The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Bill,” Loving whispered weakly. “Bill.”

  Bill Wilson eased over next to the wounded man. The Comanches were out there, content to wait.

  “Bill,” said Loving, “I’m a goner. I want my family in Texas to know—want Charlie to know—what happened. Leave me here. Ease into the water and drift downriver…until you’re free. Charlie—and the herd—can’t be more than forty miles south….”

  Bill Wilson stripped off everything except his drawers, undershirt, and hat. He left all the weapons with Loving except for Loving’s Henry rifle; its metallic cartridges wouldn’t be harmed by the water of the Pecos. When the moon set, he crept into the water and allowed the current to carry him downstream. He believed he could last the day and a half it would take him to reach the herd. It was just as well that neither he or Loving knew of Goodnight’s two-day rest; that help, instead of being just forty miles away, was closer to a hundred.

  “Hombre,” said Goose, pointing.

  McCaleb and Goodnight shaded their eyes, barely able to discern the apparition partially obscured by shimmering heat waves and distance.

  “My God,” exclaimed Goodnight, “that’s Bill Wilson! What’s left of him! He’s alone. I was afraid of this!”

  He kicked his big black into a gallop, followed by McCaleb and Goose. Wilson’s drawers and undershirt—and even his skin—was red with sediment of the Pecos. He staggered and fell before they reached him. Unable to speak, he lay in the sand, extending his hand like a drowning man begging rescue. His eyes were bloodshot, touched with madness, his feet swollen and bloody. The few words he spoke were unintelligible. They lifted him onto Goodnight’s horse and took him to the chuck wagon. He could swallow only a little food and water, and it was an hour before he was able to tell them his story. Goodnight rode out at sundown, taking five men with him.

  From Wilson’s description, Goodnight found the scene of the attack, but no sign of Oliver Loving. But the wounded man, fearful that Bill Wilson had been captured or killed, had slipped into the red waters of the Pecos under the cover of darkness. Found on the bank of the river by a trio of Mexicans, he offered them $250 to take him the 150 miles to Fort Sumner.

  McCaleb continued north with the herd. The recuperating Bill Wilson still rode in the chuck wagon. Goodnight, not knowing what else to do, had rejoined the herd at Comanche Springs. So it was Goodnight, scouting ahead, who encountered the rider from Fort Sumner.

  “Oliver Loving’s at Fort Sumner,” he said, “and he’s hurt; wants to see you just as quick as you c’n git there.”

  Taking a saddle mule for endurance, Goodnight rode to Fort Sumner, only stopping to water and rest the mule. He found Loving up and about, but with his wounded arm unhealed. The post doctor had been called to Santa Fe, but Loving refused to allow a young doctor, newly arrived from the East, to amputate the limb. Goodnight sent a rider to Las Vegas for another doctor, but two days before the doctor arrived, a crisis arose. Loving’s arm had to be amputated to save his life. The young post doctor performed the operation, but it was too late. The tied-off artery broke and Loving went into shock. His condition worsened….

  The herd reached Fort Sumner and Goodnight rode out to meet it. Fully recovered, Bill Wilson rode point. Goodnight rode back to drag, and McCaleb’s outfit jogged their horses to meet him.

  “I’ll be going on to Colorado,” said Goodnight. “There’ll be no more beef contracts. I’ll join you on the trail, as soon as I’ve fulfilled my promise to Mr. Loving.”

  Oliver Loving lived for twenty-two days, rational to the end. He died on September 25, 1867….

  September 26, the day after Oliver Loving was buried at Fort Sumner, Charles Goodnight set out to join the herd. Five days later, at sundown, he rode into camp. They were a hundred miles north of the Canadian River, in northeastern New Mexico. Goodnight called his own outfit, McCaleb’s outfit, and Loving’s riders together.

  “We’re pushing on to Colorado,” he said, “and those of you who rode for Mr. Loving will be paid just as though he were alive and with us. I aim to start a ranch in southern Colorado and I’ll need some of you to ride for me there. You’ll see to my affairs while I am away. When the worst of winter’s behind us—the snow—I’m riding back to Texas, and I’ll want some of you with me. We’ll build another herd and drive it north in the spring. We’ll be stopping at Fort Sumner long enough to exhume Mr. Loving’s body. I have promised to take him back to Texas and see that he’s buried in the churchyard with his kin.”

