The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Kenton,” he snapped, “you and Dennis get Private Hardesty into one of the cells and see to his wound.” He then turned to McCaleb, who said nothing, reloading his Colt from his diminishing supply of cartridges.

  “We got another one!” shouted Monte.

  “We picked off two more,” said Will, emerging from the cell corridor, “but Brazos is hit.”

  “Bad?” inquired McCaleb.

  “Damn bad,” said Will. “Help me bring him in.”

  “Where’s Goose?”

  “He’s gone into the brush after the bastard that cut down Brazos.”

  “McCaleb,” said Lieutenant Sandoval, “I—”

  But McCaleb was gone. He had followed Will into the cell corridor and out the back door. Brazos lay on his back, eyes closed, teeth gritted. McCaleb caught his breath. The arrow had gone in just under the breastbone. Hunkering down, he listened to Brazos’s breathing, praying there would be no telltale bubbling sound and no bloody froth on his lips. God, if it had pierced a lung…

  Gently as they could, they carried Brazos into one of the empty rear cells and placed him on a hard bunk. Silently they removed their hats and stood looking down at their friend. White-faced, Monte stared through the bars. Behind him, unashamed, Rebecca wept. Brazos opened his eyes.

  “Hurts like…nine shades of…Hell. Will it…come…out?”

  “It’ll have to,” said McCaleb.

  “You and Will,” said Brazos. “Not them.”

  “They won’t touch you,” said McCaleb, “but they have medicine. Maybe some laudanum. I’m going to find out.”

  There was a shriek of pain from the wounded Hardesty. McCaleb found privates Kenton and Dennis attempting to withdraw the barbed arrow from the anguished young man’s right shoulder, just above his collarbone.

  “You don’t withdraw an arrow,” said McCaleb grimly. “You’ll have to drive it on through.”

  “No,” screamed Hardesty. “No!”

  “Then it’ll have to stay where it is,” said McCaleb. “I’ve got a man who’s been hit harder than you, and I need the use of your medical kit. Do you have laudanum?”

  “We have,” said Lieutenant Sandoval from the corridor. “Do you know how to remove that arrow, McCaleb?”

  “I do,” said McCaleb.

  “Then do it,” said Sandoval, “and you’re welcome to whatever we have for your man.”

  “Give him a heavy dose of laudanum,” said McCaleb to the pair of pale privates. “While it’s taking hold on him, I want some of it to begin preparing my friend.”

  They had three bottles of the tincture of opium, and McCaleb watched as they forced a massive dose of it upon the unwilling Hardesty. They also had, McCaleb noted, alcohol and iodine. Brazos would be spared the hot irons.

  “Brazos,” said McCaleb, “we’ve got laudanum. We’ll need a little time for this to take hold. Then me and Will can get that Comanche toothpick out of you. Hang on, pard.”

  McCaleb waited until the wounded Hardesty was snoring noisily. Will had remained with Brazos. Lieutenant Sandoval stood grimly by, having posted the remainder of his men at the front and rear of the jail.

  “This won’t be pretty,” said McCaleb, “but if you aim to spend some time on the frontier, it’s something you need to know.”

  He broke the shaft of the arrow, leaving enough of its length to drive the barbed point through the flesh. With the butt of his Colt he struck the broken end of the shaft. It advanced, but only a little. Hardesty, unconscious, grunted. Sandoval gritted his teeth as the butt of McCaleb’s .44 slowly but surely drove the thing through the young private’s flesh. Sweat dripped off McCaleb’s chin when finally he was able to grasp the barbed point and withdraw the broken shaft from the bloody wound. Breathing a long sigh, Sandoval clasped his hands to hide their trembling. McCaleb grinned at the ashen lieutenant.

  “Now,” said McCaleb, “pour some alcohol into the wound, and after that use plenty of iodine where the barb entered and where it came out. You’d best do it right; if you don’t, he can die from infection.”

  Sandoval started to speak but thought better of it, proceeding to do as McCaleb had ordered. He said nothing when McCaleb took a bottle of alcohol, a bottle of iodine, and some bandages from the medical kit. To McCaleb’s surprise, Goose had returned and for the first time had entered the adobe jail. Slung on his shoulder was a quiver of arrows, and he carried what had to be a Comanche bow. The grisly thing he gripped in his right hand could be only a Comanche scalp. He held it over Brazos and shook it.

