The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “That was only our first mistake,” said Jed. “The second was goin’ to that whorehouse—Madame X’s place—on Market Street. They give us a drink on the house and robbed us!”

  “Loaded drinks,” said McCaleb.

  “My God, yes,” said Pen, “any one of ’em laced with enough stuff to have floored a tribe of Comanches.”

  “Time we got upstairs,” said Stoney, “we was so out of it we couldn’t even get our boots off. We was so near dead we didn’t come to our senses until this mornin’. They’d picked us clean as Christmas geese and throwed us in the alley.”

  “We gets ourselves together,” said Jed with a wry grin, “goes in there and expresses our dissatisfaction with the service.”

  “You wrecked the place,” said McCaleb.

  “Considerable,” said Pen, “but we had help. There was this big gent with the body and brains of a grizzly. A bouncer. He follered us upstairs and we throwed him back down. He come back and we throwed him down again. Ever’ time he went down, he took somethin’ with him. Most of the banister, last time.”

  “But that wasn’t the worst part,” said Stoney. “Somebody went and got the sheriff. He brung about sixteen big bastards with him, all of ’em swingin’ clubs and gun butts. They trapped us in an upstairs bedroom and it was the Alamo all over again. They nearly kilt us. Ever’time I shake my head, somethin’ rattles. My brains, mebbe.”

  “Can’t be that,” chuckled Jed. “You ain’t got any. None of us have.”

  “The damage is the big thing, then,” said McCaleb.

  “Didn’t break nothin’ that can’t be fixed,” said Pen, “unless it was that gent we throwed out an upstairs window.”

  “There’ll be fines and damages,” said McCaleb.

  “Won’t make no difference to us,” said Stoney, “if it’s five dollars or five hundred. They picked us so clean, we couldn’t raise enough amongst us to buy a sack of Durham.”

  “Suppose I could get you out of here and into a trail herd,” said McCaleb. “What would it be worth to you?”

  Clearly they believed he was hoorawing them. He saw resentment, and then anger, in their eyes. Without going into painful detail regarding his loss of Rebecca and his trouble with Hobbs, he told them about the herd. He explained their need for more riders, that there might be greater drives from Texas along the western trail to Wyoming, Montana, and beyond.

  “Mr. Benton McCaleb,” said Pen Rhodes, “I can’t speak for these other two jaybirds, but you get me out of here—give me a shot at this drive—and I will work the first year just for my grub. Not only that, but the next ugly bastard that comes after you with killin’ on his mind, he’ll have to step over my dead carcass to get to you.”

  “He’s talkin’ for us too,” said Stoney. “Trouble is, we sold our mounts in Ellsworth so’s we could ride the train. We got only our saddles and our saddlebags at the Vasquez House. We owe for a room we never slept in.”

  “I just lost a…a rider,” said McCaleb, “so there’ll be extra horses in the remuda. We’ll need more, though.”

  “Well, let’s don’t buy ’em here,” said Pen. “The way everything else’s turned sour in this town, they’ll likely cost a hundred dollars apiece. I hear in the Montana Territory they got wild ones runnin’ free.”

  Will Elliot had kept watch during the night, as McCaleb had requested. He showed up at the jail at eight o’clock and the sheriff brought him back to McCaleb’s cell. Monte had remembered and had sent McCaleb a clean shirt. There was a spark of recognition in Pendleton Rhodes’s eyes as he shook Will’s hand. Pen vaguely remembered Will’s family in the days before they had left Waco for Mineral Wells. Will brought the requested two hundred dollars in gold eagles; McCaleb hoped it would be enough to get the three young Texans released.

  Sheriff Simmons led them upstairs to the courtroom. There were no spectators. On one side of the room sat an expensively dressed woman who McCaleb suspected was Madame X. From Pen’s description, the huge man beside her had to be the grizzly-brained bouncer. McCaleb’s hearing, as he’d hoped, came before the court first. To his surprise, it seemed there was no question as to his exoneration.

  “Most of the town,” said Sheriff Simmons, “saw Mr. McCaleb take part in this fight with Dobie Hobbs, and everybody knows it was fair. Ever’body is also aware that Hobbs pushed it. McCaleb claims self-defense, and rightly so. From the evidence, he’s justified.”

