The following excerpt is from the 1935 book by Laura V. Hamner about the life of Charles Goodnight, titled:
The
NO-GUN MAN OF TEXAS
A Century of Achievement
1835-1929
CHAPTER X
OLIVER LOVING FINDS THE END OF THE TRAIL
Loving had made a verbal contract for the herd and fearing that the agreement might not hold if too long a time elapsed between deal and delivery he wanted to forge ahead and clinch the bargain. J. W. Wilson, one of the cowboys, a daring adventurous fellow, asked to go with Loving.
Goodnight opposed the move but after two days of argument the two men rode away with their leaders advice ringing in their ears; stay in hiding all day long; travel only in the night; watch, watch constantly for Indians.
Loving did not like night riding; besides he did not believe there was danger from Indians; he was impatient to arrive at Fort Sumner. The second morning the two men rode on in the daylight, planning to duck out of sight at any sign of Indians. Crossing a little prairie they saw at some distance Indians shooting at prairie dogs. They turned abruptly aside and dashed for the river hoping that they had been unnoted.
They slid their horses down a steep cliff and entrenched themselves in a clump of bushes. On one side of their hiding place was a high cliff. It would be easy to pick off the foes as they appeared from that side. On the other was the river. Danger there arose from the motte of polecat bushes that hid the river bank for a distance of about 100 yards.
Wilson suggested that Loving station himself among those to guard the river, while Wilson watched the mountain exposure. While they were engaged, the Indians appeared on the top of the bluff. Wilson felt sure that he could get any who tried to rush them from that point. The Indians disappeared but Wilson knew that they would come again from some direction. While he was trying to anticipate their tactics, Loving appeared at his side.
Loving! Loving! Go back and watch that river, urged Wilson.
Theres not a bit of danger, said Loving with assurance. They have too much sense to try to slip up on us from that side.
Before Wilson could answer an ominous crack came from the polecat bushes. Loving turned hastily to go bsck to his post but it was too late. Before he was half-way across the intervening space a savage rose from the thicket, fired at him, dying in turn from a shot from Wilsons gun.
No use to try to go back now, Loving said. He got me. Im done for. But you must escape.
Wilson responded to the pleading in Lovings eyes with a refusal.
Well stick together, Loving, he replied.
But I was the cause of your being in this hole, Loving urged in tones of anguish. If I had not insisted on day-riding wed both be safe now. You cant save me by staying. It will make me happy to know that you got away. Wilson, dont argue this. Take your chance for my sake.
The men planned the details of the escape: Lovings gun could stand immersion in the water so that Wilson must take it, slip into the stream, make his way down the river on to the herd.
The Indians had gathered numbers and confidence. They now swarmed over the hills making a Roman holiday of the event, seeming to feel that the men were trapped without any possibility of escape.
Lovings fever rose; he was parched with thirst; his thoughts wandered; he grew flighty at intervals. The two men waited for the next terror that might come.
Long hours crept away. Indians crawled on their bellies through low bushes and fired on the two men but Wilsons aim was unfailing. Indian after Indian fell and a lull came in hostilities.
Wilson decided that the Indians had been repulsed until it was safe for him and Loving to make their way to the river where he could get water for Loving. He dragged the wounded man into the sandy bed of the stream, found a sinkhole where weeds grew two feet tall, brought water in his shoe to cool the fever of his friend and lay down beside him, pistol in hand, to await developments.
Wilson, wide-eyed, saw a disturbance in the bushes; evidently a savage was creeping toward them on his belly, using his spear to part the bushes in advance of him. Wilsons eyes were glued to the spot, noting the progress of the forward movement of the reeds and growth that located the invader. Disturbed by the motion of the growth a rattlesnake came out of the patch of weeds, gliding towards the two prisoners across the open strip of sand.
Loving, moaning in pain, paid no attention to the two-fold menace but Wilson was terrified. He determined that if the snake did not reach them before the savage drew near he would kill the savage though his shot precipitate an attack from the entire band.
