Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “I reckon that answers my question,” said McQuade. “We’ll move on to the Brazos.”

  “If you scout ahead,” Creeker said, “don’t go alone. I won’t be there to save your hide.”

  “You can rest easy,” said McQuade. “I don’t aim to ride out at all. I know we have to reach the Brazos today, no matter how far it is. We’ll just make as good a time as we can, startin’ after breakfast.”

  McQuade climbed into one of the whiskey wagons, and since everything seemed intact, went on to the second one. It was the wagon from which some barrels had been lost when the teams had stampeded, and there was some room. One of the barrels had been tapped, for the smell of whiskey was strong. The bung hole was near the top, and finding the bung on the wagon floor, McQuade used the butt of his revolver to drive the wooden plug in tight. He then wrestled the barrel up next to the others.

  “Doc,” said McQuade under his breath, “you’ve got ne hell of a lot of medicine here, if we can just keep the Burkes and their kind away from it.”

  The wagons took the trail and all seemed secure. Since McQuade would be ahead of the lead wagons all day, he left Groat, Slack, Rucker, and Ellis behind the last wagons. The last few wagons were the most vulnerable during an Indian attack, but when the attack came, it was from a quarter least expected. The lead wagons were coming upon an arroyo, and with a mad whoop, mounted Indians came swarming out like angry bees. McQuade had his revolver out, but an arrow creased the rump of his horse, and the animal reared. Men reined up, leaping off their wagon boxes, prepared to fight. Guns roared, frightened mules brayed, as women on the wagon boxes fought to hold the teams. Many Indian ponies raced away riderless, and the attack ended as suddenly as it had begun. Despite his spooked horse, McQuade had accounted for two dead Comanches, but what concerned him was their wounded. The first six wagons had borne the brunt of the attack, and while a dozen deadly arrows had pierced arms and legs, only one man was down. McQuade leaped out of his saddle and ran to the fallen Ike Peyton. Maggie was already there, her face pale, her hands trembling. For all the doctoring she had done, helping others, there was nothing she could do for Ike. A Comanche arrow was buried deep in his chest and there was bloody froth on his lips. Doctor Puckett came on the run, elbowing his way through weeping women. Mary stood beside Maggie, who pushed her aside. She knelt beside Ike. His eyes had dimmed and as he recognized approaching death, he spoke.

  “McQuade …”

  It was little more than a whisper, and McQuade leaned close to hear any last words.

  “Take care … of … Maggie …”

  It was the end. McQuade stumbled to his feet, wiping streaming eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. Someone took his arm, and it was a moment before he could see well enough to recognize Mary. Maggie stood up, her weathered face a mask of pain, and when her knees gave way, it was Doctor Puckett who caught her.

  “Take her to our wagon, Doc,” said McQuade, “and Mary, you stay with her.”

  “That would be best,” Puckett said. “We have many wounded.”

  When Puckett had taken Maggie away, all eyes were on McQuade. Will Haymes spoke.

  “Should we bury Ike here, or take him with us?”

  “We’ll take him with us,” said McQuade. “He deserves proper burying, when Maggie is able to be there. Make room for Ike in his wagon, and I’ll take it the rest of the way to the Brazos.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “I gave Maggie a sedative that should allow her to sleep,” said Doctor Puckett. “What would you have us do about Ike’s burial?”

  “We’re taking him with us,” McQuade said. “He’ll be buried when Maggie is better able to accept it. Do you believe we should wait here until you can tend the wounded, or should we move on to the Brazos?”

  “We’d best move on,” said Puckett. “We’ll need plenty of hot water, and for safety’s sake, we ought to have the wagons circled. I’ll talk to the wounded.”

  “Please do,” McQuade said. “I believe they’ll all agree to endure their pain for a while, rather than risk being stranded on the plains overnight, without water.”

  Gunter Warnell had a bloody gash across the back of his neck, while Ellen had taken an arrow in her right arm. Odessa Bibb, Lucy Tabor, and Minerva Haymes all had one of the deadly barbs in their thighs. Joel Hanby had an arrow driven all the way through the calf of his right leg.

  “I can break this one and remove both halves,” said Doctor Puckett. “We must move on to water.”

