Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “Then it was an ambush that fell through,” said Isaac McDaniel. “Ain’t many men that could take two or three hits, and then get off two good shots.”

  “You’ve got the straight of it,” McQuade said. “I’d bet my saddle the hombre that cut loose with those first three shots is dead.”

  “I hope it wasn’t one of the gents sidin’ with us,” said Eli Bibb.

  “I reckon we’ll know, when Creeker and me talk again,” McQuade said. “There has to be trouble brewing in that outfit, and I think what we’ve just heard is the start of it.”

  McQuade rode ahead of the wagons as usual, and he wasn’t surprised when, as he returned, he was joined by Creeker.

  “I reckon you heard the shots last night,” Creeker said.

  “We did,” said McQuade. “Hedgepith’s move?”

  “After supper, I saw him talking to Savage and Presnall. Usin’ my saddle and my hat, I laid a trap, and Savage walked into it.”

  He supplied no details, for he was alive, and none were necessary.

  “Hedgepith sees you as a threat, then,” McQuade said. “The leader of a rebellion. Do you think somebody from within your own ranks has been talking?”

  “No,” said Creeker. “I think Hedgepith is crooked as a shaved deck, but that don’t make him stupid. He’s seen me ride out often enough to guess I’m making contact with you, and he’s got to suspect we have a plan. He knows all about Sam Houston’s militia, and if we’re going against Hedgepith, that tells him we’re favoring Houston.”

  “You reckon he’ll try to contact Miguel Monclova before we have a chance to join Sam Houston’s militia?” McQuade asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Creeker replied. “If he does, that’ll mean leaving the wagons and ridin’ south, and Hedgepith has nobody to send. That means he’d have to personally go, and I’ve got my doubts that he’s prepared to do that.”

  “So he tried to solve his problem by gunning down the leader of the opposition.”

  “That’s how I see it,” said Creeker, “and he’s about run out of men he can count on to do his dirty work.”

  “There’s nobody left but Snakehead Presnall and Hedgepith himself, then,” McQuade said.

  “That’s it,” said Creeker. “The rest of us believe Hedgepith aims to use us as pawns to take over those land grants, whatever the cost. If we cut loose from him, we’ll lose the wages owed us from St. Louis, but a man’s a damn fool to risk his neck for maybe a hundred dollars.”

  “Don’t give up on the wages,” McQuade replied. “Before you ride out, take whatever Hedgepith owes you, if you have to pull a gun.”

  “And have the varmint brand us all as thieves?”

  “Small matter,” said McQuade. “We’ll all be branded a lot worse than that, if we don’t take Texas from Mexico.”

  “You’re right,” Creeker said. “What we have to do is prevent Hedgepith from reaching Monclova, before we talk to Sam Houston.”

  “Yes,” said McQuade, “and if Hedgepith makes his move before we’re ready, it’ll be up to you to see that he’s stopped in his tracks. Buffalo him with a pistol and hog-tie him, if it’s the only way. But if it comes to that, don’t waste any time letting me know. We may be forced to contact Houston sooner than we’ve planned.”

  The two men parted company shortly before they reached the oncoming wagons. Most of McQuade’s outfit sensed a change within Hedgepith’s ranks, and they chose this time to rest their teams. Men gathered near the lead wagons, and McQuade didn’t disappoint them.

  “Hiram Savage is dead,” said McQuade. “He went after Creeker last night, and Creeker was forced to shoot him.”

  “Follerin’ Hedgepith’s orders,” Ike Peyton said.

  “That’s what Creeker thinks,” said McQuade, “and it looks that way to me. Creeker is of. a mind that Hedgepith will soon have to make some effort to reach Miguel Monclova, to involve us all with the Mexican government, before we can side with Sam Houston.”

  “Hell,” said Will Haymes, “we can’t have that. Let’s make our move first.”

  “We don’t have to worry about Hedgepith gettin’ ahead of us,” McQuade said. “None of the men in Hedgepith’s outfit trusts him, and if he makes any move to ride out, he’ll be stopped, if it means slugging him with a pistol and binding him hand-and-foot.”

  “Exceptin’ for Hedgepith, I’m startin’ to think more highly of that outfit every day,” said Joel Hanby.

  “Damn right,” said a dozen other men.

