Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “Mr. McQuade, it appears that I have been misled. Is there room for me and my wagon within your circle?”

  “There will be by the time you harness your teams and drive there,” said McQuade. He nodded to Mary Flanagan, and this time, she didn’t turn away.

  McQuade returned to the circled wagons. When he beckoned to Ike Peyton, Gunter Warnell and Eli Bibb answered his summons, as well as Ike.

  “Gents,” McQuade said, “Rufus Hook has his saloon tent open. Preacher Flanagan has seen the light, and wants to join our wagon circle. Will some of you make room for him?”

  “We will,” said Ike, “and I’d say there’s hope for him. I wish I could say the same for some of them from our own circle, that’s gone over there.”

  “When you’ve made a place for Flanagan’s wagon,” McQuade said, “get back to me. I have somethin’ to ask of you.”

  By moving the Peyton and Warnell wagons, Flanagan was able to drive into the wagon circle, where he unharnessed his teams. The Peyton, Warnell, and Bibb women immediately welcomed Mary Flanagan.

  “I don’t believe the Flanagans have had supper,” said McQuade. “Can some of you see to feeding them?”

  Quickly the Flanagans were welcomed to a supper fire where the meal was still in progress. Having gotten their wagons back in line, Ike Peyton, Gunter Warnell, and some of the other men sought out McQuade.

  “Now,” said Ike, “what do you want us to do?”

  “Hook included my meals from here to Texas,” McQuade said, “but my appetite just ain’t comfortable around that bunch he’s trailin’ with. I’d like to take my meals with some of you folks.”

  “We can’t feed as well as Hook,” said Warnell, “but you’re welcome to what there is.”

  “I don’t aim for you to feed me for nothing,” McQuade said. “I’m not rich, but I’m not broke. Tomorrow, if one of you will loan me a horse for a pack animal, I’ll ride back to St. Louis for a load of grub. All of you talk to your women and see what you’re most in need of, and you can share what I’ll add to your supplies. I expect the Reverend was to take his meals at Hook’s wagon, which he won’t be doing, so I’ll buy enough to include him and his daughter.”

  “That’s damn decent of you, McQuade,” said Will Haymes, “and I promise you won’t be sorry. Except for some of the young hell-raisers who have flocked to Hook’s saloon, you’ll have us all on your side. When we signed on for this journey to Texas, we had no idea that Hook would be going with us, or that we’d be surrounded with whiskey, whores, gamblers, and gunmen.”

  “Neither did I,” McQuade said, “and I can’t help wondering if Hook will keep his word on the land grants. It’s been my experience that if you can’t trust a man completely, he’ll sell you out at the first opportunity.”

  “My God,” said Cal Tabor, “most of us got nothin’ to go back to. If we get to Texas and find we’ve been cheated—if there are no grants—what are we goin’ to do?”

  “Hook must have given you some written proof when you joined the train,” McQuade said, “something to back up his promise.”

  “Just a receipt for what we paid,” said Gunter Warnell. “Stephen Austin died last year and there’s to be another overseer appointed. From what I was told, Rufus Hook has been assigned near a million acres, to be deeded to those of us in this train.”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about that,” Eli Bibb said. “Hook’s brought his own lawyer. Him, the doc, them two gamblers, and the dozen gunmen, that’s sixteen men. What’s to stop Hook from assignin’ rancher grants to all those men, and then buyin’ ’em back?”

  “Likely, not a thing,” said McQuade. “Texas is a republic, owned by Mexico, and the nearest authority is in Mexico City. Long before we arrive, I reckon we’d better lay some plans of our own, and prepare for a fight.”

  “It’s somethin’ everybody in this outfit needs to know,” Ike Peyton said. “Even them that’s over yonder, swillin’ rotgut in Hook’s saloon.”

  “I agree,” said McQuade, “but for starters, speak of it only to those you know we can depend on. There’s goin’ to be enough trouble, without stirrin’ up any more. When we are nearer the end of this trail, we’ll try and pull everybody together, before we have to face up to a showdown with Hook.”

  Suddenly there was a shot from somewhere in the vicinity of Hook’s wagon circle.

