“This is Donato Vasquez and his brother Emilio,” he said, looking at McCaleb and Goose. He then addressed the Mexicans in Spanish, gesturing toward McCaleb and Goose as he did so.
McCaleb nodded and the Mexican duo nodded in turn, neither offering to shake hands. One of them—McCaleb thought it was Emilio—looked at Goose and then spoke foolishly.
“Ganos? Ganos comico, comico!”
Goose didn’t think it was funny and neither did the Mexican, once he saw the look in the Indian’s eyes. Goose advanced and his adversary backstepped, holding up his hands.
“Ninguno, Goose,” said McCaleb. “Ninguno.”
Goose halted, looking directly at Charles Goodnight, who—aware that he was already on the bad side of the Indian—strove to make amends. He spoke rapidly in Spanish to the offending Emilio, and McCaleb heard Simp Crawford’s name. Apparently the shaken Emilio had just been made aware of Crawford’s fate and his reason for leaving Goodnight’s drive. Emilio’s face paled. Earnestly, in Spanish, he spoke to Goose, and the Indian relaxed. At least, thought McCaleb, the Mexican could make amends in a language Goose could understand. Donato, who emerged as the older and probably the wiser of the two, also spoke to the Indian in rapid-fire border Spanish. McCaleb was unable to understand a word. He cut his eyes to Goodnight and the big man grinned.
“He says Emilio speaks with the voice of a donkey; a foolish pelado who is unfit even to feed the goats.”
The Apache’s craggy face lost its hostility and he relaxed. Somewhere beyond that murderous temper lurked a sense of humor, McCaleb thought.
Goodnight climbed back up to the wagon seat. He swung the six yoke of patient oxen in a half circle and maneuvered the rear of the wagon up to the front of Moon’s store. Goodnight’s wagon—the very first “chuck” wagon, and a prototype for all that followed—was an impressive vehicle. Goodnight was proud of its design and was quick to display its uniqueness.
“It’s an ex-Army wagon,” he explained. “Solid iron axles. Stripped it down to the running gear and had everything else rebuilt. There’s a double floor of seasoned oak, both pitch-sealed so’s she won’t leak. Sides of the box are eighteen inches higher than normal, also pitch-sealed. That water barrel on the right-hand side will hold a two-day supply of water. There on the left side is an oversize toolbox big enough to hold a shovel, an ax, branding irons, hobbles, extra harness, horseshoeing tools, and any extra stuff the cook or hands might need. There’s four bentwood bows to support the canvas cover. Now, come around to the back and take a look at my chuck box—the only one of its kind.”
The chuck box was built onto the very rear of the wagon, extending maybe three feet back into the wagon and reaching almost to the top of the last canvas-supporting bow. The entire face of the chuck box was covered with a door, hinged at the bottom, that swung down on a dangling leg to form a worktable. The chuck box itself was a series of compartments and drawers, each designed for a specific purpose. Across the very top of the box there were four small closed drawers, and beneath them, a row of three larger ones. Below the drawers, the rest of the chuck box was devoted to open compartments.
“Little drawers across the top,” said Goodnight, “are for flour, sugar, beans, dried fruit, and coffee beans. First two big drawers are for tin cups, plates, and eating tools. That last one is the possibles drawer; I aim to use it for medicines, bandages, scissors, needles and thread, and whatever else I can think of. That biggest open space on the bottom is for a sourdough keg. The other spaces are for salt, lard bucket, baking soda, jug of molasses, coffeepots, and a jug of whiskey. Strictly medicinal, of course. On the side, over the toolbox, is the coffee grinder. There under the chuck box is a ‘boot’ for skillets and dutch ovens. Behind the box itself, I’ll carry an extra wagon wheel, bedrolls, slickers, extra guns and shells, a jug of coal oil, lanterns, and a tin of axle grease, plus grain for the team and the remuda. The little bit of beans, fruit, coffee, sugar, and flour in the chuck box is just for the cook’s immediate needs. I’ll carry bulk supplies of these things in the wagon box, along with a side of beef, sides of bacon, and some hams. We might as well start loading. The barrel of flour comes first.”
He spoke rapidly in Spanish to Donato and Emilio, and the Mexican riders followed Silas Moon into the store. They hauled the goods out and Goodnight hoisted everything into the wagon. Silas Moon watched, offering no assistance, Goodnight apparently expecting none.
