Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “As long as he had the faith,” Puckett said, “you don’t have to concern yourself with where Ike is. When I read over him in the morning, I’ll turn to one of my very favorite passages. You listen closely.”

  “I will,” said Maggie. “I believe Ike’s gone to a better place. Really, it’s me that I … I’m concerned about. God knows, I got nothin’ to go back to, and with Ike gone, there’s nothin’ ahead but a land grant I can’t work by myself. I’m a selfish woman.”

  “In your position there’s nothing selfish about concerning yourself with the future,” Puckett said. “Maybe I can brighten that future a bit. I am not just flattering you when I say I have been impressed with your nursing ability. While I don’t know what lies ahead for me in Texas, I don’t expect to be working a land grant. As the West becomes settled, there will be a need for doctors, and doctors will need nurses. With just a little help, you can become a very capable nurse. Will you allow me to help you, to further develop your potential?”

  “Lord, Doctor, I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll do it,” Puckett said. “Anybody can work a land grant, but it takes special people to tend the sick.”

  Maggie had forgotten her misery, and caught up in what Puckett was proposing, had taken a seat beside him on the wagon’s tailgate.

  “I’ll do it, Doctor, if you’ll help me,” she said. “God knows, I need something—some purpose—if I’m to go on living.”

  “You referred to yourself as a selfish woman,” said Puckett, “when it’s me that’s the selfish one. I’m trying to begin my practice on the frontier with my own dedicated nurse.”

  “This has been the darkest day of my life,” Maggie said, “and I’m thankin’ you from the bottom of my heart for helpin’ me to go on.”

  “Get what rest you can,” said Puckett, “for we still have to say farewell to Ike in the morning. But through it all, remember you have friends here, not the least of which is me. Goodnight.”

  Then he was gone, a departing shadow in the starlight. Mary had been waiting in the darkness beside the wagon, a smile on her face. Waiting another minute or two, she spoke.

  “Maggie, I brought you a fresh cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you,” said Maggie. “Come sit with me for a little while.”

  “I’ll stay until you finish your coffee. Then you need to get some rest.”

  So much had happened during the day, McQuade gave up any thought of sleep. There were hot coals and a fresh pot of coffee, and he spent much of the evening talking to the others who were as sleepless as he. When he took over the second watch at midnight, he was surprised to have Mary join him.

  “I’ve been talking to Maggie since Doctor Puckett was there,” said Mary, “and I’m so excited, I’m wide awake. You can put your mind at rest about Maggie. The doctor’s got plans for her. He wants her to become his nurse, when we reach the Rio Colorado.”

  “She’ll likely become much more than that,” McQuade said. “I think Doc Puckett is a lonely man.”

  “Chance McQuade, what an outrageous thing to say. Ike’s not even in the ground.”

  “Oh, hell,” said McQuade, “don’t lay that proper preacher’s-daughter voice on me. I know Ike’s yet to be buried, but this is the frontier, and a woman shouldn’t be alone. I’d say before Maggie becomes a nurse, she’ll become Mrs. Doc Puckett, and I don’t care a damn if it’s proper or not. It’ll be good for them both.”

  Mary laughed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  McQuade made his hourly rounds, stopping occasionally to speak to Doctor Puckett, who had taken up residence near the coffee pot.

  “All those with serious wounds have fevers,” said Puckett, “and I’m expecting them all to break before morning.”

  “That’s good news,” McQuade said. “Seriously, when do you believe Creeker will be well enough to ride?”

  “Give him another two days, and he should be able to manage without hurting himself. That is, if he doesn’t overdo it.”

  “I’ll see that he doesn’t,” said McQuade. “He’s used to riding, and it won’t be as hard on him as it might be on someone else. Besides, we need to get him out of your wagon.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Puckett replied. “I think he’s been needing some time with Lora. He had to fight Rufus Hook for her, and they slipped around in the dark after Hedgepith took over.”

