The Goodnight Trail Page 4

  McCaleb said nothing, just kicked his horse into a lope, leading out. Despite their apparent levity, an uneasiness rode with them. Someone was waiting, watching…

  The box canyon was as McCaleb had described it, and to their relief, the graze was virtually untouched. They found only deer, antelope, and cougar tracks on the banks of the stream created by the runoff from the big spring.

  “They don’t have to depend on the spring for water,” said McCaleb, “with the river so near. Let’s ride the length of the canyon.”

  They picketed their extra mounts and jogged a little more than a mile to the blind end, where the spring was. It was delightfully primitive. The box end of the canyon had eroded down to bare rock, and a miniature waterfall cascaded down its face to splash into a pool a dozen feet below. A forest of young willows shaded the pool, and through two feet of clear water they could see the gravel bottom. Some long-ago rock slide had left the area a jumble of boulders that had mossed over, and from a thin covering of accumulated soil, a profusion of wild violets had grown in purple majesty. Along one bank of the stream there were the fragile, fluted pink blooms of wild honeysuckle. From the stream bed itself, cattails raised their furry heads. Nothing broke the silence except the chug-a-rum of a bullfrog.

  “The Garden of Eden!” said Brazos. “What a shame to waste all this on a bunch of wild cows.”

  “Forget about the spring,” said McCaleb, “and take a look at the rest of it. This could change from the Garden of Eden to hell in the wink of an eye.”

  Will shuddered. “Ain’t it the truth? Put Injuns on them walls and we’re buzzard bait.”

  “We could move our camp every night,” said McCaleb, “since we have no pack mules, no wagon…”

  “And no supplies,” said Brazos.

  “There’s turkey tracks,” said Will. “Deer too. One of us can lay out here before daylight, along this spring branch or close to the river, and we’ll have meat.”

  “I just wish we’d brought about fifty pounds of coffee,” lamented Brazos. “I purely hate bein’ without coffee.”

  “We’ve got enough for two more weeks,” said Will. “The Comanches might have your scalp by then.”

  “If you two are done cheerin’ each other up,” said McCaleb, “let’s go have a closer look at the neck of this canyon and get started building us a gate. We’ve got a pick, a shovel, and an ax. One of us can cut posts and rails and the other two can dig post holes.”

  “Shakespeare was right,” said Will. “There’s small choice in rotten apples.”

  “That ain’t fit work for a cowboy,” said Brazos. “I’ll wrassle cows from can till can’t, but this is dirt farmer work. When Goodnight moves his herd out, we’ll still be workin’ on this damn fence.”

  “It goes with the territory,” said McCaleb cheerfully. “Before you get too het up over the fence, let’s walk downcanyon a ways. Done right, this can be more than just a fence to keep the herd in the canyon.”

  He paused fifty yards into the canyon, where the west wall reached a height of forty feet or more. High above their heads a lip of rock reached out over the stream, shading them from the westering sun.

  “Thirty feet from here,” said McCaleb, pointing back toward the mouth of the canyon, “is where we build our fence. Then we’re going to finish what nature started, and hollow out that wall for a shelter. We dig back just a few feet and we’ll have protection on three sides and plenty of water within reach. The only way the Comanches can get at us is from that east wall.”

  “If we’re going that far,” said Will, “let’s build us a breastwork along the front of the shelter, between us and the stream. We can start with logs and posts, fortifying them with the dirt we dig out of the canyon wall.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” said McCaleb. “I’m with you. Now convince our redheaded pardner it’s a good idea.”

  “Aw hell,” growled Brazos, “I hate the work but I like the idea.”

  “Good,” said McCaleb. “The Comanches will be after our scalps and our horses. A few days’ hard work now can save us grief later. When we’re done, we can post one man behind the barricade and cut down any Comanche coming near our fence, and with it in place, there’s no way they can come down the canyon walls and stampede our horses and cows.”

  “That’s exactly what they’d do,” said Will. “One bunch would pull down the fence while a second party would come down the walls and stampede the stock from upcanyon.”