  It was a somber group that gathered around the supper fire. The first of October was upon them and a chill wind came off the Rockies, carrying the bite of winter. Tomorrow the drive would swing to the northwest and Raton Pass, the gateway between New Mexico and Colorado.

  “My God,” said Rebecca, “that’s spooky. Digging up a dead body and hauling it a thousand miles.”

  “That’s Charles Goodnight,” said McCaleb. “He’d do the same for any one of us, even if it was ten thousand miles. He’s a man who keeps his promises, whatever it costs him.”

  “It’s going feel almighty strange,” said Will, “when he pulls out for Texas, leavin’ us in Colorado. We’ve trailed with him so long, it’ll seem like we ought to be ridin’ with him.”

  Brazos chuckled. “Charlie has that effect on people. That’s why I’d never be pardners with him. He’s such a force, I’d find myself lookin’ to him for permission before I’d fork my horse. I’d be just another cowboy, trapped in his shadow and never seein’ the sun.”

  “I knew Will was a philosopher disguised as a cowboy,” said McCaleb, “but I’m surprised at you. That sounded like something Will might have said. Have you coyotes been readin’ the same books?”

  “He’s pretty well roped and branded my concept of Charlie,” said Will. “He’s too much his own man to follow anybody’s lead. Even with Mr. Loving alive and pursuing them, I doubt those New Mexican beef contracts would’ve held Charlie’s interest for long. He’s hankering for Colorado range.”

  “We know what Goodnight’s going to do,” said Rebecca, “but what are we going to do? Will we start a ranch in Colorado?”

  “Why don’t we wait until we get there,” said McCaleb. “These steers are trail-thin. We’ll loose them on some good range, fatten them until spring, and then decide what to do with them.”

  “I want to go on to Denver,” said Monte. “I’d like to ride the train to St. Louis and take a steamboat south to New Orleans. Goose can go with me. We’ll be a pair of malo hombres; riverboat gamblers.”

  “Over my dead body!” shouted Rebecca.

  Monte swatted his hat against the ground and laughed delightedly.

  Still ahead of the snow, they drove the herd through the high mesa country, pointed it up the Raton Range, and crossed over the divide into Colorado. There they came upon “Uncle Dick” Wootton’s toll station. It was a brazen but legal toll road established by Wootton in 1866. He had applied for and received charters a year earlier from the legislatures of New Mexico and Colorado to build a toll road through the pass of the range dividing the territories. It was virtually the only pass used by mountain travelers from north to south. Wootton demanded and received a toll of ten cents per animal for passage and use of the twenty-seven mile road.

  “I see that all the thieves in these parts aren’t Comancheros and Indians,” growled Goodnight. “This is thievery pure and simple, Wootton. We won’t pay to use this pass.”

  Wootton chuckled. “You got no choice. There ain’t no other pass, an’ I got this ’un sewed up legal and proper. Now pay an’ move on!”

  They paid, Goodnight vowing it would be the first and last time. Amid Wootton’s laughter, Goodnight swore he would find another pass and blaze another trail. They moved on toward Trinidad.

  McCaleb reined up, struck with the beauty and majesty of Colorado. From Raton Pass he could see far to the north. To the east the mountains leveled down to a vast plateau that stretched, mile upon mile, in virgin grasslands
to the faraway valley of the Arkansas. To the west, the Rockies marched majestically northward with Spanish Peaks, the Greenhorns, Pike’s Peak, and a procession of others. There were streams breaking from the north side of the Raton Range, flowing north and northwest, eating their way through the plateau to the Arkansas. It was one of these river canyons that Goodnight chose for the first cattle ranch in southern Colorado.

  Apishapa Canyon was more than twenty miles long, a stream running the length of it, lined with box elders. While the canyon wasn’t very deep, it was virtually inaccessible except at the ends. The graze appeared fresh and untouched.

  “This is grand, Charlie,” said McCaleb. “For you. But I reckon we’d better cut out our stuff and move north a ways. No point in our steers bein’ loosed on your graze when there’s so much more, just for the taking.”

  “I’d take it as a favor if you’d stick around until spring,” said Goodnight. “Right after the first of the year, weather permitting, I aim to start back to Texas. I’ll leave as many men here as I can, but this is new country, and I’d like to have you here as long as you’ll stay. I’m going to throw up a cabin and some outbuildings, and the more hands we have, the sooner we can have shelter.”