  The night wore on, and with the dawn, McQuade made preparations for Ike’s burial. It was a duty he didn’t relish, and while they owed it to Ike, he wanted it over and done before breakfast. He didn’t know Maggie had asked Doctor Puckett to read the Word over Ike, until Mary handed him the bible. McQuade, with the help of Gunter Warnell, Eli Bibb, and Will Haymes, lifted Ike’s coffin out of the wagon.

  “Allow me a few minutes in the wagon,” said Maggie. “I must get my Sunday best from the trunk.”

  Everybody had gathered for the burying except those who had been wounded the day before. Even Creeker was there, Lora by his side. Most of them—even the Burkes—wore the best they had. Doctor Puckett was dressed in a solid black suit, white ruffled shirt, and a flowing black string tie. McQuade thought he looked more like a preacher than a doctor. Maggie soon emerged from the wagon, dressed in black.

  “We’re going to open the coffin and hold the service here,” said McQuade. “Those of you who want to follow it to the grave are welcome to do so.”

  McQuade lifted the cedar lid of the coffin and stood aside, allowing one and all to file past for a last look at Ike Peyton. McQuade stood next to Maggie, an arm around her shoulders. She would be the last to stand before the coffin. Finally it was time for her to be led to it, and while there were tears, she bore up well. Her tears had been shed the night before. Doctor Puckett stood at the head of the coffin and opened the bible.

  “I am reading from chapter eight of the book of Romans,” said Puckett.

  And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

  For whom he did foreknow, he also did predestinate to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brethren.

  Moreover, whom he did predestinate, them he also called: and whom he called, them he also justified: and whom he justified, them he also glorified.

  What shall we say to these things? If God be for us, who can be against us?

  “There is much more that I could read,” said Puckett, closing the bible. “But Ike does not need it, and it is better for those of us left behind to read it for ourselves. For if we seek God, it is because we already have Him, for He has given us the faith to believe, for faith, like salvation, is a gift from God. We believe Ike had both, and that his immortal soul has returned to the God who claimed him before the foundation of the world. Let us pray.”

  The prayer was short. While many followed the coffin to the grave, Maggie did not, nor did Mary and McQuade. Maggie was calm, McQuade eyed Puckett with new respect, and it was Mary who spoke.

  “Doctor Puckett, I have heard my father preach many times, and he was an eloquent and dedicated man, but I’ve never heard anything more moving than what you just said.”

  “Thank you,” said Puckett. “It’s what I believe, what my ancestors have believed, and what Christ taught while here on earth.”

  “All Ike’s tribulations are behind him,” McQuade said. “It’s those of us left behind who still have a long trail to ride.”

  “You can have your wagon, McQuade,” said Maggie. “I’ll return to my own, and when we take the trail again, I’ll take the reins.”

  Doctor Puckett laughed. “Are you going to swear at the mules?”

  “If the varmints need it, I can rise to the occasion,” Maggie said, looking him in the eye.

  “It’s been a long night,” said McQuade. “Let’s have some hot coffee and breakfast.”

  On the Brazos. July 5, 1837.

  Those who had been wounded in the Comanch
e attack were much improved, all threat of infection behind them. Creeker, following Ike’s burial, hadn’t returned to the wagon.

  “The hard floor of the wagon was hurtin’ me more than the wounds,” he said.

  “We’ll wait two more days,” said McQuade, “and then we’ll ride south.”

  There was no further sign of the Comanches, and the only enemy was boredom, as the days dragged on. McQuade took advantage of the time, speaking to many of the men about the defense of the wagons while he and Creeker were away.

  “I don’t care how quiet and peaceful it seems,” McQuade told them. “I’ve heard this before, and I’ll swear to the truth of it: when you don’t see Indians, it’s time to worry.”

  But Mary seemed possessed of some premonition, and for the two days and nights before McQuade was to go, she worried constantly.

  “My mother was like this,” she said defensively. “That’s all I remember about her, but just when it seemed everything was going well, she began to worry.”

  “Damn it,” said McQuade, “when you go courting trouble, it always meets you more than half way. We must find Sam Houston’s militia before we go any farther with all these wagons. Creeker and me can get ourselves and our horses out of sight in a hurry, but not these wagons. Once we near the Rio Colorado, we’ll have to know exactly where we’re going. We can’t just pick up these wagons and put ’em in our pockets.”