  “First,” said McCaleb, “we’ll dig out the canyon wall and build a breastwork. There’s no point putting up a fence until we can protect it. Once we have our barricade in place, we can always picket the horses close enough to protect them, even without a fence. In the morning, since we have only one pick and one shovel, two of us will begin work on the canyon wall while the other rides downriver and scouts the area. We could use another canyon like this one. I’ll stay and dig; one of you can scout.”

  “This territory’s more familiar to you than to us,” said Will. “I’d as soon stay here and dig; there’ll be a blessed plenty for all of us.”

  “I’ll dig too,” said Brazos. “At least we’ll be in the shade. When you get back, that ax will be all yours.”

  The following morning, McCaleb rode half a dozen miles farther downriver without encountering anybody or anything except more unbranded cows. In places, the sandy banks of the Trinity had been eroded, allowing the water to eddy out into rock-bottomed pools. One such pool, in a shaded bend of the river, tempted him. It appeared to be about waist deep, with head-high bushes and underbrush offering seclusion. McCaleb dismounted, half-hitched his horse’s reins to a young oak, pulled off his boots and slipped out of his dusty, sweaty clothes. He regretted having no soap; it was one of the many things they lacked. He ducked his head, splashing about, enjoying the cool water. His horse watched him with interest. Suddenly the animal raised its head, listening. McCaleb stiffened. His pistol belt with his Colt hung from his saddle horn. The horse relaxed, but for McCaleb the magic was gone, replaced by the caution that had kept him alive on a turbulent frontier. He waded out of the water and, without waiting to dry, got into his sweaty shirt and Levi’s. He had on one boot and was reaching for the other, when he froze. She stood looking at him through the branches of a young cotton-wood, a sparkle in her green eyes and an impish half smile on her lips.

  “You’d be almost handsome, McCaleb, if you weren’t a bullying bastard.”

  “How long…have you been…there?”

  “I was here when you rode up. I dared not say anything; you’re so da—darn quick with a pistol, I was afraid you’d shoot me.”

  “You…you…” He was unable to look at her. So flaming red was his face, neck, and ears, he might have been a child again, suffering from his first sunburn. She laughed.

  Painfully close to him, she sat down on a rock outcropping, crossing her shapely legs. She wore Indian moccasins, a tan blouse, and a pale yellow divided skirt.

  “I wanted to see what kind of man you really are, McCaleb; without a pistol in your hand, without your anger…”

  “And without my clothes,” he snarled. “Who are you to judge me? You swear like a mule skinner, you’re as brash as a St. Louis whore, and you couldn’t be a lady if…if…”

  He paused, recalling the clawing, spitting wildcat she could become when her temper got the best of her. But something happened. She turned from him, burying her pale face in her hands. And she cried. They were great, heart-wrenching sobs that frightened McCaleb’s horse, causing him to backstep in alarm. McCaleb, feeling like the heartless brute she’d branded him, sat there in helpless silence. Her tears disarmed him as her fury never could have.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no right—”

  “You had every right,” she wailed, turning to him, tears welling from her eyes.

  Finally she rubbed her reddened eyes with the heels of her hands and, except for an occasional sniffle, became calm.

  “I
always make a fool of myself. If I don’t do it one way, I do it another. I shamed you before your friends and left them thinking I’m…I’m what you just…called me.”

  “Ma’am,” said McCaleb desperately, “if we’re going to talk, then for God’s sake, let’s talk about somethin’ else. Do you have a name?”

  “Rebecca. But Daddy’s always called me ‘Beck.’ I think he’s ashamed of me. My mama died when I was just five, when Monte was born. I’ve had to watch out for him, and when you…you…”

  “He drew on me, Rebecca. The boy needs to learn the cold, hard facts of life—that if you pull a gun, you can die. I could have killed him; I hit what I shoot at. It’s kept me alive.”

  “He was killing mad at first; that’s what fired me up, why I came after you. You left me sitting in the river, afoot. When I finally got back to the house, Daddy had the decency to tell me that Monte pulled first, that you could have shot him dead. He said he’d never seen a man draw as fast as you, that you’re not the kind to miss. Monte was just what you called him: a hotheaded young fool. He wanted to go looking for you; I had to shame him into admitting he was in the wrong, that he owed you his life.”