  The judge was a little man named Hobart Short. His voice was low and raspy, like that of a crow, had a crow been endowed with speech. Glaring at McCaleb with what he considered his sternest judicial manner, he spoke.

  “The court accepts your plea of self-defense. However, I have been approached by certain prominent citizens who believe it is in the best interests of the town if you depart immediately.”

  McCaleb had little doubt as to the identity of at least one of those “prominent citizens” who wanted him out of town. Killing him had been the first option; that having failed, he would be banished as an undesirable. The only other business before the court was the disposition of the charges against the three cowboys. More and more, Pendleton Rhodes was reminding McCaleb of Will Elliot. Pen had the same wry, studious manner. He asked for and received permission to plead their case before the court.

  “We plead not guilty to being drunk and disorderly,” said Pen, “and not guilty to disturbing the peace. We’ll plead guilty to the destruction of private property and we’ll pay reasonable damages for dismissal of the other two charges.”

  “No!” shrieked Madame X. “I won’t accept that!”

  Pen sighed. “I reckon we’ll have to file charges of our own, then,” he said. “If we were drunk and disorderly, if we disturbed the peace, it was because our drinks were loaded, and while we were unconscious we were robbed. How can a man get drunk on just one drink, and why shouldn’t he get disorderly and disturb the peace when he’s been robbed? I reckon we busted up a right smart of the lady’s whorehouse while we was disorderly and disturbin’ the peace, and when we pay for that, we’re payin’ for bein’ disorderly and disturbin’ the peace. Now we ain’t gonna pay twice.”

  “Suppose,” snapped Judge Short, “the court does not accept your pleas and finds you guilty on all counts?”

  “Then we’ll pay no damages,” said Pen. “We’ll squat right here in your jail and eat our heads off, until the court is satisfied we’ve been punished enough.”

  The bluff was as logical as it was ridiculous, an argument only a Texas cowboy could have conceived. McCaleb and Will laughed, and even the sheriff looked amused. The sheriff consulted with Madame X and then with Judge Short. The judge cleared his throat.

  “In return for a guilty plea in the destruction of private property and compensation for damages in the amount of a hundred dollars, the court will dismiss the other charges.”

  When McCaleb had paid the money and they’d left the courthouse, he turned to Will.

  “Ride to camp and bring three of our extra horses. We’ll be in the café across the street from the Vasquez House.”

  They entered the café and McCaleb ordered coffee for them all. While his new riders talked, McCaleb listened. Or appeared to listen. When Will returned with the horses and had taken the new riders safely out of town, McCaleb had one last painful duty to perform. He had to go to Tremont House and say good-bye to Rebecca. His heart was heavy and he almost wished Hobbs’s shot had been dead center, that he had never risen from that dusty Denver street.

  Rebecca’s door was locked and when he knocked there was no response. Suddenly the door to the adjoining room opened and Jonathan Wickliffe stepped into the hall.

  “I had the doctor give her a sedative, McCaleb. She’s asleep. Don’t make it difficult for her. She’s made her choice. You’re finished.”

  CHAPTER 23

  With three new riders, a cook, and a chuck wagon—but without Rebecca—McCaleb headed the herd north toward Cheyenne. McCaleb, Will, Brazos, and Monte were quie
t, withdrawn. Goose was as inscrutable as ever. Jed, Stoney, and Pen—even Salty—sensed there was something they hadn’t been told. In time they would know, but for now they held their peace. Having gotten a late start, they bedded down the herd not more than a dozen miles north of Denver. It was Salty’s first meal as part of the outfit, and the old cook outdid himself. He was duly congratulated by all the riders. They sat around the fire after supper, drinking coffee and making feeble attempts to relieve the painful silence.

  “There’s eight of us now,” said Brazos. “How do you aim to set up night watches? Two riders, two hours apiece?”

  “I reckon,” said McCaleb.

