Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “I haven’t slept very well,” said Creeker. “Maybe it’s those Comanches, fresh on my mind. What say we conceal a small fire, stir up some breakfast, and hit the trail?”

  McQuade laughed. “We’re both of the same mind. I’ve been thinkin’ of that very thing for the last hour or two.”

  They rode south, watchful but seeing nobody, and well before the sun was noon high, they came upon a river which they believed was the Rio Colorado. Almost immediately, the river widened into what became a small lake. They rode until the banks again narrowed and the river flowed on toward the southeast.7

  “It’s got to be the Rio Colorado,” said McQuade. “The question is, do we ride up- or downstream to find Houston’s militia?”

  “Ever since we rode south, I’ve been wishing we’d gone through Hedgepith’s papers,” Creeker said. “It wouldn’t hurt if we knew where along this river those grants lie.”

  “I’ve thought of that, myself,” said McQuade, “but I’ve changed my mind. I believe if we went nosin’ around those grants, we’d be more likely to run into Monclova’s outfit. I’m thinkin’ Sam Houston is in no way involved in these grants, beyond trying to recruit men to fight for Texas.”

  “You’re likely right,” Creeker said, “but I can’t help wondering if Monclova’s camp won’t be somewhere to the south. With this river flowing into the Gulf, it would be easy to bring men and supplies along the coast, from Mexico. Maybe by sailing ship, if we are up against the Mexican government.”

  “By God,” said McQuade, “you may be on to something. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a map of the Texas coast, but it can’t be more than three hundred miles from Matamoros to the point where the Colorado empties into the Gulf. We must discuss this with Sam Houston. My God, a sailing ship could drop hundreds of armed men right in his lap.”

  “And ours,” Creeker said. “That would give them a supply line all the way from Mexico City to the Rio Colorado. The best we can do is what we’re doing now: wagoning in supplies from St. Louis, or New Orleans.”

  “Houston ought to have men watching Matagorda Bay,” said McQuade. “Any Mexican ship landing there will be bad news for all of us.”

  They rode carefully, reining up when they saw the distant gray of smoke against the blue of the sky.

  “Somebody’s camp,” said Creeker. “Downriver maybe two miles.”

  “Well-manned, I’d say,” McQuade replied. “That smoke can be seen a hundred miles in every direction. I believe we’ve found Sam Houston’s militia, but we’ll ride careful.”

  Rounding a bend in the river, they reined up. Ahead was a log structure on the order of a barn, surrounded by a stockade constructed of upright logs. Beyond, along the river, a large number of horses grazed, while armed men stood watch. On a staff just above the stockade gate fluttered a flag with a single star.

  “One thing I’m sure of,” said McQuade. “That’s not the Mexican flag. I once saw one on a sailing ship in the harbor at New Orleans. Now the trick is to be recognized without being shot.”

  The crude fort was between them and the massive herd of grazing horses, so they rode around behind it, away from the river. Once they were within sight of the herd, but well out of rifle range, McQuade shouted to the riders.

  “Hello, the fort. We’re friends, come to see Sam Houston.”

  Four men kicked their horses into a gallop, reining up fifty yards shy of McQuade and Creeker. The lead rider shouted a question.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “McQuade and Creeker,” McQuade shouted back, “and we want to talk to Houston. We have a wagon train five days north of here. Now do we see Houston or not?”

  “Ride around to the gate and wait there. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  McQuade and Creeker rode to the gate at the front of the stockade. The gate opened and the man who had challenged them went inside. His three comrades sat their horses and eyed McQuade and Creeker. Each man had a rifle under his arm and their eyes were full of suspicion and questions. The one who had gone to talk to Houston returned hurriedly.

  “Mr. Houston will see you. Leave your horses here.”