  Their confidence renewed, they mounted their wagon boxes and moved on.

  Eighty-five strong, Gid Sutton and his gang reached the Red River.

  “We’re maybe two days behind ‘em,” Sutton said. “When we make camp tomorrow night, we’ll find where they’ve bedded down. Then we’ll hit ’em at daylight the next day.”

  “You still aim to take the smaller train first?” Paschal asked.

  “I do,” said Sutton. “While there may be gold, silver, and women to be had amongst that bigger bunch of wagons, there’s fifteen wagonloads of trade goods in that supply train that’s follerin’ ’em. We’ll grab the sure thing first, with the fewest defenders. Then, even if McQuade’s bunch comes runnin’, we ought to be ready for ’em. Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Withers. “I think we oughta know just how far ahead McQuade’s bunch is, before we lay into that supply train. I’ve seen McQuade’s outfit in action, without him, and they fight like the devil and all his angels.”

  “Withers,” Sutton said, “leave the plannin’ to me. We got a three-to-one edge agin that supply train. By God, if we can’t wipe ’em out before McQuade’s bunch can saddle their horses, then we’re in the wrong business.”

  That drew some laughter. They crossed the Red before making camp, and while some of the men got supper underway, Sutton met with Taylor, Vance, and Paschal.

  “After supper,” said Sutton, “the four of us will ride ahead and find where that supply train is. We’ll hit ’em at first light, before they’re good awake.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The attack came at dawn, as Creeker and his companions were saddling their horses, and the teamsters were harnessing their teams. The attackers had slipped in on foot from north, south, east, and west. The first shots brought Hedgepith from his tent, Snakehead Presnall at his heels. They became the first to die, allowing the rest of the defenders a few seconds to take cover. Creeker’s defense against Indian attacks prevailed, as each man lay flat beneath a wagon and returned fire. Gid Sutton had led the attack from the north, and he quickly fell back, as the four men nearest him were cut down. The firing diminished elsewhere, and Sutton realized his mistake. While this had been a surprise attack, these men were no short horns, and the fight might be of longer duration than he had expected. That brought to mind Withers’s suggestion that they determine how near McQuade’s outfit was, and he silently cursed himself for not having done so. But it was too late for that. He had to overcome resistance and take this supply train before help could arrive.

  “Rush them, damn it,” Sutton bawled.

  While they had withstood the first attack, the defenders had been hurt. Creeker’s upper left arm was bloody. Porto, Quay, and Drum were down, unmoving. Much of the wagon canvas had been torn by lead, and Creeker anxiously eyed the distant wagon where the women were. But he could do nothing. They were surrounded, and it seemed only a matter of time until the attackers rushed them. He couldn’t see the rest of his men, and only two or three of the teamsters, but he doubted they could resist another attack. While it seemed they had been under siege for hours, it had been only a few minutes. While he had no doubt McQuade’s outfit would hear the gunfire and send help, he wondered if they would be in time. Lead whanged off wagon wheels and kicked up dirt all around him, all the evidence he needed that another attack—perhaps the last—had begun …

  McQuade was saddling his horse, preparing to scout ahead, when he first heard the rattle of distant gunfire. Others had hea
rd it too.

  “Hedgepith’s outfit is in trouble,” McQuade shouted. “Fifty of you saddle up to ride with me. The rest of you stand fast with your guns ready.”

  There were more than fifty riders, but McQuade didn’t take time to count. He led out at a fast gallop, and there was no longer any sound of gunfire. The Hedgepith outfit wasn’t that far away, and McQuade reined up, unsure as to the position of the attackers. Suddenly the gunfire resumed, and McQuade raised his hand, getting the attention of his men.

  “From the sound of it,” said McQuade, “they’re surrounded. Gunter, I want you, Cal, and Will to each choose a dozen men. Gunter, you’ll circle around, comin’ in from the north. Cal, you’ll ride in from the east. Will, you’ll come at them from the west. The rest of us will move in from the south. We’ll move in close enough to use our revolvers. When you’re in position, dismount and advance on foot. Make every shot count.”

