The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Thanks,” said McCaleb. He sneaked a look at Rebecca, but the humor was lost on her. She continued staring glumly into the fire.

  The storm blew itself out sometime during the second night, but drifts were deep and they had to pick their way carefully. McCaleb took the lead, breaking trail for the others. Lead ropes must be kept taut, lest the led animals wander out of the narrow, beaten trail into drifts. Once, looking back, he caught Rebecca’s rope slack.

  “Keep the lead ropes tight,” he shouted.

  Suddenly there was a commotion behind him and he reined up. Rebecca’s mule had bogged down in a drift and stood there braying its misery. McCaleb said nothing; just handed his reins and lead rope to Goose and dismounted.

  The mule couldn’t, or wouldn’t, move. Digging away the snow, they found the animal’s left foreleg trapped in a narrow crevice. Forward movement had snapped the bone just above the fetlock.

  “Damn it all!” Monte roared, turning to the still-mounted Rebecca. “Have you been so tooken with that slick-talkin’ buzzard that you ain’t even got sense enough to lead a mule?”

  The others were silent; he had expressed their sentiments perfectly. While westerners didn’t hold with reviling a woman, neither did they condone the neglect or abuse of an animal. It was a peculiar situation. McCaleb’s options were limited.

  “Let’s unload the mule,” he said.

  When the mule had been unloaded, McCaleb drew his Colt and shot the suffering animal between the eyes. Rebecca flinched, biting her lower lip. Without a word, the others began helping McCaleb break down the extra goods into five extra bundles. Pointedly ignoring Rebecca Nance, each of them tied a fifth of the dead mule’s burden behind their saddles. The extra load would slow them even more, but McCaleb refused to push the horses, even if it meant another night on the trail.

  They reached Apishapa Canyon after dark. In their absence, Goodnight’s men had built a second cabin, a log bunkhouse, and shelter for the horses and mules. It was a gala evening as the cowboys excitedly gathered around to receive their eagerly awaited goods. McCaleb had brought a couple dozen copies of the Rocky Mountain News, including some back issues.

  “Well,” inquired Goodnight, “are you selling to Wickliffe?”

  “I doubt it,” said McCaleb. “He said he’d ride down and look at them after Christmas.”

  Less than a week before Christmas, a mixed herd of twenty-two hundred head came up the trail from Fort Sumner. Willard Burleson and three of his outfit rode into Apishapa Canyon. Burleson was one of half a dozen strapped Texas cattlemen who had witnessed Goodnight’s success and hoped to emulate it.

  “Surprised you got over Raton Pass,” said Goodnight. “Snow was deep enough here; must’ve been somethin’ else in the mountains.”

  “Was,” said Burleson. “We set over yonder t’other side of Wootton’s toll road and waited her out. Injuns had already stampeded an’ stole some of our cows. Couldn’t afford t’ lose no more.”

  “Where you aim to go from here?” asked McCaleb.

  “Jist far enough t’ find a canyon the equal of this, where the snow don’t cover up th’ graze. Come spring, I’ll cast about for a buyer.”

  “If the price is right,” said McCaleb, “I might be interested in some of the she-stuff and the under-two-year-olds.”

  It was something McCaleb knew he had yet to discuss with the rest of the outfit, and that he had to do so before Wickliffe arrived. He had little enthusiasm for discussing the future of the outfit with Rebecca moody and on the prod, yet he could hardly pursue what he had in mind without including her. He would wait a few more days. Perhaps the Christmas festivities would put the girl in a better frame of mind.

  The day after Christmas, McCaleb told the outfit what he had in mind and that he wanted to buy some of Burleson’s she-stuff and under-two-year-olds.

  “From what I’ve read in the Denver paper,” he said, “there’s the makings of a cattle empire in Wyoming. There’s a railroad from Cheyenne to Omaha to Chicago. Once we’ve sold the steers we have, why not grab ourselves a piece of Wyoming range and build us another herd?”

  “You mean our own ranch, then,” said Monte. “Like Goodnight’s doing.”

  “That’s it,” said McCaleb. “From there, we can trail to Montana and beyond. We’ll need some more riders.”

  Their enthusiasm was all McCaleb had hoped for and more. Except for Rebecca. She remained silent, lost to him.

  The year 1868 blew in just a few jumps ahead of a blizzard that subsided only to make way for another. Goodnight was restless because his return to Texas was being delayed.

