The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Sorry boys. The Indian stays. Help yourselves to all the grub you want, but if you’re not comfortable with everybody here, then you’ll have to eat elsewhere. Mr. Loving has his rules; this is one of mine.”

  “Consider it my rule as well,” said Loving, stepping out of the shadows. “Yance, you and Jake go on back to the herd and take your supper with you. If any of the rest of you share their feelings, I’d suggest you join them.”

  Loving then spoke to Goose in rapid Spanish and the Indian resumed his eating. The rest of Loving’s riders served their plates, kneeling down to eat. McCaleb heaved a sigh when the meal was over and the outfits drifted back to their respective areas. Monte and Goose had second watch from the McCaleb outfit, along with Goodnight riders Wes Sheek and Charlie Wilson. McCaleb only hoped this unpleasant incident had served as a warning to Oliver Loving. It would be a mistake putting either of the Indian-haters on the same watch with Goose.

  There was trouble during the Apache’s watch, but it didn’t come from the expected quarter nor was it directed at Goose. Suddenly the night came alive with gunfire and the pounding of horse hooves. McCaleb rolled out, dressed but for his boots, grabbing his rifle. But there was no moon, and in the dim starlight he couldn’t tell friend from foe. One cow bawled, then another. Finally a rolling thunder of firing split the night, followed by the pounding of hooves as the herd stampeded. Wearily, McCaleb returned to his blankets, feeling around until he found his boots. The firing had ceased, leaving only the distant drumming of hoofs. McCaleb cocked the Henry; somebody was coming.

  “Don’t shoot! It’s me. Monte!”

  “McCaleb here. What in tarnation happened? Where’s Goose?”

  “I don’t rightly know. They shot my horse from under me. I think Goose got one of them. He piled off his horse and onto one of theirs, taking the rider with him. I saw ’em go down and then the herd started to run.”

  “McCaleb,” bawled Goodnight, “can you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Come on to the wagon.”

  McCaleb headed for the wagon, Monte limping along with him. Goodnight lighted a lantern, hanging it on a hook near the top of the chuck box. In its feeble glow McCaleb saw a body stretched out on the ground. Seeing the shoulder-length black hair, he at first thought it was Goose. Drawing closer, he saw the man had a moustache and the swarthy brown skin of a Mexican. He also was dead, having had his throat cut. Goose was very much alive, holding his bloody bowie. Three of Loving’s riders were there, including Yance and Jake. Their eyes were on the formidable knife in the Indian’s hand.

  “Mexican bandits,” said Goodnight. “Thanks to Goose, we have one of them. Unfortunately, they successfully stampeded maybe half the herd. They hit the tag end and the cows are headed downriver, back toward Horsehead. The rest of the second watch—two of my riders and two of Loving’s—managed to drive a wedge between the rest of the herd and the bandits. Your outfit bore the brunt of the attack, Bent. Where’s Brazos and Will? And Rebecca?”

  “Here,” said Brazos from the darkness. “Nobody hurt except Will. A horn raked him across the backside and he won’t set easy in the saddle for a while.”

  “I’m ridin’ at first light,” snarled Will. “I’ll trail the bastards all the way to Juarez and pull it down on their heads, one brick at a time.”

  “We’ll not have to ride that far to find them,” said Goodnight. “If they run true to form, they’ll gather as many of our cattle as they can and try to dicker with us to buy them back.”

  “I’ve never been one to dicker for something that was already mine,” said McCaleb. “We’ll buy them back, all right, but not with gold or silver. We’ll use .44-caliber hot lead.”

  Goose rode out as soon as it was light enough to see and returned in less than an hour. He went to the chuck wagon for his breakfast while Brazos related the facts as best he could from what the Indian had told him.

  “Eleven of ’em,” said Brazos, “and they’ve got near ’bouts two hundred head. Ours. Moving slow, Goose says.”

  “Good,” said McCaleb. “We won’t have any trouble catching up to them. Brazos, you and Will get ready to ride. Soon as Goose eats, we’ll move out.”

  “Hey,” shouted Monte, “I’m part of this outfit!”

  “So am I,” said Rebecca. “Four of you against eleven of them? Come on, McCaleb!”

  “That’s right,” said Goodnight. “We have enough riders to match them, man-for-man. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “I don’t aim to,” said McCaleb, “but it was my outfit they cut down on, and we owe them. Goose is ready; saddle up, all of you. Let’s ride!”