  Pendleton Rhodes, part Indian himself, established a budding friendship with Goose. Pen spoke Spanish even more fluently than Brazos, and Monte gave up—at least temporarily—his long-standing position with Goose on night watch so that Goose and Pen might ride together. McCaleb suspected, however, that Monte needed to talk, and there was no better—or more private—time than while night-hawking. Jed and Stoney made a second team, Brazos and Will a third, while McCaleb and Monte comprised a fourth. When Brazos and Will had finished the third watch, McCaleb still hadn’t slept, and he doubted if Monte had. The kid needed somebody to talk to. McCaleb didn’t feel like talking, but he had no choice.

  “How could you just leave her there with that old bastard, McCaleb?”

  “You blessed her out and left her there too,” said McCaleb.

  “That’s different. She’s my sister; I can’t marry her. It still ain’t too late or too far to ride back, gut-shoot that old fool, hog-tie her and bring her with you.”

  “Kid,” said McCaleb wearily, “she’s a grown woman and she’s made a choice. If she don’t want me, then killin’ Wickliffe—or a hundred like him—won’t change a thing.”

  Their second day on the trail took them another twenty miles. While it was the last week in May, daytime in the high country was crisp and cool. Their winter coats and gloves were welcome when the sun dipped behind the Rockies.

  Rebecca groaned and lifted her head. Immediately she sank back to the pillow, half sick. Gradually it came back to her. McCaleb had been shot but he was alive. The doctor had come and given her something to make her sleep. She remembered nothing else. Flinging back the covers, Rebecca found she wore only a nightgown. Otherwise she was stark naked. Had Wickliffe undressed her? Involuntarily she flushed with shame. But why? she wondered. She wore the man’s ring. She rolled to the edge of the bed, got her feet on the floor and sat up. She was in dire need of the chamber pot, and when she leaned over to look for it, her head pounded all the more. What had they done to her?

  She took hold of a bedpost and forced herself to stand. Her legs were weak and trembly and it was a while before she trusted herself to walk. She pushed the curtain aside and found the sun low in the west. Dear God! She had slept all night and most of the day! How was McCaleb and why hadn’t he come to see her? Wildly, she began looking for something to wear. Damn him, what had he done with her clothes? In the closet she found only sheets and blankets. Still unsteady on her feet, she went to the door and looked out into the empty hall. She knocked softly on Wickliffe’s door, waited a moment and knocked again. Impatiently she tried the knob, found the door unlocked and stepped into the room. The bed had been made and on a night table next to it was a large bottle. Removing the cork, she sniffed the contents and it almost made her sick. It was the rest of that vile-tasting medicine the doctor had left for her. She knelt on shaky knees beside the bed and emptied the bottle into the chamber pot. Then she began looking for her clothes. The fancy gowns that Wickliffe had given her had been hung neatly in the closet. In a corner, amid old newspapers and other refuse, she found her old hat, run-over boots, and dusty trail clothes.

  Suddenly she heard voices in the hall, one of them Wickliffe’s. She found herself silently praying he wouldn’t look first into her room and find her gone. Strangely, the thought of having him discover her virtually naked in his room was repugnant to her. She slipped quickly into the closet and closed the door behind her. Once they had entered the room, she had no trouble hearing their every word. Wickliffe was furious.

  “I owe you nothing, Rudd. You botched the job; we have nothing more to discuss. Now get out!”

  “We got plenty to discuss, Mr. Wickliffe. I near ’bout got my head shot off, follerin’ your orders. You owe me! You says to me, Rudd, don’t shoot until Hobbs does, and what does Hobbs do? He don’t shoot, damn him, until that Texan has put a slug through my hat and shot off my collar button! If Hobbs hadn’t finally decided to draw, that third shot would of been the finish of me!”

  “You had the edge, shooting from cover,” snapped Wickliffe, “and you didn’t fire a shot. What were you doing while McCaleb was killing Hobbs?”

  “Savin’ my neck, you damn fool! That Texan knowed I was up there! He cut down on me before Hobbs ever drawed. When Hobbs finally drilled him, he still had his sights on me. You saw how he got up. Even hurt, he was just waitin’ for me to show, so’s he could cut me down.”

  “Rudd,” said Wickliffe, “you are dismissed. Fired. If you know what’s good for you, you will take your belongings and ride. I have informed the sheriff that Hobbs has friends. Suppose the sheriff learned that one of those friends—you—was the target of McCaleb’s first three shots?”

