The Goodnight Trail Page 8

  He said no more, allowing them to digest this information, awaiting their response.

  “We’ve been lucky gettin’ by with just one of us to protect the camp,” said Will. “If the Comanches showed up in three groups, like before, they’d overrun the place. Just one of us, even with a Colt in each hand, couldn’t defend it.”

  “That’s why only three of us are going into the brakes,” said McCaleb. “Monte and Rebecca will be here behind this breastwork, ready to cut down any Comanches with devilment on their minds.”

  “Why me?” howled Monte. “Ain’t I good enough to rope cows?”

  “McCaleb,” said Rebecca, her temper flaring, “I told you—”

  “Stop it!” said McCaleb, his voice cold and brittle. “I’m going to level with both of you. There’s more at stake than roping cows. I’m talking about Indian savvy. Will, Brazos and me, we’re Texas-born. We grew up on the frontier and spent the past four years with the Rangers, fighting Indians. I won’t say we’re perfect, but we’re never all wrong at the same time. I’d bet my boots and saddle there’s not an Indian alive that can get past the three of us. That’s all of us will go; two will rope longhorns while the third scouts the area for Comanches.”

  He said no more. Rebecca remained silent. Monte came around first.

  “I reckon that makes sense,” he said. “If we get just two cows a day, we’ll still hit a thousand head before we move out.”

  “We can shoot for that,” said McCaleb. “One more thing. When we move the stock to and from open range, only four of us will go. We’ve been pushing our luck. I hate to have just one of us guarding the camp under any circumstances, but there’s the necessity of getting the herd out to graze and then moving them back into the canyon.”

  “Sooner or later,” said Rebecca, “I knew you’d figure a way to leave me here behind this wall during the grazing and the cow hunt. If I’m not good enough to pull my weight, why did you take me in?”

  “Because you agreed to follow my orders,” said McCaleb. “The order I’ve just given you and Monte is for the good of the outfit. It’s not your fault you’re not a born-and-bred Texan with Indian savvy, but it is your fault when I’ve explained the reason for an order and you choose to disobey or just ignore it.”

  He hadn’t become angry and shouted at her. He hadn’t even raised his voice. She felt like a disobedient child and fought down the urge to say something spiteful in retaliation. She surprised herself as well as McCaleb.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I do owe you a lot for taking me and Monte in. I’ll do whatever you…want me to do.”

  After that, Rebecca made a conscious effort to improve her attitude toward McCaleb, and it was a rare day she didn’t treat them to Dutch oven biscuits.

  As the wild longhorns became less numerous, they rode downriver as far as ten miles. Since they didn’t know for sure where the Indian camp was, they became more watchful than ever. Despite the added risk of greater distance, never did they ride in with less than two cows. Sometimes there were more. Their method was simple. The lead rider got his loop over the cow’s horns while his partner roped the hind legs. While the second rider held his mount steady, the lead rider moved forward, throwing the longhorn off balance and forcing the cow to the ground. With both horses holding, catch ropes taut, each rider piled out of his saddle. With piggin’ string they tied the longhorn’s front and back feet, loosed their catch ropes, and went looking for another cow. Hog-tied, unable to get up, the animals thrashed about until they were exhausted. Finally, weak and wobbly-legged, they could be led with a horn loop.

  Their next fight with the Comanches took place on December 21, 1865. As they had expected, it happened along the river, during a cow hunt. It was a fight they could have avoided, and the outcome was as strange as the incident that led them to become involved.

  “Smoke,” said Brazos. “Could be Comanches.”

  They dismounted.

  “They’re downwind,” said McCaleb, “but let’s leave the horses here. Something tells me there won’t be any cow hunt today.”

  Each man carried two Colts, a fully-loaded extra cylinder, and his sixteen-shot .44-caliber Henry. They crept down a cedar-lined arroyo that almost paralleled the Trinity. The arroyo grew shallow, and they dropped to hands and knees until they were close enough to hear the babble of voices.

  “Comanche,” said Brazos.

  “How do you know, this far away?” asked McCaleb.

