When the soldiers took charge of the bedded-down cattle, the trail crew headed for town at a gallop. Thundering along the main—and only—street, they brought their horses to a halt outside the Yellow Stripe saloon. Inside its doors, Goodnight was waiting with money to pay off his crew. The customers and staff of the saloon stared at the stacks of gold coins and paper notes in front of the bearded rancher and tried to estimate how much they amounted to.
‘What’s this stuff, anyways?’ Austin whooped, accepting his pay. ‘Is it what my pappy calls cash money and used to talk about afore mammy stopped him?’
‘It for sure is,’ Spat agreed, jingling coins in his hands. ‘Least, I reckon it is. That gent behind the bar there’ll likely tell us for sure.’
Knowing what was expected of him, Goodnight led the way to the bar on completing the payout. Handing money across the counter, he called for drinks on the house. That brought a rush of customers as townsmen and soldiers gathered to accept the rancher’s bounty. Among them were the Artillery sergeant major and the cavalry sergeant who had stayed behind as escort for the herd during the latter stages of the journey and some of their men who had enjoyed Texas hospitality on the trail.
‘Man, I needed that!’ young Austin whooped, up-ending four-fingers of whiskey and smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Same again, barkeep, and for the senorita here.’
Having expected a roaring night’s trade, the owner of the saloon had brought in a number of pretty Mexican girls from the local cat-houses. One of them stood at Austin’s elbow, giggling her delight as he hugged her, and the bartender placed a drink before her.
‘Not for me right now,’ Goodnight replied when the youngster offered him a drink. ‘I’m going to see Oliver.’
‘Sure hope he’s all right,’ Austin said seriously. ‘Of all the stinking—’
‘He wouldn’t want you boys thinking sorrowful about him,’ Goodnight pointed out. ‘Have some fun tonight, you’ve earned it, all of you.’ With that he turned to where Poe stood talking to the two non-coms. ‘John, see the boys have fun, but hold it down if they get too rowdy.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ the segundo promised.
Leaving the saloon, Goodnight took his horse and rode out to the Fort. There he visited the hospital and learned that Loving’s condition remained the same. The surgeon in charge was gloomy about the cattleman’s chances and, seeing his partner’s unconscious face, pale and wracked with pain, Goodnight felt deeply concerned. However, the rancher wanted to return to his men. Being aware of how easily the flames of Civil War hatred could rise, he wished to prevent any trouble starting between his men and the locals on that score. He could trust his foreman, but knew his own presence would be a big inducement to holding tempers in check.
Approaching the saloon, Goodnight heard singing. Maybe it was not the best music he had ever heard, but it rang out with gusto and gave every evidence of its makers’ high spirits. For all that, the rancher felt a touch worried as he made out the words.
Lo, the beacon fires are lighted!
Let all true hearts now stand united!
To arms! To arms! To arms in Dixie!
Swinging from his horse, the rancher tossed its reins over the hitching rail and strode swiftly towards the saloon’s bat-wing doors. With the second verse of General Samuel Pike, C.S.A.’s highly patriotic lyrics to Emmett’s Dixie blaring out in full-throated chorus, he figured that he had better intervene and divert the singers to a less explosive choice of music. Even as he reached out a hand to open the door, the thing he feared happened.
Lurching from a table at the side of the barroom, a big, burly, unshaven man came to a halt in the center of the floor.
He wore dirty range clothing, a filthy Burnside campaign hat and a U.S. Cavalry weapon belt with a revolver in its high-riding twist-hand draw holster. However, his scruffy appearance argued against his belonging to the Army.
‘Stop that damned row!’ the man bawled. ‘I’m not having any lousy rebel song sung here.’
Instantly the atmosphere of genial enjoyment faded and the singing died away. A low mumble of talk rose among the locals, while the soldiers present eyed the cowhands in a speculative manner. Bringing their song to a halt, the Texans studied the burly objector. Austin took his arm from around the waist of a pretty Mexican girl and moved forward until he stood clear of his companions, lifting his right hand until it hovered over the butt of his Colt.