  “Go ahead, Doc,” Joel said. “We don’t know how far we got to go before sundown.”

  Before they again took the trail, McQuade took a count of the dead Comanches. There were thirteen.

  “An unlucky number,” said Doctor Puckett, who had followed.

  “It’s not near enough,” McQuade said. “They cost us Ike, and it wouldn’t be enough if we killed every damn Comanche in Texas.”

  With his horse tied behind the Peyton wagon, McQuade climbed to the box. With the Warnell and Bibb wagons flanking him, McQuade led out. They stopped only to rest their teams, and each time, Doctor Puckett looked in on Maggie. McQuade doubted they would reach the Brazos in time to bury Ike. It was a ritual he dreaded, and not just for Maggie’s sake. He realized he hadn’t fully appreciated the presence of Ike Peyton, until like a mighty oak hit by lightning, he had been struck down. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Life on the frontier was hard on a woman, without a man at her side. Now Maggie would be alone, and Chance McQuade was haunted by Ike’s last words. Maggie was not more than a year or two older than Mary. Dying, Ike had known he had only seconds left, and to McQuade it seemed that he had shown his concern for Maggie in the only way that he could. It was a burden he didn’t want or need, something he must discuss with Mary, when he could. To his relief, the Brazos wasn’t as far as he had believed, and thanks to their early start, they reached it before sundown. While the men circled the wagons and unhitched the teams, the women started supper fires. Over several of them hung pots of water, being heated for the cleansing of wounds. Doctor Puckett visited the wagons where arrows had to be removed, seeing that massive doses of whiskey were taken by the wounded, and leaving more for later. As soon as McQuade had the Peyton wagon in the circle and the teams unharnessed, he went to his own wagon, which Mary had positioned. She was unharnessing the teams, and he took over the chore.

  “How is Maggie?” he asked.

  “Awake,” said Mary, “but she won’t talk. She’s just lying there, and her eyes aren’t seeing anything.”

  “That tells me what I need to know,” McQuade said. “We can’t bury Ike until she’s able to be there, but there’s a limit as to how long Ike can wait. That limit runs out first thing in the morning. Somebody has to talk to her.”

  “I’ve tried,” said Mary, “and it might as well be the wind blowing.”

  “Do you know what Ike’s last words were?”

  “No,” she said. “I was as bad off as Maggie.”

  “He asked me to take care of Maggie,” said McQuade. “I’m honored by his trust, but scared to death of the responsibility. My God, she can’t be much older than you.”

  “Two years older,” Mary said, “and her shape makes me look like a drudge.”

  “It does not,” said McQuade.

  “It does so,” she said. “You’ve seen most of it, Chance McQuade. Don’t lie to me.”

  “Hell,” said McQuade, “it wasn’t my fault she got an arrow in her thigh. I wasn’t the least bit interested in her carcass, beyond removing the arrow from it. Don’t you think we are being disrespectful, Ike lying dead while we fight over Maggie’s naked behind?”

  “I’m sorry. Maggie’s a beautiful woman, and I’m jealous of her, but there are far more important things to consider. She believes in you. Will you talk to her?”

  “Yes,” said McQuade with a sigh. “I’ll talk to her. You want to stay close, just to be sure I don’t look at anything I’m not supposed to see?”

  Tears crept down he
r cheeks, and he knew he had gone too far. He gathered her up, as she struggled to get loose.

  “Now I’m sorry,” McQuade said. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Oh, but it wasn’t,” she said. “I deserved it.”

  But he refused to let her go, and finally she turned to face him.

  “Go on and talk to her,” said Mary. “Forget everything else except helping her make it through this. Later, we’ll talk about … Ike’s last words.”

  Reluctantly McQuade let down the wagon’s tailgate and climbed in. Maggie Peyton lay on a blanket, her head on a folded blanket, facing the rear of the wagon. She was dressed as she had been the day before, with only her shoes removed.

  “Maggie,” said McQuade, “we have to talk.”

  There was a long silence, and when McQuade had decided she wasn’t going to speak, she did.

  “Ike’s been my life since I was thirteen years old. Now he’s gone. I only regret that one of the arrows didn’t take me, so I could have gone with him.”