  “Can’t understand a word they’re sayin’,” said Brazos. “Remember, I’m from South Texas. There’s Apaches, Alabamas, Delawares, and Cherokees south of San Antone, along the Medina River. The Spanish once had missions all over South Texas, and most Injuns learned a little Spanish. I even learned some Apache myself. I talk Spanish better’n a full-blood Mex. But these heathen Comanches, they got a gibberish all their own.”

  Will chuckled. “He can say ‘go to hell’ in Apache.”

  Brazos cast him a black look and they crawled on. The arroyo virtually played out before they reached a point where they could see. McCaleb counted a dozen Indians. While he didn’t understand their guttural speech, their laughter was obvious enough. They seemed pleased with whatever was about to take place. And then McCaleb saw the man they had lashed to a tree.

  He, too, was Indian, but dressed differently than his captors. He wore only buckskin leggings. His bare torso was crisscrossed with bloody knife cuts and he appeared to be on his feet only because his arms had been rawhided behind him with the tree for support. His head hung forward until his long hair hid his face. McCaleb smelled roasting meat, and at first that appeared to be the reason for the fire. As their merriment increased, one of the Comanches brought dead leaves and small dead branches, heaping them at the feet of their unfortunate captive. When they finished eating, they were going to burn him alive!

  “Won’t make no difference to him,” said Brazos. “If the poor bastard ain’t already dead, he’s close. They’ve had him awhile; been starvin’ him. You can count his ribs. That’s why the heathen devils are cookin’ and eatin’ before they finish him. He’s half starved and they mean to torture him with the smell of cooking food.”

  “Dead or alive,” said McCaleb grimly, “I’ll not allow them the satisfaction of burning what’s left of him.”

  “Amen,” said Will. “He’s Injun too, but if he’s enemy to the Comanches, then I’m on his side. Let’s make good Injuns of them Comanches!”

  “Formation, then,” said McCaleb. “Give them the same chance they gave that poor devil and the same break they’d give us. Let’s cut ’em down!”

  They stepped out with Colts blazing. McCaleb’s clicked on empty and he palmed the second Colt with a border shift. But it was over. So great had been their surprise, not a man escaped. After the thunder of their Colts, the silence was all the more intense. Brazos walked among the fallen, nudging them with the toe of his boot.

  “We’re a mite rusty with the pistols,” he said. “Three of ’em still alive.”

  “Shoot them,” said McCaleb, “and then search the camp; see if there’s anything we can use. Will, take one of their best horses and loose the rest. We’ll need one for this poor fellow if he’s still alive.”

  He slashed the rawhide bonds and caught the Indian before he fell. The man’s back had been gashed and slashed repeatedly, the blood having dried in long red-brown furrows.

  “He’s wearin’ Apache moccasins,” said Brazos. “What’re we gonna do with him? He looks nearer dead than alive.”

  “I reckon he is,” said McCaleb, “but he is alive. He’s some kind of man to have survived what he’s been through. Since we’ve gone this far, we’ll take him back to camp. He may be too far gone to take the ride, but there’s nothing we can do for him here.”

  “I’d as soon lay off the cow-hunting for a while,” said Brazos. “I got an idea this bunch was on their way somewhere, and when they don’t show, then their friends will come lookin’ for ’em. Personal, I d
on’t aim to be around when them friends view the remains.”

  McCaleb and Brazos lashed the blanket-wrapped Indian to the paint pony. Will collected an armful of knives. Bows and arrows were piled on the fire.

  “They’ll trail us,” said Brazos as they rode out.

  “I expect them to,” said McCaleb, “but it’d be a waste of time to try and hide our trail. They’ll know it was us. I don’t expect Blue Feather to swallow this. It might be just the thing to blow the lid off whatever York Nance is cooking up. The old fool’s goin’ to learn muy pronto you don’t cozy up to rattlers without gettin’ bit.”

  They rode into camp without any cows and with what appeared to be a dead Indian. Will and Brazos lifted him off the Indian horse and carried him into the shelter. Rebecca took one look at the bloodied body and shrieked.

  “My God! What have you done to him?”

  “Took him from the Comanches,” said Brazos, “before they hurt him.”

  The girl took charge, boiling water, washing away the dried blood from the many cuts and lacerations. There was little they could do, for they had no medicine except the jar of salve in McCaleb’s saddlebag.

