“I’ll double every man’s wages,” Hook shouted.
“Hook,” said Hedgepith pityingly, “you don’t buy off a man with money, when he’s afraid for his life. Why don’t you swallow your pride, back off up this creek, and wait for McQuade’s wagons to take the lead?”
“No,” Hook snarled. “Hedgepith …”
But Rufus Hook’s angry voice was lost among the shouts and curses of his men. The uproar finally died down enough for individual voices to be heard, and Creeker spoke up.
“Hook, the lawyer’s got a handle on it. Hangin’ on to McQuade’s shirt tail you got a chance. On your own, that’s exactly where you’re goin’ to be. On your own. What good is a hundred a month or five hundred a month to a man who’s been shot full of arrows and scalped? Now you back off, allowin’ McQuade’s bunch to go ahead, or by God, you’ll be all by yourself, this time tomorrow. Are the rest of you with me?”
“Hell, yes,” they shouted in a single voice.
“Very well,” said Hook, with poor grace, “take the wagons upstream and circle them. We will remain here until McQuade’s wagons take the lead.”
“Double wages?” Slack inquired. “You ain’t backin’ down on that.”
Hook hesitated, and when his eyes met Hedgepith’s, the lawyer shook his head.
“Double wages from here on to Texas,” said Hook with a sigh.
“If we ain’t included in them double wages,” said one of Hook’s seventeen teamsters, “I got me a hoss, and I’m makin’ tracks for St. Louis.”
There were shouts of agreement, and again Rufus Hook found himself uncomfortably caught up in circumstances of his own making.
“Double wages for everybody,” Hook said wearily.
On the seventh day after he had been shot, despite Mary’s misgivings, McQuade again rode out ahead of the wagons on his newly-acquired bay. Reaching a suitable creek, he was immediately intrigued by a pair of fresh graves, and then by the fact that instead of the Hook wagons continuing toward the southwest, they had all been driven upstream. It was enough to warrant some investigation, and McQuade crossed the creek. Circling wide, so as not to be seen, McQuade rode upstream. There, from concealing brush, he observed the Hook wagons. Mounting, he rode back to the newly made graves and continued toward the southwest. Soon he discovered the faint tracks of four unshod horses, and less than a mile beyond, they were joined by a fifth rider. He reined up, it all coming together in his mind. Turning his horse, he rode back to meet the oncoming wagons.
“So Chad Guthrie was right about the Kiowa,” Ike said, when McQuade returned to find the men resting their teams. “What do you make of Hook’s outfit just settin’ there on the creek?”
“I think they’ve changed their minds about wantin’ to take the lead,” McQuade replied. “From the graves, I’d say the Kiowa got a couple of Hook’s advance riders, and it brought on a rebellion among the others.”
“So Hook’s waitin’ for us to keep the Kiowa busy, while he rides our shirt tails,” said Gunter Warnell. “After all that big talk about us not makin’ his deadline, are we goin’ to just take this layin’ down?”
“Not much else we can do,” McQuade said, “but riding our back-trail in Kiowa country is no assurance of being left alone. The Kiowa aren’t fools. They may well pass us by because of our large numbers, while worrying the hell out of Hook’s outfit from behind. I don’t aim for the Kiowa to take us by surprise, and I’ll be out there every day, seeing that they don’t.”
McQuade’s outfit went on to the creek, and ignoring the Hook camp a mile or so upstream, circled their wagons for the night.
“I think we’ll triple our guard from now on,” said McQuade. “We have more than enough men, and enough horses and mules to drive Indians mad. I want all the animals inside the wagon circle at night. We’ll try to end our day while there’s still enough light for them to graze for an hour or two before dark. Mostly, we’ll have to depend on the grain we’re hauling, especially for the mules.”