The Indian came closer and closer to the near-edge of the bushes. Suddenly the snake stopped, coiled and with darting tongue looked backward and sent his warning rattle to the savage. Either caution or superstition turned the man back and the motion receded toward the opposite side of the low clump while the snake glided away, leaving the men safe for a little while.
As the long hours passed the savages amused themselves by tossing chunks of sod into the air to fall in the bushes where their captives lay. When night came Loving rallied and renewed his arguments with Wilson, declaring that he would die happier if he did not have Wilsons death on his conscience.
With a silent handclasp the men parted at last and Wilson slipped down into the river where the weight of his clothes pulled him down. Taking off all his outer garments, his guns, even his knife, he buried them under a shelving bank beneath the water so that the Indians could not find them. Then, handicapped by the gleaming whiteness of underwear and body he hugged the bank and started down stream.
Out in the river, near the farther bank, sat an Indian on horseback, his feet idly patting the stream while his eyes ranged distant hill. Wilson screened himself behind pink-blossomed smart-weeds that hung in mats from bank to water. Starting as few ripples as possible he silently passed by the savage.
He wandered over miles of territory where nature arms every little plant in order that it may win in the struggle for existence. Those cruel thorns tore the flesh on the bare-foot, near-naked man. Wolves followed him. He found the broken end of a tepee pole and used it as a walking stick. Stumbling until too weary to go farther, he fell into troubled sleep.
He awakened to find a pack of wolves snapping and snarling about him. Driving them back with his tepee-pole, he struggled on, the hungry pack close behind. His body blistered from the pitiless sun. His feet were swollen and bleeding. He sank down again and again, only to be roused by the nearness of the wolves. At last he found a cave that he had noted on his way northward, took refuge there and waited. If he lived long enough the herd might come this way. If not, the wolves.
Two days of this and then he saw a horseman comingGoodnight riding in advance of his herd. Wilson made the frontiersmans sigh, Come here.
The sun was setting. A curve in the trail showed Goodnight that between him and the setting sun was an object, a man, strangely clad, wild looking. Only on drawing near did he recognize the stalwart young fellow who had left the herd so recently.
Goodnight fired question after question; but no answer came from the swollen sun-baked lips, Wilson was too weak to tell his story. Goodnight took the man behind him on his horse and returned to the herd. Wrapping the tortured feet in wet blankets, feeding the sufferer gruel in small quantities, encouraging him to sleep until he was refreshed, they got the story at last.
Goodnight listened eagerly to every detail that located the scene of the engagement and determined in his heart to find Loving, dead or alive, or to die with him if necessary. Six men volunteered to go with him in the search of the lost man; night did not stop them; a storm of the desert type, torrential, blinding, raged, but Goodnight did not pause nor deviate from his course. In spite of inky blackness and beating storm, his uncanny instinct for direction made his path to the spot described by Wilson straight as a gunbarrel.
But Loving was gone and the rain had washed away all signs of the engagement. Wilsons gun, clothes, watch, everything were found just as he had told them but they could not determine if Loving had been taken prisoner or had escaped. Odds were against him.
Continuing with eyes taking in every small detail of the way, the searchers met a man who told them that Loving still lived. Rallying after his companion had gone, Loving had evaded his captors by slipping off to the north instead of southward as expected by the Indians who had centered their vigilance on that avenue of escape. Loving had wandered about for days, chewing on an old leather glove for food, finding water in occasional pools. He had paid the Mexican traders who found him two hundred and fifty dollars to take him to Fort Sumner, one hundred and fifty miles north, and there he was now, still suffering from his wounds.
Goodnight and his men hurried on to the fort only to find Loving in precarious condition. Gangrene had set in and though the arm was amputated the operation had come too late to save him and thus ended the life of one of Charles Goodnights heroes, a man of honor and simple virtues.
