The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “The longer that takes,” said McCaleb, “the better our chances. We’re still twenty miles south of the Comanche village, and I want us past that before they attack us. We need the time and the miles to teach this herd some trail manners. Right now, one blanket-waving Comanche could scatter them to Hell and gone.”

  The second day was a little better. Some of the cattle seemed caught up in the spirit of the drive, and it affected the others; even some of the bunch-quitters. But not old brindle. The troublesome longhorn again made a run for it. Rebecca, riding a quick little bay, successfully headed the brute, popping her on the flank with the knotted end of a lariat. McCaleb didn’t seem to notice when the longhorn fled bawling back into the herd. Just before the sun dipped below the western horizon, Goose again led the thirsty herd to the river. Will jogged his black up alongside McCaleb’s steeldust.

  “Yesterday,” said Will, “I reckoned it was just luck, but it ain’t. That red pilgrim’s leadin’ them cows to the river where the bank’s low on our side and high on the other side. They can get to the water easy and drink, but they can’t climb up the far bank and make a run for it. That Apache’s considerably more than just a good scout. He’s a cowboy.”

  “He’s an Apache, a scout, and a cowboy,” said McCaleb, “in that order. Don’t forget those Comanche scalps he wears thonged around his middle.”

  Goose again scouted their back trail, reporting the continuing pursuit of the thirteen Comanches. They rode night herd in pairs, circling the bedded herd in opposite directions, their rifles ready. The night passed without incident.

  “Two days,” said Brazos, “and all they’ve done is follow us at a distance. I’m as nervous as a squirrel in a treeful of bobcats. Why don’t they jump us and get it over with?”

  “The herd’s settling down,” said McCaleb. “We’ll be almighty close to that Comanche village by tonight. Get with Goose; we’ll have to water the herd before we reach it or we’ll have to drive beyond it. I can’t see us driving the herd to the river in plain sight of the Comanche camp.”

  “I have the strange feeling,” said Rebecca, “that they don’t intend for us to drive beyond that village. I believe they’ll come after us tonight.”

  “Tonight,” said McCaleb, “I want Goose to scout that bunch on our back trail and that Comanche village.”

  Tension ran high; the same premonition that stirred Rebecca affected them all. Again they rode night herd in pairs, nobody sleeping, each of them awaiting the Indian’s return. There was no moon, and the stars seemed unusually dim and far away. Soundlessly the Apache returned. McCaleb eased the hammer down on his Colt, returning it to its butt-forward position on his left hip.

  “Comanch’ bastardos!” hissed Goose. “Muchos!”

  His next move was grimly prophetic, something he had never before done. He carried the Spencer rifle and, getting to his feet, looking toward the south, he held the weapon over his head. The words he muttered, not even Brazos understood.

  “Build up the fire enough for us to see,” said McCaleb, “and break out the picks and shovels. I reckon all of you know what a buffalo wallow looks like. We’re going to dig one, or something similar to it. We’ll dig as deep as we can, piling the dirt up around the edge. They’ll expect us to be in the open, unprotected, and while they may hit us from the south, we can’t be sure of that. Rebecca, gather up all our canteens; take Goose with you, go to the river and fill them. We don’t want to be pinned down here without water.”

  The girl gathered up nine canteens. She held one of them up in the firelight, pointing to Goose and then to herself. The Apache understood, scooped up the remaining canteens, and Rebecca followed him into the darkness toward the river. The activity had awakened York Nance. The old man lay with his head on a saddle, unkempt, uncaring.

  They were in a low-lying area which in time of flood might have been underwater. The soil was loose and sandy and they reached a depth of three feet without encountering rock or other obstacles. It was twenty feet across, more square than round, but offered some protection where there had been none. They took their places an hour before dawn.

  “I hope they don’t stampede the herd,” said Rebecca. “All that work for nothing.”

  “If they come from the south,” said Brazos, “we’ll be between them and the herd, so they’ll have to kill us first. If that happens, the herd won’t be important to us.”

  “They don’t care a whoop about the herd,” said McCaleb. “They could have hit us on the open range, when we drove the cattle out to graze. They want our scalps.”

