Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “Hear that, you mule whackers? You got to pay for lost goods. Are you goin’ to take that?”

  “Hell, no,” they all shouted in a single voice.

  “Well, now, Mr. Hedgepith,” said Slaughter, “you ain’t threatenin’ just me an’ Hansard no more. Pull in your horns, back off on chargin’ us for losses, or every man of us will leave your wagons settin’ where they are.”

  Hedgepith looked from one to another, finding only grim resolution in their eyes, and did what he had to.

  “I suppose I spoke hastily. I’ll absorb the losses. We have the necessary tools. Can the wagons be repaired?”

  “Yeah,” said Slaughter, “but it’ll take some time, and we ain’t even goin’ to think of it in pouring rain.”

  “Then circle the rest of the wagons,” Hedgepith said, “and we’ll remain here until the wagons can be repaired.”

  Creeker and his companions had said nothing during Hedgepith’s confrontation with the teamsters. Now Hedgepith glared at them, and they grinned at him in return.

  “Rider comin’,” Weatherly sang out.

  McQuade reined up out of rifle range.

  “Come on, McQuade,” Creeker shouted.

  Hedgepith said nothing, remaining where he was. McQuade rode in.

  “We had some teams stampede,” said McQuade, “and we have five people with broken bones. We have need of Doctor Puckett.”

  “We also had teams stampede,” Hedgepith said, “and …”

  Groat laughed, and before Hedgepith could say more, Creeker cut in.

  “Come off it, Hedgepith. We got nobody injured, and you know it.”

  “If one of you will bring my horse,” Doctor Puckett said, “I’ll be on my way.”

  Nobody said anything as Puckett mounted his horse and rode out with McQuade. By the time they reached McQuade’s wagon circle, a fire had been built beneath the canvas shelter and water was boiling. Skinned and bruised, Maggie Peyton had already given the injured massive doses of whiskey.

  “Just a little longer,” said Maggie, “and they’ll be out of it. The women got theirs first, so they’ll be ready before Ike and Gunter.”

  “Was anyone hurt in your party, Doctor?” Mary asked.

  “No,” said Puckett. “We had some teams stampede, two wagons were heavily damaged and five barrels of whiskey lost.”

  “Maggie,” Mary said, “you’ve been through a lot. Why don’t you rest, and let me help the doctor in whatever way I can?”

  “You can help,” said Maggie, “but I have to keep busy. If I just set and do nothing, I’ll be so stiff and sore by mornin’, I can’t get up. I’d best look in on Ike. It takes a lot of whiskey to knock him out.”

  While the thunder and lightning had passed, the rain continued, as Doctor Puckett began setting the broken bones of the injured.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dr. Puckett spent more than three hours setting and splinting broken bones. The rain had continued and showed no sign of letting up any time soon.

  “You’re welcome to stay for supper, Doctor,” Maggie said.

  “Thank you,” said Puckett, “but I should get back before dark. Just impress upon the people whose bones I have set that they’re not to do anything foolish. Another break without allowing the bones to knit can be serious.”

  “I’ll see that they take care of themselves,” Maggie said. “We’re beholden to you.”

  “I’ll ride back with you, Doc,” said McQuade.

  They reached Hedgepith’s wagons without incident, and with a friendly goodbye, the doctor and McQuade parted. Creeker and several of his men raised a hand in greeting, but McQuade saw no sign of Hedgepith. Reaching his own wagon circle, McQuade visited the wagons where those who had been injured had been taken. Only Ike and Gunter were awake. The three women still slept.

  “This is one hell of a mess,” Ike complained. “Doc told Maggie I wasn’t to use this burn leg for a month, and there’s a godawful lot of work to be done to that wagon.”

  “Not just your wagon,” said McQuade. “Six teams stampeded, and five of the wagons were seriously damaged. The Haymes wagon was the only one to come out of it without a busted wheel or broken axle. There are plenty of us to repair the wagons. Just remember, had it been somebody else with a broken leg, you’d be helping repair his wagon. Just do as Maggie tells you, and don’t hurt that leg again.”

  “I always do what Maggie tells me, broken leg or not,” said Ike. “I didn’t know I had any choice.”

