Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “He’ll know anyway, when we circle the wagons and stay put,” said McQuade. “I think by then it won’t matter what Hedgepith knows or doesn’t know. With all his men prepared to quit, what can he do?”

  “He can, track down this Miguel Monclova and his bunch, and bring them after us,” Eli Bibb said.

  “With the men Creeker’s promised, there’ll be more than a hundred and forty of us,” said McQuade. “The odds are in our favor.”

  Despite all the uncertainty, enthusiasm ran high. On occasion, the Burkes actually spoke to McQuade without hostility.

  “Everybody trusts you,” Mary said, “and I’m proud of that, but I just wish it was all over, that we had our grants and there was no trouble with Mexico.”

  “So do I,” said McQuade, “but if there’s fighting to be done, I’m for gettin’ on with it. The sooner this conflict with Mexico has been resolved, the sooner we can get on with our lives.”

  “We don’t actually know there’s trouble with the Mexican government,” she said hopefully. “All we have is the word of those families who pulled out.”

  “I don’t doubt them for a minute,” said McQuade. “After all the hardships of reaching Texas, I can’t believe they’d turn tail and run without a good reason.”

  “I suppose war with Mexico would be a good reason,” she sighed.

  McQuade laughed. “Come on, get in the wagon. We’ll fight if and when we have to. I have other plans for tonight. At least, until I go on watch at midnight.”

  Hedgepith’s wagons approached the Red half a mile west of McQuade’s wagon circle, and Hedgepith still had said nothing about what he intended to do. During supper, Doctor Puckett approached Hedgepith, who looked at him questioningly.

  “Mr. Hedgepith, in light of what we learned from those people who had given up their grants and left Texas, I believe we are entitled to know what you have in mind.”

  “In regard to what?” Hedgepith growled.

  “You know what,” said Puckett. “Do you still intend to claim those land grants from the Mexican government, even if it means taking up arms against the Republic of Texas?”

  “Everybody who joined this expedition was told before leaving St. Louis that receiving a grant involved taking an oath of allegiance to the Mexican government,” Hedgepith said, “and as far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed. Does that answer your question?”

  “It does,” said Puckett. Just for a moment, his eyes met those of some of the men who had heard Hedgepith’s response, and the doctor saw rebellion. Later, when darkness had fallen, he was approached by Creeker.

  “We need to talk, Doc,” Creeker said. “After everybody beds down, I’ll be on watch.”

  Puckett said nothing, and Creeker turned away, not wanting Hedgepith to observe his brief conversation with the doctor. Since Creeker didn’t know when Puckett might contact him, he asked Lora to remain with the other women during that particular night. Puckett waited until well after midnight. There was moon- and starlight, and Creeker stepped from behind a tree as Puckett approached.

  “Take a seat by the tree, Doc,” said Creeker. “We can see anybody comin’, long before they can see us.”

  Puckett sat down and Creeker hunkered beside him. Wasting no time, Puckett spoke.

  “I get the impression most of you don’t trust Mr. Hedgepith.”

  Creeker laughed softly. “We don’t. Do you?”

  “Frankly, no,” said Puckett, “but he has the bit in his teeth. What do you intend to do about him?”

  “Nothing,” Creeker replied. “We just don’t aim to follow him into a hole where we’ll have to fight our way out.”

  “So you intend to break with him. When?”

  “I’ve gone as far as I aim to, until I know where you stand,” said Creeker. “I want your word that nothin’ I say will get back to Hedgepith.”

  “You have it,” Puckett said.

  “We believe—and I’m speaking for twenty-five of us—that our chances are better with Sam Houston’s militia and the Republic of Texas, than with the Mexican government,” said Creeker.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Puckett replied. “When will you make the break?”

  “When McQuade and his party does,” said Creeker. “Somewhere beyond the Red, they aim to circle their wagons. McQuade plans to ride south in search of Houston’s militia, and I aim to ride with him. Once the problem with Mexico is settled, even if it’s war, we’re countin’ on the Republic of Texas to honor our land grants.”