  In the darkest hour, just before dawn, the Comanches struck. The cowboys had no warning except the pounding of unshod hoofs. An arrow whipped into the banked dirt above McCaleb’s head, showering it down on him. To his left Goose fired his Spencer. McCaleb opened up with his Henry, raking the area. Brazos and Will followed his lead. There was the bark of Monte’s Colt and the spiteful pop of Rebecca’s .31-caliber pocket pistol. Amid this volley there was a continuous thunk of arrows and lead plowing into the banked dirt in front of them and into the bank behind them. Somewhere in the darkness a horse screamed. It ended as suddenly as it had begun. There was a silence that seemed all the more intense for the bedlam it replaced. Cautiously McCaleb got to his feet and immediately stumbled over a body. His exploring hand encountered the stubbled face of York Nance.

  “Reload,” said McCaleb. “They may be back. Anybody hit?”

  “Damn close,” said Will. “My left earlobe’s gone forever.”

  “Nance may have caught a bad one,” said McCaleb. “It’ll be light in a few minutes. We’ll stay put until then.”

  First light revealed two dead Indian ponies. The dead and wounded—if any—had been taken away under cover of darkness. York Nance lay on his back. Just above his belt buckle a Comanche arrow was buried two thirds of the way into his massive belly.

  “My God!” said Brazos. “All he had to do was lay low!”

  “He got up to run,” said Monte bitterly.

  Rebecca said nothing. She kept her head down, biting her lip, tears streaking her dusty cheeks. McCaleb took Nance’s limp wrist and found a weak pulse. If he were still alive at sundown, it would be a miracle. Goose looked from the weeping girl to the mortally wounded Nance.

  “Comanch’ bastardos!” he said.

  “We’re moving out in ten minutes,” said McCaleb.

  “We can’t just…leave him,” sobbed Rebecca.

  “You can,” said Nance in a weak, raspy voice, “and you will.”

  Brazos brought a canteen; the old man drank long and noisily. Finally he lifted his slitted, pain-filled eyes until he found McCaleb.

  “Will you…leave me a full canteen…and a…loaded pistol?”

  “A full canteen,” said McCaleb, “and two fully loaded Colts.”

  “Eleven…for the…bastards,” gritted Nance, “and one…for me…”

  “No!” cried Rebecca. “No!”

  “Girl,” begged Nance in desperation, “for once…you listen to…me…. And Monte…where is…?”

  McCaleb virtually dragged the white-faced Monte close enough for the old man to see him.

  “Both of…you,” gasped Nance, “are like your mother…not like…me. She was a…a…lady, too good for the likes of…me. Both of you…go…go and forget you ever knew me. I can buy…you…a little time, slow them down…some. I know I ain’t lived…like a…man…but by God, I…I aim to die…like one. Don’t…don’t deny me…that.”

  Monte helped the weeping girl to her feet and tried to lead her away, but she broke loose and fell on her knees beside the old man. She took one of his hands in hers and kissed his dirty, stubbled cheek.

  “Good-bye, Daddy…good-bye.”

  McCaleb loaded two of the Colts that had belonged to the Baker gang, placing them and a full canteen of water within Nance’s reach. Despite the trouble the old man had caused, there was a lump in McCaleb’s throat. The herd was already moving out; as he turned to
go, Nance spoke.

  “McCaleb…take care of…her.”

  They pushed the herd. After the before-dawn attack, McCaleb expected the Comanches to follow. He listened, expecting to hear the faraway blast of Nance’s Colts, knowing it would mean the Comanches had taken their trail. For Monte and Rebecca Nance there would be a more sinister meaning, with every shot like the ticking of a deadly clock, measuring the final minutes of York Nance’s misspent life….

  Suddenly there were three quick shots. Nance’s Colt! McCaleb reined up, listening. There was the heavy bark of a rifle, followed by two more shots from the Colt. The rifle spoke again, the Colt three times. The others had halted, listening. The Colt blasted once, twice. Two rifles opened up and the Colt answered. Eleven times the Colt had spoken. McCaleb turned his eyes to Rebecca, finding her slumped in the saddle, her face buried in her hands.

  For the twelfth and last time the Colt spoke, and Rebecca Nance’s cry of anguish tore at McCaleb’s heart.