  “You don’t worry about this old varmint,” Maggie said. “I can handle the teams better than he can, and without all the swearing.”

  McQuade found Gunter Warnell with a splint on his arm, grimly watching the steadily falling rain.

  “I don’t know what’s ahead of us in Texas,” said Gunter, “but it can’t be any worse than what we’ve run into in Indian Territory.”

  “That’s kind of how I feel,” McQuade said. “When this rain lets up, we’ll all get busy and repair your wagon. It’ll be a mite crowded until then.”

  “I won’t be worth a damn, with this arm,” said Gunter. “The Doc told Ellen it’s a bad break, and if I put any strain on it before it knits, it could heal crooked.”

  “I’m tellin’ you the same thing I told Ike,” McQuade said. “It could have been someone else with a broken arm, and you helping to repair his wagon. We’re all in this to the finish, and we’re goin’ to make it.”

  “You’re a patient and determined man, McQuade, and I doubt any of us could survive on this frontier, without you. I didn’t like Rufus Hook, but God rest his soul, he knew what he was doing, when he hired you.”

  McQuade said nothing, going on to the wagons where Bess Jackman, Winnie Odell, and Callie Phelps had been taken. He found Mary with Bess, who had awakened. After a word of reassurance, McQuade and Mary then visited the other two wagons. While Winnie and Callie had just awakened, they were in good spirits.

  “Except for the wrecked wagons,” said Mary, “we have a lot for which we should be thankful.”

  “Even with the broken wagons, we have plenty to be thankful for,” McQuade said. “A wagon can be made good as new. Any one of those with broken bones could have been killed. We should offer our wagon to those who were hurt, whose wagons were wrecked.”

  “I already did,” said Mary, “but others were ahead of me. These are generous people, and they realize one of the smashed-up wagons might have been their own.”

  They made do with the little shelter they had, preparing supper, feeding the injured, and sharing their wagons. McQuade posted a triple watch for the night, compensating for poor visibility caused by the continuing rain. The next morning, shortly after dawn, the rain slacked to a drizzle and eventually ceased.

  “Let’s get started on those wagons,” said McQuade. “There’s a chance we can repair them today, if we all pitch in.”

  Necessary repairs to the Haymes wagon were minor, although their personal belongings had suffered. All Minerva’s treasured china had been broken. All five of the other wagons had one broken wheel, and three of them had broken rear axles. Wagon canvas had been ripped, bows snapped, and in several cases, the harness itself had been damaged by the terrified mules. McQuade kept them all busy, for he wanted the damaged wagons back within the wagon circle. The critical repairs—replacing broken wheels and axles—were done first. That done, the wagons were taken to their place within the wagon circle, where lesser repairs and cleanup would be done. Canvas was patched, while slender hickory saplings were bent into bows to replace those broken. Their most important tools were axes, and McQuade swung one until his hands were blistered, hewing axles to replace the broken ones. Fortunately, every wagon carried at least one spare wheel, and with many hands laid to the task, all those whose wagons had been damaged saw them repaired and back within the wagon circle by suppertime.

  “I have never seen a more neighborly bunch of folks in my life,” said Ike, when he had been helped into his own restored wagon.
/>
  Hedgepith’s teamsters set to work as soon as the rain ceased, and by early afternoon, the two damaged wagons were again ready for the trail.

  “With the wagons ready,” said Hedgepith, “why are we not moving out?”

  “Mud,” Slaughter said. “You got an almighty short memory.”

  Hedgepith said nothing. Wet-weather streams were running bank full, and water would not be a problem for at least another day or two. The repaired wagons were returned to the wagon circle and preparations were made for the night. Slaughter paused for a word with Creeker.

  “You lookin’ for more trouble with the Kiowa?” Slaughter asked.

  “I don’t know, one way or the other,” said Creeker. “We’re close to enough to Texas that they should be backing off, but we can’t risk it. We’d better stay with two watches until we cross the Red.”