  “We’ll stick around until April first, then,” said McCaleb. “My outfit has an urge to see Denver, and I’m wondering if cattle prices there might not be the best yet.”

  “Since you’ll have the winter ahead of you,” said Goodnight, “and your herd will be safe here, I want to pass on some information to you that I got from Mr. Loving before he passed on. Almost due north of here, maybe a hundred and fifty miles, is the biggest, wealthiest ranch in Colorado. It’s owned, as far as anybody knows, by a Britisher named Jonathan Wickliffe. His brand is the Crown W, and Mr. Loving said he’s rich enough to buy every cow in Texas. His spread begins at the western border of Kansas, following the Republican River more than a hundred miles into eastern Colorado. Why don’t you ride up there before the weather gets too bad and talk to him?”

  “I just might do that,” said McCaleb.

  The first week in December, the weather was fair but cold. Goodnight approached McCaleb with a suggestion.

  “We’re pretty well dug in here, and the weather seems to be holding. Why don’t you ride to the Crown W and palaver with Wickliffe? I’m afraid it’s going to be a long, dull winter. You can take your outfit with you.”

  “That won’t be fair to your riders,” said McCaleb.

  Goodnight chuckled. “That’s what you think. We’re taking advantage of you. Christmas is coming up and I aim to throw a big feed for everybody. Most of my boys are needin’ things like tobacco, some sweets, and something to read. I want you to take half a dozen mules with you and come back through Denver. I’ll provide you with a list of what we need, and the gold.”

  “You got a deal,” said McCaleb.

  McCaleb got no argument from the outfit. After the dangers and hardships of the trail, the tranquility of the canyon—with shelter, regular meals, and enough sleep—was heaven on earth. And profoundly boring.

  “Let’s go to Denver first,” said Monte. “Me and Goose can stay there and mosey around while the rest of you ride to Wickliffe’s place.”

  “I’m having second thoughts about all of us leaving here at the same time,” said McCaleb. “Maybe I ought to leave a pair of malo hombres behind; you and Goose, for instance.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” said Monte. “We’d best go to Wickliffe’s first and come back through Denver.”

  They rode out, each of them leading a pack mule. In addition to Goodnight’s list, they had a list of individual needs from the riders. There were requests for everything from chewing or smoking tobacco to long-handled underwear. Facing winter in the secluded canyon, the riders hungered for something to read, even a mail order catalog.

  McCaleb estimated they were still a day’s ride south of the Wickliffe spread when they began seeing Crown W cattle. It was an unusual brand, the points of the W shaping the upper portion of the “Crown.” When they reached the Republican, found a shallow place and forded it, three riders trotted their horses out of an elder thicket. The lead rider wasn’t range-dressed. He wore solid black trousers, a sheepskin-lined coat, and polished black cowman’s boots. A wide-brimmed, high-crowned black hat was tilted over his eyes. He was astride a big gray horse, and his saddle had silver trappings. He reined up, sweeping back his coat with a flourish, revealing a Colt on each hip. His companions wore Levi’s, run-over boots, and older, worn sheepskin jackets which remained buttoned. Their weapons, if they had any, were concealed.

  “You’re on Crown W range,” said the buscadera-belted rider. “Why?”

  “We’re here to see Wickliffe,” said McCaleb.

  “You don’t see Mister Wickliffe unless you first satisfy me as to your reason. Who are you and what do you want?”

  McCaleb strove to hold his temper.

  “We have two thousand head of Texas cows. I’m Benton McCaleb and this is my outfit. Now who are you?”

  “Dobie Hobbs, the segundo for the Crown W. Keep ridin’ the way you’re goin’ we get to the house, I’ll see if Mr. Wickliffe will talk to you.”

  It was a hostile move. Hobbs and his companions intended to bring up the rear. Goose might not have understood the words, but he picked up the arrogance and hostility of the voice. He remained where he was, his eyes on Hobbs. The foreman rode closer.

  “I said ride on!”

  Brazos lifted his hand, and without a word, Goose kicked his horse into a lope.