‘You’re not, huh?’ the youngster purred.
‘The hell I am!’ spat the burly man, a typical range-town loafer, or Goodnight had never seen the breed. ‘We licked you rebs once and—’
Knowing that something must be done, and done fast, Goodnight prepared to enter. However, he saw the Artillery sergeant major step from Poe’s side and ask, ‘Who’d you fight for in the War, feller?’
‘Huh?’ grunted the big man, clearly not having expected the question. His sullen face turned towards the non-com. ‘Why I fought for the Union, same’s all these other gents.’
Across the room, the group of men indicated by the Union-supporter muttered their agreement. They were of the same general social-class as Herb Crutch and their sole claim to the title ‘gents’ came from being his cronies. Cautious by nature, they waited to see the run of general public opinion before taking a definite stand on the issue. It seemed that the soldiers present did not give their unquestioned support to Crutch.
‘I mean what outfit did you lick the rebs with?’ the sergeant major clarified, ignoring everybody but Crutch.
The burly man seemed disinclined to answer. However, the information was not long in coming. Having taken in more money so far that evening than in any previous full-night’s business, the bartender had no desire to kill off the golden goose. Nor had he any great liking for Crutch, whose custom rarely extended beyond buying a beer, in return for which he delved deeply in the free-lunch counter. So the bartender, a brawny man capable of ignoring Crutch’s opinions, provided details of the other’s war service.
‘He never served in no outfit, Sarge. Fact being, he spent the whole War out here hoss-catching for the Army.’
Which was just about what the sergeant major figured. He had noticed before how men of Crutch’s kind became vocal about dealing with the enemy but generally avoided taking any risks while doing it.
‘Then bill out, stop-at-home!’ growled the sergeant major.
‘Yeah,’ agreed the cavalry sergeant, ranging himself alongside the other non-com. ‘I’m gut-full of fellers who sat on their butts at home, picking their noses all through the shooting, trying to keep the War going.’
‘And me,’ the sergeant major continued. ‘Only the stupid sons-of-a-bitch who want the War to go on didn’t fight in it. And I never saw you hanging back when one of these Texas gents called up drinks for the house.’
‘Nor m—!’ Austin began.
A big hand clamped hold of his arm, crushing it and he swung his head to look into the coldly-warning face of Rowdy Lincoln.
‘Leave be,’ ordered the cook. ‘Those gents’re doing it right. Colonel Charlie says he wants things peaceable and peaceable they’re going to stay.’
For all the faults of youth, Austin was smart enough to know when to listen. Not only did Rowdy have muscles to back his demands, but his position as cook gave him the means of wreaking a suitable revenge on anybody who crossed him. So Austin returned to the waiting girl.
Scowling around, Crutch saw no support to his stand for the glory of the Union. Even his especial cronies showed reluctance to back his play. Taking their cue from the two non-coms, the soldiers refused to be sucked into attempts at restarting the Civil War. For the most part, the town-dwellers present did not care for the hulking, idle Crutch and saw no reason to antagonize a potential source of revenue on his behalf. Finding himself deserted by all, Crutch knew better than try to take the matter further. With a snarled-out, inaudible blanket curse, he turned and slouched towards the main doors. Seeing Goodnight just entering the saloon, Crutch’s surly temper led him into recklessness.
‘Get the hell out of my way, beef-head!’ Crutch snarled.
Which, as any of the Swinging G trail crew could have warned him, was no way to address Colonel Charlie Goodnight. Maybe the rancher desired a peaceable evening; but there were limits to how far he would go to achieve his desire. Certainly backing down to Crutch would not do it. Let a man of that kind get away with such behavior and he would try further abuses. So Goodnight continued to walk forward.
‘I’m going across to the bar, hombre,’ the rancher said calmly and without bluster, meeting the other’s threatening gaze, ‘and I’m too tired to walk round you.’