  Although the storm had ended the day before, McQuade decided to wait another day before taking the trail again. A full day of sun would lessen chances of wagons bogging down in mud, and it would allow those who had been injured to adapt to their situation. In the afternoon, McQuade went from wagon to wagon, assuring himself that all was well, and leaving word of his intention to take the trail the following morning. All seemed in order until he reached the Putnam wagon. The pucker was drawn tight and the curtains pulled down at front and back.

  “Putnam,” McQuade said, “are you in there?”

  Selma lifted the curtain from the rear pucker, and McQuade saw enough to assure himself that she was totally undressed. She was also very nervous, for her voice was little more than a squeak.

  “Trent’s not here,” she said.

  “Then where is he?” McQuade demanded.

  “I promised not to tell,” said Selma.

  “You might as well,” McQuade said. “I’ll get it out of him when he returns, and I’ll not forget that you covered for him. The Kiowa could be scalping him this very minute. Now where is he?”

  “Oh, I don’t care what you do to him, or what the Indians do to him,” she said. “He went to the other wagon camp, for more whiskey.”

  “How long has he been gone?” McQuade asked.

  “Maybe an hour,” said Selma. “He’s afoot. He thought you wouldn’t know, if he didn’t take his horse.”

  “Damn it,” McQuade said. If the Kiowa discovered Putnam afoot, he wouldn’t have a prayer. Quickly McQuade visited the other wagons. Reaching the Burke wagon, he confirmed what he already suspected. Only old Andrew, Matthew, and Mark were there.

  “Where’s Luke?” McQuade asked.

  “Around here somewhere,” said Andrew cautiously.

  “In the Putnam wagon, by any chance?”

  “I don’t know,” Burke said. “Why don’t you go find out for yourself?”

  But McQuade had his answer, and it wasn’t Luke who was in danger. McQuade found Cal Tabor and Will Haymes, and quickly explained the situation.

  “Saddle up,” said McQuade, “and bring an extra horse. We’ll try to save the damn fool, if we can.”

  McQuade rode by the wagon and told Mary where he was going, and why. She was less than sympathetic.

  “Why don’t you just let the Indians have him?”

  “It’s a temptation,” said McQuade, “but given that small victory, their medicine men might talk them into trying for a larger one. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  The trio rode out, McQuade in the lead.

  “Even without the Indian threat, goin’ afoot was a fool thing to do,” Will said. “He’s got no way of knowin’ how far back Hedgepith’s wagons are.”

  “I doubt they’re more than three or four miles behind us,” said McQuade. “The storm must have caught them, just as it did us. But that’s distance enough for a rider to catch a man on foot, and one Kiowa would be more than a match for Putnam.”

  “Hedgepith’s outfit could have driven wide of us and be somewhere ahead,” Cal said.

  “Not likely,” said McQuade. “Trailing us, they feel some measure of safety from the Kiowa. I expect for them to wait until we take the trail again, and they’ll follow.”

  They had no trouble finding Putnam’s tracks in the muddy ground, and within less than a mile, his stride increased mightily.

  “He’s runnin’ like hell wouldn’t have it,” said Will.

  They quickly discovered the reason for Putnam’s haste. Tracks of two unshod horses led in from the northwest and galloped after the fleeing Putnam. Suddenly his tracks were gone, and only those of the side-by-side galloping horses remained.

  “Caught him up between them,” McQuade said. “We’re too late.”

  Almost immediately the horses had changed direction, galloping back the way they had come. Within a matter of minutes, McQuade and his companions found Trent Putnam. He lay belly-down, and four arrows had been driven deep into his back. His scalp and pistol belt were missing.

  “God,” said Will, “what a grisly sight. We should have brought a shovel and buried him here, so the others won’t have to look at him.”

  “I want the others to have a damned good look at him,” McQuade said. “We’ll bury him outside the wagon circle. While he was a damn fool, he was a human being, and we’ll do what’s fittin’ and proper.”

  “You’re right,” said Cal. “I just hope the Almighty thinks more highly of him than I did. I wonder how Selma’s goin’ to take this?”

  “Not too well,” McQuade said, “but she’ll attend the burying, if I have to personally hog-tie and drag her there.”

  “What about Putnam’s wagon?” Will asked. “There was just him and Selma, and I got my doubts that she knows one end of a mule from another.”

