Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  There was shouting and applause, with grins on many faces. Keeping his saloon open until past midnight, Hook and his bunch would be ill-prepared to take the trail at first light. Ike and several other men helped McQuade load the supplies into Ike’s wagon.

  “I bought extra coffee and sugar,” said McQuade. “If any of you run short, come and talk to Ike.”

  It was a truly unselfish act to which every man and woman could relate, and McQuade became one of them, for better or worse. There now was a solidarity among them that had been absent, a bond that Chance McQuade knew he must have, if they were ever to each the Rio Colorado. In his own mind, he was sure of one thing: reaching this Promised Land in Texas might be the easy part. McQuade’s mind harbored a growing suspicion that Rufus Hook had a far bigger stake than just establishing a new town. He had within his reach, thousands of acres of Texas land, for almost nothing. When Texas became a state, which someday it must, Rufus Hook could become the wealthiest man in North America.1

  “I’m riding ahead to look for water,” said McQuade, as the train prepared to take the trail again. As McQuade rode past the Flanagan wagon, he tipped his hat to Mary, and she smiled. It was enough to banish from his mind all thought of Rufus Hook and the dangers which might lie ahead. Riding along, he thought ahead. The train was a little less than three hundred miles from the Neosho River, where they would cross into Indian Territory. While there were outlaws in southern Missouri, he expected little danger from them or from Indians, until they reached the Territory. It would allow some time for his teamsters to gain some confidence, and accustom them to standing watch at night. While these people had little wealth to attract thieves, their livestock was sufficient to interest outlaws as well as Indians. When McQuade had located water for the night’s camp, he returned to meet the wagons. Reining up on a ridge, he could see them coming. There he waited, expecting to see the Hook wagons following at a distance, but there was no sign of them. He doubted Hook would stop short of the McQuade camp, for there wouldn’t be sufficient water without going out of the way to find it. When the Peyton and Warnell wagons drew near, he rode ahead of them to the creek he had chosen. There was still an hour of daylight, and as the men began unharnessing their teams, McQuade sought out the Burke wagon. While old Andrew Burke and his troublesome sons had made it hard on McQuade, they were part of the train, and his sense of responsibility told him he should at least inquire about Matthew. He found Mark and Luke unharnessing the teams, and old Andrew greeted him in silence, without enthusiasm.

  “How’s Matthew?” McQuade asked.

  “Alive,” said Andrew.

  “I brought back some laudanum from town this morning,” McQuade said. “If there’s a need, you’re welcome to some of it.”

  “We’re obliged,” said Burke grudgingly. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

  McQuade turned away. Matthew Burke would need whiskey to break his fever and fight off infection, but let them get their own. Rufus Hook had an abundance of it. Reaching the Peyton wagon, he found that Maggie Peyton, Ellen Gunter, Minerva Haymes, Lucy Tabor, and Odessa Bibb had begun sharing the preparation of meals, and instead of five supper fires, there now were just two.

  “Ladies,” said McQuade, “that’s a downright smart move. I won’t be surprised if it’s quick to catch on.”

  “It already has,” Maggie Peyton said. “The others are followin’ our lead. We was all killin’ ourselves findin’ wood for a fire of our own. With six of us sharin’ the work, it’s easier on us all.”

  “Six?” McQuade looked around and saw Mary Flanagan coming from the creek, a big two-gallon granite coffee pot in each hand.

  When supper was ready, McQuade thoroughly enjoyed it, for the sharing further drew the families together. When Miles Flanagan had eaten, he went from one group of families to the other, spending some time with them all. Everybody seemed to enjoy the closeness, except some of the single men. The Burkes had their own fire, refusing to participate. It was well after dark before they heard the rattle of wagons and the jingle of harness, marking the arrival of Rufus Hook’s wagons.

  “I reckon the saloon will be openin’ late tonight,” said Ike Peyton.

  “Yeah,” Will Haymes said, “and closin’ earlier.”

  It brought a round of laughter, for they all knew what Ike and Will meant. While they could do nothing about Hook’s saloon, they could continue taking the trail at first light, leaving Hook and his late-night outfit behind. McQuade had already assigned the first watch, and some of the women had taken to their blankets, when the stillness of the night was shattered by a rollicking refrain from Hook’s piano.