  McQuade and his riders dismounted, moving ahead through underbrush. Again, the gunfire had diminished, but it soon flared up again. Finally McQuade could see the gray of wagon canvas ahead, and between his skirmish line and the wagons, puffs of smoke, as the attackers began another fusillade. McQuade drew his revolver, and his men following his lead, they began firing. Seventeen men died. The three remaining attackers threw down their guns and stumbled to their feet.

  “Joel, Tobe, Isaac, hog-tie these varmints,” McQuade ordered. “The rest of us will wait here. That bunch defending the camp won’t know us from the attackers.”

  Gunter, Cal, and Will wasted no time. Closing in, they cut loose with their revolvers. The men within the wagon circle, realizing that help had arrived, began firing. It became a deadly crossfire, forcing the attackers who were still alive to surrender.

  “Don’t shoot no more,” somebody shouted. “We’re givin’ up.”

  “Stand up, drop your guns, and walk toward the wagons,” McQuade shouted.

  Slowly they complied. There were ten of them, making a total of thirteen. His shirt sleeve bloody, Creeker left the wagon circle, a grin on his dirty face. Other men, some of them wounded, followed.

  “We got here as fast as we could,” said McQuade. “Who is this bunch of coyotes?”

  “Nobody I recognize,” Creeker said. “Maybe one of them that’s still alive can tell us.”

  “Good idea,” said McQuade. Cocking his pistol, he held its muzzle to the head of one of the captured men.

  “I ain’t talkin’,” the surly outlaw said.

  “You don’t know just how right you are,” said McQuade. “You have until the count of three to tell me who’s responsible for this attack. One. Two—”

  “I’ll talk. It was Gid Sutton, damn him. He run out on us.”

  “He’s right,” Will Haymes said. “Gunter, Cal, and me took a look at the dead, and we didn’t see a man we recognized. What are we goin’ to do with these varmints that come out alive?”

  “The only decent thing to do is to hang the lot of them,” said McQuade. “Tie them good and tight. We need to see to the wounded. Where’s Doctor Puckett?”

  “Here,” Puckett replied. “I’ve been at the cook wagon. Ampersand has cooked his last meal.”

  “Hedgepith and Presnall are dead,” said Creeker. “They were the first to get it, and if it hadn’t been for them drawin’ most of the first volley, none of us would have made it.”

  It was Doctor Puckett who went to the wagon where the women were, and hearing his voice, they came out. Two of the teamsters were dead, as were Porto, Quay, and Drum, all Creeker’s men. Among the teamsters, Slaughter, Hansard, Weatherly, and Baker had been wounded.

  “With Hedgepith gone, we have to make some decisions,” McQuade said. “But first, we ought to decide what to do with these captured varmints.”

  “I like your first suggestion,” said Will Haymes. “Hanging’s too good for them.”

  “No,” shouted the outlaw who had identified Sutton as head of the gang. “It ain’t fair to stretch our necks. You don’t know it was our lead that done the damage.”

  “We don’t know that it wasn’t,” McQuade said, “and you’d have gunned this bunch down to the last man, if we hadn’t rode in. We know what your intentions were, and on the frontier, that gets you the rope.”

  Several of the outlaws wept, others cursed, but it availed them nothing. One by one, they were mounted on a horse, a noose about their necks. When the horse was slapped from beneath them, they kicked their lives away.

  “I never seen anything like this,” said Cal Tabor. “I know they deserved it, but God, it’s hard to swallow.”

  “Get used to it, all of you,” McQuade said. “Until law comes to the frontier, this is the best you’re likely to get. Let’s cut this bunch down and get on to other things.”

  “I’ve never seen so many dead men all at once,” said Tobe Rutledge. “I hate to bring this up, but shouldn’t we bury them?”

  “Yes,” McQuade said, “but not one at a time. Some of you look around and find. us an arroyo that’s deep enough to hold them all. Then we’ll cover them well enough to keep the coyotes and buzzards away from them.”

  “Hell,” said Weatherly, “they done their best to kill us, and if they had, they’d have let us lay and rot.”

  “That’s the difference between us and them,” Creeker said.

  “Those of you with wounds had better let Doctor Puckett see to them, before you do anything else,” said McQuade. “Then we’ll have decisions to make.”

  Slaughter, Hansard, Weatherly, and Baker took McQuade’s advice.

