The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Did you strip me like this before…while the others…were…here?”

  “Of course.” She giggled. “Why?”

  He said nothing. To her total surprise, his face flushed—not with anger, but embarrassment. She was immediately sorry for having deceived him.

  “They left you just like you were hauled out of that arroyo,” she said. “I did the rest, including peeling you down to the bare hide. How do you feel?”

  “No worse’n if I’d had my skull crushed with a rock and then had half a ton of horse fall on me. Can you find one more blanket to cover me?”

  “Everybody’s gone after the cattle, and I’ll cover you before they return. You’ve got some bad bruises and a wrenched knee. I can’t keep these hot cloths coming with you under a blanket.”

  “You’re almighty concerned with how I feel. Last night you tried to change me from a bull into a steer. That hurt worse than bein’ pitched into that arroyo on my head.”

  She dropped the steaming cloth she’d just fished out of the kettle, came to where he was lying and got down on her knees beside him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Truly sorry. I hated myself after I…I did that. Then after the stampede…when I was afraid you might be…dead…I…I wished I was dead. Whatever you say or do to me, I’ll never, ever do that again. Can you forgive me?”

  “Only if you promise me something and keep your promise.”

  “What must I promise?”

  “You’ve had a big mad on,” said McCaleb, “ever since we took that bath in the creek. You wanted something I wasn’t ready to give, and when I didn’t do what you wanted, you took it as a slight. Like I tried to tell you, it wasn’t the time or the place and it was no fault of yours. You’re truly a beautiful woman, and God knows, I wish I was ready for you, but I’m not. I want you to promise me that the time and place can be of my choosing. You said you wanted me; do you want me enough to let it be on my terms?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like a withered old maid. I don’t know how much longer I can wait for that time and place. Whatever happens or doesn’t happen between us, I promise not to be mean and spiteful, ever again.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Two days prior to One-Armed Wilson’s removal for court-martial, McCaleb and Rebecca started for Jacksboro. Rebecca was uneasy.

  “Suppose these Federals know Bill Wilson doesn’t have a wife?”

  “Not likely they will,” said McCaleb. “They’re Federals in name only. They’re a bunch of renegade Texans that Goodnight, Bill and Charlie Wilson, and a few others run out in ’sixty-one. They went to Kansas, joined the Union army, and now they’re here to get even. Charlie had nobody he could send that wouldn’t be recognized.”

  “It just seems like a weak plan,” said Rebecca.

  “I agree, but it’s the best we can do. You don’t break a man out of a military stockade. Just be sure you tell Wilson this is Charlie’s idea. Repeat back to me what you’re going to tell him.”

  “He’s to take the money Goodnight’s sending him,” said Rebecca, “and buy whiskey with it, but not for himself. Once he’s out of the guardhouse, somewhere between Fort Richardson and Decatur, he’s to get his guards drunk. Then he makes a run for it, traveling by night, until he can join Goodnight’s drive somewhere between here and the Pecos.”

  McCaleb halted three quarters of a mile from Fort Richardson, where he could see without being seen. Rebecca rode in alone, was stopped by a sentry at the gate and allowed to enter. McCaleb waited an anxious hour. Finally he saw her exit the gate and breathed a sigh of relief. She joined him and they trotted their horses back the way they had come. Finally Rebecca spoke.

  “I gave him the money and told him what Goodnight said for him to do. He said, ‘I’d of thought Charlie would of sent me a pistol.’ ”

  “Damn fool,” said McCaleb. “This is his only chance, and Goodnight knows it. We can’t fight the Federals, even if this particular garrison is manned by cutthroat Texans flying under false colors. This is all we can do, all I promised to do, and all I aim to do. Let’s ride!”