  “I see no reason why they wouldn’t,” said Puckett. “I can’t see Texas forgetting those who help her fight for independence.”

  “That’s how McQuade sees it,” Creeker said. “He believes the future of Texas is with the United States, not Mexico. We feel the same way.”

  “Mr. McQuade is a far-sighted young man,” said Puckett. “You may tell him that I’ll be going with the rest of you, when the time comes. Have you thought of what is to become of these women?”

  “We have,” Creeker said. “They’re all spoken for, and not one for the purpose Hook intended. Everybody will be accounted for except that pair of slick-dealing gamblers, old Ampersand, and Hedgepith himself.”

  “That will leave Hedgepith with fifteen wagons and no teamsters,” said Puckett. “What can he do, except go along with the rest of us?”

  “He can track down this Miguel Monclova,” Creeker said, “if he’s that big a fool. You know Monclova can provide the necessary teamsters. You should also know that as soon as he gets control of those wagons, Hedgepith is a dead man.”

  “I’d have to agree with you,” said Puckett, “no more than I know. But if Monclova is the tyrant he appears to be, we still need more than secondhand information about Sam Houston’s militia and the proposed rebellion. I suppose this is what McQuade has in mind.”

  “It is,” Creeker replied. “He wants to know how solid Houston is, and that he’ll stay with us to the finish. McQuade’s careful, playin’ his cards close, and I admire that.”

  “So do I,” said Puckett, “and if Houston stands as tall as we think he does, then we’ll do well to join forces with him. Imagine what these wagonloads of supplies would mean to those Texans, so far from civilization, forced to fight the Mexican army.”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Creeker replied, “but it could mean the difference between victory and defeat for Houston’s bunch. It don’t seem far-fetched, when you know that Monclova and his gang will kill Hedgepith and take it all.”

  “I believe McQuade should make Houston aware of these supplies,” said Puckett. “I’d say this militia is hard-pressed to purchase anything, without a fight with Monclova. The nearest source of goods would be New Orleans, while we have fifteen wagonloads within perhaps three weeks of Houston’s camp.”

  Creeker laughed softly. “You’ll do, Doc. I’ll speak to McQuade about this, telling him you suggested it. We’ll talk again after we’ve crossed the Red.”

  In a bend of the Colorado River, some forty-five miles northwest of Sam Houston’s camp, Miguel Monclova had established a headquarters. There he was involved in a heated discussion with his two trusted lieutenants, Pedro Mendez and Hidalgo Cortez.

  “I do not believe we should have allowed the americanos to go,” Mendez argued.

  “Nor do I,” said Cortez.

  “They are of no Use to us,” Monclova said. “It is a simple thing to sit within the halls of government in Mexico City and devise oaths of allegiance, and quite another to enforce them, when the Tejanos and Americanos are hundreds of miles away. They take our oaths because they want our land, but when it comes to the saber and the pistola, they turn on us. Now tell me of the Tejano, the Senor Houston and his milicia.”

  Pedro Mendez laughed. “The caravana for which he waits does not come. Per’ap he and his Tejanos, they fight on empty bellies, no?”

  “Por Dios, we have only to wait,” said Monclova. “Time and hunger favor us.”

  “But
Mexico City does not,” said Cortez.

  “It does not matter,” Monclova said. “Our orders come from General Santa Ana himself, and he does not choose to honor the grants negotiated by the Señor Stephen Austin. The general sees the grants only as a means to an end. The Tejanos and Americanos swear allegiance to Mexico, and when their numbers are great enough, they make war with us for. their independence. We will starve out as many as we can, and those who remain will be shot down like the dogs they are. We will rid ourselves of them before the falling of the leaves.”

  The third day of July, McQuade’s wagons crossed the Red, into Texas. The Hedgepith wagons followed. At that point, McQuade rode almost due south. They were in Comanche country, and the trail ahead must be scouted carefully. McQuade wasn’t that familiar with the water in Texas, and the distances between good water might have some bearing on the miles they must travel each day. When McQuade finally found a good stream, it was much farther than the wagons usually traveled. But they had no choice, and as McQuade returned to meet the wagons, a horseman rode out ahead of him. Recognizing Creeker, McQuade rode on.