  “You’d better go with them, Creeker,” Gunter Warnell said. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Go on,” said McQuade. “Somewhere there’s a hell of a lot of horses that might come in handy in Texas. Some of you come with me, and we’ll look for them.”

  “That bunch brought a wagon with ‘em,” Groat said. “Might be somethin’ in there we can use.”

  “Why don’t you take a couple of men and check it out?” McQuade suggested.

  Some of the men, including Creeker, had gone to the wagon where the women had emerged, and there was a reunion of sorts taking place.

  Ike Peyton laughed. “I reckon there won’t be any saloon girls on the Rio Colorado for a while, and that’ll make our women happy.”

  Bud, Oscar, and Levi had reclaimed their horses and had found a suitable arroyo for the burial of the dead men.

  “As many of you who have the stomach for it,” said McQuade, “rope one of those dead coyotes and drag him to that arroyo. When that’s done, Doctor Puckett should have everybody patched up that’s needin’ it. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Shouldn’t we search them dead varmints?” Ike asked.

  “Yes,” said McQuade. “Take gold or silver, and any weapons or ammunition you can use. By all means, search Hedgepith.”

  Doctor Puckett bandaged Creeker’s wound first, and he joined McQuade in searching Hedgepith’s tent.

  “I reckon his legal hocus-pocus won’t mean anything to us,” Creeker said; “but I’d say we ought to take it all with us. We’ll need to prove we was once promised grants by the Mexican government, I reckon.”

  There wasn’t much in Hedgepith’s tent, but they struck pay dirt when they searched the wagon. Among all the legal papers was a strongbox. It was locked and it was heavy.

  “Ike was goin’ to search Hedgepith,” said McQuade. “Maybe he’ll find a key.”

  Eventually, Ike came to Hedgepith’s wagon with his findings, which he presented to McQuade. There was a pocket watch, a hundred dollars in gold coins, and a key. It fit the strongbox, and McQuade opened it. There was five thousand dollars in double eagles.

  “There’s twenty of you left,” McQuade said. “Divide this equally among you, and it’ll take care of any wages owed.”

  “That’s two hundred and fifty dollars each,” said Creeker. “None of us was owed that much.”

  “Consider it a bonus,” McQuade said. “It’ll be that much mor
e of a stake, when you get to Texas. The big question is, what do you aim to do with these fifteen wagonloads of grub, guns, and trade goods?”

  “I don’t consider it mine,” said Creeker. “If it was up to me, I’d donate it to old Sam Houston’s militia. They’ve got to be hurtin’.”

  “Creeker,” McQuade said, “you’re a man with a heart. Why in tarnation did you ever get tied in with a ruthless old buzzard like Rufus Hook?”

  “Same reason you did, I reckon,” said Creeker. “Every man’s guilty of an occasional bad judgment.”

  Eventually they all came together. The dead had been buried, the wounded had their wounds tended, and Hedgepith’s wagon had been searched. Besides McQuade, there were fifty-six men from his outfit. From Hedgepith’s there was Creeker and six of his men, Doctor Puckett, thirteen teamsters, and the seven women who had been destined for a saloon on the Rio Colorado.

  “We found a strongbox in Hedgepith’s wagon,” said Creeker. “There’s five thousand in gold inside it. Mr. McQuade has suggested it be divided equally among the twenty of us that’s left, considerin’ it wages owed. I’d favor that, except we’re forgettin’ Doc Puckett.”

  “I wasn’t promised wages,” Puckett said. “You owe me nothing.”

  “I think we do,” said Creeker.

  “So do we,” Ike Peyton said, “and I’m speakin’ for McQuade’s outfit. Why don’t we give Doc the hundred we took off Hedgepith, and what we took from them dead outlaws?”

  “No,” Puckett protested. “I don’t want it.”

  “We’ll take a vote,” said Creeker. “All in favor, sound off.”

  There was a mighty shout of approval that stunned the little doctor. McQuade laughed at the expression on his face.

  “Come on, Doc,” Creeker said. “This is somethin’ we want to do for you.”

  “Very well,” said Puckett. “I will accept.”

  “Now there’s somethin’ Creeker and me have discussed,” McQuade said, “but we don’t believe it’s just our decision. What’s going to become of these fifteen wagonloads of grub and supplies that Hedgepith inherited from Hook?”