the rest of his outfit.

  “Best get what sleep you can; we’ll be leaving early. I need to find Rebecca and tell her.”

  “I need to talk to you, McCaleb,” said Monte, “after you talk to her.”

  McCaleb rapped on the door. Wickliffe took his time answering it. McCaleb was blunt and to the point.

  “Which is Rebecca’s room? I need to talk to her.”

  “Let it wait until morning; it’s late and I’m sure she’s exhausted.”

  “No,” said McCaleb. “Tonight.”

  That was as far as he got. McCaleb saw the desk clerk coming swiftly down the hall. Suddenly the door of the room next to Wickliffe’s opened and Rebecca emerged.

  “Please, McCaleb,” she begged, “don’t start any trouble.”

  “I have no intention of starting trouble,” said McCaleb. “We’re leaving early in the morning; if you’re riding with us, be ready.”

  “I’ll be ready. Jon wants—”

  “I don’t give a damn what Jon wants,” gritted McCaleb. “We leave tomorrow. Be ready.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall past the angry desk clerk. He mounted the stairs and went to the room shared by Monte and Goose. He knocked once, turned the knob and entered. Monte was stretched out on the bed, minus only his boots and hat. Goose lay on the floor by the open window, without even a blanket or pillow.

  “She’ll be ready to pull out in the morning,” said McCaleb.

  “That’s not all that’s botherin’ me,” said Monte. “This bastard’s slick as calf slobber, McCaleb.”

  “Except for gettin’ her out of town, out of this lobo’s clutches,” said McCaleb, “what can we do?”

  “Tell the skunk we ain’t interested in sellin’ him the herd,” said Monte. “Then he won’t have any cause to come ridin’ into camp after Christmas, like he’s promised to do.”

  “Kid, I wish it was easy as that. I made the mistake of telling him Goodnight’s started a ranch there. That gives him all the excuse he needs to ride down and get acquainted with Charlie.”

  “When we get back, let’s round up the herd and head ’em out.”

  “Head ’em where? Back to Texas? There’s no place to go except north or west, and there’s been no real snow yet. First norther that blows in, you’d be in snow over your head, with you sittin’ your saddle. It’ll be the end of March before we can go without fear of bein’ trapped in a blizzard.”

  “Then what are you going to do…when he shows up?”

  “I don’t know,” said McCaleb. “It depends on Rebecca.”

  They were up by daylight. Rebecca was waiting in the lobby, seated in a red plush chair near the door. There was no sign of Wickliffe. Without a word, she followed them to the hotel livery. Wickliffe’s buckboard team was being led out. Dobie Hobbs stood beside his saddled horse, a half smile on his cruel lips. He tossed his cigarette butt at McCaleb’s feet. McCaleb stopped, meeting Hobbs’s gaze with one just as cold.

  “I ain’t forgot, bucko. Nobody pushes Dobie Hobbs around. Nobody!”

  “Then I won’t turn my back,” said McCaleb, “until you ride on.”

  Hobbs said no more. Wickliffe crossed the alley and, without so much as a glance at any of them, climbed to the seat of his buckboard. Only then did he speak, and then only to Rebecca.

  “I’ll see you after Christmas, Rebecca.”

  He clucked to the horses, sending them cantering down the alley toward the street. Without a backward glance, Dobie Hobbs kicked his mount into a lope and followed.

  Once their horses were saddled, they rode out, the pack mules trailing on lead ropes. They reined up at the café where they had eaten the night before. It was as though a pall had fallen over them. Not until they left the café was there a light moment when Rebecca smiled. Goose positioned himself before the confectioner’s shop, refusing to leave until he’d had more ice cream. From there they went to Denver Mercantile, the largest general store in town. The pack mules loaded, they headed south, pausing only to rest and water the mules and horses. They rode until well after dark, and immediately after supper rolled into their blankets.

