Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  Just as McQuade had predicted, a rider soon appeared to their left, and when Creeker turned in his saddle, there were three bobbing specks on their back-trail.

  “Three of ’em behind us,” said Creeker.

  “The flankers will keep us from riding away to either side,” McQuade said, “while the three behind us will continue to close the gap. They’re goin’ to try and get close enough to put some arrows in us before we reach the wagons, and before help reaches us.”

  Then McQuade did a strange thing. Drawing his revolver, spacing his shots, he fired three times into the air.

  “You reckon they’ll hear?” Creeker asked.

  “I don’t know,” said McQuade. “It’s a gamble, but we don’t have a lot of cards on the table. Ike, Cal, and Will are in the lead wagons. Ease back to a slow gallop and spare your horse as much as you can.”

  Not quite five miles distant, the wagons rumbled along. Maggie was speaking, when Ike raised his hand for silence. Suddenly he reined up his teams, as Cal and Will already had done. As other wagons rumbled to a stop behind him, Ike grabbed his Sharps .50 and leaped off the wagon box. Cal and Will were saddling the horses that trotted behind their wagons.

  “Gunter, Eli, Joel, Tobe,” Ike shouted, “saddle your horses and let’s ride. McQuade and Creeker are in trouble somewhere ahead.”

  The men moved quickly, and within minutes, seven riders galloped forth to meet whatever trouble lay ahead.

  “They’re closing in,” Creeker shouted. He drew his revolver and fired twice, without effect.

  “You might as well save your ammunition,” said McQuade.

  But the Comanches flanking them had ridden in close, and arrows began flying. One of them tore a gash across McQuade’s left arm, above the elbow, and his horse screamed as it took an arrow in the throat. The valiant animal stumbled, took a second arrow and fell. McQuade kicked loose just in time, rolled free and came to his feet, his revolver in his hand. He shot one of the flanking Comanches off his horse, but the three galloped along the back-trail, coining closer. Hearing the roar of the revolver and seeing McQuade afoot, Creeker wheeled his horse, his gun blazing as he rode. The remaining Comanches were all close enough, and arrows whipped close. One ripped through Creeker’s left side, while a second slammed into his shoulder. On he rode, his good arm outstretched to McQuade, who caught his hand. With McQuade behind him, Creeker wheeled the horse, kicking it into a fast gallop. They could hear the pound of hooves as the Comanches gained on them.

  “There’s an arroyo ahead,” McQuade shouted.

  Creeker needed no urging. McQuade slid off the horse, and seconds later, Creeker all but fell out of the saddle. The arroyo was shallow. Neither man could stand without being exposed from the waist up. McQuade was on his knees, ready to fire, but the Comanches had slowed their horses, and with good reason. There was a shout, as seven riders came thundering from the north. Like smoke, the Comanches faded into the distance and were gone. Ike had caught Creeker’s fleeing horse, and the seven men reined up.

  “We got here as quick as we could,” Ike said.

  “Creeker took two bad ones,” said McQuade. “Some of you help him mount his horse, and I’ll double up with one of you.”

  “Hell,” Creeker grunted, “I ain’t dead yet.” Seizing the horn, he mounted his horse.

  They reached the wagons to find their companions anxiously awaiting them. Lora all but fell off the wagon box getting to Creeker.

  “How far are we from water?” Doctor Puckett asked.

  “Maybe six miles,” said McQuade. “I just got a scratch, but Creeker took a couple of bad ones.”

  “Creeker,” Puckett said, “we’ll need water to tend those wounds. Can you make it six more miles?”

  “I’ll manage,” said Creeker. “The important thing is that we get these wagons circled before dark.”

  McQuade was brought one of the extra horses. He rode it bareback until he reached his own dead animal. There he retrieved his saddle and bridle. He caught up to the lead wagons, joining Creeker, who rode with gritted teeth.

  “I owe you one, amigo,” said McQuade.

  “I quit keepin’ score after that fight with Sutton’s gang,” Creeker said. “What bothers me is that I may not be in shape to ride south with you to meet Houston.”

  “We’ll wait a couple more days, if we have to,” said McQuade.