An hour before noon they were ready to move out. The wagon would slow them down and they’d be lucky to reach Elm Creek by dark. McCaleb was about to swing into his saddle when Goodnight called him over to the wagon.
“Bent, I had some disturbing news from old man Whitt, the carpenter that built this wagon. I have a favor to ask of you. Not for me, but for an old friend of mine. Tie your horse behind the wagon and ride with me. I’ll have the Vasquez boys lead two of your pack animals.”
McCaleb tied his roan to the rear of the wagon and climbed over the high-sided wagon box to the seat. Goodnight waited until the six yoke of oxen had settled into their harness before he spoke.
“Remember me telling about One-Armed Bill Wilson quitting me last fall, going to Jacksboro and opening a saloon?”
McCaleb nodded, saying nothing.
“Well,” continued Goodnight, “the Federals have Bill in the guardhouse at Fort Richardson, near Jacksboro. He’s been accused of murder, framed. Next Monday they plan to take Bill to Decatur, where he’ll be court-martialed. They say Bill’s a goner if he ever goes to trial, and conviction means death by firing squad.”
“I reckon,” said McCaleb, “you don’t aim for that to happen. How do you figure I can be of any help?”
“We’ll need Rebecca’s help, and I thought you—”
“Whoa,” said McCaleb. “I’ll do anything I can, Charlie, but we’re not endangering her.”
“So that’s how it is,” said Goodnight. “You and her…”
“That’s how it is,” said McCaleb grimly.
“Let me tell you the rest of it,” said Goodnight. “If you’re willing to ask her, and she says no, then…”
They didn’t reach their combined camp on Elm Creek until well after dark. McCaleb, having long since left the wagon seat and straddled his roan, rode into camp leading two packhorses, Goose trailing with the third. Goodnight drove directly to his own outfit. McCaleb reckoned there would be time enough for his riders to fuss over the new chuck wagon and to meet the Vasquez brothers. He and Goose went to the fire and poured themselves cups of coffee from the blackened pot.
“Thank God you got back when you did,” said Brazos. “I don’t believe Charlie’s ever fed that outfit a square meal. They went through our grub like a swarm of locusts.”
All of them had spoken to him except Rebecca. They unloaded the packhorses, and she helped. It was a while before he was able to speak to her without the others hearing. Goodnight had sworn him to secrecy.
“Would you have felt better about me,” he asked with a grin, “if I’d been mutilated and scalped by Indians?”
“Not especially,” she said. “We needed these supplies.”
“I’m touched by your obvious concern. I’d not bother you, except that I’m forced to ask a favor.”
“Forced? I don’t see anybody holding a gun on you.”
“It’s not for me, damn it. I’d rather be scalped by Indians than ask you to do anything for me. It’s for Charlie.”
“You mean Mister Goodnight. He strikes me as the kind of man who’s real handy with his mouth. Let him ask his own favors.”
Furious, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her till her teeth rattled. She slapped him. Hard. He drew her to him in a crushing embrace, planting a solid, lingering kiss on her lips. She almost responded, then went rigid as a fence post, following with an upraised knee that caught him where it would do the most damage. Sick, he sank down with an agonized groan.
The three tired packhorses, freed of their burdens, had been allowed
to roll. Monte then led them out to graze, picketing them with the rest of the remuda. As he passed McCaleb, he stopped and stared down, surprised.
“Why are you sitting out here in the dark?”
“I reckon I’m just tired, kid. Almighty tired…”
Since the watch for the night had already been picked, McCaleb let it stand. The outfit’s usual antics might resuit in pairing him for three uncomfortable hours with a silent Rebecca Nance, and he was in no mood for that. He rolled in his blankets, skipping supper and avoiding further conversation. Why had he allowed Goodnight to talk him into a “favor” involving the stubborn, unpredictable girl? They were but five days from the time of Bill Wilson’s removal from Fort Richardson, and no more than ten days from the arrival of Oliver Loving’s herd. His mind so occupied, McCaleb failed to notice a flicker of lightning on the western horizon, nor did he hear a faint rumble of thunder. He drifted into fitful, uneasy slumber.
“Roll out and mount up,” shouted Brazos. “There’s a bad ’un coming.”