  McCaleb said nothing.

  “I have a confession to make, McCaleb. If you want to call me brash and unladylike, I guess I deserve it, but I came looking for you. I saw you head downriver, taking your time, and I got ahead of you.”

  “How did you know I—”

  “I didn’t know you’d do what…you did. Like I told you, after what I did—scratching, kicking, and cussing—I didn’t think you’d much want to see me. With daddy’s da—darned Indians on the prowl, I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t shoot me if I startled you. I didn’t feel safe until you took off your gun.”

  “And my clothes,” said McCaleb, half angry again.

  “Damn it, McCaleb, put that out of your mind!” She stood up, hands on her slender hips. “Do you reckon I’m going to ride the length of the Trinity, telling every cow, every Indian, and every brush-popping cowboy that I saw the mighty McCaleb with his pants off, taking a bath?”

  “I reckon not,” said McCaleb, relenting only a little. “Why’d you come looking for me?”

  “I wanted to thank you for not killing my brother. Once I realized you could have—and that it was his fault—that he provoked you…”

  “Is that all?”

  “No.”

  He said nothing, waiting. She came a step closer, her eyes pleading.

  “When you leave here, McCaleb, take me with you.”

  “Take you where? We’re joining Charles Goodnight’s trail drive north to Denver. It’s no place for a girl; there’ll be outlaws, Indians…”

  “They won’t be any worse than the outlaws and Indians around here. I’m not asking you to take me along for nothing, McCaleb. I’ll help you with your roundup. I can rope and ride. Who do you think roped and branded the cows wearing the Box N brand? Me and Monte. Daddy’s never lifted anything heavier than a shot glass since I was born. Couldn’t you see that? Why, back in Missouri, when him and Uncle Walt was rustling mules—”

  “Rebecca,” said McCaleb, exasperated, “thanks to your Daddy’s foolish arrangement with these heathen Comanches, we’ll likely have to fight them before we’re done. How long do you think York Nance is going to sit back and let you work with us when he’s against us? I ain’t denyin’ we could use some help, but you’re in no position to offer it.”

  “McCaleb,” she said, again in tears, “just listen to me. Just please let me have my say. If you still won’t help me, then I won’t bother you ever again.”

  He waited for her to subdue her tears.

  “My mama was from Virginia, McCaleb, and she was a real lady. She came from a good family. Daddy’s from Kentucky, one of five boys. The rest of them have already been shot or hung. Mama’s family disowned her when she ran off and married Daddy. He killed her, McCaleb, as surely as if he’d put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. He dragged her from one town to another, usually just one jump ahead of the law. She was so tired, she never recovered after Monte was born. When she died, although I was only five, I took her place. For twenty-one years I’ve been Daddy’s housekeeper and cook. I begged and stole so we could eat. Monte, as soon as he was old enough, helped me swipe roasting ears from neighbors’ cornfields and grub potatoes in the dark. York Nance has made his way in the world by cheating and hurting others. Three years ago we left St. Joe, Missouri, in the middle of the night, me and Monte driving the wagon while Daddy hid under a sheet. Do you know why? Because Daddy and my Uncle Walt—Daddy’s last surviving brother—had been caught rustling mules. While the lynch mob went after Uncle Walt, we sneaked out of town and came here. How can a man sink lower than that, McCaleb, stealing his neighbor’s stock?”

  “By selling rotgut whiskey to heathen Indians,” said McCaleb.

  “Can’t you see that’s why I must get away from here? Someday they’ll turn on him. Dear God, McCaleb, I don’t want to die here in this sandy river bottom with those filthy Indians mutilating me!”

  “Does Nance have that much control over these Comanches, that they’d come after our scalps if he asked them to?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what he claims. Last fall, four riders were ambushed and killed, and they were roping brakes cattle, like you plan to do. I don’t know if Daddy had anything to do with it or not.”