  McQuade and Creeker dismounted, following their host through the gate. The fort was crude in the extreme, providing only shelter. Bedrolls and blankets littered the dirt floor, saddles lay in piles, and rifles leaned against the walls. A dozen half-naked men lay on blankets, bloody bandages covering their various wounds. X-frame tables lined one wall, and men—fifty or more—sat on roughhewn benches. They got hastily to their feet, as McQuade and Creeker entered. There was no mistaking Sam Houston, as he came forth to meet them. His dress was rough, his old hat the worse for wear, and his boots muddy, but there was a certain eloquence about him, even in these rough surroundings. His voice was deep, his manner reserved, and he spoke courteously.

  “Will you gentlemen be seated?”

  “Not for a while,” said McQuade. “We’ve been in the saddle for two days. We have a lot to tell you. The most important is that we have fifteen wagonloads of supplies, including guns, ammunition, and black powder, five days north of here.”

  Every man within the building lost his reserve, surging forth, shouting questions, each seeking to drown out the other.

  “Silence,” Houston bawled, and it had the desired effect. “These men have come to our rescue, God be praised, and the least we can do is show them some courtesy. Please continue, gentlemen.”

  Taking turns, McQuade and Creeker told of the men and women who had signed on with Hook in St. Louis, seeking Mexican land grants. Without going into detail, they told of Hook’s and Hedgepith’s deaths, leaving the freight for the proposed town ownerless. The men cheered when told of the decision of the emigrants to not only join Houston’s militia, but to contribute the fifteen wagonloads of supplies.

  “The way we see it,” McQuade concluded, “is that the future of Texas lies not with Mexico, but with the United States. We’ve decided that if we have to fight the Mexicans, we’ll fight them first, and then take a chance on our land grants.”

  “By the Eternal,” said Houston, “if I live to see the stars and stripes raised over these Texas plains, you will all have those promised land grants. I swear it, before God.”

  “What’s your situation?” Creeker asked.

  “Until you gentlemen rode in, it couldn’t have been worse,” said Houston. “Monclova’s forces attacked yesterday at dawn, killing three men and wounding all those you see there on pallets. We used the last of the alcohol for disinfectant, and we have nothing for pain or fever. We don’t have enough powder and shot to repel another attack.”

  “How many men do you have?” McQuade asked.

  “More than two hundred, not counting the wounded,” said Houston. “You don’t see them here, because they’re standing watch out in the brush. We have the numbers, but we have so little ammunition, we dare not attack. The best we’ve been able to do is to defend ourselves, and after the attack yesterday, we’re unable to do even that.”

  “I figure the wagons are about eighty-five miles north of here,” McQuade said. “Since we didn’t know where you were, Creeker and me rode south to find you. If nothing goes wrong, the wagons are at least five days away, and you don’t have that much time. Will you allow a hundred of your men to ride back with us, immediately?”

  “A hundred and more,” said Houston. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Resting our horses, we can ride all night,” McQuade said, “and we’ll be there in the morning at dawn. Every man can carry fifty pounds behind his saddle, without it being too hard on his horse. We can send you whiskey for medicine, laudanum, food, powder, shot, and we have a pile of extra weapons we took from a band of outlaws. It should put you in a position to hold out until the wagons can get here with the rest of it. By the way, we’ll be bringing a doctor with us.”

  “The Almighty God didn’t overlook a thing,” Houston said, his voice breaking.

  “One thi
ng more, before we go,” said McQuade. “Do you have a map of Texas, showing the coastline?”

  “Yes,” Houston replied. “I’ll fetch it.”

  He spread the map out on one of the crude tables. McQuade and Creeker studied it.

  “Here’s the fort, where we propose to build a town,” said Houston, circling a bend in the river.

  “Where do Monclova’s attacks come from?” McQuade asked.

  “From downriver,” said Houston, “and they retreat in that direction. But we have no idea where their permanent camp is, or if they have one.”

  “It’s somewhere downriver from here,” McQuade said. “See how near we are to the Gulf of Mexico? Following the river, it can’t be more than a hundred and fifty miles.”

  “No more than that,” said Houston.