  The ranch house was impressive. It was log; long, low, rambling. The windows were real glass. Half a mile west was a similar building that might have been a bunkhouse. There were two barns, each with a six-rail-high corral fence. Hobbs ignored western custom and didn’t invite them to dismount. He and his companions swung out of their saddles and Hobbs walked to the house alone. The other two riders stood beside their horses rolling quirlys. McCaleb and his outfit might not have existed. They watched as Hobbs pounded on the door and apparently received permission to enter. When he returned, he was accompanied by a slender man who didn’t wear western clothes. McCaleb had little knowledge of or appreciation for eastern attire, but he knew wealth when he saw it. Wickliffe’s suit was expensive brown tweed and his ruffle-fronted white shirt sported diamond links at the cuffs. While he wore no tie, there was a yellow scarf about his throat that looked like pure silk. His hair was light sorrel with prominent streaks of gray at the temples. Although neatly cut, it extended to his collar and swept down over his ears. His thin face was clean-shaven and he had deep-set brown eyes. There was a diamond ring on his left hand, and his perfectly manicured nails were the longest McCaleb had ever seen on a man. Wickliffe wore no gun. It was highly unusual for the time and place.

  “Step down,” said Wickliffe, “and come in.”

  Enormous logs hewn flat on one side created steps that led to the long front porch on which Wickliffe stood. Hitching rails on each side of the wide steps extended all the way to the end of the porch. McCaleb swung out of his saddle, the others following. They half-hitched the reins of their horses and the lead ropes of the pack mules to the rail and turned to the steps. Dobie Hobbs stood behind Wickliffe, his hard blue eyes hostile. McCaleb mounted the steps, ignored Hobbs and extended his hand to Wickliffe.

  “I’m Benton McCaleb and this is my outfit. We have two thousand head of Texas steers at the Charles Goodnight ranch, in Apishapa Canyon, in the valley of the Arkansas. Would you be interested in all or part of them?”

  “Perhaps,” said Wickliffe. He spoke to McCaleb, but his eyes were on Rebecca.

  McCaleb found himself standing alone. The decidedly cool reception had kept the rest of the outfit in the yard. Wickliffe didn’t seem to take any real interest in anything that had been said. Dobie Hobbs stepped forward, confronting McCaleb. As hostile and arrogant as ever, he spoke.

  “The rest of you can come in, but the Indian stays in the yard, so�
��s we can keep an eye on him.”

  “He’s part of my outfit,” said McCaleb coldly, “and if he’s not welcome, than neither am I.”

  Hobbs took another step and his jaw collided with McCaleb’s right. It set the foreman back on his heels, slamming him against the wall. He hung there, glassy-eyed.

  “Dobie,” snapped Wickliffe, “you may go. Return to your duties at once.” He then turned to McCaleb, a bit more friendliness in his eyes. “Dobie’s prejudices aren’t my own, Mr. McCaleb. You and your outfit may come in; each of you are welcome, including the Indian.”

  He swung the massive front door open and McCaleb beckoned to the others. But Goose remained with his horse, his eyes on the departing Dobie Hobbs. They followed Wickliffe down the long hall to a living room with a fireplace of such proportions it occupied most of one wall. A fire blazed cheerfully. Lamps hung from a beamed ceiling, Navajo rugs covered the wooden floor, and paintings adorned the walls. The furniture, some of it antique, had been brought from the East. But at the far end of the long room stood the most striking object of all. It was a grand piano, its polished surface glowing in the flickering firelight. Rebecca approached it reverently. So fascinated was she that Wickliffe spoke from directly behind her before she was aware of his presence.

  “Do you play?”

  “N-No,” she stammered. “I was admiring it. It’s so…beautiful.”

  “So are you,” he murmured, so that the others couldn’t hear.

  “Do you…do you play?” she asked, moving away.

  “No,” he said. “My wife did. Once.”

  The others, amazed at the interplay between the two, said nothing. The tension was broken when an Indian woman brought in a silver tea service, placing it on a low table situated near the fireplace.

  “Please be seated,” said Wickliffe. “I could offer you tea, but most cattlemen prefer coffee. So do I.”

  McCaleb introduced the rest of the outfit. He didn’t like the way Wickliffe’s eyes lighted when Rebecca’s name was mentioned. He was further disturbed by the fact the girl hadn’t taken her eyes off the rancher since he had spoken to her.