Supper was mostly a silent affair, everybody painfully aware of the nearby graves, and of the possibility of trouble from the Kiowa. Mary refilled McQuade’s coffee cup, and he winked at her. She colored a little, and some of the other women smiled, aware that if he was well enough to ride a horse, we was ready to take his marriage seriously. Supper done and the cleanup completed, McQuade rode out to help the men haze the horses and mules into the wagon circle. When the animals had been secured, the first watch posted, and the wagons brought back into formation, McQuade returned to the wagon where Mary waited on the box, and climbed up beside her. It wasn’t good dark, and she smiled at him, turning the ring round and round on her finger.
“We don’t have to sit on the wagon box anymore,” she said.
“Don’t you reckon they’re all goin’ to know what we’re up to, if we start spendin’ all our time in the wagon?” McQuade asked.
“I reckon they will,” said Mary. “I’ve worn this ring for almost two weeks, and all you’ve seen of me is … what you saw that first day we met.”
“You mean there’s more?”
“Chance McQuade, will you stop playing games? Is a wife useful only to worry herself silly that her man’s about to be shot dead, to clean his wounds, and pour whiskey down him when he’s feverish?”
“No,” said McQuade, “there’s more. After the hunt, the Indians allow the squaws to scrape the buffalo hides. I’m part Indian, you know.”
“No,” she said, “I didn’t know. Do I have to shoot you, and then go get Maggie to take your britches off?”
“I reckon not,” said McQuade. “Get in the wagon, woman. You can scrape the buffalo hides in the morning before breakfast.”
McQuade rode out at first light, aware that he was probably being watched by the Kiowa. If they had killed two of Hook’s men, certainly they wouldn’t hesitate to extend to Chance McQuade the same fate. But McQuade found a suitable place to circle the wagons for the night, and returned to meet the train.
“Maybe,” said Ike during supper, “the Kiowa will leave us alone.”
“We can’t count on that,” McQuade said. “We’ll continue with a tripled watch. They’re up to something, but it may not necessarily involve us.”
“The men have settled down,” said Hedgepith with satisfaction. “With McQuade’s outfit ahead of us, I believe our troubles are over.”
“They’d better not settle down too much,” Hook replied. “Havin’ McQuade’s bunch just ahead of us don’t mean they’ll help us.”
“It sure as hell don’t,” said Hedgepith. “We have you and your damned deadline talk to thank for that.”
“Hedgepith,” Hook said, “you’d better watch your mouth. One day you’ll go too far.”
Sometime during the night, the Kiowa slipped into Hook’s camp, stampeding every last horse and mule into the darkness. Some of the animals flattened Hook’s tent, leaving him bruised, barefoot, and wearing only his drawers.
“Damn it,” Hook bawled in frustration, “damn it.”
“My goodness,” Hedgepith said mildly, “how are we going to move these wagons, with all our horses and mules gone?”
“Mr. Hook,” said Snakehead Presnall, “they turned over the saloon wagon and busted the roulette wheel.”
“After them,” Hook shouted. “Every man of you take your guns and go after them.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, suh,” said Creeker with all the contempt he could muster, “but are you referrin’ to the Indians or the horses and mules?”
“All of them, damn it,” Hook snarled. “What the hell am I paying you for?”
“Not to drift around in the dark afoot, huntin’ horses, mules, and Indians,” said Dirk. “By God, I ain’t movin’ till daylight, and then just far enough to find my hoss.”
There was shouted agreement so near unanimous that Hook swallowed his curses and bore his frustration in silence. Whatever his other problems, the lack of vigilance wasn’t one of them, for every man was a
wake the rest of the night, his gun ready. Strong on the minds of them all were the arrow-riddled bodies of Byron and Mook.
The uproar was heard in McQuade’s camp. McQuade sat up, listening.
“What is it?” Mary asked.
“It sounds almighty like all of Hook’s horses and mules have stampeded,” McQuade said. “I reckon I’d better get up for a while, and maybe join the men on watch. Where’s my britches and shirt?”
She laughed. “Somewhere in the wagon, I think.”
“You’re a hell of a lot of help,” he grumbled. “On the frontier, a man’s a fool to take off anything more than his hat, when he sleeps.”
McQuade found the missing articles, got dressed, and tugged on his boots.