  “We could make it on horses,” he lamented, “but with all this snow, we’d never get the chuck wagon over the mountains and through Raton Pass.”

  There was little to do in the secluded canyon except break the ice for the cattle to drink. Even Monte and Goose began to tire of the never-ending poker games, leaving them to Bill and Charlie Wilson, the Vasquez boys, and a few others. Rebecca kept to herself.

  January came and went without a break in the weather. February brought more of the same, each new snowfall adding to the frozen mass that remained. McCaleb was thankful for the miserable weather. Once it broke, he had little doubt that Jonathan Wickliffe would ride in. Taking advantage of the quiet before the probable storm, he met with Burleson and persuaded the old rancher to sell part of his mixed herd.

  “Four hunnert an’ seventy-five head, McCaleb. She-stuff and th’ less’n two-year-olds. I reckon Goodnight’s thinkin’ straight, goin’ back t’ Texas for another herd. ’Fore long, this trail’ll be as glutted as th’ trails to Kansas. I aim t’ leave my boys with the rest of this herd an’ hightail it back to Texas with Charlie. I’ll use your gold to buy me fifteen hunnert big steers ‘fore th’ price goes up.”

  While McCaleb’s outfit seemed satisfied with the buy, it posed somewhat of a problem. McCaleb waited until Will brought it up.

  “That’s twenty-four hundred head; a mixed herd means slower trailing. I doubt we got enough riders to handle ’em any farther than Denver.”

  “I expect to sell our main herd in Denver,” said McCaleb. “If we don’t, then I expect you’re right; we’ll need some more riders.”

  “Wickliffe might make us an offer,” said Brazos.

  “It’d better be a good one,” said McCaleb. “In a town the size of Denver, we’ll play him against other buyers.”

  Surprisingly, Rebecca spoke. “If he makes anything like a decent offer, McCaleb, sell.”

  There was a shocked silence. Monte responded bitterly. “Why don’t we just tie red ribbons around the necks of the cows and give them to him? I don’t like that slick-tongued bastard; I wouldn’t sell to him at fifty dollars a head.”

  The weather finally broke during the first week in March, and for the first time since Christmas, they saw the sun. Goodnight, four of his riders, and Burleson prepared to leave for Texas before yet another blizzard descended on them. It was an emotional parting, especially for McCaleb’s outfit. They well knew, amid the dangers and uncertainties of the frontier, it might be the last time they’d see the generous, big bear of a man, Charles Goodnight. Rebecca briefly came to life, throwing her arms around him and shedding some tears. Goodnight had warm words for them all. He saved Goose until last, bringing something from beneath his heavy coat. McCaleb saw it was the silver-plated Colt—or one just like it—that Goose had once dropped in the dust at Goodnight’s feet. Both men remembered. Goose’s expression didn’t change. His obsidian eyes met Goodnight’s as the big man extended the Colt, butt first. The Indian took the pistol, deftly slipping its muzzle in the waist of his buckskins. Slowly he extended his hand—his left hand—and Goodnight took it. Not a word was spoken. Goodnight mounted his big black, waiting for his riders to say their farewells.

  Emilio and Donato Vasquez spoke to Goose in Spanish. Bill and Charlie Wilson, hot-tempered to a fault, shook hands all around and seemed genuinely sorrowful. Never once had Bill Wi
lson so much as spoken to Rebecca, so far as McCaleb recalled, but he did now. The girl flamed scarlet to the collar of her shirt. McCaleb would have given a handful of double eagles to know what One-Armed Bill had said.

  Emilio led out with the chuck wagon. Goodnight, Donato Vasquez, and Bill and Charlie Wilson swung in behind it. McCaleb’s outfit and the rest of the Goodnight riders watched in silence as Goodnight, his accompanying riders and the chuck wagon, grew smaller and smaller. Finally they were lost to distance.

  Two days after Goodnight’s departure, Jonathan Wickliffe, followed by Dobie Hobbs on horseback, drove his buckboard into Apishapa Canyon. McCaleb greeted him as courteously as he could. While Wickliffe responded in kind, an underlying smugness belied his sincerity. He seemed pleased by some impending event that he expected McCaleb to find proportionally distasteful. Without being asked, he stepped down from the buckboard. He swept off his hat, bowing elaborately and kissing Rebecca’s hand. As furiously as she was blushing, McCaleb noted she didn’t withdraw her hand. The arrival of two strangers had aroused the curiosity of the others, and every rider in the canyon stood there gawking. Wickliffe had his back to them all, but McCaleb forced him to take his eyes off Rebecca and turn around.