  The trail was clear enough to have been followed at night if there had been a moon. Goose rode at a fast lope and they fell in behind him, single file. McCaleb turned, lifting his hand to Goodnight.

  “Don’t wait for us, Charlie,” he shouted. “Move ’em out. We’ll catch up to you.”

  “They’re seriously outnumbered,” said Oliver Loving.

  “I know,” said Goodnight. “Those bandits are in big trouble, but it’s their own fault. They got three of the saltiest ex-Rangers in Texas on their trail.”

  Loving cut his eyes to Goodnight, expecting to see the big man smiling at his own joke, but Goodnight was serious. Dead serious.

  McCaleb’s outfit reached a point along the Pecos where the ground was flint-hard. Goose reined up, pointing southeast. McCaleb studied the ground in that direction. The trail was faint but plain. Five of the eleven had left the herd, but why? Had they fallen back, planning to move up from behind, trapping their pursuers in a deadly cross-fire? Suddenly, far to the east, McCaleb saw dust rising in the early morning sun. A dust devil? No. It continued in a straight line. Who, or what, was causing that? Certainly not those five Mexican bandits; he didn’t doubt they were just waiting for the right time to fall in behind their pursuers. Well, he didn’t aim to wait until they closed the jaws of their obvious trap. He turned his horse toward the river, kicking it into a lope, getting back to his outfit. They had seen the cloud of dust to the east.

  “Don’t know what that is,” said McCaleb. “We’ll face it when it gets here. Five of those Mex rustlers have fallen back, likely planning to move up behind us when the time’s right. But we’re going to catch up to those with the herd, dispose of them, and then turn back to meet the others.”

  He led out at a gallop and the others followed.

  “Ride them down,” shouted McCaleb. “Shoot to kill!”

  With an almost military precision, rifles were drawn from saddle boots and shells jacked into firing chambers. They galloped in a six-rider skirmish line, a dozen feet apart, their mounts even. The sun was less than an hour high, but every rider’s shirt was dark with patches of sweat, as were the flanks of their horses. McCaleb looked back, expecting a telltale cloud of dust, but saw none except their own. What had become of those five riders who had left the herd? If back-shooting had been their intention, where were they? The dust cloud to the east had grown, but distance and shimmering heat waves prevented them from seeing who or what had caused it.

  “Whoever that is,” shouted Brazos, “they’re headin’ for the crossing.”

  Horsehead Crossing was less than a mile distant. These outlaws with their stolen cattle were about to run headlong into whoever or whatever was rapidly approaching the crossing from the east. Slugs began kicking up dust a dozen feet ahead of their horses before they heard the gunfire. They were still out of range. McCaleb reined up.

  “They’re forted up behind those rock outcroppings where the river bank begins to rise,” he said. “They must be holding the cattle somewhere near the crossing. We could flank them on the east, work our way south and come up behind them, but I reckon we’d best not be in any hurry. Whoever’s been raising all that dust to the east is at the crossing by now. Comanches maybe. Let’s hold our fire until we know who they are and where they stand in regards to these Mex rustlers.”

 
They sat their horses, waiting. No more shots were fired. Finally, around the bend of the river, skirting the rock-strewn, mesquite-shrouded knoll where the rustlers had taken refuge, came the strangest procession any of them had ever beheld. First there were eleven riders, obviously Mexican, hands held shoulder high. Behind them lumbered three canvas-covered, mule-drawn wagons. There were two outriders for each wagon, each armed with a rifle. They all rode slightly to the rear of the outlaw band, three on each side. They all wore Mexican garb, including the high-crowned, wide-brimmed sombreros. So did the two men on the box of the first wagon, but only the driver was Mexican. The other wore cowman’s boots, blue serge pants, white shirt, and red suspenders. He had an ample belly, a black beard, piercing blue eyes, and a Henry rifle across his knees. McCaleb kneed his horse far enough to the side to read the sign on the lead wagon’s canvas. In foot-high red letters, ovaled like a rainbow, he read: JUDGE ROY BEAN. Beneath that, in a straight black line, were smaller letters reading: The Law West of the Pecos.

  McCaleb’s outfit stood its ground, rifles cocked and ready. Finally, Red Suspenders loosed a stream of tobacco juice and spoke.

  “Who might you be?”