  “Damn it,” Ike Peyton grumbled, “I used to like the piano.”

  “There’s hot coffee on the coals,” said Maggie, “if you need it.”

  “I need it,” McQuade said, and went to fill his cup. There was no moon, and he saw a shadowy form on the seat of the Flanagan wagon. When he drew near it, he spoke softly.

  “Mary?”

  “Here,” she replied.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  He reached the Peyton wagon, and without a word, Maggie handed him a cup. Quickly he filled it from the coffee pot, returned to the Flanagan wagon, and passed the cup to the girl. He then climbed up on the box beside her.

  Ike Peyton laughed. “He don’t waste no time, does he?”

  “No,” said Maggie, “and he shouldn’t. She’s a good girl, and she needs somebody like Chance McQuade.”

  For a while McQuade said nothing, content to sit there beside Mary Flanagan. When he did speak, he pleased her more than he knew.

  “I’m glad you pitched in with the supper. Not that they couldn’t have managed, but I want you to have friends, to become one of these folks.”

  “I’m already one of them,” she said. “I discovered that tonight, when I was made to feel welcome.”

  She set the tin cup down, leaned her head on his shoulder, and he discovered she was weeping softly. It was a while before she trusted herself to speak again.

  “It … means a lot to me, but … did you see my father? Do you know what he said to me, before he turned in for the night?”

  “What?” McQuade asked, interested.

  “He said, ‘Daughter, I don’t need Rufus Hook to build me a church. I’ve found it.’”

  “I can believe that,” said McQuade. “Some of the best preaching I’ve ever heard, was when all I had over my head was trees and sky.”

  It was a pleasant interlude. But then came the roar of a Sharps .50, in the direction of the Hook camp. There was a distant scream, and the piano jangled to silence.

  “Dear Lord,” said Mary, “what’s happened now?”

  “I don’t know,” McQuade said, “but I have an idea we soon will. Wait here, and I’ll be back. They may try to suck us into this.”

  McQuade joined a dozen other men who stood looking toward the lights of the distant Hood wagons. Nobody said anything, and after the time it would have taken a man to saddle a horse, they heard riders coming. His Sharps in the crook of his arm, McQuade made his way through the circled wagons until he stood in the open. While he had given no order, he sensed the men behind him. Three riders loomed up in the darkness.

  “That’ll be far enough,” said McQuade. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “This is Rufus Hook,” a grim voice replied, “and you got some answering to do.”

  “You ask the questions,” McQuade said, “and if I can answer them, I will.”

  “A while ago, somebody shot one of my gamblers, Snakehead Presnall. He’s hurt bad, and somebody from your camp fired that shot. Who was it?”

  “You don’t know who did it, yet you’re accusing somebody from my camp,” McQuade said coldly. “That’s a fool question I won’t take serious, unless you got some proof.”

  “One of your pumpkin rollers was shot last night, after he drew on Presnall. Now I’m tellin’ you him or o
ne of his kin got even by shootin’ down Presnall from the dark. Now I want you to drag that bunch out here where I can question them and have a look at their long guns.”

  “No,” said McQuade. “It’s your saloon, your women, your gamblers, and your booze. Maintaining order is your responsibility, and I don’t aim to dance when you come fiddling around. Now mount up and get out of here.”

  “Hold it, McQuade,” Andrew Burke said. “Mark, Luke, an’ me, we got our long guns, and Mister Hook is welcome to have a look at ’em. We ain’t about to have him spoutin’ off what he can’t prove.”

  Unbidden, Ike Peyton brought a lighted lantern, as the Burkes came forth with their rifles.

  “Creeker, Ellis,” said Hook, “examine those rifles.”

  The two men accompanying Hook sniffed the muzzles of the long guns and checked the loads. Without a word, they passed them back to the Burkes.

  “Well?” Hook said, impatiently.

  “Loaded, an’ no sign of havin’ been fired,” said Creeker. “But they’ve had plenty of time to reload.”

  “Where’s the rifle belongin’ to the hombre Presnall shot last night?” Ellis asked.