  York Nance had drawn his last busted flush….

  Sundown caught them not quite ten miles north of the Comanche village. McCaleb had Goose lead the herd to the Trinity for water, and afterward they drove the weary brutes a mile west and bedded them down. Every rider was exhausted. McCaleb looked at their grimy faces, knowing their weariness was reflected in his own. Theirs had been a brutal day, pushing the herd since first light. They’d had no sleep the night before, with yet another night of vigilance and uncertainty ahead, unless something was done to improve their lot. McCaleb made a decision and called them together.

  “Brazos, soon as it’s dark enough, put Goose on our back trail. I want to know how many there are and where they are, and we’ll attack them before they come after us. If they want a fight, then by the Almighty, they’ll get one. But it’ll be on our terms, not theirs. Then we’re driving this herd to the Brazos. From there to the high country, it’s the Goodnight Trail!”

  CHAPTER 9

  The westering sun slipped behind a massive cloud bank, painting it bloodred. Swallows dipped out of the graying February sky, riding a west wind that brought a freshening promise of rain. There was a distant grumble of thunder and an almost imperceptible flicker of lightening.

  “We’re in for a bad one,” said McCaleb. “With those thunderheads moving in, the night will be black as the underside of a stove lid. Brazos, get with Goose. When he thinks it’s dark enough, have him scout our back trail. I want to know how many are after us and where they are. Right on the heels of the storm, we’re going to hit that Comanche camp with everything we have. Blue Feather is going to die; that ought to be a big enough dose of bad medicine to rid us of them.”

  “Must we attack them?” cried Rebecca. “There’s so many of them.”

  “It’s our only chance,” said McCaleb. “Not once in the history of the world has any battle been won on the defensive. By the numbers, we’re dead. We’re going to attack, take them by surprise and shoot to kill.”

  “One more good reason,” said Will, “is that we can’t overlook the chance they might use the storm as cover to hit us. The herd will be spooky enough; mix a few Comanche war whoops with all the thunder and lightning and them longhorns won’t stop runnin’ till they hit Galveston Bay.”

  “That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” said McCaleb. “I’m counting on Indian superstition and common sense. We all know of riders who have been killed by lightning, and I’m gambling the Comanches have had some experience with that.”

  “If we all go,” said Rebecca, “that means the herd—”

  “Will be on its own,” said McCaleb, “until we get back. Remember, we have no idea—yet—how many Comanches we’ll be up against. We’ll need every gun and we’ll go in shooting. You’re welcome to stay with the herd, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “McCaleb,” said the girl defiantly, “I can shoot as good as any man here, and come hell or high water, I’m ridin’ with you!”

  The rising wind was whipping the first raindrops into their faces when Goose returned. His report was short and without preface. He held up both hands fisted and opened them palm out, spreading his fingers. He repeated the procedure three more times.

  “My God,” said Brazos, “that’s better’n six to one!”

  “All the more reason to take them by surprise and shoot to kill,” said McCaleb. “We can end it pronto if we can take Blue Feather out of it; the others will run. But that comes later; right now, we have another problem. Let’s get out there and sing to the cows. If they start to run, try to head them, start ’em milling. The one direction we don’t want them running is south. If they’re hell-bent on running, we’ll head them toward the Trinity. For three quarters of a mile, the east bank’s steep enough to stop ’em cold. Now let’s ride!”

  The storm-bred wind slapped rain in their faces with such a force that it stung like sand. They still wore their hats only because they’d been tied in place with piggin string. Thunder became a veritable drumroll of sound, that which was the farthest away seeming but an echo of that nearest at hand. Lightning spider-webbed the rain-swept skies, striking somewhere with such an intensity that the very earth shook beneath their feet. Somewhere in the herd a cow bawled and, like coyotes, others joined in. So continuous had the lightning become, McCaleb saw the first old longhorn get to her feet. He could have sworn it was that old brindle fool that had been a bunch-quitter since their first day on the trail. The charge was set; a single spark and all hell would break loose. And as though on cue, it came. There was an explosion rivaling anything McCaleb had ever heard. His steeldust reared, nickering in fear. On the ridge a hundred yards to the west, a tree burst into flame, an eerie torch in the storm-swept darkness. As though it were the signal they’d been waiting for, the spooked herd was off and running. McCaleb rode hard, preparing to head them if they stampeded south.