  June first came and went without a sign of Oliver Loving. Finally, on June 4, 1866, he rode in with ten riders and eleven hundred longhorns. He was a big man, weighing a good two hundred pounds and, despite his fifty-four years, as sturdy as a post oak. He had no gray hair and looked not much older than Goodnight. He dismounted, shook hands with Goodnight and McCaleb, but hardly cast a glance at anybody else. Three of his hands reined up behind him. They were grizzled old tobacco-chewing Texans, looking more like mountain men than cowboys. They cast suspicious, slanch-eyed looks at Goose, and when the Indian returned their stares, they shifted their eyes to Rebecca. While a certain camaraderie had developed between McCaleb’s and Goodnight’s outfit, Loving’s riders seemed standoffish and wary. Goodnight broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “Get your herd settled in, Mr. Loving; then perhaps you and your outfit will join the rest of us for supper.”

  But the Loving outfit seemed to have better things to do. Just before dark Goodnight rode in, speaking without dismounting.

  “Mr. Loving took the time to stop at Weatherford and load his supplies. He believes we can begin the drive this coming Wednesday, June sixth.”

  McCaleb nodded. Nobody said anything until Goodnight had ridden away.

  “Well, bless my soul,” said Brazos. “I hope Mr. Loving don’t decide he wants to shoot a wild turkey and celebrate Thanksgivin’ before we start.”

  “Mr. Loving,” said Rebecca, “looked like he just came from a war, or was going to one. I never saw so many guns on one man and one horse.”

  “In Comanche country,” said McCaleb, “I reckon five guns ain’t too many. But if a man can’t shoot his way out with a Colt six-shooter and a sixteen-shot Henry, he’s likely a dead peckerwood anyhow.”

  “I reckon that brace of saddle Colts ain’t a bad idea,” said Brazos, “but I’d draw the line at that Colt revolving six-shooter rifle. He’s a braver man than me.”

  “Suppose it could be made to fire the same shells as the Colt revolver,” said Monte. “What would be wrong with that?”

  “Someday,” said Will, “there’ll be a rifle that will take the same shells as a Colt revolver, but it won’t be a revolving rifle. Too much gas blowback and chain firing. There’s got to be clearance between the front end of the revolving cylinder and the rear end of the barrel or the cylinder won’t turn. Powder gas escapes through the gap; could set your shirt afire or put out your eye. Chain firing sets off not just one shell, but two or three. That’s why most Texans swear by Colt’s six-shooter revolver and swear at his six-shooter revolving rifle.”

  June fifth, the night before the drive would begin, Goodnight called them all together. He didn’t waste any words.

  “Benton McCaleb’s outfit will be riding drag for the duration of the drive. This is the most vulnerable and probably the most dangerous position, and I’m almighty glad to have three ex-Rangers watching our back trail. I’ll be riding ahead, scouting for suitable range, bed grounds, and water holes. I have asked Mr. Loving to take charge of this drive. While this trail will be as new to him as it is to me, he has taken the time to seek out and talk to several old-timers who drove the Butterfield stages half a dozen years ago. Mr. Loving, why don’t you tell us what you’ve learned? Give us some idea as to what lies ahead?”

  Since his arrival, Oliver Loving had said little, so it came as a total surprise—at least to McCaleb’s outfit—when he spoke with eloquence and conviction. He had a tablet on which he had made notes.

  “From here to the headwaters of the Middle Concho it’s an easy drive. Beyond that, for upward of a hundred miles, there’s no water. Not until we reach Horsehead Crossing, on the Pecos. We will cross the river, follow it to the Rockies and parallel them northward. While I am in charge of this drive, there will be no drinking. Any rider caught violating this rule is subject to dismissal. Any time, any place.”

  By the first gray light of dawn
the combined herds were strung out to the west and the Elm Creek range was behind them. It was an easy drive as they followed the ruts that were the trace of the Southern Overland Mail. From dawn to dusk they rarely saw Goodnight. He ranged far ahead, doubling back occasionally to signal the point riders the direction the herd should take.

  Slowly McCaleb’s outfit gained a grudging respect for Oliver Loving. The man never stayed in one position more than a few minutes, pounding into the mesquite after bunch-quitters, conversing with the point riders, then dropping back to the drag. Once he jogged his horse alongside the Indian’s, speaking to Goose in Spanish. Goose responded and Loving rode on. Reaching the North Concho, they crossed the divide to the Middle Concho, following it westward until it headed into the Staked Plains. They bedded down the herd at the headwaters of the Middle Concho. Ahead of them lay the deadliest, most treacherous stretch of the fledgling trail. Loving spoke to them at dawn.

