Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

“By God,” Ellis said, “you done changed your tune some, since leavin’ St. Louis.”

  “I have,” said Creeker, “and I got Rufus Hook to thank for that. I’ve sold my gun, but by God, I’m still a better man than he is. Someday, not that far off, there’ll be law on the frontier, and when it comes, I don’t aim to be on the wrong side of it, with a gun in my hand.”

  “Hell, Creeker,” Dirk said, “when we get to Texas, we’ll be lucky to have a thousand dollars amongst us. How far can we get with that?”

  “Texas is owned by Mexico,” said Creeker, “and they’re almighty anxious to settle the land. Why do you reckon they’re dealing with greedy varmints like Hook? Once we get our hands on a grant, we’ll ride to Mexico for some horses, cows, and bulls. When we got the seed stock, the natural increase will do the rest.”

  “Creeker,” Groat said, “you’re either the smartest hombre I ever met, or the biggest damn fool.”

  “He’s started usin’ his head for something other than a place to hang his hat,” said Ellis. “A damn fool is a hombre that hires out to an old buzzard like Hook, jumpin’ ever’ time he hollers froggy. I’m with you, Creeker.”

  To Creeker’s satisfaction, they all sided him, agreeing to split with Hook after reaching Texas. But Creeker had a word of warning.

  “We’ll have to play along with Hook, because we’ll need the money he’s paying us, so it’ll mean resisting the urge to gut-shoot him when he’s orderin’ us around.”

  But Creeker found it increasingly hard to follow his own advice. When Hook had recovered from his bout with malaria, he became more the tyrant than ever. One night after supper, when Lora Kirby refused to accompany him to his tent, he knocked her to the ground. He was about to kick her, when Creeker seized him by his shirt front and flattened him with a punch to the jaw.

  “Damn you,” said Hook, “you’re fired. Get on your horse and ride.”

  “You might want to think on it some,” Groat said. “If he goes, we all go.”

  “Maybe I’ll go with ’em,” said one of the teamsters who had been wounded. “If it wasn’t for them and their quick gun work, the Indians would of kilt us all.”

  “And we ain’t even close to bein’ out of Indian Territory,” said another.

  Again Hook was forced to swallow his rage or risk wholesale rebellion, and some of the teamsters eyed him with something less than respect.

  On watch, Creeker suddenly became alert, his gun in his hand. There was no moon, and while the shadow had been fleeting, Creeker knew someone was there. He cocked the pistol, and it seemed loud in the stillness.

  “No,” came a desperate whisper. “It’s me. Lora.”

  Creeker let the hammer down and holstered the weapon. She crept out of the shadows and he guided her to a distant pine that stood in a small clearing. From there, even in the dim starlight, he could see anybody approaching. She eased herself down next to the tree, and Creeker sat down beside her.

  “I never got a chance to thank you for what you did,” she said.

  “I wasn’t expecting any thanks,” said Creeker. “Where I come from, however lowdown a man is, he don’t slap a woman around.”

  “No decent woman,” she said, “but he knows what I am, and so do you.”

  “We’ve all done things we ain’t proud of,” said Creeker, “but that don’t mean we have to go on doing them.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she replied, “but you know why he brought me along.”

  “You don’t aim to teach school, then.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “I can barely read and write.”

  “Most of these folks goin’ to Texas have pulled up roots and aim to make another start in a new land. Why not you?”

  “Me?” Again she laughed, and it trailed off into a sob. “A whore in St. Louis is still a whore in Texas. I’ve been fooling myself. Hook promised me a better life than I could ever hope for in St. Louis, but the more I see of him, the more certain I am that I’m lost to anything good and decent. I was better off, being everybody’s woman, than a slave to a brute like Rufus Hook.”

  “If you could free yourself of him,” Creeker asked, “would you?”

  “My God, yes,” she cried, “but I’m committed. He’d kill me.”

  “Not while I’m around,” said Creeker, “if you’re bein’ honest with me.”

  “I am,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve never had any man interested in me, but for a roll in the hay. What do you want?”