  They moved out at dawn. The pack mules slowed them down. They were still a day’s ride from Apishapa Canyon when the weather began to change. The Rockies disappeared behind a rolling mass of gray clouds. Within an hour the snow was upon them, riding a rising wind out of the northwest, whitening the ground in minutes. Securing their hats with rawhide thongs, they bowed their heads and rode on. Gray-black snow clouds had seemingly dropped to treetop level, and though it wasn’t quite two o’clock, they rode through deepening twilight. McCaleb rode alongside Goose, having to shout to make himself heard above the wind.

  “Abrigo, Goose. Cuerda, mula de carga.”

  Silently, Goose passed him the mule’s lead rope and kicked his horse into a trot. He was soon lost in the swirling snow. Facing impending darkness, at the mercy of a worsening storm, they must immediately seek shelter. Goose well understood the urgency of his task; in unfamiliar country one could ill afford to pass up any sanctuary. He might ride for miles without finding another, until he was trapped in an eerie world of darkness and freezing wind-driven snow.

  Time dragged and still Goose didn’t return. The distance he had to ride, unencumbered with a pack mule, would take them twice as long. Lost in somber thought, McCaleb almost didn’t hear the shot. It told him that Goose had found shelter, but it wasn’t along the southeasterly trail they rode. Then, cutting into the foot of the ridge they’d just descended, McCaleb saw the beginning of a coulee. It ran due south, only a few inches deep at the upper end. Without the warning shot from Goose, they might easily have missed it. It grew wider and deeper as they rode, shutting out the howling wind until the day seemed calm. Brightening the gloom ahead of them was a high-blazing fire. Goose had set fire to a resinous log and was busily adding dry wood from a windfall that had toppled down the slope and into the coulee. Trees on the ridge above them, aided by the ridge itself, had lessened the force of the storm until only a little snow found its way into their shelter. The horses and mules moved closer to the fire, snorting their appreciation. Quickly everyone unsaddled the horses and freed the mules of their burdens.

  “Even if we’re snowed in for a week,” said Will, “we won’t starve.”

  “I reckon not,” said Brazos, “but we’ll be crazy as a bunch of cows
that’s been into loco weed. Apishapa Canyon’s dead enough, but it can’t hold a candle to this.”

  “Won’t bother me and Goose,” said Monte. “I got three decks of cards.”

  McCaleb said nothing. Rebecca hadn’t spoken to him all day and was now breaking out their provisions for supper. He was tempted to help, or at least offer to, but he’d had enough of her sulking. He hoped Wickliffe did show up at Apishapa Canyon; once and for all, this fickle girl could make up her mind. Some things—and Rebecca Nance might be one of them—weren’t worth the price a man had to pay for them.

  Supper finished, Monte inveigled Will and Brazos into a poker game. It wasn’t difficult, there being nothing else to do. Rebecca rolled in her blankets and slept, or pretended to. McCaleb watched the others play poker until he was weary enough to sleep. It was a night fraught with nightmares. Jonathan Wickliffe wore Dobie Hobbs’s buscadera rig. McCaleb drew, painfully slow, and found himself facing the vindictive Wickliffe, who held a flaming Colt in each hand.

  In his horrible dream, gut-shot and dying, McCaleb heard Rebecca laughing…. Sweating, he awoke, finding he’d rolled too close to the fire. The poker game continued unabated.

  Dawn broke gray and dismal, the snow continuing. They had nothing going for them, McCaleb thought gloomily, except an abundance of snow which could be melted for their own use and to water the mules and horses. Before the end of the second day, trying to save his sanity, McCaleb had taken a hand in the poker game.

  “We’re getting out of here tomorrow,” he growled, “unless the snow’s over our heads. This is bad as bein’ in jail.”

  Will chuckled. “No it ain’t. The grub’s better here.”

  “While you got time to think on it,” said Brazos, “Goose wants to know why we didn’t bring a load of ice cream with us. I told him you’d explain.”