  “Matthew’s got no long gun,” said Andrew Burke. “All he has is the pistol the was wearin’ when he was shot.”

  “I guess we’re supposed to take your word for that,” Rufus Hook said.

  “You’re damn well going to,” said McQuade. “You stomp in here without a shred of proof, with your demands. Now mount up and ride, all of you.”

  Wordlessly they mounted and rode back the way they had come. The Burkes departed in silence, and nobody spoke until they had gone.

  “Ungrateful varmints,” Gunter Warnell said. “I wish you hadn’t stood up for ’em.”

  “I can’t side any of you without sidin’ all of you,” said McQuade. “Tomorrow, it may be any one of the rest of you. Rufus Hook’s a man accustomed to having his own way, and the more you give, the more he’ll take.”

  It was a truth they all understood, and they made their way back to the wagons and their blankets. The piano had resumed its seemingly endless attack on the silence of the plains. Now very much awake, McQuade returned to the Flanagan wagon, and was elated to find Mary still there.

  “Hand me the cups,” he said softly, “and I’ll heat up our coffee.”

  She passed him the cups and he refilled them from the coffee pot. Handing the cups to her, he climbed back to the wagon box and sat down beside her.

  “I heard most of it,” she said. “What’s going to happen now?”

  “I have no idea,” he replied. “Mostly, it depends on whether or not these young hell-raisers in our midst have learned anything. If there’s more trouble, we’ll be seeing Rufus Hook again. Or he may just have his gunmen take a few shots into our camp, after dark.”

  “But that’s so unfair,” she cried, “making all of us pay for the sins of a few.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said McQuade, “but that’s the way of the frontier. Many a man with a grudge just wants somebody to pay, often not caring if he harms the innocent along with the guilty.”

  “Chance McQuade,” she said softly, “you are a compassionate and understanding man.”

  “Coming from you,” said McQuade, “I take that as a compliment.”

  “I wish I could take credit for having said that,” she replied, “but I’m just quoting my father. I asked him … what you wanted me to, and he gave his blessing.”

  “I’m glad,” said McQuade. “Otherwise, I reckon I’d be taking my life in my hands, out here with you, and him likely under the wagon.”

  She laughed softly. “Not really. Since I’m helping with the cooking, he insists on doing his share. He’s out there with the first watch. He’s taken to these people, and they seem to like him. I expect he’ll be out there every night.”

  “Then I’ll take my turn after he calls it a night,” said McQuade. “While he’s away, don’t be surprised if I show up here, lookin’ out for you. There’s all manner of coyotes, wolves, and catamounts out here on the plains.”

  “I’m flattered,” she said. “I’m practically an old woman, and I’ve never had a man so concerned about me. I realize it’s the first week in May, but there’s a chill in the wind. Do you have a remedy for that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied. He slid closer to her, and in so doing, spilled the rest of his coffee in her lap.

  “Don’t mind that,” she said. “It’ll dry.”

  He took her advice, drew her close, and they were still there when the Reverend Miles Flanagan came looking for his blankets.

  McQuade’s people were up and about well before first light, and when the golden rays of the rising sun fanned out across the eastern horizon, the wagons were again on the trail. During breakfast, Ike Peyton had summed up their dedication.

  “We’ll see just how long they can take it, raisin’ hell till the small hours, and havin’ us move out at dawn, without ’em.”

  “There’ll be Indians and outlaws,” said McQuade. “Maybe not until we reach Indian Territory, but they’ll be coming.”

  McQuade rode ahead, seeking water. Reaching a creek, he decided to ride to a distant ridge beyond, so that he might see what lay ahead. There he was in for a surprise. Miles to the southwest was a rising cloud of dust.

  “We need to know what in tarnation is stirrin’ up that much dust,” McQuade said to his horse.

  McQuade rode on, eventually reaching the crest of a ridge that allowed him to determine the cause of the dust. Several hundred longhorn cows trudged along, bawling their displeasure. McQuade counted ten riders, four of them riding drag. He was now only a few minutes away, and he trotted his horse down the slope to meet them. Nearing the herd, he could see four pack mules running with the drag steers. The point rider saw him coming, and waving his hat, signaled the riders to mill the herd. The point man then rode ahead to meet McQuade.