  “Fill every canteen to the brim,” said Loving, “and let the herd drink its fill. We’ll spend the day here and move out at sunset, bedding them down late.”

  The point riders loped into the setting sun, the herd following. They drove until moonset, bedded down for the night and pushed on at dawn.

  Alkali dust rose in clouds. McCaleb pulled his hat brim lower, trying to lessen the glare of the merciless sun. His bandanna covered his nose and mouth, but when he touched his tongue to parched lips, there was still a bitter alkaline taste. Will and Brazos, their own faces half hidden by dusty bandannas, jogged their mounts along on either side of him.

  “For all Mr. Loving’s experience,” said Brazos, “this was a fool move. Driving makes cattle twice as thirsty. We should of drove them all night, bedded them down until dusk and drove all night again. They’re used to waterin’ every day, and by tonight they’ll be so thirsty they won’t bed down at all. By morning they’ll be ready to drop in their tracks, not only from thirst, but from millin’ around all night.”

  “I reckon you ought to talk to Charlie,” said Will. “With a mixed herd, we’ll be lucky to make fifteen miles a day. Closer to twelve, I’d say. If Charlie’s Mr. Loving knows what he’s talking about, and it’s near ’bouts a hundred miles from Middle Concho to the Pecos, we’re going to see the bones of this whole damn herd strung out along these alkali flats.”

  “I won’t have to talk to Charlie,” said McCaleb. “I’m reading it about the same as you. Nobody’s going to sleep tonight. By morning, I think even Mr. Loving will see how the stick floats.”

  All night the cattle walked and milled, bawling their misery, refusing to lie down. Emilio, Goodnight’s Mexican cook, kept the coffeepot full. Nobody slept. Wearily they moved out, the plaintive bawling of the cows a dirge.

  “My God,” said Brazos, “them cows walked far enough around in circles last night to have reached the river. They’d have been better off if we’d kept them moving; we’d be that much nearer water.”

  “I expect Charlie agrees with you,” said McCaleb. “Here he comes.”

  “I’m taking charge of the drive,” said Goodnight brusquely. “From here to the Pecos, no more camps. We’re going to lose some, but we’ll lose them all if we don’t get them to water. Push them as hard as you can.”

  By sundown canteens were dry and there wasn’t enough water left in the cook’s barrel even to make coffee. They plodded on, the cattle growing weaker, the riders half blinded by dust and a growing need for sleep. Lips split open from the heat and throats were tormented by thirst and alkali. Goodnight had the point riders holding back the leaders while the drag, with doubled lariats, swatted the weaker stumbling cattle forward. Despite all McCaleb’s threats and her good intentions, Rebecca cussed like a mule skinner. The bawling of the thirst-crazed cattle was a cacophony of misery. In a matter of hours their flanks had become drawn and gaunt and their ribs stuck out like roots in thin soil. As their heads sank lower, their very tongues dragged in the alkali dust. Their eyes seemed to glaze, sinking deeper into their sockets as death came ever closer. Wild-eyed and thirst-maddened, some of the beasts tried to gore anything within reach. They were cut out of the herd and left to die. Goodnight on his big black rode from point to flank to drag and back again. Oliver Loving had joined the drag riders, swatting the gaunt flanks of the bawling, stumbling cattle.

  At the end of the third day, although there was no relief from thirst, welcome nightfall brought relief from the heat. Three hours before dawn they reached Castle Canyon, twelve miles from the Pecos River. The wind shifted, touching their blistered faces with cooling dampness.

  “My God,” shouted McCaleb, “they’re going to run!”

  The lead cattle thought they smelled water and lit a shuck downcanyon, but the heroic efforts of the point riders and Goodnight himself stopped them at a bend in the canyon. Slowly they closed the gap, bringing up the rest of the herd. It was but a few minutes until first light.