  They reached the bank of the Trinity without difficulty, and while the men circled the wagons and unharnessed the teams, the women started supper fires. Over one of them was a pot of water being heated to tend Creeker’s wounds.

  “Unfortunately, we have nothing for pain except whiskey,” said Doctor Puckett, “but there’s a blessed plenty of that. Creeker, we’ll make room for you in one of the wagons. I want you to put down enough whiskey to take you out, while I remove those arrows.”

  “Doc,” McQuade said, “you don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that. All the way across Indian Territory, I had to drive arrows through.”

  “Take off your shirt,” said Puckett, “and I’ll bandage your wound while we’re waiting for the whiskey to take effect on Creeker.”

  McQuade’s wound was superficial but painful, and he could feel the arm beginning to stiffen. Puckett cleansed it with hot water, sloshed it full of whiskey, and applied a muslin bandage. Room had been made in the wagon Puckett drove, and Creeker had stretched out on blankets, waiting for the whiskey to work. During supper, McQuade told the rest of the party what he and Creeker had already discussed.

  “Tomorrow may be another long day,” said McQuade, “because we’ll be going all the way to the Brazos. Unless I’m totally wrong, it’ll be maybe eighteen miles to the south. At that point, we won’t be more than a hundred miles from the Rio Colorado. We’ll circle the wagons on the Brazos and ride south, looking for Houston’s militia. We must find Houston without being seen by Monclova’s bunch, and I don’t see any need for more than two of us to ride out. The fewer of us, the less chance we’ll be seen. I aim to take Creeker with me. Are there any questions or objections?”

  “Seems to me you’re gettin’ mighty damn partial to that bunch that follered Hook and Hedgepith,” said Andrew Burke.

  “Since you’re making an issue of it,” McQuade replied, “I’ll give it to you straight. I aim to take a man with me I can trust, and that eliminates all you Burkes. Is that clear?”

  “Plenty,” said Andrew. “I reckon I just don’t like the way you do things; McQuade. I been thinkin’ about all these wagons loaded with guns, grub, an’ all, an’ I can’t figger what makes this Sam Houston more worthy of ’em than us. Hell, I feel like I’m as deservin’ as he is. We ain’t started no fight with Mexico. He started it; let him finish it.”

  “People,” McQuade said, trying mightily to control his temper, “you heard what Burke said. I think all of you know where I stand, so I’m not going to say a word. Give Burke his answer.”

  There was an angry roar of indignation, and when it died away, individual voices could be heard.

  “Turn the no-account varmint out of this wagon train.”

  “Give him to the Comanches.”

  “String him up.”

  Burke turned his back on them and returned to his wagon. McQuade said nothing, and the uproar subsided. When Doctor Puckett had removed the arrows and tended Creeker’s wounds, he spoke to McQuade.

  “The wound to his shoulder is the most serious. While the arrow in his side looked bad, it had struck a rib and didn’t go deep. He may come out of this without infection, since it was tended quickly.”

  Since Creeker would be in no condition to take charge of the first watch, McQuade sought out Gunter Warnell.

  “Gunter, will you take over the first watch while Creeker’s unable to?”

  “Sure,” said Warnell. “What do you aim to do about the Burkes?”

  “Nothing,” McQuade said, “unless they create trouble.”

  The Burkes wasted no time. Sometime before midnigh
t, Mary screamed and McQuade awoke to find the wagon canvas in flames. He shoved Mary out of the wagon and tore at the canvas. Others came to his aid and the burning canvas was ripped away, saving the contents and the rest of the wagon.

  “Now who do you reckon is responsible for that?” Ike Peyton said.

  “I have my suspicions,” said McQuade. “Some of you come with me. I’m going to pay a visit to the Burkes.”

  McQuade had purposely assigned the Burkes to the second watch, and he wasn’t in the least surprised to find them all awake, for it was close to midnight. He was surprised, however, to find them all gloriously drunk. Luke and Selma were there, as well.

  “Well, McQuade,” said Andrew, “we was just about to mosey over there an’ see what all the excitement was about. Hell of a time for a fire, with the Comanches gatherin’.”

  “Where did you get the whiskey, Burke?”

  Burke laughed. “We ain’t got a drop of whiskey. Drunk it all.”