  “Unless we can stop them, they have a supply line, by water, directly from Mexico City,” McQuade said. “A sailing ship can bring hundreds of armed men to Matagorda Bay, and they can march up the Colorado, right into your back door.”

  “My God,” said Houston. “You’re right. They can bring in anything they need. Even cannon.”

  “You need half a dozen men watching Matagorda Bay day and night,” McQuade said. “I realize they need arms, ammunition, and food. The hundred riders you’re sending with us can return here sometime tomorrow night. You should then deploy at least four men to watch for incoming ships, and others to locate Monclova’s camp.”

  “But what are we to do about incoming ships?”

  “We’re going to sink them,” said McQuade, “before they can unload armed men and supplies. We’ll just have to hope that first ship doesn’t arrive before I can get back here with the wagons.”

  “With powder and shot, we can hold our own,” Houston said. “Once we’re decently armed, we’ll stage some attacks of our own.”

  “Try to avoid any conflict until we get here with the wagons,” said McQuade. “Use the powder and shot we’ll send just for defense. Monclova and his bunch are only a drop in the bucket compared to what we’ll face, if Mexico City sends a ship to Matagorda Bay. The moment your riders return with powder, shot, and food we’ll send you, order four men to Matagorda Bay. At first sight of a Mexican sailing ship, they’re to get word to you immediately. We must intercept anything coming from Mexico City. If we can block their supply line, we can starve them out just like they’ve been starving you.”

  “By the Eternal,” said Houston, “that’s their weakness, just as it’s been ours. Holden, Hamilton, Saunders—ride out and bring me fifty of those men on watch. Those of you in this room who are sound of limb, get your saddles and go for your horses. You will be riding north with these gentlemen for powder, shot, food, and medicine.”

  Seizing saddles, whooping their joy, they practically ran over one another getting out the door.

  “We have a couple of quarts of whiskey in our bedrolls,” McQuade said. “We’ll leave that with you for your wounded, and we’ll send more with your returning riders.”

  “It will be a blessing,” said Houston. “The most difficult thing about asking these men to fight is the knowledge that the wounded will most surely die for lack of medicine. With food, powder, shot, medicine, and a doctor, the men will become more confident, and my burdened conscience can take a rest. I’ll see that you have fresh horses.”

  In a remarkably short time, the men had ridden in from sentry duty and had been told of their mission by those Sam Houston had sent forth from the fort. McQuade and Creeker followed Houston outside the fort, where the assigned men stood beside their horses. Quickly, Houston told them what was expected of them, and his voice was lost in their shouting. When they quieted, their eyes were on Creeker and McQuade.

  “Mount up and let’s ride,” said McQuade. “With luck, we can be there by dawn.”

  They rode north, with another four hours of daylight. They rested their horses every hour, and while the men who rode with them were enthusiastic, they talked little. Mostly they kept to themselves, and while resting the horses, Creeker and McQuade could talk.

  “You forgot to ask Houston about using some of these men for a wagon escort,” said Creeker.

  “I didn’t forget,” McQuade replied, “I just thought better of it. We don’t know that Monclova hasn’t been sent more men, and if there’s another attack, Houston will need all the men he has. We can bring the wagons along the way we rode in, and keeping to open country, we should be able to avoid the Comanches.”

  “I hope so,” said Creeker. “Those Indian attacks play hell when they take you totally by surprise. Where outriders are concerned, you might consider allowing women—those who are able and willing—to take the reins. That would free some of the men to ride shotgun, lessening the danger of surprise attacks.”

  “That may well be the solution to reaching the Rio Colorado without any more losses to the Comanches,” said McQuade. “You can use your head and your gun, and that’s what keeps a man alive on the frontier. If circumstances had been different, we could have been working together all the way from St. Louis. Damn Rufus Hook and his stubborn ways.”

  They rode on, and it soon became obvious they would reach the Brazos and the circle of wagons long before daylight. Once, while resting the horses, McQuade had a suggestion for Sam Houston’s men.