  “Rebecca, you’re asking me for help, but you’re not leveling with me. This ‘dollar-a-head’ foolishness Nance is bandying about just doesn’t ring true. Even if he could provide protection from the Comanches, we don’t have the money to pay, and neither does anybody else. The whole purpose of gathering and driving a herd to a northern market is to put some honest-to-God money in our empty pockets. Having us ambushed and killed—even if Nance can do it—won’t fatten his wallet. He can’t afford to keep Indians in whiskey in return for ambushing and killing; they’ve been doing that for centuries, without any help from the white man’s poison.”

  “You’re right, McCaleb. If I tell you all of it, will you help me?”

  “If Will and Brazos agree, you can throw your herd in with ours. I’d not expect anybody to work a gather for nothing.”

  “Daddy takes horses in trade for whiskey,” said the girl, “and he sells them for whatever he can get. Sometimes that’s as little as five dollars a head. But it’s with no bill of sale and no questions asked.”

  “Who’s he selling to?”

  “A beady-eyed little Frenchman from Shreveport. All I’ve ever heard him called is Pierre. He almost didn’t take the last bunch of horses. Him and Daddy had an awful cuss fight. Pierre said all twelve horses had South Texas brands. When Daddy first started trading with Blue Feather’s tribe, they were stealing horses in Mexico. Daddy said Texans didn’t give a damn if the Comanches stole every horse in Mexico, but it made a big difference when those same Indians stole Texas horses. Brands don’t mean anything to Indians; they steal from Texans, Mexicans, and each other.”

  “That’s the God’s truth,” said McCaleb.

  “The Comanches are demanding more and more whiskey for fewer horses, and Daddy refuses to reduce his price. He’s threatening to increase his price if they keep bringing him horses with Texas brands. These Indians show up half drunk and mean; except for a few Spanish words, I don’t know what they’re saying. I can’t understand their words, but I can tell from their shouting and screeching, they’re angry. They’re going to kill him, McCaleb. I can see it coming.”

  “You know where the box canyon is, with the spring, about three miles west of that big bend of the Trinity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be there in the morning. Early. I’ll want you to repeat to Will and Brazos most of what you’ve told me about Nance’s receiving and selling stolen horses. Right now, I’m not nearly as concerned that he’ll send the Comanches after us as I am that they’ll get drunk enough and mad enough to kill him, and then come after us on their own.”
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br />   CHAPTER 4

  After Rebecca Nance had ridden away, McCaleb scouted the brakes for the rest of the day without discovering anything except the former campsite of the unfortunate riders the girl had told him about. There was the ashes and charred wood of an old fire, the morbid, bleaching skeleton of a horse, and four grassed-over graves. He took a different route returning to the canyon holding pen, riding the east bank of the Trinity. There were numerous cow tracks, but there were other tracks as well. Tracks of unshod horses…

  When he reached the canyon, he found Will and Brazos stripped to the waist, ducking their heads in the stream. They had dug an enormous amount of dirt from beneath the canyon overhang.

  “We need those logs and posts in place for the breastwork,” said Will. “The dirt’s in the way that we’ve already dug. You’d best roll out about daylight, grab that ax and get busy. Did you find anything?”

  “Somebody to help us with the gather,” said McCaleb.

  “I hope he ain’t Injun,” said Brazos. “What’s his name?”

  “Rebecca,” said McCaleb with a straight face.

  Will slapped his leg and whooped, startling McCaleb’s horse.

  “Aw, he’s bullyraggin’ us,” said Brazos. “He ain’t limpin’, his nose ain’t bleedin’, and there’s no claw marks on his face.”

  “This here thing is sure enough gettin’ serious,” said Will solemnly, “and there ain’t a preacher within two hundred miles.”

  McCaleb could only laugh with them, ill concealing his embarrassment. “Enough,” he finally said. “Let’s get supper out of the way, and then we’ve got some talking to do.”

  When they had eaten, McCaleb told them of his meeting with Rebecca Nance. Without mentioning the embarrassing first minutes, he shared with them her reasons for wanting to join the gather. He sensed their reluctance.

  “I can’t imagine that fire-eyed filly bein’ scared of anything,” said Brazos. “She’ll have to convince me.”