  “More than a roll in the hay,” said Creeker. “I know what you’ve been, and now I’m lookin’ to what you can be. From here on to Texas, if I stand up for you, will you stay out of Hook’s bed?”

  “What happens when we reach Texas?”

  “Plenty,” Creeker said. “Somewhere behind the paint, behind all that you have been, I’ve got a gut-feelin’ there’s an honest woman. Let me have a look at her. We’ll talk again, any night of your choosing. But starting now—tonight—you’re no longer Hook’s woman. You are a school marm, and nothing more.”

  “He’ll laugh in my face.”

  “Let him,” said Creeker. “If he tries to force you, or to hurt you in any way, scream your head off. I’ll beat hell out of him.”

  “I’ve never heard you called anything but Creeker,” she said. “Do you have any other name?”

  “Riley,” he said. “Riley Creeker. Are you really Lora Kirby?”

  “Yes. My daddy is a Methodist preacher in Illinois. Since I was a child, I’ve listened to him preach that people were going to hell. I hope he never knows just how right he’s been.”

  “How old are you, Lora?”

  “I’ll be nineteen in August,” she said. “And you?”

  “I’m twenty-three. There’s still time for us.”

  “You’ve given me hope,” she said. “I’ll talk to you again tomorrow night.”

  She faded into the shadows and Riley Creeker watched her go. Without the paint and the hopelessness in her eyes, she would be beautiful, he thought. But could she—would she—resist Rufus Hook’s demands? He found himself hoping she would.

  McQuade’s party again took the trail, and he rode ahead, seeking water and looking for Indian sign. Water seemed abundant in Indian Territory, and he concerned himself with Indian sign. When he eventually found a creek that suited him, there were ashes from an old fire and days-old tracks of a dozen unshod horses. There had been no recent rain, so McQuade was able to determine that the Indians had ridden in from the west, and that they had departed to the southwest. McQuade rode back to meet the wagons. There was little to be done defensively, when they had no idea where the Kiowa were. When the wagons had been circled for the night and supper was underway, McQuade told them of the tracks he had found, ahead of their arrival.

  “Maybe we ought to triple the guard, from here on,” Ike suggested.

  “I doubt that will help,” said McQuade. “A night attack would appeal to them only if they could stampede the stock. I think we’ll strictly have to be on our guard while we’re on the trail.”

  “They took us by surprise, that first time,” Gunter Warnell said. “If we move quick, I believe we can drive them away before they’re able to hurt us.”

  “Just keep that in mind,” said McQuade. “Let them get too close, and some of you will die.”

  The showdown between Rufus Hook and Lora Kirby came the night following Lora’s meeting with Creeker. Hook had left nothing to anybody’s imagination regarding his crude relationship with the girl.

  “Into my tent,” he growled.

  “No,” said Lora. “Never again.”

  “We had an agreement,” Hook said, loud enough for everybody to hear. “That’s why I brought you from St. Louis.”

  “Then I’m breaking it,” said Lora. “Send me back to St. Louis, if you don’t like it.”

  “You know that’s impossible,” Hook roared. “Now get in there, or I’ll drag you.”

  “Hook,” said Creeker, “the woman’s
had enough of you. Leave her be.”

  “And I’ve had enough of you pokin’ your nose in where it don’t belong,” Hook said, his voice sinking to a growl. “This is none of your business.”

  “I’m making it my business,” said Creeker ominously. “It becomes the business of us all, when you abuse a woman. What do the rest of you say?”

  The teamsters said nothing, but it was evident that all nine of Creeker’s companions would side him, if need be. Their thumbs were hooked in their pistol belts, and their hard eyes were on Hook. Hiram Savage and Snakehead Presnall, Hook’s gamblers, were careful to keep their hands away from their guns. While Doctor Horace Puckett had spoken not a word, his eyes were on Hook, and they said much. It became another standoff, as Hook stood his ground. As usual, it was Xavier Hedgepith who had to reason with Hook, and it was the lawyer who eventually spoke to Lora.

  “There’s obviously been a misunderstanding,” said Hedgepith smoothly. “Mr. Hook has agreed that you have been enlisted to teach school upon your arrival in Texas, and that your … ah … relationship with him is strictly voluntary.”