There Crutch had it. His challenge had been taken up and countered. Sensing that every eye in the saloon was on him, he knew he must try to make some play. It was that or get out of Fort Sumner as a braggart who failed to back up his words.
Something about Goodnight’s stocky, powerful frame warned Crutch against attempting a physical assault. Which left only one other course open. Letting out a menacing snarl, the loafer reached towards his holster—and learned a basic, but deadly dangerous fault in its construction. To take out his revolver, he had first to open the holster’s flap. The same did not apply to Goodnight. Dropping his right hand, the stocky rancher gripped and raised the waiting Colt from leather. In doing so, he cocked back its hammer and lined the eight-inch-long barrel on Crutch’s ample mid-section.
Shock licked into the burly man as he found himself looking at the .44 bore of Goodnight’s Army Colt. He realized that, despite making the first move, he was far, far too slow. Nor would anybody present blame the rancher if he let the hammer fall.
Goodnight was no trigger-wild killer with a yen to see victims kicking at his feet; for which Crutch might have thought himself fortunate. Instead of shooting, he waited until the frightened man’s hand dropped away from the holster flap, lowered his Colt’s hammer to the safety notch between two of the cylinder’s chambers and returned the weapon to leather.
‘I’m still going to the bar,’ the rancher announced flatly. ‘And I’m still too tired to walk around you.’
Gulping down something that seemed to be stuck in his throat, Crutch moved hurriedly aside. Without even another glance at the man, Goodnight continued his leisurely stroll in the direction of the bar. Although a spectacular-appearing act, the rancher knew it to be comparatively safe. With so many men watching him, Crutch would be unlikely to take the chance offered by Goodnight’s back. Nor did he. Moving with considerably more than usual speed, the loafer passed through the batwing doors and into the night.
The sergeant major let out a low sigh of relief, then nodded to a tall, swarthy, black haired member of his Battery. Finishing his drink, the soldier made for a side door and went out. If Goodnight noticed the incident, he made no mention of it. Instead he made a start at relieving the tension which he sensed still hovered in the background, caused by the nature of the song that had sparked off Crutch’s protests.
‘We’ve had Dixie,’ the rancher told his men. ‘Now let’s have Yankee-Doodle, shall we?’
Led by John Poe and Rowdy Lincoln, the Texans roared out a lusty—if not over-musical—response to their boss’s request. Even Austin joined in. With the cook’s coldly menacing eyes on him, he could do nothing else. Their spirited rendering of Yankee-Doodle worked and the supporters of the Union accepted it in the right spirit. After which a good evening’s fun was had by all.
For all his having taken a full share in the revelry, Goodnight was clean, tidy and barbered next morning when he went to face the Army’s cattle-buying commission. Nor did his face show the deep worry he felt over his partner’s worsened condition. Much as he had wanted to stay at the hospital in case Loving recovered from the coma, Goodnight had forced himself to attend the meeting. He had arranged to be notified if there was any change, then went to the building where the commission met.
On entering the room, he found General Vindfallet—commanding the New Mexico Territory army posts—Colonel Hunter, the Fort’s commanding officer and the two majors from the previous day seated at a table. In the room also were two civilians whom Goodnight remembered having seen watching the herd’s arrival.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, gentlemen,’ Goodnight greeted.
‘We understand,’ Vindfallet replied. ‘May I say how sorry we all are to hear of your partner’s decline.’
‘This’s Mr. Wednesbury and Mr. Hayden of the Mutual Land & Cattle Company,’ Hunter introduced, indicating first the taller then the second dude, who nodded their response. ‘Now, gentlemen, shall we get down to business?’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Vindfallet answered.