  Selma giggled, and Luke caught her to keep her from falling. Foolish grins on their faces, Matthew and Mark leaned against the wagon. Andrew sat on the ground, his back against a wagon wheel, his old hat tipped down over his eyes. Not only had many of the men followed McQuade, but some of the women had, too. McQuade turned to them.

  “We won’t get anywhere with this bunch until they’re sober,” said McQuade. “There’s a place in the river where we watered the stock, where the water’s shallow.”

  McQuade seized Andrew Burke by the ankles, dragging him away from the wagon. Ike Peyton caught him under the arms, and they headed for the river. Burke cursed them every step of the way. With a heave, McQuade and Ike slung him off the bank and into the shallow water. Other men had seized Matthew, Mark, and Luke in a similar fashion, and they quickly joined their father. Not to be outdone, Maggie Peyton and Ellen Warnell brought Selma, kicking and screaming, to the river bank. She too was thrown in. The lot of them sat there cursing, and McQuade had an answer for that.

  “The lot of you are going to sit there until you shut your mouths,” said McQuade.

  “Damn right,” Ike said. “We’ll stand here till daylight, if need be, throwin’ the lot of you back in, for as long as it takes. When you’re sober enough to come out of there, we’ll talk about some rules for you varmints.”

  Everybody stood there in grim silence, and it was Selma who gave in first.

  “I’m freezing. I want to come out.”

  “Come on,” said McQuade, “and then I want you to return to your wagon.”

  She crawled out on hands and knees, nobody offering to help her. When she got to her feet, she stumbled off toward her wagon.

  “By God, I’m comin’ out,” Matthew said, “and anybody tries to put me back, he comes in with me.”

  “I’ll put you back,” said McQuade, “if that’s what it takes.”

  Matthew crawled out and sat on the bank, squeezing the water out of his hair. Mark, Luke, and Andrew followed.

  “Now,” McQuade said, “we’re going to talk about my burned wagon canvas.”

  “You got no proof we burnt your damn wagon canvas,” said Andrew sullenly.

  “I don’t know of another soul in this outfit who would have set fire to my wagon canvas,” McQuade said. “Only you Burkes. But I don’t have any proof. What do the rest of you think should be done?”

  Without a word, a dozen men quickly stripped the canvas from the Burke wagon.

  “We got no proof,” said Ike, “but we know you Burkes pretty damn well. Consider it your own wagon canvas you burnt. We still got to deal with you for stealin’ that whiskey, but we’ll leave that up to McQuade.”

  “From now on,” McQuade said, “at least one of the men on watch will be stationed at those wagons loaded with whiskey. Anybody breaking into these wagons is subject to being shot. Will, that will be your post for the rest of the night. You Burkes have played out your string. I’ve reached the point that I could shoot the whole damn lot of you, and still sleep with a clear conscience.”

  With that, McQuade turned away, and except for the Burkes, everybody followed. The men who had stripped the canvas from the Burke wagon quickly stretched it over the bows of McQuade’s wagon and secured it to the wagon box.

  “Come on, Mary,” said McQuade, taking her arm, “and get what sleep you can. I’ll be going on watch pretty soon, and I’ll just wait until then.”

  “Do be careful,” she cautioned. “One of them could shoot you in the back.”

  He said nothing, realizing the truth of it. He found Ike leaning against his wagon.

  “Sooner or later,” said Ike, “one of that bunch is goin’ to try to kill you.”

  “They’ve tried before,” McQuade said. “I’ve had to shoot two of them. That’s why they’re down on me.”

  “Don’t turn your back on them,” said Ike. “If they cause any more trouble, I believe we should cut their wagon out of the circle and let them shift for themselves.”

  “It’s a temptation,” McQuade said. He made the rounds, speaking to the other men on watch, finding most of them of the same mind as Ike. When he reached the Burke wagon, he found Andrew, Matthew, Mark, and Luke there. All had changed into dry clothes, for in the starlight, he could see the wet ones strung across the wagon bows to dry.

  “The lot of you are on the second watch,” said McQuade, “and it’s in progress.”

  “We just ain’t in the mood for it, McQuade,” Andrew said. “Some other time.”