  “Benton McCaleb. Last night a bunch of ladinos stampeded and stole some of our herd. We’re fair-to-middlin’ sure it was this bunch standin’ here in front of your wagon. How do you figure into this?”

  “Judge Roy Bean, late of San Antone. Run into five of these gents, all ridin’ hell-bent-fer-election an’ waggin’ rifles. Reckoned I’d better take ’em into custody ’fore they hurt theirselves er somebody else. Seen all th’ dust foggin’ up near th’ crossin’ an’ a couple hunnert cows millin’ about. Then we come up on half a dozen more of these fellers layin’ up there in th’ mesquite shootin’ their rifles an’ actin’ downright hostile. So I brung th’ lot of ’em along. Reckoned I’d git your side. Felipe Mendoza is segundo fer this outfit; he claims they aimed t’ sell these cows to you folks. He further claims you took th’ stock, wouldn’t pay fer ’em, an’ that you was tryin’ t’ kill him an’ his men. Says they was just defendin’ theirselves.”

  “That’s a lie!” shouted Rebecca. “We’ve driven these cows all the way from the Trinity River brakes and spent two days fishing them out of quicksand in this wretched Pecos River!”

  “Six of us and eleven of them,” said McCaleb. “Do we look fierce enough or foolish enough to buck those odds? If you looked at some of those cows, you saw at least three trail brands, not one of them Mexican. Now take a look at the horses this bunch is forking. Nothing but Mex brands. Don’t you reckon that’s a mite unusual?”

  “Like I said,” replied Judge Bean, “wanted t’ git your side of it. Now that we got all th’ evidence, we can conduct th’ trial. Mendoza, you an’ your boys face th’ bench.”

  None of the eleven moved. Judge Bean’s rifle spoke once and Mendoza’s hat was snatched from his head. Without further delay the eleven turned their horses to face the wagon. Mendoza rode a big Bayo Coyote with silver-mounted saddle. He wore a short red jacket trimmed with gold braid and a buscadero rig, each holster tied down. The sun glinted off silver-roweled spurs.

  “Mendoza,” said Judge Bean, “it strikes me a mite odd that them cows—like Mr. McCaleb pointed out—is all wearin’ trail brands. U.S. of A. brands. Ever’ horse in your outfit is got Mexican brands. Are you Texans or Mexicans?”

  “We are Texican, señor,” said Mendoza.

  “McCaleb’s sayin’ these cows—vacas—come from right here in Texas. Where are you sayin’ they come from?”

  “They are Mejicano.”

  “Then how come they’re wearin’ Texas brands?”

  “Because they’re part of our herd,” interrupted McCaleb.

  “You’re out of order, McCaleb,” snapped Judge Bean, pounding his fist against the wagon seat.

  He continued. “Mendoza, there ain’t nothin’ separatin’ Texas from Mexico ceptin’ a spring branch, so I ain’t sure if yer Mexicans er Texans. I got only yer word, so t’ be fair, I’m givin’ you th’ benefit of th’ doubt. Considerin’ you boys is Texans, it’s my duty t’ inform you that all Texas is under th’ Reconstruction Act of 1865. Leavin’ th’ state is agin th’ law. Since you been t’ Mexico after them cows, I’m imposin’ a fine. As unreconstructed Texans, I’m finin’ you however many cows is in that bunch at th’ crossing. Th’ Reconstruction Act also forbids you t’ carry firearms; that’s even more serious, ’cause you already broke th’ law onct. I’m takin’ yer guns in th’ name of th’ U.S. of A.”

  Mendoza went for his Colt, but the slug plowed harmlessly into the dirt as the shot from Judge Bean’s Henry rifle caught him in the chest. He toppled backward off his horse and lay motionless on the ground.

  “I’m holdin’ him in contempt of court,” said Judge Bean, “an’ finin’ him a horse an’ saddle. Next man pullin’ a gun gits th’ same sentence and th’ same fine. Now shuck them guns! Unlatch yer belts an’ drop th’ whole rig. Keep them hands away from th’ gun butts!”

  To a man, they unfastened their belts and dropped them carefully to the ground. But Judge Bean wasn’t finished with them.

  “Now th’ saddle guns,” he said. “Let ’em down easy, butt first.”

  More reluctantly than ever, rifles were withdrawn from saddle boots and lowered to the ground. Judge Bean lifted the muzzle of the Henry, pointing south.

  “Pronto,” he said.