  “Should some of us investigate that?” Ike Peyton asked.

  “No,” said McQuade. “I reckon this is just a sample of what’s ahead. With some of the people from our circle drinking Hook’s whiskey, we’ll be on the outs with him pronto. Let’s shy clear of him for as long as we can.”

  “Some of our bunch may get hurt or killed,” Will Haymes said.

  “Their choice,” said McQuade. “You can’t save a man from his own foolishness, unless he has the brains to see the danger.”

  McQuade found the Flanagans near the Peyton wagon. Maggie Peyton and Ellen Warnell had served them their supper. McQuade said nothing, uncertain as to how he might approach the short-tempered preacher. But Flanagan set his plate down and got to his feet.

  “Mr. McQuade, I owe you an apology. Like most men, I have been selfish, beholding things and men as I wish they were, rather than the way they are. When sin is so great that mortals cannot overcome it, we must flee from it. I have done that.”

  “So have I,” said McQuade. “I’m supposed to take my meals in Hook’s camp, but I’ve decided against it. I’ve spoken to Peyton, Warnell, Bibb, Tabor, and Haymes about eating with them, and they’ve agreed. Tomorrow, I’m borrowing a pack horse and riding back to St. Louis for provisions. I’ll see that there’s enough to include you and your daughter, if that suits you.”

  “While I appreciate your generosity,” said Flanagan, “I would feel awkward, accepting it. My circumstances have changed, and I will have no means of repaying you.”

  “I don’t expect to be paid for everything I do,” McQuade said. “The frontier’s a hard land, and there’s likely not a man among us who won’t need help, somewhere between here and the Rio Colorado.”

  “He’s right,” said Maggie Peyton. “I believe we’ll need you a lot more often than you’ll be needing us, Reverend.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Flanagan said. “Very well, Mr. McQuade. I will accept your generosity, and I offer my heartfelt thanks.”

  Some of the men, seeking to make Flanagan more welcome, included him in their conversation. Maggie Peyton and Ellen Warnell began clearing away the pots and pans from supper, leaving Chance McQuade alone with Mary Flanagan. She blushed, and McQuade realized he had been staring at her. Embarrassed, he couldn’t think of any logical way out, so he boldly spoke the truth.

  “You are even more beautiful than I at first thought. Will you forgive me for staring at you?”

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes on her clasped hands. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “I’m glad your father saw fit to join our camp,” said McQuade, “but I’m sorry he’s had to give up his dream of a church.”

  “I’m not,” she said hotly. “I hate Rufus Hook. He had his eyes on me, and he planned on me paying for anything he promised my father.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said McQuade, “but it looks like Hook has his hands full, with his school marm.”

  “Surely you don’t believe that,” she cried. “That … that woman is no more a teacher than one of those mules out there.”

  McQuade laughed, enjoying her anger. “No,” said McQuade. “I think she’s doing what she does best, serving the purpose for which he brought her along.”

  “Those other women,” she said, “look like they stepped right out of a … a …”

  “Whorehouse,” McQuade finished.

  She laughed nervously. “Father won’t allow me to use that term, but that’s … that’s what I meant.”

  “They did,” said McQuade. “Some of the men recognized them. But they’re only part of the problem. With the gambling and
the whiskey, I’m looking for men to be killed.”

  “Isn’t there something you can do, before it happens?”

  “No,” McQuade said. “These are grown men, and if they choose to play with Hook’s fire, then they’ll get burned. Maybe after a couple have been hurt or killed, the rest will get the message, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “I want to thank you for being kind to my father, after he was so ugly to you,” she said. “We’ve just wandered, since mother died, living from hand to mouth. I believe he saw this church in Texas as a last opportunity to build a home for me. Now it seems to have gone the way of everything else.”

  “Maybe not,” said McQuade. “I heard a preacher once that said the Lord never closes one door without opening another. I’ve been ridin’ the high box all over the frontier, fightin’ Indians and outlaws, since I was seventeen. All I have to show for it is my horse, saddle, and my weapons. I’m thirty-two years old, and I think if I don’t take a rancher’s grant and make something of myself in Texas, that I never will. I’ll die on some lonesome trail, with nobody knowin’ but the coyotes and buzzards.”