  “Hold them here,” said Goodnight. “I’ve heard a lot about this river, none of it good. I want a look at it. I’ll fill the canteens.”

  When Goodnight returned and the riders had quenched their thirst, he spoke to Oliver Loving and then trotted his horse over to McCaleb.

  “I’m going to take some riders and drive the strongest part of the herd to the river. When they’ve been watered and put to grass, we’ll take the others, the weaker ones. There’s just one good place to ford the river. At the nearest point the banks are maybe a dozen feet high. If we take them all at once, we can’t control them. Once they smell water, they’ll take the shortest route to it and there’ll be hell to pay.”

  It made sense. McCaleb and Loving took most of the hands and blocked the canyon. Goodnight and his riders were successful in reaching the river, watering the cattle, and swimming them across. But the breeze, turning treacherous, brought the scent of water to the remaining thirsty longhorns and there was no holding them. Loving’s mount was gored and the body of the kicking, screaming horse was all that saved his life. Riders literally climbed the canyon walls. The maddened, stampeding herd performed exactly as Goodnight had feared. They headed for the nearest, most inaccessible point of the river, plunging off the steep bank and taking part of the horse remuda with them. McCaleb slowed his mount, allowed Oliver Loving to swing up behind him, and they rode madly after the other riders in pursuit of the stampeding herd.

  It was total, unbelievable chaos. Some of the cattle and several horses died in the fall. Some were hurt, while others, trapped under the bodies of those that followed, had drowned. A few stood in the water next to the high bank over which they had plunged, while others had been caught in the river’s quicksand. Goodnight was already in the water, astride his big black, uncoiling his lariat. McCaleb reined up, allowing Loving to dismount, and then sent his bay splashing into the river. Hour after hour they worked, pausing only long enough to down the hot coffee Emilio kept ready. Again and again they plunged into the treacherous river, trying to save as many of the animals as they could. When finally it was too dark to see, they slept in their wet clothes and boots, the piteous bawling of the trapped and dying cattle invading their dreams.

  The second day was even more terrible. Some of the cattle mired in quicksand had sunk deeper, sealing their doom. Others were simply beyond reach, trapped beneath unscalable banks with God only knew how much quicksand between them and their would-be rescuers. After a second day of almost fruitless toil, Goodnight made a decision.

  “I’ve had enough. We’ve been a week without rest, spent two days in this blasted river, and we’ll be lucky if some of us don’t die from the exposure. This is just another loss on top of what we’ve already had to swallow. We’ll rest here two or three days, tally our herds and horses and then move on.”

  Their tally revealed a loss of more than four hundred longhorns. Goodnight estimated that three fourths had died on the trail and the rest as a result of the disaster at Horsehead Crossing. They had lost a dozen horses, some with broken necks after their plunge into the Pe
cos and some with broken legs, shot in acts of mercy.

  “Total damage,” said Will, “is a hundred head and three of our horses.”

  “I expected worse,” said McCaleb. “Hardest on the cows, I reckon.”

  “Right,” said Brazos. “Nearly all she-stuff; always a problem with a mixed herd. Cows are weaker, got a shorter stride.”

  Goodnight rode into their camp and swung out of his saddle.

  “We’re having dried apple pie for supper tonight,” he said. “Everybody’s invited. Kind of celebration. We’ll be moving out at dawn. I’m anxious to get to Pope’s Crossing and put this godforsaken river behind us.”

  They spent an almost festive evening gathered around Goodnight’s chuck wagon. There were fried ham, beans, boiled potatoes, hot biscuits, coffee, and the promised dried apple pies. Oliver Loving’s outfit was last to show up, almost reluctantly filing past the chuck wagon and serving their plates. One grizzled old rider looked around, fastening his eyes on Goose.

  “I ain’t about t’ hunker down wi’ no damn Injun,” he growled.

  “Me neither,” vowed his companion.

  Goose ceased eating, aware that it had something to do with him. Expecting trouble, McCaleb got up, but Goodnight was ahead of him. He held his big hand palm out, bidding Goose to remain where he was. He then turned, facing not only the antagonists who had spoken, but their comrades as well.