Blandly overlooking the comment, Hunter told of the Army’s future requirements. With some eleven thousand Indians on the New Mexico reservations to be fed, considerable numbers of cattle would be needed and the Government was willing to pay well to fill their requirements. Watching his competitors, Goodnight saw their faces register slight annoyance on hearing that only steers would be bought. He could understand their feelings, but knew that the Army had made a wise decision and one beneficial to the Texas cattle industry. Hunter’s mention of the price the Army would pay drove all such thoughts from Goodnight’s head. Long schooled in poker playing and dealing with Indians who could read correctly the slightest facial expression, Goodnight needed all his skill to prevent his interest showing.
‘That’s a fair price,’ Hayden remarked.
‘It’s a damned fine price,’ Vindfallet put in. ‘How about it, can you fill our needs?’
‘Of course,’ Wednesbury stated.
‘I can,’ Goodnight went on.
‘Will your partner be recovered sufficiently to do so?’ Hayden asked. ‘We’ve all heard of Oliver Loving’s ability in handling cattle; it is matched only by your ability as a scout.’
‘What you’re trying to say,’ Goodnight answered calmly, ‘is can I handle the drives without Oliver. I hope I don’t have to; but if the need arises, I can. I know the trail as well as any man and have had sufficient experience with cattle to handle them. Have you gentlemen similar knowledge?’
‘Our trail managers have. They worked with Jubal Early during the War.’
‘Didn’t you have some trouble last night, Mr. Goodnight?’ Hayden continued when Wednesbury stopped talking.
‘Not that I know of,’ the rancher answered.
‘You had to draw a gun on a man.’
‘That was no trouble.’
‘The man was objecting to your men singing Dixie,’ Hayden said.
‘That wasn’t why I drew on him,’ Goodnight corrected. ‘The incident was over, ended by two non-coms from the Fort, before he tried to pull a gun on me. I did no more than necessary to stop him shooting me.’
‘We’ve heard of the incident, Mr. Hayden,’ Hunter injected.
‘To save further questioning on that line,’ Goodnight went on. ‘I rode with Captain Cureton’s Rangers throughout the War.’
Nods of approval came from the listening soldiers. The fame of Cureton’s Rangers had extended beyond the borders of Texas. Without their handling of the Indian situation, both the Union and Confederacy would have faced considerable difficulties with the various hostile tribes.
‘The War is over, gentlemen,’ Vindfallet put in. ‘Right now, our concern is not with who fought on which side, but arranging to supply beef for the Government. And deciding whether you can deliver it to us.’
‘We can,’ Hayden declared firmly.
‘So can I—’ Goodnight began.
‘We’ll have fifteen hundred head here by the end of July,’ Wednesbury interrupted. ‘All steers. And can follow them up at regular intervals as needed.’
‘Will you have sufficient cattle to keep up a supply, Mr. Goodnight?’ Hunter inquired.
‘In addition to my own ranch, I’ve an arrangement with John Chisum to fill my needs,’ Goodnight answered, wondering if he should go on with the scheme he had planned.
Before the rancher reached a decision, there was a knock on the door and a young lieutenant looked inside.
‘Could Mr. Goodnight step outside for a moment, sir,’ he asked.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Goodnight said, standing up.
After the rancher had left the room, the men looked at each other. Hayden coughed, then said, ‘Our men will be selected, not a pack of roughnecks.’
‘I haven’t heard any complaints against Goodnight’s crew,’ Hunter pointed out. ‘They were rowdy, but did no damage that wasn’t more than amply paid for.’
‘They’re rebs—’ the veterinarian put in, still smarting as he thought of how two of them had addressed him.
‘They’re civilians,’ Hunter corrected. ‘You can’t bawl them out and expect them to take it like buck-privates.’
‘I’d say the matter is not the behavior of the men when they get here,’ Vindfallet put in, ‘but whether they can bring the cattle in. The civil authorities can deal with how they behave on arrival.’
Hearing the low mutter of approval from the commission, Wednesbury and Hayden knew their first line of defense had collapsed. Then the door opened and they waited for the resumption of the discussion.