McCaleb sat up, fully dressed except for his boots. The west wind had turned cold, evidently forgetting it was the third week in May. The moon and stars had disappeared behind a swirling mass of thunderheads. Thunder rumbled closer, and the very earth vibrated. Uneasy, a cow bawled. McCaleb stomped into his boots, grabbed his saddle and headed for the remuda. Brazos and Will had been on watch and were already saddled. Sudden lightning spiderwebbed the sky, and a rearing horse pulled its picket pin. Brazos caught the frightened animal before it could run. Monte, Rebecca, and Goose were mounted and ready when McCaleb swung into his saddle. They began circling the restless longhorns, and in the distance, as lightning zigzagged across the murky heavens, they could see the Goodnight riders performing the same weary task. Charles Goodnight jogged his big black alongside McCaleb’s roan just as the first heavy raindrops slapped their backs and shoulders. McCaleb was tying his hat in place with piggin string.
“Too much lightning,” said Goodnight, the wind whipping his voice away. “Been too quiet. We’re overdue for a bad one. These brutes know they’re going to run. They’re just waitin’ for something to set ’em off and they’ll fog out of here like a prairie fire.”
“Storm’s blowin’ out of the west,” said McCaleb. “I’m counting on them running away from it, unless there’s ground lightning. Suppose I group my outfit to the north of our herds and you move yours to the south? Unless they break right into the storm, we’ll have them boxed. If they run to the east, like we expect, then both outfits can ride to head them. If the lightning plays tricks on us and they break north or south, we’ll still be ahead of them.”
“Be almighty careful,” warned Goodnight, “if they run to the east. Lots of dry stream beds and arroyos you won’t be able to see in the dark. Pass the word to your riders. At the worst, a tumble into one of them could kill you and your horse. At best you might come out of it stove-up and crippled.”
McCaleb moved his riders to the north of the combined herds, passing on Goodnight’s warning. Somewhere to the west the lightning struck with a rending crash. There was the plaintive bawling of a cow, followed by another and then another. Lightning struck again, closer this time, the horrendous sound accompanied by a trembling of the earth and the acrid stink of sulfur. Jagged fingers of fire illuminated the stormy skies, and the herd, as one, rose to its feet.
Faint and seemingly far away there was gunfire. McCaleb didn’t know if it was from his own riders or the Goodnight outfit. He pounded along parallel to the now running herd, the slashing rain and storm-bred wind at his back. The herd spread out, some of the lethal horns coming much too close. When lightning flared, McCaleb saw a rider ahead of him who might have been Goodnight; he thought he recognized the big black horse. If the Goodnight herd was running ahead of his own, and he believed they were, then McCaleb’s outfit was wasting its time. The stampede would already be so strung out, his riders would never be able to head it.
McCaleb felt that however futile their efforts, they mustn’t throw all the burden on the Goodnight riders. He slapped the roan on its sodden flank, urging the animal to greater effort. Suddenly the earth beneath the hoofs of the running horse seemed to fall away. There was a scream from the roan—terrifyingly human—and McCaleb heard nothing more as he was lost in a maelstrom of blinding pain. The roan had gone into the arroyo head first and lay on its side, its neck grotesquely twisted. McCaleb lay trapped beneath the horse, unable to free himself had he been conscious enough to even attempt it. There was no sound except the moan of the wind and the pattering of the cold rain. It splashed into McCaleb’s face, and he was as unaware of that as of the blood mixing with it from a gaping wound just above his eyes. It was four long hours until dawn, and the arroyo was slowly filling with water….
“I haven’t seen Bent,” said Goodnight, puzzled. “I reckoned I’d find him somewhere back here. Our bunch started to run before yours did; when yours lit out and caught up with the tail end of ours, that put the leaders of the stampede so far ahead, none of you could have turned them. I hope he didn’t take a fall, maybe into some arroyo.”
“We must look for him,” cried Rebecca frantically. “He may be hurt!”
“I have two lanterns in the wagon,” said Goodnight. “We’d better go get them. With this rain…”
Rebecca, Monte, and Goose took one lantern while Goodnight, Brazos, and Will took the other. Following the path of the stampede in the trampled, muddy earth, they rode slowly, unable to see more than a foot or two beyond the lantern’s feeble glow.