“When will you be back?” Mary asked.
“I don’t know,” said McQuade. “Get some sleep. You still have to scrape those buffalo hides before breakfast.”
She laughed, enjoying his strange sense of humor, as he climbed over the wagon’s tailgate. In the moonlight he could see many of the other men gathered near Ike Peyton’s wagon. Obviously they were waiting for McQuade to arrive.
“Sounds like Hook’s bunch is all goin’ to be afoot, come morning,” Cal Tabor said.
“Yeah,” said Hardy Kilgore, “and I’m so sorry for ’em, I could just break down and bawl like a baby.”
“I feel the same way,” Eli Bibb said. “I reckon we ought to all ride over there, come daylight, and offer our help.”
“Don’t worry, Eli,” said Ike. “After somebody gutshoots you, we’ll put you up a nice headstone and look after Odessa.”
They all laughed uproariously.
“Don’t get too excited,” McQuade said. “While they can’t stampede our stock from the wagon circle, they can come after them while they’re out to graze, or they can attack us while we’re strung out for a mile.”
That brought them back to the reality of their own danger, and they became quiet.
“There’s something else I should have told you,” said McQuade, “which I’m about to tell you now. There’ll be no smoking while you’re on watch. Nothing gives away your position in the dark more quickly than a lighted quirly or a pipe. Always stand your watch in pairs, never separated. A pair of Kiowa with knives can pick you off one man at a time, without the rest of us being aware of it, until we find your dead bodies.”
“I reckon we shouldn’t talk, neither,” Hardy Kilgore said.
“I reckon you shouldn’t, if you want to go on living,” said McQuade. “Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourselves. An Indian can find you by the creak of the leather in your boots, the shifting of your gunbelt, or while you’re fanning yourself with your hat.”
“God Almighty,” somebody said, “maybe I’ll hold my breath too.”
“Good idea,” said McQuade. “I overlooked that. Just remember that sound carries for a great distance at night, and that can work for you, as well as against you. Listen for any sound that seems out of place or unnatural.”
McQuade’s watch was still more than four hours away, so he went back to the wagon and climbed in.
“Are you still awake?” he asked softly.
“No,” she said. “You told me to get some sleep.”
“That’s a disappointment. I don’t have to stand watch for another four hours.”
“I wouldn’t want you lying here disappointed,” she replied. “Why don’t you gently wake me?”
“No use, I reckon. I’m wearin’ everything except my hat.”
It was all completely foolish. They laughed until there were tears in their eyes, and the men on watch got a totally false impression as to what was going on …
After the stampede, nobody in Hook’s camp slept. They all sat there with their guns ready, any occasional conversation being answered by a grunt or total silence. In the dark, in his trampled tent, Hook had been unable to find his clothing and boots. As a result, he spent the rest of the night in his drawers, his teeth chattering in a chill wind. Even he had enough Indian savvy not to suggest a fire. The moment it was light enough to see, the men prepared to go looking for the scattered stock.
“First priority is the mules,” said Hook.
“First priority is my damn horse,” Creeker replied.
“And mine,” said half a dozen of his companions.
Hook swallowed his fury and began looking for his clothing and boots. His position was precarious, because without the mules, he was stranded. The remaining ten men upon whom he depended for protection, however, could find their horses and simply ride away, if they chose. Despite all the cursing and commotion, Ampersand started his fire and got breakfast underway. Whatever their troubles, men had to eat. The old Negro looked at Rufus Hook and said exactly the wrong thing.
“How we move this wagon, without no mules?”
“I don’t intend to move it,” Hook said savagely. “I’m going to leave it set right here, with you in it, until Judgment Day, or until the Indians get you, whichever comes first.”
Ampersand had been with Hook for years, and thought he had endured all the man’s ugly moods, but this was Hook at his worst. The old man silently vowed that if he was able to return to St. Louis alive, he would build himself a shack alongside the Mississippi, and for his remaining years, watch the steamboats go by.