  “Maggie, you must carry on. It’s what Ike wanted. He asked me to look after you, to help you, and I’m here to tell you I’ll do all I can.”

  She tried to laugh, and it fell away to a sob. “Will you lay beside me on cold winter nights? Will you set across the breakfast table from me, tellin’ me I’m pretty, when my hair ain’t been combed, and I look like hell?”

  “Maggie,” said McQuade, “I can’t be a husband to you, but I can be your friend. So can Mary. But only if you let us.”

  McQuade knelt beside her, taking her hands in his. On the tips of her fingers was dried blood where she had bitten the nails off. He had no more words, but when her swollen eyes met his, none were needed. She threw her arms around him and wept with great, heart-wrenching sobs. Her tears soaked his shirt, while he said nothing, allowing her to rid herself of a burden only tears could relieve. Finally she was silent, and when she let him go, she spoke quietly.

  “Thank you, Chance McQuade. If you didn’t have a wife I think the world of, I’d take you for myself.”

  McQuade laughed. “If I didn’t have a wife, Maggie, I’d take you in a minute.”

  “When will Ike be buried?” she asked, becoming serious.

  “In the morning,” said McQuade. “We’ve reached the Brazos, and there’s no hurry. When Creeker’s able to ride, we’ll head south, looking for Sam Houston. The wagons will remain here, until we know where Houston is.”

  “I’ll be ready for the burying. There’s one thing I … I don’t think I can do. There’s a trunk in the wagon, and in it, Ike’s old blue suit. He bought it for the day we stood before the preacher, and he was proud he could still get in it. Could you … would you … see that he’s laid out in it?”

  “He’ll be wearing it, Maggie,” said McQuade. He left quickly before he became any more choked up than he already was, and the first man he saw was Will Haymes.

  “How’s Maggie?” Will asked.

  “Better,” said McQuade. “She’s preparing herself for the burying tomorrow. There’s something I promised Maggie we would do. In the wagon there’s a trunk. In it there’s an old blue suit of Ike’s—”

  “My God,” Will cut in, “I couldn’t bear that.”

  “I’m going to take care of that, myself,” said McQuade. “There’s something else I want you to do, along with anybody you can get to help you. This is my idea.”

  “Anything but puttin’ a suit on Ike,” Will said, relieved.

  “I want some kind of coffin for Ike, even if it’s a hollow log. Can you manage it?”

  “I can,” said Will, “and I’ll do it, if I have to take a plank from every damn wagon in this circle.”

  McQuade realized he had forgotten to ask Maggie if there was a particular place she wanted Ike buried, but he didn’t have the nerve to face her again. Most of the men were gathered near the supper fires, awaiting the evening meal.

  “We’ll need to dig a grave for Ike,” said McQuade. “I think beneath that big cypress tree, near the river. Will some of you volunteer?”

  “We’ll do it,” Andrew Burke said.

  Recalling only too well the Burkes’ antics of the night before, some of the men turned hard eyes on them. McQuade thought some of them were about to deny the offer, and he was quick to speak.

  “Go ahead,” said McQuade, “and you should do it before dark.”

  The four of them went to their wagon, took shovels, and left the wagon circle.

  “Sometimes tragedy brings out the best in people,” Doctor Puckett said quietly.

  “It seems to,” said McQuade. “How are our wounded folks?”

  “They’ll all recover,” Puckett said, “but there’ll probably be some infection and fever.”

  “They’ll have time to heal before we take the trail again,” said McQuade. “We’ll leave the wagons circled here until Creeker and me can find and talk to Sam Houston.”

  “I’ve been neglecting Maggie,” Puckett said. “Do you think I should visit her?”

  “I’ve talked to her,” said McQuade, “and she’s accepted Ike’s death, but I don’t think it would hurt if you spent some time with her, maybe after supper. She thinks highly of you. But before you do, I need to ask a favor of you, in doing what Maggie asked me to do. There’s a suit in her trunk, and she wants Ike laid out in it. I’ll need some help, and I don’t like to ask anyone else. Some of these people knew Ike well, and they’re …”

  “A bit nervous,” said Puckett. “I’ll help you after supper, and then I’ll visit Maggie.”

