“I’ll go and see if the grave’s ready,” said McQuade.
Ike sat on the wagon box, grinning as Maggie approached.
“What are you grinnin’ at, you old varmint?”
“You,” said Ike. “You look like you been wrasslin’ a pig in a briar patch.”
“I have,” Maggie said, “but for the briar patch. This pig has claws.”
“That woman don’t even come close to bein’ worth the trouble she’s caused,” said Ike. “Why’n hell didn’t you just leave her be, and bury Putnam without her?”
“It’s not the proper thing to do,” Maggie said. “I was tempted to march her down to the grave jaybird naked, but we got to show some respect for the dead.”
McQuade found the grave almost ready. He took a shovel and finished it.
“I covered Putnam with a blanket,” said Will. “With his scalp gone, he was startin’ to draw flies.”
“Go ahead and wrap him in the blanket,” McQuade said. “I doubt Selma cares a damn, one way or the other, and there’s no use exposing the other women to such a grisly sight, when it serves no good purpose.”
McQuade returned to the wagon circle, spreading the word that the service could begin at any time. Maggie emerged from the wagon in a clean dress.
“Ike,” said McQuade, “I’ll help you, if you want to go.”
“Much obliged,” Ike replied, “but he wasn’t one of my favorite people, and there’s no hypocrite in me.”
McQuade took the bible from Mary and read the Word over Trent Putnam. Some of the women wept, but Selma wasn’t one of them. She stood there in silence, unrepentant, glaring at anyone who chose to look at her. When the short service was concluded, she was the first to leave. None of the Burkes had been present, which in no way surprised McQuade. While Luke Burke’s unsavory relationship with Selma Putnam had been anything but proper, there was no law to condemn him. If anybody was to be censured, it had to be Selma, and Maggie Peyton had seen to that. But McQuade wasn’t satisfied to have Luke Burke get off scot free, and he wasted no time in visiting the Burke wagon.
“Well, by God,” said Andrew, in mock surprise, “two visits from McQuade in a single day. Now that beats a goose a-gobblin’.”
“You know why I’m here, Andrew,” McQuade said, “and you don’t have to cover for Luke. Everybody saw him leave the Putnam wagon, wearin’ only his hat.”
Andrew laughed. “You purely got to admire that boy. There’s just somethin’ about him the women can’t leave alone. Takes after his daddy.”
“Too bad his daddy didn’t have the brains to teach him not to trifle with a married woman,” said McQuade.
“Watch your mouth, McQuade. I could take offense. Besides, I hear the woman in question ain’t married no more. She’s anybody’s game, and I expect old Luke will be callin’ on her regular, so don’t go gettin’ your nose out of joint.”
McQuade turned away in disgust. What was the point in hounding the old devil about his wayward sons, when he obviously was proud of having taught them all they knew? All he had gained during this trying day was the knowledge that the Kiowa were still within striking distance. With that in mind, he made an announcement just before supper.
“I don’t believe that was a coincidence, those Kiowa being there to grab Putnam. They obviously have scouts keeping an eye on us, so this is no time to let down our guard. We will continue with a double watch until we’re out of Indian Territory.”
“Then we’ll be in Comanche territory,” said Will Haymes.
“If the Comanches prove as troublesome as the Kiowa,” McQuade said, “then we’ll stay with our double watch all the way to the Rio Colorado.”
Supper over, McQuade and Mary had reached their wagon, before she found a private moment to speak to him.
“Luke Burke is back in Selma Putnam’s wagon,” she confided.
“How do you know?”
“Ellen Warnell saw him,” said Mary, “and he didn’t come out. The pucker string has been replaced, so nobody can see in.”
“Damn it,” McQuade said, “I’ve had enough of that woman. Putnam’s dead, and if she wants to wallow around with Luke Burke, I don’t care. I’ve known whores who were more respectable than she is.”
“Really? Tell me about them.”
“Oh, hell,” said McQuade, “don’t take everything I say literally. I said I’ve known some. I didn’t say I’d known them professionally.”
She laughed, and he relaxed.