  Without thinking, she had taken his hand in hers, and when she tried to remove it, he held it tight. She said nothing, and he spoke.

  “Mary—if I can call you that—I’d like to talk to you again. Startin’ as a friend, and as … somethin’ more, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said softly, “if my father …”

  “You’re of age, aren’t you?”

  She laughed. “Lord, yes. I’ll be twenty-seven, come June. An old maid, in anybody’s book.”

  “Not in mine,” he said. “I don’t believe your daddy will object to me seeing you, and if he does, then I’ll talk to him. It’s time you were thinking of a life of your own.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” she replied. “He’s thinking more kindly of you.”

  Flanagan had started back toward the wagon, and McQuade reluctantly released Mary’s hand. He spread his bedroll near the Peyton wagon, and he heard Maggie laugh. He had an idea she might be telling Ike of his—Chance McQuade’s—spending so much time with Mary Flanagan, and he decided he didn’t care. There were younger men than he who might take an interest in the girl, and he didn’t even want to think of that. Since they were downwind from Hook’s saloon tent, he could hear the rinky-tink of the piano, and the laughter of the women. Let them raise hell as late as they wished, he thought grimly. He would take the trail with his wagons at dawn, leaving Hook’s bunch to catch up or lag behind, as they chose. Most of the camp had already bedded down, with only the occasional wink of a cigarette from one of the men on watch. Suddenly a gun roared twice, and the piano became silent. Men shouted and cursed. McQuade rolled out of his blankets and got to his feet. Ike Payton and Will Haymes were up, staring toward the distant lanterns that marked the Hook wagon circle.

  “I’d bet a team of mules one of our bunch was involved in that,” said Ike.

  “No bet,” Will replied.

  It was only a matter of minutes until three shadowy forms worked their way through the circled wagons. Two of them carried a third man.

  “That’s far enough,” said McQuade. “Identify yourselves.”

  “The Burkes,” came the sullen voice of old Andrew. “They shot Matthew.”

  “Dead?” McQuade asked.

  “No,” said Burke, “but bad hurt. What do you aim to do about it?”

  “Not a damn thing,” McQuade said. “Patch him up as best you can, and let this be a lesson to the rest of you.”

  Cursing him, they carried Matthew on to their wagon, and soon there was a fire going, as they boiled water. Others, awakened by the conversation, stood within the wagon circle.

  “You bein’ wagon boss, they’ll fault you,” said Ike Peyton.

  “My responsibilities as wagon boss don’t include Hook’s wagons,” McQuade said. “I’ll take a hand in whatever happens here, within our circle, but those with a hankering for Hook’s gambling, whiskey, and women go there at their own risk.”

  “I reckon you’d better call all of ‘em together and tell ’em that,” said Ike.

  “I aim to, in the morning before breakfast,” McQuade said.

  Again they lay down and tried to sleep. By the stars, McQuade judged it was well past midnight before the roar subsided and the lanterns went out.

  When the first light of dawn grayed the eastern sky, McQuade had his horse saddled for the ride back to St. Louis. Ike Peyton had brought his bay for use as a pack animal.

  “All of you gather around,” McQuade shouted. “I have something to say.”

  They came together quickly. The Burkes—Andrew, Mark, and Luke—were the last to arrive, looking as surly as ever.

  “I’m about to tell you this morning what I should have told you last night,” said McQuade, “but I had hoped most of you had better sense than to do what the Burkes did last night. They went to Rufus Hook’s saloon tent, and Matthew Burke was shot.”

  “They was cheatin’ him at cards,” Andrew Burke shouted.

  “He was there by his own choice,” said McQuade, “and that makes it his fault. Though I’m the wagon boss, I have no say as to what happens in Hook’s camp. I’m serving notice on all of you that if you go to Hook’s saloon, it’s at your own risk. Do any of you not understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand you’re wagon boss,” somebody shouted, “but I don’t understand why you ain’t boss over all the wagons.”