  “Thanks,” McQuade said. “I’ll have Mary take her some supper and after your visit, spend the rest of the night with her. I’ll sleep under the wagon.”

  After supper, McQuade and Doctor Puckett began the unwelcome task of dressing Ike Peyton in his blue suit, as Maggie had requested. For a finishing touch, they added a red tie over a clean white shirt. True to his word, Will Haymes had somehow come up with material enough for a coffin, including a lid. Will, Tobe, Joel, and Isaac brought it to the back of the Peyton wagon.

  “I don’t know how you did it,” said McQuade, “but it’s a magnificent piece of work. I know Maggie will be pleased.”

  “This once was three cedar chiffoniers,” Will said, “but some of the ladies thought Ike needed a coffin more than they needed their chests of drawers. Do you want to put him in it now?”

  “I think we should,” said McQuade. “Open it. Doc and me will put him in it, and then we’ll lift it back into the wagon.”

  At that point, the Burkes returned from their gravedigging, watching McQuade and Doctor Puckett place Ike in the coffin. Only when the coffin had been lifted into the wagon did Andrew Burke speak.

  “The grave’s done. We made it good an’ deep.”

  “We’re obliged,” said McQuade. “Go to the cook fire where the coffee pot’s still on. The ladies have saved you some supper.”

  “I’m eatin’ with Selma,” Luke said.

  “Well, the rest of us ain’t,” said Andrew, “an’ we’re hungry.”

  They turned away, and when they had gone, it was Will Haymes who said what they all were thinking.

  “By God, somewhere under that hair, thick hide, and cussedness, there might be some hombres worth knowing.”

  “Doc,” said McQuade, “while you’re visiting with Maggie, I need to talk to Creeker.”

  “Go ahead,” Puckett said. “I heard him telling Lora he’s riding south with you in the morning, in search of Sam Houston.”

  “I’ll talk him out of that,” said McQuade, “if Lora hasn’t already.”

  “She’s in the wagon with him,” Puckett said. “You’d better announce your arrival.”

  The rest of the men laughed, and it was a moment before it dawned on McQuade. He went on, but as he approached the wagon, he identified himself.

  “Come on,” said Creeker. “Lora brought me supper, and I’m just finishing it.”

  “He’s not telling you the truth,” Lora said.
“This is a second helping.”

  McQuade laughed. “I’m glad he’s feelin’ better, but I don’t believe he’ll be riding south in the morning.”

  “That damn sawbones is a snitch,” said Creeker.

  “He’s one more smart hombre,” McQuade said, “and you’re not going anywhere until he says you’re ready.”

  When Doctor Puckett reached the wagon, he found Mary there, and she had managed to persuade Maggie to eat.

  “I was about to take these dishes to be washed,” said Mary. “Maggie, I’m going to stay with you tonight, and I’ll be back.”

  “You needn’t do that,” Maggie said. “I must get used to being alone.”

  “You’ll never be alone,” said Mary. “You have friends. Now hush. You don’t want the doctor thinking you’re a fussbudget, do you?”

  “That’s what I am,” Maggie said. “He might as well know now as later.”

  Puckett laughed, hoisting himself up to the wagon’s tail-gate. Mary took the dishes and left them alone. After a long silence, it was Maggie who finally spoke.

  “You were kind to come, Doctor, but I’ll be all right. It was like … facing the end of the world, and I … I didn’t believe I could.”

  “We are all stronger than we realize,” said Puckett. God gave us all that extra something that we can call forth at a time such as this. My mother always said He never closes one door that He doesn’t open another. We must look for it with eyes of faith.”

  “Your mother taught you well,” Maggie said softly. “I’ve heard many a preacher that didn’t make as much sense as you. Mary has a bible. Would you … read the Word over Ike tomorrow?”

  “Certainly,” said Puckett, “if that’s what you wish. Do you have a favorite passage?”

  “No,” Maggie said. “I wasn’t brought up in the church, but I’m a believer. Do you … have a favorite passage?”

  “Yes,” said Puckett. “Several of them, in fact. Did Ike have the faith?”

  “He did,” Maggie said. “He swore a lot, but mostly at the mules. They’re a bunch of jugheaded varmints that don’t understand nothin’ else.”