  “I have no relationship with him, besides what he forced on me,” Lora said, “and now that I have a choice, I don’t want him near me.”

  It cast Rufus Hook in a bad light, and he turned hate-filled eyes on Creeker, whom he considered guilty of rank insubordination. Creeker glared right back at him, both of them knowing that one day they would clash. Neither could afford a personal struggle while they faced the hazards of Indian Territory. Creeker was elated when Lora again visited him late at night, the more so because of the change in her attitude.

  “I never expected that,” she said. “I didn’t believe he’d agree to leave me alone. I owe that to you, because I was afraid to stand up to him. But he’ll find a way to get back at you. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “He’s had to swallow a lot of things that’s rankled his gizzard,” said Creeker, “because of our situation. With all of us on the watch for Indians, we can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves. Whatever hell-raising Hook has in mind will have to wait until we reach Texas.”

  “He’s applied for land grants in everybody’s name. Even mine. He’s counting on us all signing our grants over to him.”

  “Yes,” said Creeker, “but there’s usually a lot of difference between what a man wants or expects, and what he finally gets.”

  “You’re saying that everybody won’t sign their grants over to Hook?”

  “I can’t speak for everybody,” Creeker said, “but if I’m able to get my hands on some Texas land, it’s mine. I got nine hombres sidin’ me that feel the same way.”

  “What will you do with so much land?”

  “We aim to pool the money Hook owes us to buy seed stock from Mexico. Horses, cows, and bulls.”

  She grew excited just listening to him talk, and Creeker told her what he and his nine companions had agreed upon.

  “In a few years, you can be rich,” she cried, “if men like Hook will leave you alone.”

  “Men like Hook will have to be dealt with,” said Creeker. “At supper time, I noticed you’ve washed off all the powder and paint. I like what’s underneath a whole lot better.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re the first man who ever asked me to do that.”

  “Would you have done it, if another had asked you to?” Creeker asked.

  “No,” she replied. “I did what I was paid to do. None of them had the right to ask anything more. We both know I’ve been a whore, but you’ve treated me like a lady. After I left you last night, I … I didn’t sleep. I thought of what you had asked of me, and somehow I … I felt clean, like I was somebody.”

  “If what I say—what I think—means so much,” said Creeker, “there’s something I’m wantin’ to ask you, when we reach Texas.”

  “Why must you wait?” she asked.

  “Because we’re both under Hook’s authority until then,” said Creeker, “and I want to be my own man, with something to offer a woman.”

  “You have more to offer than any man I’ve ever known,” she said. “You gave me the strength to take back my life, to stand up to Rufus Hook, because you cared.”

  It practically took Creeker’s breath away, and during the silence, she placed her cheek next to his. She was trembling, and there was no mistaking her tears. He drew her to him, kissing her long and hard. They parted just long enough to catch their wind, and then went at it again. It was she who finally broke the silence.

  “I suppose I acted like a brazen woman, but I … I wanted that. I needed it. I put my heart and soul into it. What I have given you, no other has ever had.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me that,” said Creeker. “I’ve been with a few women, but not one like you. Now, more than ever, I want to ask you that question when we finally get to Texas.”

  “I can answer it for you tonight,” she said, “but if that’s what you want, we’ll wait. But when we get to Texas, if you still want me, the answer is yes.”

  “Then we won’t wait,” said Creeker. “I’ll tell you now. Whatever there is in Texas, I want you to share it with me.”

  Having lost two teamsters to Indians, but refusing to abandon any of his goods, Hook had instead left two wagons, distributing their contents among the remaining fifteen. But the overloading took its toll. They were two days on the trail, following the delay with malaria, when two wagons were crippled with broken axles. Hook’s solution to the problem infuriated the teamsters, when he spoke to Slaughter and Weatherly, drivers of the pair of disabled wagons.

  “I want you men to unhitch your teams and go back for those two wagons we left behind,” Hook said, “and don’t waste any time.”