  “I know,” she sighed, “but I haven’t forgotten the day you and Creeker were attacked by the Comanches. You were near enough for help to reach you. This time, you’ll be far away from us, and Sam Houston’s militia won’t know you’re there.”

  “It’ll be up to us to find them before the Comanches and Miguel Monclova find us,” said McQuade. “There’s some risk involved, but not nearly as much as taking this wagon train with us before we know exactly where we’re going.”

  “There’s something I’m supposed to ask you,” she said, “and I … I’m …”

  “Afraid?”

  “No,” said Mary, “that’s not the word for it.”

  “Then ask,” McQuade said impatiently. “I promise not to hit you.”

  She laughed nervously. “Oh, I know you better than that. Lora Kirby asked me if she can stay with me while you and Creeker are gone. I told her I’d ask you.”

  “Why would you have to ask me?”

  “Well,” said Mary, “because of … of what she … was … before Creeker.”

  “Forget what she was,” McQuade said. “By God, if the Burkes can change, anybody can. The woman needs friends, and she’s never goin’ to have them, if the rest of you all keep your noses out of joint because of what she once was. Didn’t your daddy ever speak to you about such?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “but sometimes it’s not easy to practice what he preached. Don’t you know that?”

  “I know,” said McQuade, relenting. “Take Lora in and be friends with her, if you can. I know Creeker will feel better. Not so much for his sake, but for hers.”

  “I’ll be as much a friend as she’ll allow me to be,” Mary said. “Maybe we can both worry about you and Creeker together.”

  “Yes,” said McQuade, with a sigh. “That will be a great help to us.”

  CHAPTER 18

  On the morning of the seventh of July, McQuade and Creeker prepared to ride south in search of Sam Houston’s militia. Within his bedroll, each man packed a quart of whiskey and in a pack behind each saddle, there was food for two weeks. Before departing, Creeker spent a few minutes alone with Lora, while McQuade joined Mary in the wagon.

  “I can’t promise you I won’t worry,” said Mary. “The only answer my father ever had to my mother’s worrying was to say some prayers. I’ll do that.”

  “Thank you,” McQuade said. “I believe that will do more good than the worrying.”

  Creeker was with Lora in Doctor Puckett’s wagon, and her feelings were much the same as Mary’s.

  “I don’t even want to think of what would become of me if you never came back,” she said.

  “Then don’t think of that,” said Creeker, “because I’m comin’ back. You think, after I’ve drifted from pillar to post all my life, that I’m goin’ to lose it all, just when I’ve found you and there’s a future ahead?”

  “I know you won’t, if you can help it,” she said. “The way I’ve lived my life, God has always seemed awfully far away. Mary says instead of worrying, we should talk to Him.”

  “That’s good advice,” said Creeker. “We’ll be as careful as we can, and even taking our time, we should be back in six days.”

  Everybody gathered to see them off and wish them well, and as the rising sun began building a glory on the eastern horizon, they crossed the Brazos and rode south. Riding at a slow, mile-eating gallop, they rested their horses once an hour. When they reached fresh water they took a longer rest, allowing their horses sufficient time before they drank. They saw no one.

  “We’re makin’ good time,” Creeker said. “We could likely reach the Rio Colorado late today, if we tried.”

  “We could,” said McQuade, “but I don’t think that’s wise. The river runs just about all the way across Texas, and we don’t know where we’ll find the Monclova camp or the Sam Houston camp. We don’t want to stumble onto Monclova while we’re looking for the militia, and I want to reach the Rio Colorado with some daylight ahead of us.”

  “Those returning emigrants didn’t tell us where Monclova’s bunch is,” said Creeker, “and that’s the one thing we most need to know. While we know Houston hopes to build a town on the river, how are we to know where we’ll find Monclova’s camp?”

  “We don’t know that he has a permanent camp,” McQuade said. “In fact, we don’t even know where along the river those grants are located. If we can find Houston’s militia, they should have some idea as to where Monclova’s bunch is.”