  “Men,” said McCaleb, “this is Jonathan Wickliffe and Dobie Hobbs, of the Crown W ranch. They’re here, I believe, to have a look at our herd.”

  “Among other things,” said Wickliffe. “I’d also like to meet Goodnight, since we’re virtually neighbors.”

  “He’s left for Texas,” said McCaleb brusquely. “This might be a good time for you to look at the herd, if you’re still interested.”

  “Your hospitality leaves something to be desired, McCaleb. But perhaps you’re right; if Goodnight’s gone, I doubt there’s any reason for me to tarry here.”

  With that, he turned to Rebecca.

  “I trust you’re familiar enough with the herd to show me around.”

  Without waiting for her consent, he hoisted her to the seat of the buckboard. He then took the reins—which he had half-hitched to the brake handle—and swung up beside her. He flicked the reins and they swept off down the canyon. McCaleb hoped he didn’t look as much the fool as he felt. But that wasn’t the worst of it. He cut his eyes to the still-mounted Hobbs, who chuckled as he looked after the buckboard. Gloating, he turned his insolent grin on McCaleb and said exactly the wrong thing.

  “Nice little piece of baggage you had, bucko. Must’ve been fun to trail with, but that’s done. Mr. Wickliffe’s used to gettin’ what he wants. Don’t take it personal if she comes back with her britches on wrong side out.”

  McCaleb launched himself like a lobo wolf, sweeping the burly segundo out of the saddle and to the half-frozen ground. McCaleb was on top, but Hobbs quickly reversed the position. Straddling McCaleb, Hobbs began beating his head against the hard ground. With all his strength, McCaleb bowed his lower body backward, then upward, locking his legs around Hobbs’s neck. He flung the man flat on his back, but Hobbs was cat-quick. He got McCaleb with a thrust of his boots, partially in the lower belly, partially in the groin. McCaleb gave in to the force, hoping to lessen the devastating effect. Now on his feet, McCaleb stumbled backward, trying to avoid Hobbs. He needed a few precious seconds in which he might overcome the sickening throb in his belly. But Hobbs was up and at him. The man had the strength of a bull, the adroitness and speed of a cat.

  Hobbs charged and they clinched. Hobbs tried the groin gouge again, but McCaleb beat him to it. Involuntarily, Hobbs bent from the force of the blow, and McCaleb, stepping back, brought his right practically from the ground. The resulting thunk had the satisfying sound of an ax biting deep into a log. Numbing pain shot up McCaleb’s arm all the way to his shoulder. Hobbs, his eyes glazed, slammed against the log wall of the barn. He bounced away, falling on his face. But he wasn’t finished. He struggled, getting to his hands and knees. Bleeding from nose and mouth, he lifted his head to glare at McCaleb.

  “You ready,” gasped McCaleb, “to mount and ride out? While you can?”

  “Make me…you Texas bastard. If you’re man enough.”

  He lunged, and McCaleb was ready. He brought up his right knee, caught Hobbs in the face, and Hobbs flopped on his back. McCaleb felt like he’d dislocated his knee. Unbelievably, Hobbs had his forearms against the ground, trying to get up. Seeing that he couldn’t, he fumbled at his twin holsters. His left-hand Colt was missing, but he curled his fingers around the butt of the other. But the toe of McCaleb’s boot caught his wrist and the Colt went flying. McCaleb caught Hobbs by the front of his shirt and heard the back of it rip. He flung the burly foreman against the log wall of the barn and was killing the man with his fists when they pulled him away. Hobbs just crumpled like an empty feed sack and didn’t move again.

  McCaleb leaned against the log wall of the barn, breathing like a ruptured bellows. He felt the back of his head and found it matted with blood, bits of gravel having lacerated his scalp. His belly still ached, his knee throbbed, and his arms felt like lead, hurting all the way to his shoulders. But the worst was yet to come.

  “They’re comin’ back,” said one of the riders.

  Wickliffe drew the buckboard up next to the barn. Rebecca’s face went white when she saw the inert body of Dobie Hobbs. Wickliffe spoke to McCaleb.

  “You should have killed him, my friend, because when he’s able, he’ll kill you.”

  “Better men have tried,” said McCaleb.

  “I’ll pay you ten dollars a head for your cattle, McCaleb. Delivered to the Denver stockyards.”