  “Hell,” said Slaughter, “that’s thirty miles or more. We can fell trees, hew new axles, and be gone in less time.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion,” Hook said. “I told the two of you to return for those two wagons. Now, by God.”

  “There’s Indians,” said Weatherly. “I ain’t riskin’ my neck for no damn wagons.”

  “Creeker and his men will ride with you,” Hook said. “Creeker?”

  Creeker said nothing, his eyes on the furious teamsters. Slowly they began unhitching their teams from the disabled wagons. Creeker and his companions saddled their horses, and the twelve men rode out, following the back-trail.

  “We can get there ’fore dark,” said Groat, “but can we get back?”

  “Maybe, with empty wagons,” Slaughter said, “but we’ll have to push the teams.”

  They rode warily, seeing nobody, but when they reached the abandoned wagons, they reined up in dismay. Brush had been piled beneath the wagons, and they had been burned. Nothing remained but the metal parts. The men looked at one another, and Groat laughed.

  “Let’s ride,” said Creeker. “We’ll make it back before dark, for sure.”

  “Yeah,” Slaughter said wearily, “but we’ll have to listen to Hook bellow and paw the ground.”

  “Not for long,” Creeker said. “Leaving the wagons was his idea. We done what he had us do, and I don’t take no bawlin’ and pawin’ when I’ve done the best I could.”

  “Hell, no,” shouted Groat, Slack, Ellis, and Pucker. “We’ll stand together, and when he lays into us, we’ll give as good as we get.”

  They returned to a predictable fit by Hook, but his cursing came to an abrupt halt when Creeker drew his pistol and put a slug through Hook’s hat. He was about to direct a new string of obscenities at Creeker, when Creeker spoke. His voice was low, deadly.

  “One more cuss word out of you, and I’ll put a slug through your leg, and I’ll go on doin’ it until you shut your mouth or run out of leg.”

  Hook stood there in silent fury, taking Creeker at his word. The teamsters, playing off Creeker’s stand, were equally defiant. Even Hedgepith and Puckett watched with some amusement. None of the women were in sight, and there was no sign of approval from Savage and Presnall. Swallow
ing hard, Hook spoke.

  “Slaughter, you and Weatherly take axes and fell suitable trees for axles. Hansard, you and Baker help them. Some of the rest of you take wagon jacks and begin jacking up those two wagons.”

  It was a sensible order, and the teamsters went about their duties with more than a little satisfaction. There were some grins of appreciation directed at Creeker, as he and his men began unsaddling their horses. The teamsters worked furiously, for they still had to reach water for the night’s camp. It was almost dark when they were finally able to circle the wagons, and by the time they were able to eat, there were golden fingers of lightning probing the western sky.

  “We’d better be findin’ us some high ground,” Slaughter said. “There’ll be rain before this time tomorrow, and mud aplenty.”

  “Be a good time to bust some more axles,” said Weatherly.

  Creeker and his men laughed, but the teamsters did not, for Hook had overheard. But he continued on to Ampersand’s cook wagon, saying nothing.

  The significance of the lightning wasn’t lost on McQuade’s party. The intensity of the storm and the amount of rain would determine how much time was lost.

  “We’d best cover as much ground tomorrow as we can,” Ike observed.

  The wind from the northwest had the feel and smell of rain, and there was some doubt that they would have another full day before the resulting mud made the land all but impassable for the wagons. Mary and McQuade retired to the wagon early.

  “If it’s raining in the morning,” said Mary, “why don’t we just spend the day in the wagon?”

  “Because we can’t be sure the Indians won’t pick just such a time to work their way into our wagon circle. Just when we think they’ve given up on us, they’ll strike.”

  “I’ll be so glad when we reach Texas, and don’t have to always be ready for an attack.”

  “That won’t change,” said McQuade. “Not for a while. From what Chad Guthrie told us, the Comanches are even worse than the Kiowa. While some Indians are superstitious and won’t attack at night, the Comanches will attack any time. I hope Hook had the sense to group these grants in such a way that we can organize against Indian attacks. Us with a rancher’s grant, the nearest neighbor might be miles away.”