At breakfast, there was no sign of anyone around the Putnam wagon, and McQuade was reminded of something. With Putnam dead, who was going to handle the teams? There was virtually no possibility that Selma Putnam could, and with that in mind, McQuade went to the wagon and slapped the canvas.
“Leave me alone,” Selma shouted.
“This is McQuade, and we’ll be taking the trail in a few minutes. Are you coming with us, or staying here with this wagon?”
“The wagon will be ready to go when you are,” she said. “Now leave me alone.”
McQuade said no more, and when it was time to take the trail, Luke Burke held the reins of the team, while Selma sat beside him on the box of the Putnam wagon. Some of the other women eyed her in disgust, including Mary, who handled her own teams with the best of the men. McQuade rode ahead, looking for sign, for the ground was still soft from the recent rain. Maggie Peyton handled her teams expertly. Ike sat beside her, his splinted leg stretched out, a Sharps .50 beside him. Although Gunter Warnell’s left arm had been splinted, he managed the reins with his right hand. McQuade rode past the Jackman, Odell, and Phelps wagons, tipping his hat. Bess, Winnie, and Callie rode the wagon boxes with their splinted arms and legs. They must move on.
Hedgepith’s wagons followed, every eye on the newly made grave, as they passed the place where McQuade’s wagon circle had been the night before.
“Somebody got busted up pretty bad,” Slack observed.
“I doubt that happened during the stampede,” said Creeker. “I’d not be surprised if we’re bein’ stalked by the Kiowa.”
Hedgepith had given no conflicting orders, and while Creeker and four men rode ahead of the wagons, the other five riders followed, their eyes on the back-trail. While Doctor Puckett still shared a wagon with Hedgepith, the two communicated less and less. Savage and Presnall had been strangely quiet, while the seven women had kept strictly to themselves. Ampersand, the cook, had said virtually nothing to anyone since Hook’s murder. A bond of sorts had been forged between Creeker, his companions and the teamsters, after their successful defense against the attacking Kiowa. They no longer looked to Hedgepith, but relied upon themselves, while all Hook’s fallen women had forsaken whorehouses and saloons for a new life in Texas.
McQuade rode cautiously, but found no Indian sign. Most of the wet-weather streams had dried up, and it became necessary to seek water, where there was graze, and a suitable place to circle the wagons for the night. They had lost time, and McQuade wanted to cover as many miles as possible, so he stretched his ride to what he believed was fifteen miles. There was a deep, clear creek, good graze, and a suitable clearing for the wagons. After searching the surrounding area for Indian sign, McQuade watered his horse and rode back to meet the wagons.
Gid Sutton had sent Withers to report on the progress of McQuade’s wagons and the nearness of Hedgepith’s supply train. Withers rode in at suppertime, and after unsaddling his horse, went to Sutton’s tent.
“They must of had some teams stampede durin’ the storm,” said Withers. “They been patchin’ up wagons and people.”
“But they’re movin’ again?” Sutton asked.
“Yeah,” said Withers. “They’ll make a good fifteen miles today.”
“Five more days,” Sutton predicted, “and they’ll be crossin’ the Red. With the wagon we got, it’ll take us maybe four days to catch up to them. We’ll pull out tomorrow.”
“Any more men show up while I was gone?”
“Yeah,”
said Sutton. “There’ll be eighty-five of us. I’ll give ’em all the word right after supper.”
Sutton waited until the outlaws were down to final cups of coffee before telling them of his plans.
“There’s two wagon trains,” Sutton said, “and they’ll be crossin’ the Red maybe five days from now. The smallest one—fifteen wagons—is the one we want. There’s a fortune in trade goods, with only twenty-five fighting men, includin’ the teamsters.”
“What about the other train?” a newcomer shouted.
“They’re usually a day ahead,” said Sutton. “We’ll take the wagons we want, and if the bunch that’s ahead is fool enough to buy in, we’ll pay ’em off in lead.”
“Just how many wagons is in this bigger train?” somebody asked.
“More than a hundred,” said Sutton, “and there’s pretty women, too.”
“Hell,” one of the new arrivals bawled, “let’s take all the damn wagons, the women, and any gold we can find.”