  “Why you skinflint old bastard,” shouted Monte Nance. “I’d shoot every damn cow before I’d see you get them. At any price.”

  “Is he speaking for the outfit, McCaleb?” Wickliffe asked.

  “He is,” gritted McCaleb. “Seein’ as how we got nothing else to talk about, pile what’s left of that backshootin’ coyote in your wagon and get out of here.”

  “I have nothing more to say to you,” said Wickliffe pleasantly, “but I believe Rebecca does. Tell him, my dear.”

  She kept her head down, unable to look him—or any of them—in the eye. When she finally spoke, McCaleb couldn’t hear her.

  “Speak up!” snapped McCaleb. “If you’re goin’ to talk when this old man pulls the string, then do it loud enough to be heard!”

  “All right,” snapped Rebecca, her temper flaring. “Jonathan has invited me to ride back to Denver with him. He wants to show me the town. I’ll stay at the Tremont House until you get there with the herd.”

  “So that’s what you’ve had on your mind,” said McCaleb. “You and your daddy cooked up this little trip in December, didn’t you? That’s what’s been eatin’ at you, givin’ you the whim-whams. You haven’t been quite sure how to break the news, have you?”

  “You made up my mind, McCaleb! You! Just because you don’t like Jonathan, you picked a fight with Dobie Hobbs and beat the man half to death! Maybe it’s time I got away from this drive for a while, where men don’t behave like…like animals. I’ll see you in Denver, and where we go from there depends on you!”

  Grim and defiant, she said no more. Wickliffe got down and managed to get the unconscious Hobbs into the back of the buckboard. Brazos brought Hobbs’s horse. Monte walked to the buckboard, put one booted foot on the wheel hub and glared at Rebecca.

  “ ‘Be good, Monte,’ ” he simpered. “ ‘Stay away from cards, Monte. Leave the women alone, Monte. Don’t go to hell like your daddy did, Monte. Leave the whiskey alone, Monte.’ You’re a fine one, tellin’ me what to do with my life! You’re goin’ off to live in a hotel with a silly old man with enough wrinkles on his horns to be your daddy. A suck-egg dude with lace on his drawers—”

  She hit him so hard he would have fallen if he hadn’t caught the upper side of the wagon wheel. McCaleb thought at first that Monte was going to return the blow, but the kid fooled him. Without a word he turned and walked away. By then Wickliffe had climbed to the seat. F
licking the reins, he sent the team trotting away to the north. To Denver. McCaleb thought Rebecca was crying, but he couldn’t be sure, since he could see only her back. Perhaps it was only the jolting of the buckboard that caused her shoulders to shake.

  McCaleb had all the sympathy he could have asked for. To a man, they had heard Dobie Hobbs degrade Rebecca Nance and then they had witnessed Hobbs, beaten in a fair fight, go for his gun. Even the grizzled old Texans from Oliver Loving’s original outfit—standoffish and shy—believed McCaleb had done what any man worthy of the term would have done. But their understanding and acceptance did nothing to soothe the ache in McCaleb’s heart. She had promised to see him in Denver, but what effect might the town—with its nightlife—have on her? He had promised Goodnight he would remain here in Apishapa Canyon until April 1, but could he? The drive to Denver would take two weeks. With Denver as a backdrop, he felt himself pitted against Wickliffe’s charm, position, and money. He would have five weeks to isolate Rebecca, to disenchant her with McCaleb and the life she’d been living. While he feared the chasm might become so wide and so deep it could never again be bridged, he refused to start the herd for Denver any sooner than he had planned. His own outfit seemed to understand his dilemma. Monte Nance became his staunchest ally, flatly refusing to begin the drive until April 1. Since that strange night in Santa Fe, in Condor’s saloon, the kid had done a lot of growing up. He was fast becoming a bueno hombre.

  “I got me a malo feelin’ about Denver,” said Brazos. “Wickliffe knows we’re goin’ there with the herd. If there’s all that much need for beef, then how can he make us an offer he knows we’ll refuse? Why, we ought to be able to ask—and get—three times what he offered us for them big steers!”

  “You should’ve read those newspapers we brought from Denver,” said Will. “Mr. Wickliffe makes some big tracks; there’s talk that he’ll be the next governor of the territory. When he says the word, I’d not be surprised if everybody in Denver jumps. He has powerful friends; I expect he’ll arrange it so there’ll be no better offer than his.”