  “Matar,” he said. “Comanch’ bastardo. Matar.”

  Carefully he placed the bloody scalp on the floor at the head of the bunk where Brazos lay. He then unfolded it to reveal the terrible payment he had exacted. It held the Comanche’s bloody, severed privates! Rebecca gasped. Goose took that for approval and gave her a satisfied grin. He then turned to McCaleb, a question in his eyes. McCaleb held up the empty laudanum bottle. Then, with the butt of his Colt, he pretended to strike the arrow’s protruding shaft. Goose understood and nodded. Still carrying the Comanche bow and quiver of arrows, he went out.

  “For God’s sake,” cried Rebecca, “do something with…that!”

  Goose had left the bloody scalp and gory appendages for Brazos. With the toe of his boot, McCaleb kicked the brutal evidence of Apache retribution under the bunk. Despite the girl’s horrified reaction, it was a touching tribute to Brazos, and McCaleb would see that he was aware of it.

  “We’d best get it done,” said Will. “He’s in pretty deep.”

  It was the worst moment of McCaleb’s life. His palms were already wet with sweat, although his hands were cold. His was an agonizing fear that, although the arrow hadn’t struck a lung, it might yet pierce one as he drove it out. The very attempt to save Brazos might kill him!

  “Everybody out,” said McCaleb, “except Will. He may have to spell me.”

  McCaleb was afraid for Brazos’s life, and he knew Will shared that fear, but he didn’t want the others sensing it. They had enough trouble already. He broke off the feathered end of the shaft, leaving only enough length to drive it through.

  “You want me to do it?” asked Will.

  “No,” said McCaleb. “You’ve ridden more trails with him than I have. If this is where his ends, it’ll be as tough on you as it will on me.”

  There was nothing more to be said. McCaleb knelt beside the bunk and began. The Colt’s barrel became slippery in his sweaty hands. When the barb finally emerged, he was exhausted.

  “Finish it, Will.”

  Will Elliot completed the grisly surgery and bound the wound. They could do no more. Brazos’s breathing was labored but steady. He groaned.

  “He’ll make it,” said McCaleb, “if he can fight off the infection.”

  “I reckon these blue coats mean well,” said Will, “but they don’t know doodly about fightin’ Indians. Here we sit, with a Comanche behind every tree and bush, with Sandoval on the prod because he reckons you’re stealing his thunder. Just as sure as the wind rolls a tumbleweed, if we’re here past sundown, them Comanches will rush us.”

  “That’s why we’re going to rush them first,” said McCaleb. “I want to know if Sandoval’s more concerned with his status as commander than in saving his hair. If he throws in with us, he’ll fight our way.”

  The laudanum was wearing off and the wounded Hardesty was groaning. Lieutenant Sandoval looked questioningly at them as they stepped through the door into the crowded room. Monte sat on the desk, Colt in his hand. Sandoval’s sergeant and four unhurt privates stood near the windows, their rifles at the ready. Rebecca sat in a chair, its ladder back tilted against the wall.

  “Lieutenant,” said McCaleb, “you’re pushing your luck. Who’s watching that pine thicket that’s just two jumps from the back door?”

  “Your Indian’s out there,” said Sandoval. “My men aren’t comfortable with him.”

  “They’re going to be even less comfortable with th
e Comanches unless we make our move before dark. When we’ve whipped these murdering devils, you can go back to being the commander, but just this once you’re going to fight like a Texan. If you want to come out of this alive, that is. Do you want to win with our tactics or lose with yours?”

  Sandoval puffed up like a toad but the wind went out of him as he read fear and uncertainty in the eyes of his men. The siege had scarcely begun and already one of their small number lay wounded and bleeding. Anguished moans from the wounded Hardesty were more devastating than McCaleb’s words had been. None of them doubted the truth of those words, and to a man they believed their commander’s decision would seal their doom or give them a fighting chance.