  The ten trotted their horses in the direction Judge Bean had pointed, not looking back. Following a command from Bean in Spanish, the outriders dismounted and began gathering the abandoned pistols and rifles. One of them stripped the dead Mendoza’s buscadero rig and then went through the Mexican’s pockets.

  “Now that we’re rid of them,” said McCaleb, “what are we expected to pay the ‘court’ for our cattle?”

  “Nothin’,” said Bean, “less’n yer of a mind t’ pay th’ court costs.”

  “You’ve got a horse, a silver-mounted saddle, and four hundred dollars’ worth of weapons,” said McCaleb. “That should be enough.”

  He kicked the bay into a lope and the others followed, riding to Horsehead Crossing to recover their longhorns.

  “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Rebecca. “Can he do that—hold court out on the prairie, impose fines and shoot people?”

  “He can,” said McCaleb, “and he does. I’ve heard of him. On the western frontier a man who can talk like the law, act like the law, and then back it all up with a gun, he can be the law.”

  “I ain’t sure I like his methods,” said Will. “We should of took that bunch of thieves to the nearest cottonwood and stretched their necks. That always cures ’em of rustling.”

  “I’m satisfied,” said McCaleb. “We didn’t lose any of our herd, and if Bean hadn’t taken that outfit by surprise, we’d have burnt an almighty lot of powder rootin’ ’em out. Besides, they might’ve shot some of us. I reckon he didn’t do them any favors, turning ’em loose unarmed.”

  Brazos chuckled. “Amen. This is Comanche country.”

  They found the stampeded remnant of their herd grazing peacefully, and by mid-afternoon McCaleb’s outfit had caught up with the drive. Goodnight and Loving rode out to meet them. They seemed a bit surprised at the quick recovery without apparent injury to any of the outfit.

  “Have any trouble?” inquired Goodnight.

  “No,” said McCaleb with a straight face. “We took ’em to court and they lost.”

  CHAPTER 17

  From Horsehead to Pope’s Crossing—just south of the Texas-New Mexico line—they saw not a single living thing except rattlesnakes. It was the most desolate country McCaleb had ever seen, and though they were always within sight of the Pecos, there wasn’t always access to the water. With the treachery of the river constantly in mind, Goodnight ranged far ahead, seeking bed grounds where the banks were low enough to safely water the herd. Finding such a location, he must then be sure the river wasn’t alive with
quicksand.

  Without serious incident they forded the Pecos again at Pope’s Crossing and continued north, crossing the Delaware and Black River. They kept wary eyes on the Guadalupe Mountains to the west, a favorite rendezvous of the Mescalero Apaches. They drove past Comanche Springs, bedding down the herd on a lush, wooded range the Spanish had named Bosque Grande—the big timbers. On the first day of July, near sunset, they bedded the herd on a ridge overlooking Fort Sumner.

  “That’s a fort? Looks more like an Indian camp with a stockade in the middle,” said Brazos.

  “From what I’ve been told,” said Oliver Loving, “that’s about the extent of it. Established in ’sixty-three, mostly through Kit Carson’s efforts. I don’t understand how a plainsman with Carson’s savvy could have been so shortsighted. It’s possibly the world’s worst location for a reservation. Even if Indians had any desire to farm—which they don’t—this soil is unsuited to anything except buffalo grass. As for the Indians themselves, I’m not sure that’s Carson’s fault. It sounds like a typical Washington blunder. There’s close to nine thousand Indians here, a mix of Navajo and Mescalero Apache. Their tribal customs are as different as night and day. While that would have been problem enough, the tribes are bitter enemies of long standing. From the very start there’s been fighting and killings. Last fall, the government agent was run out of here, literally riding for his life. He had been in cahoots with a crooked beef contractor, and the two of them had been falsifying purchase orders. The cattle they were buying to feed the Indians existed only on paper, and those scoundrels were pocketing the money. The Mescaleros jumped the reservation and were lured back with the assignment of a new Indian agent and the promise of honest beef rations.”

  Since the herd was within sight of the fort, only half a dozen riders were left on watch. The others—with the exception of Goodnight, Loving, and McCaleb—would wander about, observing Sumner’s limited attractions. Wisely, McCaleb had left Goose with the herd. He had no idea how the Indian might react in the midst of nine thousand Mescaleros and Navajos, or how they might react to Goose. Monte and Rebecca Nance had decided to go with Will and Brazos.