  “He’s burning with fever,” said Rebecca. “There’s infection somewhere.”

  And there was. They found a far more serious wound in his lower left side, beneath the waist of his buckskins.

  “Stuck him with a lance,” said McCaleb. “Pour about half that quart of rotgut whiskey in there. If that don’t finish him, he’s got a chance. Snakehead’s poison enough to kill whatever poison is in that wound.”

  For three days and nights they watched the Indian fight his way back from the very brink of death. Brazos shot a deer and they fed the half-starved Apache thick venison stew. Stubbornly he hung on; the cuts on his chest and back scabbed and his fever diminished. The grievous wound in his side began to heal. One night after supper he sat up and looked around. So long had he been silent and still, Rebecca yelped like a startled puppy.

  “Quien es?” said Brazos. “Apach’?”

  “Apach’,” said the Indian. “Lipan. Ganso.”

  “Ganso?” said Brazos, pointing to the Indian. The Apache nodded.

  “He’s Lipan Apache,” said Brazos. “Lipan, an Apache chief, defied the Comanches and built a village on the Medina River, south of San Antone. The Lipans and Comanches are bitter enemies. This feller’s name is Ganso. In our lingo, that’s ‘Goose.’ ”

  “Comanch’!” spat Goose venomously. “Bastardos! Pagano asesinos!”

  Brazos chuckled. “He says the Comanches are pagan killers.”

  Brazos tried the few Indian words he recalled, without a response from the Apache. Then he tried some Spanish and suddenly the Indian spoke.

  “Treinta veranos.”

  “Usted?” said Brazos.

  “Ganos treinta veranos,” said the Indian.

  “Thirty summers,” said Brazos. “He’s thirty years old.”

  Goose grew stronger and began to eat. With signs and the Spanish words the Indian knew, Brazos pieced together what had taken place.

  “Fifteen Comanches,” said Brazos. “They attacked his village and killed everybody except him. He killed three of them and that’s why they took him alive. They respected his bravery and wished to torture him. He says we saved his life and now he belongs to us.”

  “My God,” said McCaleb. “Just what we need; a homeless Indian.”

  “You’re right,” said Brazos. “He’s exactly what we need. Captain Jack Hayes swore by Lipan Apaches as scouts. Flacco, one of Captain Jack’s scouts, was commissioned a captain in the Rangers. Governor Sam Houston gave him a captain’s rank and pay.”

  Goose stayed, and despite his limited Spanish, he had many talents. He could ride, he could rope, and as a scout he had no equal. His undying hatred for the Comanches seemed to give him an edge the rest of them lacked. When they returned to the brakes to rope longhorns, Goose went with them, scouting the area. McCaleb had given him the Indian pony, a bowie knife, one of the extra pistol belts, and a Colt revolver. Slowly but surely the Lipan Apache became a part of their outfit, and it was an addition none of them ever regretted.

  CHAPTER 7

  McCaleb had a feeling, a nagging premonition, that time was running out. In mid-January 1866 he made his decision.

  “We’re moving out the first day of February. Two more weeks. I don’t care if we reach Belknap a month early. We’ll find some graze and fatten these brutes until Goodnight’s ready with his herd. For the next two weeks we’ll send two teams to the brakes. Brazos, you’ll work with Goose, and I’ll work with Will. We don’t dare leave Rebecca in camp alone, so Monte will stay there with her. I don’t know how or when it’s coming, but there’s goin’ to be trouble. We must be prepared.”

  The following Sunday, while the rest of them branded the week’s gather, McCaleb sent Goose to scout the Trinity as far north as Jake Narbo’s and then downriver to York Nance’s place. The Indian had already been over the area on his own, and with just such a purpose as this in mind, Brazos had made him familiar with Narbo and Nance. Goose rode out at noon, returning an hour before sundown. They waited for him to speak or give sign.

  “Dos carros,” said Goose.

  “Donde?” McCaleb asked.