~*~
With a sinking heart, Goodnight walked over to where the post surgeon was waiting. The rancher knew what message the other brought, even before the doctor told him that Loving had died.
‘How was it?’ Goodnight asked.
‘He was in no pain. In fact he recovered consciousness just before he died. He asked me to tell you something—’
‘Yes—?’
‘He said, “Make your dream come true, Charlie”,’ the doctor answered.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Goodnight said.
‘Are you all right?’ the doctor inquired.
‘I’ll be all right,’ the rancher replied and turned to walk slowly back in the direction of the room from which he had come.
Thoughts churned at Goodnight as he approached the door. However, as he opened it, he reached his decision. It was the one to be expected from Charles Goodnight—whom the Comanches called Dangerous Man—and which he knew his dead partner would have approved of. While his scheme might sound wild and impractical, he felt certain that he could carry it out. So, although nothing showed on his face, he was seething with excitement as he returned to the commission.
‘If you want, we’ll cancel the meeting until tomorrow,’ Vindfallet offered on learning of Loving’s death.
‘No,’ Goodnight answered.
‘These gentlemen have offered to deliver fifteen hundred head to us by the end of July, Mr. Goodnight,’ Hunter said. ‘What do you say to that?’
‘I’ll have three thousand head here, by the first week in July,’ Goodnight replied. ‘And I’ll put up any sum of money you ask for as bond against my doing so.’
Half an hour later, Hayden and Wednesbury entered their room at the hotel. Hurling his hat angrily on to the bed, the bigger man let out a savage course.
‘So Goodnight got the contract, Stu,’ Hayden said philosophically. ‘It could be good for us.’
‘How’s that?’
‘When he can’t make it, none of those other beef-head bastards will try.’
‘Where do we stop him? Here, before he leaves?’ asked Wednesbury.
‘No thanks!’ Hayden snorted. ‘We’re going to use better men than that lard-gutted Crutch you paid to stir up trouble.’
‘How was I to know some damned blue-belly’d take the Texans’ side in it?’ Wednesbury protested. ‘At least Crutch had the sense not to come back here.’
‘That’s about all he did right. He didn’t start trouble with the Texans, or scare the cattle so that they ran and were lost.’
‘Maybe something stopped him from doing it,’ Wednesbury said.
Only the word should have been ‘somebody’, not ‘something’. In return for their part in giving him a booster for arrival to Fort Sumner, Major Lane had told his sergeant major to make sure the Texans received fair treatment and were not troubled by the local inhabitants. Not only did the non-com attend to the former condition, he took steps to insure against the latter. When Crutch had left the saloon, he was followed by ‘Gypsy’ Smith of the Mountain Artillery Battery. At first the soldier had thought that Crutch intended to go home. When the man left town on foot, Smith followed and wondered what was taking him in the direction of the bedded-down cattle. Maybe Smith had never been a cowhand, but he knew enough about animals to figure what would happen if somebody started firing off a revolver close to the sleeping longhorns. Seeing Crutch draw his weapon, Smith had moved fast. Instead of making use of his Army Colt, the soldier had slid out his knife.
Feeling the clip-point of a Green River blade prodding at his back, Crutch forgot his idea of stampeding the herd and laying the blame on a drunken Texas cowhand working off spite against the Yankees. He was aware, even without Smith’s comments on the matter, of his fate if news of the attempt became public. Being a realist, he knew his social standing to be low around Fort Sumner. Several people would be only too pleased to see him run out, if nothing worse. So, on being dismissed by the soldier, he had wasted no time in gathering his few belongings and taking his departure. He went without visiting the two men who had made him such tempting offers for his assistance in stirring feelings against the Texans.
‘Comes morning we’ll head for Throckmorton,’ Hayden decided after a brief discussion. ‘We’ll be there in time to decide our next move.’
‘What’s it likely to be?’ Wednesbury wanted to know.
‘Something better organized than anything we tried here,’ Hayden promised. ‘We’ll make damned sure that he never gets here with that herd of cattle.’