  “We also don’t know that Monclova ain’t had more men join him,” said Creeker. “If he had fifty men before, he could have a hundred by now.”

  “Against fifty armed men, we’d be a pair of gone geese,” McQuade replied, “and any more wouldn’t make much difference. We just have to avoid Monclova’s bunch.”

  “We can do it, just you and me,” said Creeker, “but not with the wagons. If these Mexicans don’t have a permanent camp, and are just ridin’ around, they’ll spot us.”

  “I’m considering asking Houston for as many outriders as he can spare. Suppose we had fifty mounted men riding the length of the train, from the lead wagons to the last?”

  “With enough ammunition, we could stand off an army,” Creeker said, “and we have the ammunition. We even got that pile of guns we took from Sutton’s gang.”

  “If we were told the truth, that Houston has at least two hundred men, then there is virtually no way Monclova can hurt us,” said McQuade. “And that goes for the Comanches, too.”

  “This expedition has taken on a lot more promise since Hook and Hedgepith cashed in,” Creeker said.

  “Yes,” said McQuade, “and what began as one man’s greedy obsession may well change the course of history. The irony of it is, if both Hook and Hedgepith had lived to reach Texas, their dreams of a town would have been in vain. I believe the Mexican government would have seized the wagons and everything in them, using the ammunition and the weapons against Sam Houston’s rebels.”

  “It makes you wonder,” Creeker said. “I heard a preacher once that said God uses the ungodly to perform miracles. I don’t know if Sam Houston’s a godly man, but he’s about to witness a miracle.”

  To the south, along the Rio Colorado, Houston’s battered forces had just beaten back an attack by Monclova’s Mexican renegades. Houston himself had a bloody arm, while a dozen others had more serious wounds. Three men had died. Houston’s lieutenants—Joshua Hamilton, Stockton Saunders, and Alonzo Holden—looked grim.

  “There may not be enough ammunition to withstand another siege, sir,” Hamilton said.
>
  “We’ll hold out as long as we can,” Houston replied. “Have we medicine to treat the wounded?”

  “Only alcohol for disinfectant,” said Saunders. “Nothing for pain, nothing to fight the possible infection.”

  “The spirits of the men are pretty low,” Holden said. “We no longer have ammunition for hunting, and the soup’s gettin’ damn thin.”

  “We’ve reached the end of the trail,” said Hamilton. “We can no longer fight to save Texas, for there’s nothing to fight with. We must save ourselves, if we can. You must soon make a decision or the men will desert.”

  “Tomorrow,” Houston said, “I’ll talk to them.”

  They left him then. Removing his battered hat, he knelt and bowed his head.

  Miguel Monclova was pleased when his lieutenants, Pedro Mendez and Hidalgo Cortez, reported to him.

  “We do as you say,” Mendez exulted. “We attack at dawn, hit them hard, and then we ride away. Three die, many be wounded.”

  “Excelente,” said Monclova. “There are yet too many of them and not enough of us, but that soon change. We have more men, more guns, more ammunition. Por dios, then we kill them all.”

  McQuade and Creeker found a secluded spring, cooked their supper, and doused their fire before dark.

  “What about Comanches?” Creeker asked. “Do we dare sleep?”

  “One at a time,” said McQuade, “and then with one eye open. We’ll move well away from the spring, and sleep near the picketed horses. They’ll warn us if anybody tries to slip up on us.”

  “You sleep first,” Creeker said, “and I’ll wake you at midnight.”

  “Keeno,” said McQuade. “I want to get an early start in the morning. I’d like to reach the Rio Colorado by noon. Then maybe we can find the militia’s camp before dark.”

  McQuade arose at midnight. They had left the spring, picketing the horses on a wide plateau, with virtually no cover for potential enemies. McQuade looked at the twinkling stars in a purple velvet sky, at the barren plains, and thought of Mary. He had slept but little, already awake when Creeker had come to awaken him. He was eager to take the trail south, to meet with Houston, to relieve himself of the responsibility of the wagons and the multitude of people who depended on him. But would he ever truly be free, as long as the territory was in the clutches of Mexico? He got up and walked, restless, and well before first light, Creeker was awake.