“Damn it,” said Slack, as he and his companions followed the trail of the stampeded horses and mules, “we could beat the bushes for a week, without findin’ one horse or mule.”
“Let them that’s dependin’ on mules look for ’em,” Rucker replied.
All seventeen of the teamsters were following the same trail, and while none of them had anything to say, they were rankled by the crude remarks of Hook’s hired gunmen. Odd as it seemed, the first animals to be recovered were mules, and the men who had lost horses were beginning to panic.
“I never cared for ridin’ a mule,” Porto growled, “but if that’s what it takes to git me out of this godforsaken country, I’m willin’ to learn.”
“As I recall,” said one of the teamsters, “wasn’t nobody ridin’ mules. All of them was drawin’ wagons.”
“That could all change,” Ellis snarled, “if we don’t soon find some hosses.”
“I got a gun that says it ain’t likely,” one of the teamsters replied.
They stumbled on, the search growing longer and tempers growing shorter. The wind being from the southwest, they could hear the creak and the rattle of wagons, as McQuade and his outfit again took the trail. For a while they all were silent, as the implications of their predicament sank in. With McQuade and his much larger party gone, they would again be on their own. On their own, afoot.
McQuade rode out ahead of the wagons, wary, not knowing what to expect. He had an idea, however, that the Kiowa would be busy rounding up the stock they had run off from Hook’s camp the night before. He wondered if Hook had sense enough to find just enough horses and mules to mount his men and send them after the Kiowa and the rest of the stampeded stock. He suspected the Kiowa would be concerned with the mules only as food. They would be interested in the horses. Including the animals taken from the Sutton gang, there were now more than a hundred horses in McQuade’s own outfit, reason enough for a heavy guard. Finding a suitable camp for the night, he rode back to meet the wagons.
There was jubilation among Hook’s teamsters as they began finding grazing mules, and gloom among Creeker and his companions, as they found no horses.
“It’s lookin’ like there’ll be some hombres beggin’ to ride on our wagon boxes,” one of the teamsters observed.
“I’d have to think on it some,” said another. “I ain’t sure I can stand the stink.”
By the end of the day, only five mules were missing, while not a single horse had been found, forcing Hook to make a decision.
“If we must, we can leave one wagon, spreading its goods among the others. But I’m not without sympathy for those of you whose horses haven’t been found. I’m wi
lling to lay over for another day, allowing you the use of mules to seek and recover your mounts. If you are interested in doing so, of course.”
“What the hell choice do we have?” Creeker growled. “I ain’t too proud to straddle a mule, if my only other choice is walking.”
There was reluctant agreement from Creeker’s companions.
“Just tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night,” said Hook. “Obviously your horses have been taken by the Indians. We shall see if you’re man enough to recover them.”
Tracking hostile Indians, even to recover their mounts, was a task none of them relished, but they had little choice. The rest of them looked at Creeker, and he remained silent.
“Still no sign of Hook’s wagons,” Ike said, as they gathered around the supper fire. “How does a man go about findin’ his horse after it’s been stole by Indians?”
“If he’s smart,” said McQuade, “he’ll find a trail and track the Indians, rather than tromp around lookin’ for horses he ain’t likely to find. I reckon Hook’s bunch has all been horse and mule huntin’ all day, and I’d bet they haven’t found a single horse. The Kiowa split up, each man chasing a horse. They’ll all come together some distance away, instead of close by, where Hook’s bunch will be looking for tracks.”
“You’ve had considerable experience with Indians, I reckon,” said Gunter Warnell.
“Enough not to take them for granted,” McQuade said. “Most Indians have cause for their hostility toward whites, but that has nothing to do with them stealing our horses. One tribe steals from another, so why would they hesitate to steal from us?”
“I think we should add to our watch,” said Will Haymes. “We have the men.”
“Any increase should be from midnight till dawn,” McQuade said. “If a man’s going to nod off, it’s usually during the small hours of the morning. I’m going to be with you each night during those hours, at least until we’re through Indian Territory.”
Across the Rio Colorado Page 10