  “You double-crossin’ bastard,” snarled Rudd, “what if the newspapers was told that the territory’s next governor—you—had hired me and that loud-mouthed, no-account Hobbs to kill a man so’s you could have his woman?”

  Rebecca Nance listened in growing horror. Not consciously aware of what she was doing, she slipped the diamond from her finger and let it drop to the floor of the darkened closet. Slowly she sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands and wept silent tears of remorse and shame. Bitter tears for the hurt she had caused those she loved…

  When they bedded down the herd at the close of the third day, they were fifty miles north of Denver. When supper was over, without a word to anyone, McCaleb walked to a grassy knoll from which he could see the back trail. He would wait there, as he had at the close of the past two days, until the darkness ended his vigil. Every rider, even the newcomers, knew why he was there. Twilight, purple and majestic, had taken the land. Already it was too dark to see, but McCaleb lingered. Suddenly Goose got to his feet, keening the wind like a lobo.

  “Polvo,” he said, pointing south. “Polvo.”

  In a lope, Goose headed for the picketed horses. Not taking the time to saddle, using only a bridle, he sprang to the back of McCaleb’s favorite horse and kicked the animal into a canter. It was still light enough for the rest of the outfit to see the Indian reach McCaleb, dismount, and point to the south. They slapped their hats against their thighs, whooping like Comanches, as McCaleb sent the horse galloping down a back trail slowly vanishing in violet shadow.

  McCaleb could smell the dust that had alerted Goose, and the thump of his heart matched the pounding hoofs of the horse. If he lived a thousand years he would never forget his first sight of her galloping over the starlit high plains. Her familiar old hat rode her shoulders by its chin thong, her dark hair streaming in the wind. Run-over boots, Levi’s pants, and old blue flannel shirt completed her garb. He swept her out of her saddle, lost his balance and tumbled with her into the buffalo grass. She came down on top of him, and he hardly noticed the pain from his not-quite-healed wound. For a long time there was no sound except her heart-wrenching sobs and the crunch-crunch-crunch of their horses grazing nearby.

  “Bent,” she finally sobbed, “I have to tell—”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “But don’t you want to know?”

  “No,” he said. “You’re here; that’s enough. There’s something I want you to know. When she died, I…I couldn’t let her go. I wanted you to be her, and when I’d look at you, I’d see…her. But that day…when you left with him…something changed. I tried to think of her,
to forget you, but she was gone. Your face was all I could see, and I wanted it to be you. Part of me was buried with her, back there in Red River County. But that part of me, along with her, is a memory. You’re real, Rebecca Nance, and I have a place for you. If you want it.”

  “I don’t begrudge her that small part of you,” said Rebecca softly, “if I can have the rest. That’s how I’d want you to remember me, if I’d found you first…and left you like…she did.”

  “Come on,” he said, “and let’s head for camp. Salty can round you up a biscuit or two. I bought a chuck wagon, hired a cook and three more riders.” He chuckled. “You’re almighty hard to replace.”

  They rode in to the chuck wagon and the welcoming cries of the outfit. Except for Monte Nance. Even in the firelight McCaleb could see the chalk-white of his face and the stubborn set of his jaw. Was the kid going to let pride override his common sense and his heart? Would he spoil it for her? No! He dropped his coffee cup, ran to the girl and lifted her off the ground in a bear hug.

  April 28, 1868. They pointed the herd north at dawn, Texans all, bound for Wyoming Territory, for Montana Territory, along the Powder River, beyond the Yellowstone. They followed an uncharted route that history would someday brand The Western Trail.

  EPILOGUE

  Charles Goodnight was born in Macoupin County, Illinois, on March 5, 1836. He was brought to Milan County, Texas, in 1846 by his mother and stepfather. In 1857 Goodnight moved to Palo Pinto County, where he was a Texas Ranger and Indian scout. Thus prepared, he performed his Civil War service as scout and guide for a Frontier Regiment.

  Prior to his first trail drive to Fort Sumner, New Mexico Territory, in 1866, Goodnight is credited with having designed and built the first chuck wagon. Afterward, no outfit worth its salt took to the trail without a faithful copy of Goodnight’s original “chuck wagon.”