  With a sigh, Sandoval spoke. “You’ve fought these devils, McCaleb. We haven’t. We’ll do it your way. Tell us what you have in mind, what you’d have us do.”

  “Since this is a federally occupied town, I want your word as an officer and a gentleman that we won’t be held responsible for damage to buildings.”

  “You have my word.”

  “We’re hurting for ammunition, Sandoval. I know you can’t help us with the Henrys, but three of my outfit have Spencers. Like yours.”

  “I’ll issue each of them a hundred rounds.”

  “Hardesty can’t fight; we have a need for his Spencer.”

  “Take it, then,” said Sandoval. “What else?”

  “Do you have any coal oil?”

  “Only what’s in the lamp. The globe’s broken but the rest of it’s under the far end of the desk.”

  “Do you have a needle gun and a sharpshooter who can handle it?”

  “Yes, on both counts. A .53-caliber Schroeder. Sergeant Nelson is a dead shot. It has a range of almost a mile.”

  “There are eleven of us able to fight,” said McCaleb. “We’ll leave four to defend the jail and our wounded. Choose two of yours and I’ll pick two of mine. The rest of us are going out and teach these Comanches how the calf ate the grindstone. Rebecca, load Hardesty’s Spencer for an extra. I want you and Monte here at the jail with a pair of Sandoval’s men.”

  There were no arguments.

  “Privates Kenton and Dennis,” said Sandoval, “you’ll remain here at the jail. Privates Stanzer and Jacobs, you’ll accompany me and Sergeant Nelson.”

  “Lieutenant Sandoval,” said McCaleb, “we’re going to do the last thing these Comanches will expect us to do. We’re going to form a skirmish line and attack them. The very boldness of it will give us the advantage. The buildings that hide them can also hide us. We’ll fire the vacant buildings where they’re holed up, if that’s what it takes. I know they’ll flank us, and as soon as we’re far enough from the jail, they’ll fall in behind us. Sergeant Nelson, that’s where you come in. Fill your pockets with shells. While we advance, you’ll be our rear guard. The needle gun has a far greater range than their arrows. Indians are superstitious; they’re likely to regard as bad medicine a gun that can kill at such a distance.”

  “Brilliant strategy,” said Sandoval, “up to a point. Six of us will be advancing to the south. If we can assume these savages have formed four attacking parties, then six of us will be attacking only a fourth of their total number. How long can Sergeant Nelson stand off seventy-five percent of their attacking force? Eventually they’ll overrun him. And then us.”

  “Sandoval,” said McCaleb, a touch of exasperation in his voice, “I don’t aim to spend that much time advancing. This won’t be an orderly battle to be fought by rules. While Nelson protects our flanks and rear, we’ll be able to concentrate all our fire on maybe one fourth of these hellions. Once we’ve advanced as far as Daugherty’s store, we can join forces with the defenders who are holed up there. Then, with our combined strength, we will turn on those Comanches that Sergeant Nelson has held at bay with the needle gun. Once we’ve cut down all opposition to the south and have added the guns at Daugherty’s store to our strength, this bunch will be wondering if their attack was such a good idea after all. Before they get enough confidence to challenge the sergeant’s needle gun, we’ll turn on them and give them the biggest dose of bad medicine they’ve ever had.”

  “Texas,” said Sergeant Nelson, “it’s a good plan. I’ll put the fear of God into them with the Schroeder .53.”

  “Will, send Goose in here and have him bring that quiver of arrows with him.”

  McCaleb went into one of the cells and took a thin blanket from the bunk. Goose came in the back door and down the corridor. McCaleb beckoned him into the cell. He took six arrows from the quiver and pointed to the blanket.

  “Flecha de fuego, Goose.”

  The Indian nodded. He sat on the floor, took his bowie and began slashing two-foot strips from one end of the blanket. Goose then wrapped a woolen strip around the barbed ends of the arrows, making each of them a fist-sized torch, when soaked with coal oil. McCaleb took the globeless lamp from beneath the desk and found it half full of coal oil. Without a word to anyone, he returned to the cell where Goose was busy at his task. Rebecca followed McCaleb and stood looking through the bars.

  “What’s Goose doing?”