“Deep arroyo out there a ways,” said Goodnight. “Runs maybe a mile out into the prairie. When there’s a storm like this, it takes the runoff into Elm Creek. This close in, the herd should have been bunched enough to miss it. A rider swinging wide to avoid getting caught up in the stampede could have run into it. Mesquite, brush, and young trees grown up along the banks; it’ll be as black down there as the inside of a cow.”
Goodnight carried one lantern and Monte the other. They found the arroyo and, leaving their horses, walked the length of it. Will, Brazos, Rebecca, and Goose parted the head-high cottonwoods and stomped through the underbrush so that the lantern bearers might get near the edge of the steep banks. There was a gurgle of water below them, but in the continuing rain their attempts to direct the feeble light from the lanterns to the water’s surface were futile. Trudging from one end of the arroyo to the other—where it fed into Elm Creek—yielded exactly nothing except frustration, and in the case of Rebecca, a growing fear.
“Much as I hate to,” said Goodnight, “we’ll have to wait on first light. Darkness is bad enough, but with this continuing rain, it’s impossible.”
“No!” cried Rebecca. “He’s down there and he’s hurt. Please, let me have one of the lanterns. I’ll start where the arroyo feeds into the creek and wade it; follow it to the end. I’ll find him.”
“Damnation!” said Goodnight. “That’s what we should have already done! Come on, Rebecca, I’ll go with you!”
“Me and Brazos will take the other lantern,” said Will, “and start from the other end.”
The cold rain on McCaleb’s face restored his consciousness. Lying on his back, he tried to sit up, and found he was unable to. He was under the dead horse, pinned from the waist down! Fast running, cold water lapped at his chin. He must summon help! Twisting to the right, he worked his numb right hand to his left hip, seeking his Colt. The holster was empty. His Henry was in the saddle boot, on the underside of the roan. He had no doubt they were looking for him, but the water was rising. At best, he thought dismally, he had but a few more minutes. Somewhere, sounding far away, he thought he heard Rebecca’s voice….
“Here,” he cried weakly, without much hope. “Here…”
Rebecca fell on her knees beside him, the water reaching her armpits. Goodnight drew his Colt and fired three quick shots. They came on the run, and McCaleb saw only the dim glow of the lantern on the high bank above.
�
��Bring the horses,” shouted Goodnight, “and throw us a rope. He’s under the horse, and we’ll have to move it. He’s alive but he’s hurt.”
Dawn was a rosy glow in the sky when Red Alford and Wes Sheek rolled back into camp. They brought the chuck wagon for McCaleb. Goodnight insisted that McCaleb drink half a quart of moonshine to diminish his fever. Will Elliot sewed up the ugly gash in McCaleb’s forehead, sloshing the closed wound with iodine.
“After breakfast,” said Goodnight, “it’s roundup time.”
“Not for me,” said Rebecca. “I’m staying with McCaleb.”
“Maybe we ought to leave Goose with you,” said Brazos. “This wouldn’t be a good time for the Comanches to show up.”
“Their tough luck if they do,” said the girl grimly. “I’ve had a hard night and I’m in no mood for a bunch of Indians. I have a Spencer rifle and I know how to use it. I’ll shoot their ears off.”
Goodnight laughed, his eyes twinkling. Benton McCaleb was a lucky man.
When the others had joined Goodnight’s crew to round up the scattered herds, Rebecca put on a kettle of water to boil. McCaleb slept, probably a result of the moonshine, but there was the shine of sweat on his face. He no longer had a fever. They had stretched him out on a double thickness of blankets, his head on Rebecca’s saddle. Now that he was safe and alive, she looked him over critically. He was a mess, muddy from head to toe. She tugged off his boots, peeled off his socks and found his feet blue with cold. She had a time stripping off his Levi’s and shirt; they seemed like part of his skin. He was no help to her, being limp as a strip of wet rawhide. His thighs had a purplish tint, as though badly bruised, and his left knee looked swollen. He had been lucky; had the horse fallen on his upper body, his chest would have been crushed. Some of the cloth she had bought for bandages she ripped into towel-size hunks. She soaked half a dozen of them in hot water and spread them over his bruised thighs and swollen knee, replacing them with hot ones as they cooled. Suddenly his eyes were wide open and he was watching her. When he spoke, his voice sounded thick, like he was half asleep.
The Goodnight Trail Page 22