  “I’m doing what Hook hired me to do,” said McQuade shortly. “I’m responsible for the emigrant wagons, none of which are in Hook’s camp. If you go there and get shot, cut, or cheated, then don’t come whining to me. I’m not the law.”

  A dozen of the younger men began to grumble and curse, but they became silent as more than sixty men with wives and families joined McQuade in silent opposition. It was Ike Peyton who spoke for them all.

  “There ain’t none of us approves of Hook’s saloon, with whiskey, gambling, and women, but all we can do is stay away from it. Them of you as can’t leave it alone, we’re askin’ you to take your wagons and join Hook’s outfit.”

  No more was said, and those to whom the ultimatum was addressed were a sober lot. The Burkes kept their hard eyes on McQuade, and he returned as good as he got. When breakfast was over, the women washed and loaded cooking utensils while the men began harnessing their teams. McQuade spoke to Ike Peyton.

  “I’ll wait until the wagons are lined out, on the trail, Ike, and then I’ll ride back to St. Louis. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Ike nodded. When his teams were harnessed, and the Warnell wagon was ready, the two of them led out. The others rumbled into place behind them, and the train was on its way. McQuade, leading the pack horse, set out the way they had come. He wasn’t in the least surprised to find that Hook’s outfit hadn’t broken camp. There wasn’t a sign of a breakfast fire, nor was there anybody on watch. The wagons had traveled a little more than fifteen miles, and with his horses at a slow gallop, McQuade was soon there. Lacking a packsaddle, he had the supplies loaded into large burlap sacks. He was able to balance all four of them by tying their necks together in pairs, allowing each pair to straddle the horse in a manner that was comfortable for the animal. Leaving the mercantile, counting his money, he found that he had a little more than fifty dollars. With Mary Flanagan on his mind, he reined up before a particular store that he had passed on his way to the mercantile. Looping the reins of his horse about the hitch rail, he went inside. He quickly found what he was seeking in a glass display case on the counter.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the clerk. “Do you know the lady’s size?”

  “No,” McQuade said, “and I have only fifty dollars.”

  “This one is fifty-dollars,” said the clerk, “and I have some less expensive ones.”

  “The fifty-dollar one,” McQuade said. “I’ll gamble on the size. Make it a large one.”

  McQuade left th
e store with only some change in his pocket, but in his saddlebag was a little white box with a gold band. In the wilds of south central Texas, such things would be out of the question. Now that he had taken this expensive, and perhaps useless, step, he was beset with doubt. He knew Mary Flanagan liked him, but suppose it never went beyond that? Suppose old Miles Flanagan did an about-face, deciding he didn’t approve of Chance McQuade, after all?

  McQuade rode on, lost in his thoughts, and before he knew it, the moving wagons were in sight. Rufus Hook’s wagons. McQuade could swing wide, avoiding them, but there was a stubborn streak in him that wouldn’t allow him to dodge Rufus Hook. He continued, and by the time he reached the wagons, someone had alerted Hook of his coming. Pulling his wagon out of formation, Hook waited, Lora Kirby beside him. McQuade reined up.

  “Where the hell have you been, McQuade? Fine wagon boss you are.”

  “I rode back to get some grub for me and the Flanagans,” said McQuade. “I got the wagons on the trail before I left, and they’re somewhere ahead of you.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Why didn’t you wait for us?”

  “We roll at first light, with or without you,” McQuade said. “Your choice.”

  Without another word, Chance McQuade rode away.

  CHAPTER 2

  McQuade found that his wagons had made good time, and were a good five miles or more ahead of the Rufus Hook wagons. McQuade trotted his horses alongside Ike Peyton’s wagon until the train stopped to rest the teams.

  “I’ll split this up among some of the other wagons,” McQuade said, “if you don’t have room for it.”

  “I got room,” said Ike. “We didn’t have much that was worth bringin’ with us.”

  Many of the other men had gathered, obviously expecting some word of Rufus Hook’s position. McQuade didn’t disappoint them.

  “Hook’s maybe five miles behind us,” McQuade said. “I told him if he aims to travel with us, we move out at first light.”