  “Your choice,” said McQuade. “If you refuse to pull your weight, your wagon can be cut out of the circle. There’s already been talk of that, and we’ll vote on it tomorrow. I’ve made the rounds, and I haven’t seen Luke. Pass the word along to him.”

  McQuade made the rounds of the guard posts at least once an hour. He had caught a few of the younger men sleeping—or worse—gathering to talk. He wasn’t surprised when he again visited the various posts, when he found the Burkes where they were assigned. Even Luke was there. McQuade said nothing. He didn’t doubt that any one or all four of them would back-shoot him if the opportunity presented itself, but there was a measure of safety in the fact that so many feared exactly that. While the Burkes hadn’t been there for the hanging of the captured members of Gid Sutton’s gang, they were very much aware of it. If McQuade were shot in the back and the guilty Burke couldn’t be singled out, every one of them would face the swift justice of the rope. McQuade doubted any of them hated him that much. He made his way to Doctor Puckett’s wagon, expecting the doctor to be awake, and he was. The man never slept when the wounded might become feverish and need whiskey to fight infection. It was a trait McQuade admired.

  “How is he, Doc?” McQuade asked softly.

  “Still no fever,” said Puckett. “He’s a strong man. He may pull through without fever or infection.”

  “I hope he does,” McQuade said. “We should reach the Brazos tomorrow, and it’s from there that Creeker and me will ride to Houston’s camp.”

  “You could take someone else with you,” said Puckett. “He won’t be comfortable in a saddle for at least a week.”

  “From what I’ve seen of him, he won’t wait that long,” McQuade replied. “He’s come a long way—he and his friends—since they hired on with Hook in St. Louis.”

  “A lot of us have,” said Puckett. “I must admit I wasn’t proud of our outfit with Hook in control, and less so when it fell into Hedgepith’s hands. Frankly, I had little confidence in Creeker and the men who accompanied him, but it was they who stood up to Hook, and later, Hedgepith. It was Creeker who pulled the teamsters together and set up a defense against Indian attacks. These are the kind of men Sam Houston will need, if he’s to win Texas for the United States.”

  “I fully agree, Doc,” said McQuade. “God knows how many years we are away from law on the frontier. I hate being judge and jury, but we all have to be strong enough to tie a noose until something better comes along.”

  “Speaking of a noose, what are w
e going to do about the Burkes? I thought of them when I saw your wagon canvas in flames.”

  “So did everybody else, including me,” said McQuade. “We had no proof, but with all of us of the same mind, we may have taught them the error of their ways. Last time I was at their wagon, they had pulled in their horns and had taken their positions on watch.”

  “They’re a cowardly lot,” Puckett said. “I suppose they had been at the whiskey.”

  “I haven’t checked out either of the wagons,” said McQuade, “but I don’t know where else they would have gotten it. From now on, there’ll be a man near those wagons, with orders to shoot any and all thieves.”

  “It’s the devil’s brew,” said Puckett. “I’d suggest that it be destroyed, but it has its place as a medicine. I know of nothing better to combat a. fever, or to drug a man, allowing him to sleep through pain.”

  “I’ve been thinking of that,” McQuade said, “and like everything else, it’ll be in short supply. If the war with Mexico comes about as we expect, it’ll be needed.”

  “With that in mind,” said Puckett. “I have a request. When you speak to Houston, tell him about the whiskey, suggest that it be set aside for use as medicine. Tell him a doctor recommends it.”

  “Doc, I like the way you think,” McQuade replied. “I’ll use your exact words.”

  McQuade went on his way, somehow feeling better for the time spent with the doctor.

  At dawn, McQuade returned to Doctor Puckett’s wagon, wishing to know Creeker’s condition before he made plans for the day.

  “Still no fever,” Doctor Puckett said. “When he wakes, we’ll see how he feels.”

  “He’s awake,” said a voice from within the wagon, “and he feels like breakfast. Where is Lora?”

  “Under the wagon, where I slept,” said Lora. “I’ll bring you breakfast.”

  “Quick, woman,” Creeker said. “All I can taste is whiskey. I feel like somethin’ sick just crawled down my throat and died.”