  “I reckoned it was time we talk again,” Creeker said, “seein’ as how we’re in Texas. I spent some time with Doc Puckett, and he’s goin’ with us.”

  “I felt like he would,” said McQuade.

  “When do you aim to ride south, looking for Sam Houston’s militia?”

  “Two more weeks,” McQuade said. “On a good day, we can cover fifteen miles. Some days, like today, will be longer, since we must have water. I figure we’ll circle wagons a hundred miles shy of our destination. From there, we’ ride south. I’ll want you with me, representing the men in Hedgepith’s party. I think no more than three of us will go, since it’s important that we don’t attract the attention of Miguel Monclova. We don’t know where he is, and we’ll have to ride careful.”

  “With Hedgepith hell-bent on claiming those grants, he could very well find Monclova before we reach Houston’s camp,” said Creeker. “I think we got to buffalo the varmint with a pistol barrel, hog-tie him, and post a guard, until we’re satisfied joining Houston’s militia is the thing to do.”

  “We may be forced to do that,” McQuade said, “and anybody else that’s inclined to go along with Hedgepith. What about that pair of gamblers, and the cook?”

  “I doubt Hiram Savage and Snakehead Presnall have enough guts between ’em to stand up to us. If they try anything foolish, we’ll rope them to a tree, along with Hedgepith. As for Ampersand, he’ll go along with us. Hedgepith talks down to him.”

  “We’re of the same mind, then,” McQuade said. “If anything changes, or if you need help, sound off.”

  “Thanks,” said Creeker.

  The two rode together until they could see the oncoming wagons of McQuade’s outfit. Creeker then guided his horse into the brush and was gone. McQuade waited for the lead wagons, and then trotted his horse alongside them.

  With Houston’s militia on the Rio Colorado. July 3, 1837.

  Sam Houston sat on the decaying trunk of a wind-blown tree, shifting his cane from one hand to the other. Three of his trusted men—Joshua Hamilton, Stockton Saunders, and Alonzo Holden—had brought unwelcome news regarding an expected wagon train with much-needed supplies.

  “We rode all the way to the Red, where she leaves Texas and loops into Arkansas,” said Hamilton, “and we waited three days. No sign of any wagons.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Houston replied. “I was told our goods would be shipped by steamboat to Little Rock, and wagoned from there.”

  “Don’t make sense,” said Saunders. “The whole idea was to avoid Indian Territory, and they still didn’t show. What could have happened?”

  “I hate to bring this up,” Holden said, “but maybe certain parties in St. Louis haven’t come through with the support they promised.”

  Houston sighed. “It’s a possibility we must consider.”

  “Without it, where does that leave us?” Hamilton asked.

  “In a perilous position,” said Houston. “Ration-wise, we’re down to river water and dried beef. In a serious fight with the Mexicans, we’ll be using our weapons as clubs.”

  “One of us could ride to Little Rock, take a steamboat to St. Louis, and maybe learn what the problem is,” Saunders said.

  “If our backers in St. Louis have let us down, going there won’t change anything,” said Houston. “Besides, we don’t have the time. Monclova has to know we have our backs to the wall.”

  “We have them outnumbered more than four to one,” Hamilton said.

  “But they have ammunition,” said Holden, “and that gives them an edge.”

  “For the time being,” Houston said, “do not discuss this situation with the others. I’ll speak to them after I’ve asked for help.”

  “Help from who?” Holden asked.

  “The Almighty,” said Houston.

  The day’s drive to water was even longer than McQuade had expected. The first stars were twinkling silver in a purple sky, when they circled the wagons and unhitched the teams.

  “This is Comanche country,” McQuade warned. “Keep the supper fires small and douse them as soon as you can.”

  McQuade and most of the men took the horses and mules to graze by starlight. Their time would be limited to an hour, and McQuade had already ordered the watch doubled.

  “You think the Comanches might attack at night?” Oscar Odell asked.