  “Hieeeeeyah!” he whooped. “Hieeeeeyah!”

  The lightning still flashed continually and McCaleb saw two riders on the north side of the herd, pounding toward the river. He slowed his mount, knowing the longhorns would begin milling when they hit the Trinity’s steep east bank. Thunder had faded to a distant rumble, and the driving rain had slacked to a drizzle. McCaleb twisted in his saddle and in the next lightning flash found Goose and Rebecca trotting their mounts a few yards behind. He reined up, waiting for them.

  “They’re headed for the river,” said Rebecca. “Now what?”

  “We leave them where they are,” said McCaleb. “There’s enough grass in the river bottom to hold them until we’re ready for them. Just as soon as we can get with Monte, Will, and Brazos, we’re going to hit those Comanches.”

  “Comanch’ bastardos!” said Goose. “Matar!”

  Nobody appeared any the worse for the stampede except Will. His horse had fallen and the animal limped. Will was muddy, bruised, and furious.

  “That old brindle cow,” said Will, “just charged right into us! Soon as I saddle another horse, I’m trackin’ that old hellion and puttin’ a Henry slug right between her beady eyes!”

  “No,” said McCaleb, “just as soon as you saddle another horse, we’re going to end this Comanche threat once and for all. There’s three times as many of them as when they attacked us before; if we don’t take every advantage and hit them first, we’re dead.”

  Goose led out and they followed in single file, McCaleb bringing up the rear. They didn’t ride due south but crossed immediately to the east bank of the Trinity. There was no moon, and although the sky was clearing, the starlight wasn’t sufficient to betray them. McCaleb found the dipper and judged it wasn’t even ten o’clock. He had no doubt the Comanches had waited out the storm, chuckling as their herd stampeded. The Comanches loved to spook a herd, and when the riders and their mounts were dead tired as a result of the stampede, attack. Many a herd had been driven right through a cow camp, forcing the sleeping cowboys to run for their lives. More often than not they found themselves weaponless, afoot and facing—on t
he heels of the stampeding herd—a band of screeching Indians. This, McCaleb believed, would be the best possible time to attack. It would be the very last thing the Comanches would expect as they waited for the riders to exhaust themselves and their mounts pursuing the stampede. When Goose reined up and dismounted, the others followed suit. McCaleb judged they had ridden six or seven miles.

  Leaving the others with the horses, McCaleb followed the Apache along the bank of the Trinity for almost a mile. The rain-freshened night wind still came out of the west, and McCaleb smelled smoke. That meant they were downwind from the Comanche camp. Goose touched his arm and he stopped, waiting. The wind brushed a coal in a dying fire and it glowed red in the darkness, like a malevolent eye. Again the Apache touched his arm and they advanced to the point where they were directly across the river from what remained of the fire. In times past, high water had undercut the Trinity’s west bank, leaving an overhang. On a wide sandbar, the Comanches had taken refuge from the storm, the overhang sheltering them from the wind-driven rain. From the west bank the Comanche camp would have been impossible to locate; more than ever, McCaleb was impressed with the Lipan Apache’s skill. Dimly, in the starlight, he could see blanket-wrapped forms strung out beneath the overhang on each side of the dying fire. He touched the Apache’s arm and they silently made their way back to the horses. Although the wind still favored them, he spoke in a whisper.

  “They’re rolled in their blankets next to the water, under an overhang of the west bank. I know we can’t get them all, but we can take enough of them out of the game to convince the others that we’re bad medicine. We’ll be within twenty yards, so this calls for Colts. Brazos, Goose had just the one Colt; see that he has extra cartridges. Rebecca, make every shot count; all the .31-caliber shells we have is what the kid carried in his pockets. Goose will take the lead. We’ll position ourselves ten paces apart so we don’t all end up shooting at the same targets in the dark. I’ll give you a minute or two before I open the ball; it’s dark beneath that overhang. Will, you and Brazos empty both your Colts but hold your extra cylinder in reserve, like I plan to. That’s where we retreat. Before they’re able to shoot at our muzzle flashes, we’ll be gone.”