  Goose hunkered down and with his finger began to draw in the dust. A long, winding line was the Trinity. A crude, stick-legged horse represented Jake Narbo’s horse ranch. A square in the dust on each side of the Trinity placed the Nance cabin and barn. Following the winding line that was the river, Goose used four fingers. He passed the Narbo ranch, proceeding to the Nance barn, on the east side of the Trinity. From there, using only two fingers, he made deep tracks to the southeast, away from the river.

  “Uno carro,” he said.

  Brazos slapped the Indian on the back in appreciation.

  “Whatever Nance is swapping, the Comanche required two wagons,” said McCaleb, “but only as far as the Nance barn. One wagon was left there.”

  “Despoblado carro?” said Brazos to the Indian. “Vacante?”

  “Un despoblado carro,” said Goose. “Vacante.”

  “One wagon left behind,” said Brazos. “Empty. If they needed a pair of wagons to get it to the Nance place, how can it be hauled away in one?”

  “Who knows the Comanche mind?” said McCaleb. “Likely not that far to their village. What is that load? What’s in that heavily loaded wagon? Brazos, you understand Goose better than I do. Ask him if he can trail that wagon into the Comanche camp, find out what its load is and get out alive.”

  “Can you imagine,” said Will, “what would happen to one Lipan trapped in a village of God knows how many Comanches?” He chuckled. “This may be your chance to learn ‘go to hell’ in Apache.”

  “You may be right,” said McCaleb. “That’s asking an almighty lot.”

  But they had underestimated the Indian. When it came to Comanches, he had made their cause his own. With the Spanish words he understood, some sign language and some finger-drawn symbols in the dust, Brazos was able to convey McCaleb’s question—and request—to the Lipan.

  “He’ll go tonight,” said Brazos, “after moonset. Be back before dawn.”

  None of them slept. Finally, without a word, Goose vanished into the darkness of the canyon. Briefly they heard the soft thud of his horse’s unshod hoofs and then there was silence. McCaleb looked at the starlit sky; the position of the dipper told him it was after midnight. It was Rebecca who spoke for them all.

  “I know he’s an Indian, but he’s a good Indian. Dear God, please don’t let them get him….”

  McCaleb sat hunched by the fire nursing a cup of coffee, unable to sleep. Even he didn’t hear the Indian ride in. He awoke with a start, only then aware that he’d dozed. He’d spilled his coffee, and the empty cup hung from one finger. Goose hunkered on the other side of the fire, a .52-caliber Spencer across his knees. Seeing McCaleb awake, the Indian grinned and tossed him the Spencer. It was br
and new and had never been fired. He felt the protective coat of grease applied to all weapons before they left the factory. The others were awake; grimly, he passed the Spencer to Brazos. Words were unnecessary; they all knew what it meant.

  “Cuantos?” said Brazos.

  Goose held up both hands, fisted. He opened and closed his hands four times. He then opened his left hand and held up three fingers on his right.

  “My God!” said McCaleb. “Forty-eight cases of Spencer repeaters!”

  “That’s twelve to a case,” Will said, musing. “Put them rifles in the hands of five hundred and seventy-six Comanches, and them bastards could take !”

  “Usted,” said McCaleb. He passed the Spencer to Goose, butt first. “It’s yours; God knows, you’re going to need it!”

  The Indian took the weapon, but he wasn’t finished. He pretended to load the rifle. He didn’t know the word for ammunition, but every one of them—even Rebecca—knew what he meant.

  “Cuantos?” said Brazos.

  Goose raised both fisted hands and opened them, spreading his fingers. He then dropped his left hand, raising two fingers on the right.

  “A dozen damn cases,” groaned Brazos. “Them Comanches can take Texas and then go after Mexico! Nance knew what he was talkin’ about; I reckon none of us will get out of here alive.”

  “Tormento,” said Goose. “Na-Na-Nance. Tormento.”

  McCaleb cut his eyes to Rebecca, but it was too late to shield her from the terrible truth. Her face had gone white and she sat with her eyes downcast, clenching and unclenching her fists.

  “Donde?” McCaleb asked.

  “Carro,” said Goose.

  “Well,” said Brazos in disgust, “the old fool’s come up with another busted flush. They got him, enough Spencers and ammunition to take over the world, and the only thing we don’t know is why he’s still alive.”