  “It’s possible,” said McQuade. “I’ve had no experience with them, but I’ve known men who have. Some tribes are superstitious, believing that if they die in battle in darkness, their spirits will wander forever. From what I’ve heard, that’s never bothered the Comanches, and we’re goin’ to take it as gospel.”

  The fires were doused as soon as the meal was done, and they ate supper by the light of stars. There was quiet jubilation among them, as they prepared to spend this first night in Texas.

  Hedgepith’s wagons were circled even later than McQuade’s, and Creeker cautioned old Ampersand about his cook fire. Creeker turned to find Hedgepith staring at him. He said nothing, however, and Creeker turned away. Later, he saw Hedgepith speaking privately with Hiram Savage and Snakehead Presnall. It was enough to arouse Creeker’s curiosity and his suspicion. While on watch, he usually stretched out, head on his saddle. Tonight, however, he dropped his saddle in the shadow of a wagon and positioned his hat in a manner that was deceptive from a distance. He then took cover beneath the wagon itself. An hour passed without any disturbance, and Creeker had begun to wonder if he’d guessed wrong. Suddenly, a dozen yards away, a pistol roared. Once, twice, three times. Two of the slugs slammed into Creeker’s saddle, while the third sent his hat spinning. Creeker fired twice at the muzzle flashes, and there was a groan.

  “What’n hell’s goin’ on?” Groat demanded. He was accompanied by most of the others on watch.

  “Somebody tried to gun me down,” said Creeker, “and I returned the favor.”

  “Perhaps you have been shooting at shadows,” Hedgepith said. “For one who appears concerned about attracting hostile Indians, you are quite careless.”

  “That shadow took three shots at me,” said Creeker. “Why don’t we go see if it’s got a name?”

  Creeker led the way, and when they reached the body, both Groat and Rucker struck matches. Hiram Savage lay on his back, a revolver in his right hand. He had been hit twice in the chest, and was very, very dead.

  “Well, now,” said Creeker, “what possible reason could this varmint have for wantin’ me dead? You got any ideas, Mr. Hedgepith?”

  “Of course not,” Hedgepith said stiffly. “You seem the kind to make enemies easily. I wouldn’t be surprised if you provoked the fight.”

  Creeker laughed. “Hedgepith, if you’re a lawyer, the devil’s a mule. The man’s pistol has been fired three times. A hombre ain’t likely to do that, after takin’ two slugs in the chest.”

  “Why, hell, no,” Groat said
. “I heard three shots, and then two more. Ellis, have a look at that varmint’s pistol, and see how many times it’s been fired.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Hedgepith. “What’s done is done.”

  “Maybe it ain’t necessary,” Groat said, “but we’re goin’ to do it.”

  Several men lighted matches so that Ellis could examine the weapon. Others gathered close as Ellis broke out the cylinder. Two loads remained.

  “Satisfied, Mr. Hedgepith?” Creeker asked.

  Hedgepith stalked away in silence, furious at the laughter that followed.

  “Back to your posts,” said Creeker. “We’ll bury the varmint in the morning.”

  They all turned away, nobody doubting that Hiram Savage had died attempting to do as Hedgepith had ordered. Creeker put on his ventilated hat and settled down to the rest of his watch. He saw a shadow flit across a clearing and drew his revolver, relaxing when he recognized Lora. Without a word, she came to him, trembling.

  “What is it?” he asked softly.

  “I was afraid … afraid you …”

  “I take a lot of killing,” he said.

  “I hate that man,” she said. “God, how I hate him. Can’t we leave him?”

  “Not yet,” said Creeker, “but soon.”

  “He’s trying to kill you, and I’m afraid he will. Please . . don’t wait too long.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Creeker said. “Like I was tonight.”

  The five shots had been heard in McQuade’s camp, and the men on watch were contemplating the possible cause.

  “Sounded like a hand gun,” said Levi Phelps.

  “It was,” McQuade said, “Two hand guns.”

  “Five shots,” said Cal Tabor. “How do you know they weren’t all fired by the same gun?”

  “The difference in time between the third and fourth shots,” McQuade said. “The fourth shot was like an echo of the third. The fourth and fifth shots were return fire.”