  “Hello, the herd,” McQuade shouted. “I’m friendly.”

  “I’m Chad Guthrie,” the rider replied. “This is my outfit. We’re bound for St. Louis.”

  “I’m Chance McQuade, wagon boss for a hundred wagons bound for Texas. I rode on ahead, looking for water for the night.”

  “Find any?”

  “Nice creek,” said McQuade, “maybe half a dozen miles ahead of you. That’s where I’ll be circling the wagons for the night. Why don’t you gents have supper with us, and tell us about all the interesting things we can expect between here and Texas? That is, if you are from Texas.”

  Guthrie laughed. “Pardner, where else you goin’ to find longhorned varmints such as them you’re lookin’ at? I reckon we’ll accept that invite to supper.”

  “We’ll look forward to it,” said McQuade. “I’ll see you at the creek.”

  McQuade rode back the way he had come. It would be worth feeding these cowboys, for surely they had come through Indian Territory, and could share any difficulties they had experienced. He reached the wagons while they were resting the teams and told of his meeting the oncoming herd.

  “That’s something we hadn’t counted on,” said Will Haymes. “I’ll feel better, hearin’ about what’s ahead, from somebody that’s been there.”

  “Texas can’t be all that uncivilized,” Gunter Warnell said, “if there are ranchers drivin’ their herds to market.”

  “Has there been any sign of Hook’s outfit?” McQuade asked.

  “We ain’t seen ‘em,” said Ike Peyton. “Of course, we ain’t been lookin’ for ’em.”

  The wagons took the trail again, every man eager to reach the creek and hear what the Texans had to say. Not surprisingly, the Texas herd reached the creek well ahead of the wagons, and the cattle had been taken downstream to graze. McQuade guided his teamsters upstream, well beyond the cowboy camp, and there they circled the wagons. The cowboys gave them time to unhitch their teams and turn them out to graze. The women got the fires going and put the coffee on. The cowboys rode
up, looped their reins to the wagon wheels, and entered the wagon circle.

  “Folks,” said McQuade, “this here’s Chad Guthrie. I’ll let him introduce his cowboys, while we’re waitin’ for supper.”

  “We’re obliged for the supper invite,” Guthrie said. “I reckon the most godawful part of a drive, is us havin’ to eat our own cooking.”

  They laughed, and he introduced his cowboys. They were a cheerful lot, enjoying the coffee and the women who brought it to them.

  “We’re bound for the Austin land grant, along the Rio Colorado,” said McQuade.

  “We’re from east Texas,” Guthrie replied, “but we’ve heard of the Austin grant. Been some trouble down there, folks sellin’ their grants to speculators. Steve Austin kind of held things together, and when he died, some crooked dealin’ took place.”

  “I reckon we’ll have some fightin’ to do, once we get there,” said McQuade, “but for now, we’re a mite concerned with what’s ahead of us, between here and there. Indians and outlaws.”

  “It’s the Kiowa while you’re in Indian Territory and the Comanche when you cross the Red into Texas,” Guthrie said. “We had to shoot some Comanches before we left Texas, and we had two brushes with the Kiowa while we was crossin’ Indian Territory. We give the Kiowa some cows, hopin’ they’d leave us alone, but the varmints come back durin’ the night and stampeded the herd. We found their camp, shot it all to hell, and ran off all their horses. Next mornin’, we rounded up our cows, includin’ what we give them. There was a second bunch layin’ for us, but we’d scouted ahead and found their tracks. Circlin’ around, we caught ‘em off guard, and purely discouraged ’em. Outlaws didn’t bother us, but we crossed a days-old trail of nearly two dozen horses, all of ’em shod.”

  “We’d do well to scout far ahead of the wagons, then,” said McQuade.

  “That’s what’s kept us alive,” Guthrie replied. “Know what’s ahead of you, and be prepared for it.”

  The cowboys thoroughly enjoyed the food, accepting the second helpings offered them. More coffee was put on to boil, and when the first watch had to return to the herd, the others—including Guthrie—remained for a while. Preoccupied with their guests, none of McQuade’s people noticed the arrival of Rufus Hook’s wagons. Not until the piano jangled into action.