  “I share those doubts,” said McQuade, “but I won’t be surprised if Andrew Burke’s youngest ends up with that wagon.”

  “And with Selma,” Cal added. “By God, the two deserve one another. I hope she deals him the same busted flush she handed old Putnam.”

  McQuade broke off the shafts of the arrows, and they hoisted Putnam belly-down upon the unwilling horse. They reined up some fifty yards from the wagon circle, and the body was removed from the horse.

  “Stay here with him, Will,” McQuade said. “Cal, get Joel or Tobe, and the two of you bring shovels. While you’re digging a grave, I’ll tell the others, including the widow.”

  Mary had told others, and most of the party was awaiting McQuade’s return. Selma, of course, wasn’t there. Quickly he told them of the unfortunate Putnam’s fate.

  “A grave is being dug,” said McQuade. “We’ll hold services in an hour. Maggie, Ellen, Mary, Minerva, I’ll want some of you to help prepare the widow Putnam. Do what you feel you must.”

  “She’ll be there,” Maggie said grimly. Reaching into her wagon, she came up with one of Ike’s wide leather belts.

  McQuade led the way to the Putnam wagon, followed by Maggie, Mary, Ellen, Lucy, Minerva, and many other women.

  “Selma,” said McQuade, “I have bad news. Trent Putnam’s dead, killed by Indians. A grave is being dug. We’ll have services within the hour. Some of the ladies have come to help you prepare yourself.”

  “No,” Selma wailed, “I don’t want to see him. I’m not going. Leave me alone.”

  McQuade sighed. “That’s what I expected. Maggie, it’s up to you and as many others as it takes.”

  From somewhere on her person, Maggie produced a sharp knife. Slashing the pucker string, she opened the rear of the wagon. Wearing only his hat, Luke Burke leaped out and hit the ground running. Selma wore nothing but a look of fury, and began cursing the startled women. But they rose to the occasion. They seized Selma, dragged her out of the wagon, and flopped her belly-down in the mud. With four of them holding her, Maggie began using the belt. The leather on bare skin sounded like gunfire. One, two, three, four times the strap fell, and when McQuade expected Maggie to let up, she did not. Only after a dozen blows did she let up, and then only after Selma’s cursing had been replaced with genuine cries of anguis
h.

  “Mary, you and Lucy get in the wagon,” Maggie said, “while Ellen, Minerva, and me boost her up to you.”

  But after Maggie let up with the belt, the weeping Selma became as uncooperative as ever. Allowing her body to go limp, she made it as difficult as possible for the women as they tried to get her back into the wagon. Once they had her in, they dropped her among whatever personal effects happened to be in the way.

  “Mary,” said Maggie, “take that big wooden bucket from my wagon, fill it with water, and bring it.”

  “Cold water?”

  “The colder the better,” Maggie said. “We’ll cool this little catamount down some, as we’re washing the mud off her.”

  “No,” Selma shouted, thrashing and kicking.

  “We’ll either wash you or drown you,” said Maggie. “Your choice.”

  McQuade went with Mary, and since the bucket was large, he took it to one of the wet-weather streams and filled it. Mary following, he returned to the Putnam wagon.

  “Here’s the water, Maggie,” said McQuade. “Where do you want it?”

  Before Maggie could respond, Selma came up off the wagon floor, kicking, scratching, and clawing. Maggie stunned her with a knee to her stomach and slammed a fist into her jaw. She sat down abruptly. There was nobody else in the wagon except Maggie, and she seized the bucket of water McQuade was offering. She then drenched Selma from head to toe.

  “There,” said Maggie, with satisfaction, “you’re clean enough for the burying. Then if you want to go back to being a pig, see if I care.”

  None of them had ever seen anything like it, and their curiosity overcame any sense of impropriety. Somehow, the determined women managed to get a long dress on the troublesome Selma, although she wore nothing else. Maggie had scratches on her arms and face, and was wet and muddy. McQuade helped her down from the wagon’s tailgate, and she spoke to the other women.

  “Now I have to make myself presentable. Some of you stay here and see that she don’t take off that dress. God knows, we’ve all seen enough of her without it.”