There was a roar of approval that was near unanimous, and Gid Sutton grinned at his five surviving friends. When the shouting had diminished, he spoke.
“You’re gettin’ ahead of me,” he said. “We’ll take the supply wagons first. When them that’s in the wagons ahead hears the shootin’, at least some of ’em will ride like hell along the back-trail. Half of us will be waitin’ for ’em, while the rest rides on ahead and guns down them that’s stayed with the wagons that’s ahead.”
Again they roared their approval, and Sutton said no more. Not only was revenge within his grasp, but untold riches as well.
CHAPTER 13
McQuade again chose a creek with graze, and the teams were being unhitched when a wagon topped a ridge half a mile to the southwest. They watched in amazement as eleven more wagons followed.
“Where’n hell are they goin’?” Will Haymes wondered.
“Back the way we’ve come,” said McQuade. “The question is, why?”
“We’ll soon know,” Levi Phelps said. “They’ve seen us.”
McQuade and many of the other men waited outside the wagon circle as the wagons came on. Reining up their teams, the first two men stepped down from their wagon boxes and came to meet McQuade and his companions.
“I’m Grady Stern,” said one of the men, “and this is Tom Shadley.”
“I’m Chance McQuade, wagon boss for this outfit. Why don’t you folks have supper with us? We’re bound for the Rio Colorado, and we’d like to talk to you about the trail ahead.”
“Yeah,” said Gunter Warnell, “are you familiar with the land grants there?”
“I reckon,” Shadley replied. “We just give ours up, and we’re goin’ back to where we come from.”
“Save it until after supper,” said McQuade. “You folks must be hungry.”
“God, you can’t imagine how hungry,” Stern said. “Ever’thing comin’ into Texas has to be wagoned in from New Orleans, and the damn Comanches is thick as fleas on a dog’s behind. We ain’t had flour, sugar, coffee, or bacon in a year, and our stock is near starved for grain.”
“Circle your wagons and join us for supper,” said McQuade.
McQuade returned to the wagon circle and found the rest of the party waiting. “We have a dozen families for supper,” McQuade announced, “and they’re going to tell us what we can expect on the Rio Colorado.”
“From what I’ve heard,” said Isaac McDaniel, “we might want to follow ’em back to St. Louis.”
“Isaac,” McQuade said, “let’s wait until we’ve heard the rest of the story before we make any decisions.”
Seven of the newly arrived families had children in their teens, and there were entirely too many in McQuade’s party for introductions. The heads of the twelve families stood and gave their family names, and without further delay, they had supper. Some of the women wept when they saw the food, the hot coffee, the sugar. When supper was over, Grady Stern stood up.
“I reckon me and Tom can talk for everybody. What would you all be wantin’ to know?”
“First,” said McQuade, “we’d be mighty interested in knowin’ why you gave up your land grants, after enduring so much just to claim them.”
“There’s war comin’,” Stern said. “War with Mexico.”
“How would that have affected you?” Will Haymes asked.
“We all had to take an oath of allegiance to Mexico,” said Stern. “When war comes, we would be expected to join the Mexican army.”
“Against who?” McQuade asked.
“Against Sam Houston’s militia,” said Stern. “There’s thousands of Texans who refuse to bow to the Mexican government. They’ve claimed land since Spain claimed Texas, and after the Alamo, they stomped hell out of Santa Anna’s soldiers at San Jacinto. Houston and his bunch is plannin’ a town in the bend of the Colorado, and they aim for it to become the capital of the Republic of Texas.”5
“Instead of deserting your grants,” said McQuade, “why didn’t you tell the Mexicans what they wanted to hear, and then join forces with Sam Houston? The future of Texas is with the United States, not Mexico.”
“Maybe so,” said Tom Shadley, “but the Mexicans are in control. Miguel Monclova and fifty fighting men have been dispatched by Santa Anna himself. They made life hell for us. They took away my boy and Grady’s, and we don’t know if they’re alive or dead.”
“These are Mexican soldiers?” McQuade asked.