  “Making fire arrows,” said McCaleb. “Once he’s done, six of these arrows will have wool heads. They’ll make dandy torches that Goose can shoot onto rooftops or through windows.”

  Private Hardesty had fallen into a fitful sleep, moaning occasionally. In the cell adjoining the one where McCaleb and Goose worked, Brazos groaned. When Goose had finished with the arrows, McCaleb saturated each of the wool heads with coal oil, and the Indian placed them in the quiver heads up. He then followed McCaleb to the front of the jail, where the others waited.

  “We’re ready to move out,” said McCaleb. “I’m expecting the Comanches to regroup and follow us. But they’ve outfoxed me once; I didn’t expect them to send a second party and box us in after the ambush. The four of you who will defend the jail must be especially watchful; if I’m guessing wrong, they could rush you. We’re cutting the defense almighty thin, but it’s a chance we’ll have to take. Any questions?”

  Nobody spoke. Monte was buttoning his shirt. Rebecca was loading Hardesty’s Spencer with ammunition Sandoval had supplied. Sergeant Nelson was filling his pockets with shells for the needle gun.

  “Will,” said McCaleb, “you take the east side of the street and I’ll take the west. Sergeant Nelson, you’re our rear guard, as planned. Sandoval, you and your other two men will flesh out the line. Goose stays close to me.” He pointed to the Indian, to himself, and beckoned.

  McCaleb stepped out the door. Goose followed, bow and quiver of arrows slung over his left shoulder, his Spencer at-the-ready. Without incident they reached the shambles of the dynamited saloon. Suddenly there were four quick shots from behind them. Had McCaleb guessed wrong? Were they attacking the jail? But no! There was the blast of the needle gun.

  “Here they come!” shouted Sergeant Nelson.

  “Hold them back as far as you can, Sergeant,” shouted McCaleb.

  “Not many to shoot at,” said Nelson. “They’re splitting into two forces. They’re going to flank us. Half a dozen just broke for that brush along the river.”

  “Try to pin down the bunch that split to the east,” yelled McCaleb. “I have plans for those who’ve taken to the brush along the river.”

  It was about what he expected. He pointed to Goose, to the quiver of arrows and then to the brush into which some of the pursuing Comanches had gone. Goose drew and nocked one of the fire arrows, flexing his massive arms and bending the bow almost double. McCaleb fired a match, cupping it in his hand until it flared into life. The wool-wrapped, oil-soaked head of the arrow burst into flame and Goose loosed it into the waist-high brush and dried buffalo grass. The fire was no danger to the town and would burn itself out at the river, but it would rob the Comanches of any cover along the west flank. They’d be driven to the west bank of the Brazos, rendering their arrows ineffective but leaving them within reach of Sergeant Nelson’s .53-caliber n
eedle gun.

  They didn’t fare as well on their east flank. While the side of the street nearest the river was mostly open, there were various buildings on the other side, including a deserted, boarded-up general store. Behind it the other half of the flanking force had taken refuge, leaving McCaleb and his small band of attackers in the open street. While the Comanches were unable to loose their arrows with any effectiveness from behind the store, neither could McCaleb’s men find a target. Goose held up a fire arrow.

  “Fuego?”

  McCaleb shook his head. Firing the building would do little good; the Comanches would simply move to the next nearest one, perpetuating the standoff. They couldn’t torch the whole town.

  “Sandoval,” said McCaleb, “take your two men to that saloon just beyond the store. Using the saloon for cover, move in behind that bunch and we’ll either cut them down in a cross-fire or run them so far into the brush they won’t be a threat to us.”

  McCaleb, Will, and Goose held their ground until they were alerted by firing from Sandoval’s position. Then they charged the back of the abandoned store, to find their quarry had fled into the woods. The way was clear and McCaleb’s men moved ahead to join Sandoval.

  “They were expecting us,” said Sandoval in disgust.

  “I reckoned they would,” said McCaleb, “but we needed them out of the way. We know where they came from and where they are. Where are those we should be encountering from the south?”

  As though in reply, there was sporadic firing somewhere ahead of them.

  “They’re attacking Daugherty’s store,” said Sandoval.