  “Gents, by resting the horses often, we’ll reach the wagons sometime after midnight. I’d suggest that all of you sleep until dawn and have breakfast before returning to the Rio Colorado. We can load you up with supplies while you eat, and by pacing yourselves like we’re doing, you can still reach Houston’s fort by sundown tomorrow.”8

  “I’m fer that,” said one of the men. “We been eatin’ so poorly, it’ll take a while fer my belly to git over the shock of honest-to-God grub.”

  There were growls of agreement and some laughter. It was a practical suggestion they could appreciate, for their horses would need rest for the ride back to Houston’s fort. By the stars, McQuade judged it was less than an hour past midnight when they reached the south bank of the Brazos. There he again spoke to the men.

  “Let Creeker and me ride in first. Because of the Comanches, we’ve been posting triple sentries. We’ll alert the men on watch that you’re coming, and one of us will ride back for you.”

  They sat their horses and waited, as McQuade and Creeker crossed the river. Riding as near the circled wagons as they dared, but still out of gun range, McQuade called out a greeting just loud enough for the sentries to hear.

  “Creeker and McQuade riding in. Hold your fire.”

  “Come on,” a voice replied. “This is Will Haymes.”

  Creeker and McQuade dismounted, looping the reins of their horses around a wagon wheel. Climbing through the maze of wagons, they entered the circle. To their amazement, almost everybody was awake, prepared to greet them. Mary ran to McQuade, while Lora wasted no time in getting to Creeker. Questions flew thick and fast, and it was McQuade who spoke.

  “We found Houston’s militia, and they’re in a bad way. He has two hundred men, and we brought a hundred of them back with us. They’ll get what sleep they can, and then have breakfast with us. They’ll be riding back, taking powder, shot, medicine, food, and whiskey for use as medicine. As soon as they’re on their way, we’ll take the trail with the wagons. We’re about eighty-five miles away. If you have more questions, ask Creeker. I’m going out and signal those men to come on across the river. Will, you’ll have to move three wagons, so they can bring their horses into the circle.”

  McQuade left the circle, returning to his horse. Oscar Odell had already unsaddled the horse Creeker had ridden, while Levi Phelps was unsaddling McQuade’s horse.

  “They looked give out,” Oscar said, “and we reckoned you and Creeker was too.”

  “Thanks,” said McQuade. “I’m going to the river and call in Houston’s riders.”

  It wasn’t that long a walk, and McQuade didn’t mind it after so much time spent in the saddle. Reaching the bank of
the Brazos, the starlight allowed him to see the mass of riders across the river.

  “This is McQuade,” he called, just loud enough for them to hear. “The sentries know you’re coming, and we’ve opened a place for you to ride into the wagon circle. Come on.”

  “We’re comin’,” a voice answered.

  McQuade walked on back toward the wagon circle, where Will Haymes had moved the three wagons. Prior to entering the circle, the riders reined up.

  “Go on in and find a place to drop your saddles,” said McQuade. “The wagons will be put back in place, and your horses will be safe from the Comanches. Get what sleep you can, and we’ll have breakfast at first light. You’ll meet all of us then.”

  They entered the circle, dismounted, and began unsaddling their horses. One at a time Will hitched the teams to the displaced wagons, filling the gap in the circle. All sentries had returned to their posts, and everybody else seemed to have gone back to their blankets or bedrolls. Only Mary and Lora were still awake, excited and relieved over the safe return of McQuade and Creeker. But Doctor Puckett had been waiting for Mary and Lora to finish their greeting. He spoke.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps while we’re resting the teams, I’d like to hear all about the Sam Houston Militia. For now, I think you weary travelers need sleep. Creeker, you and Lora can have the wagon. Warm as it’s been, I’m sleeping outside.”

  “Doc,” said McQuade, “I’ve made plans for us to take the trail tomorrow without asking you about those who were wounded the day Ike was killed. Will they be able to travel comfortably?”