“Not so’s you’d know it,” said Shadley. “They dress like renegades and outlaws, but Monclova claims they have the power of the Mexican government behind them, and we had no way of knowing if they spoke the truth.”
“They mistreated our women and dared us to stand up to them,” Stern said. “They ruined Andy Snider’s daughter, and when Andy called their hand, they rode in one night and gunned down Andy and his woman. That’s when the rest of us decided to quit while we was ahead.”
“Is everybody in the Texas Colony of the same mind?” McQuade asked.
“No,” said Stern, “but them that’s left ain’t workin’ their grants. They’ve all set up camp near that town that’s bein’ laid out in the bend of the Rio Colorado. They’ve sworn to keep their grants, even if they have to fight Mexico, and Sam Houston’s promised them they can, when Texas is granted statehood.”
“But you didn’t want to wait for that,” McQuade said.
“No,” said Shadley, “because we don’t know when it’s comin’, if ever, and neither does old Sam. What good is land, if a man can’t work it? Them that ain’t givin’ up is all settin’ on their hunkers half-starved, not knowin’ if it’ll be a month, a year, or ten years.”
“The important thing,” McQuade said, “is that there is organized opposition to these men who claim to represent the Mexican government. If Houston is successful in this fight against Mexico, what’s going to become of the Texas Colony, of the land grants?”
“Houston believes he has the answer to that,” said Stern. “When Texas is granted statehood—if that ever happens—Sam has promised to go to Washington on behalf of all who have received Mexican grants. He claims the State of Texas will recognize every one of the grants.”
“That’s a strong promise,” said Gunter Warnell. “How many of those who have taken Mexican grants have remained with Houston?”
“Near two hundred,” Stern replied.
“You folks stayed with your grants, then,” said McQuade, “instead of joining Houston and the rest.”
“Why, hell, yes,” Shadley said angrily. “We took oaths of loyalty to the Mexican government. We played by their rules, and then Monclova and his bunch treated us like dogs.”
“When they made life intolerable for you,” said Will Haymes, “why didn’t all of you join Houston’s militia and fight?”
“None of us are young men,” Stern said, “and we don’t have the years it might take to own our grants free and clear of the Mexican government. Miguel Monclova has already threatened Mexican soldiers, if fa
milies don’t desert Sam Houston’s camp and return to their grants. We wasn’t told when we went to Texas we’d have our families torn apart, that we might have to fight Mexico, that we might die for a piece of ground.”
“We all decided the price was more than we was willin’ to pay,” said Shadley.
“There’s another party behind us,” McQuade said. “They have plans to build a town on the Rio Colorado, and have the goods necessary to stock a trading post. I hope you’ll tell them what you’ve told us.”
Shadley laughed bitterly. “They’ll play hell buildin’ anything, least of all a tradin’ post. Monclova and his bunch will strip them like locusts. Maybe we can trade ’em some advice for some grub.”
Stern, Shadley and the others returned to their wagons, leaving McQuade’s camp in a somber, doubtful mood.
“It appears there’s just a hell of a lot we wasn’t told, when we signed on with Rufus Hook,” said Ike Peyton. “Question is, where do we go from here?”
“We go on to Texas,” McQuade said. “What I told them, I believe. The future of Texas lies not with Mexico, but with the United States of America. All of you heard what they said. They stuck with their grants, trying to work the land, when they should have followed the others, joining Houston’s militia.”
“You believe we shouldn’t try to claim the grants, then,” said Tobe Rutledge, “but go on and throw in with Sam Houston.”
“That’s exactly what I believe,” McQuade replied. “If there’s going to be trouble with Mexico, there won’t be any peace for any of us until Texas comes into its own. And that must come by overthrowing Mexican rule. I realize all we’ve heard has been secondhand, but I don’t doubt what these people have told us. This is the frontier, and there’s more at stake here than these promised land grants. Not only do we have the opportunity to make a place for ourselves, but to become a part of something grand, the building of the West.”
“Hell, McQuade,” said Oscar Odell, “we’ll leave Sam Houston in Texas to fight the Mexicans and send you to Washington.”
Across the Rio Colorado Page 19
