“Now,” Will Haymes said, “if that ship will hoist anchor and sail, we can get down to the business of claiming that cargo.”
There was some activity on deck, and it soon became evident that the vessel was preparing to sail. The anchor was raised and slowly the sails were unfurled.
“We saw only three wagons unloaded,” said McQuade, “but there has to be more than that. The ship must have dropped anchor early yesterday morning.”
They watched the ship sail away, and only when it had been swallowed by distance did Houston speak.
“There is no reason why Monclova shouldn’t be moving farther inland. I believe it is time we learned how many of those wagons were unloaded, and whether or not those men riding from Matamoros have arrived. Mr. McQuade, will you choose a man to ride with you, and report to us their activities?”
“Yes,” said McQuade. “Come on, Creeker.”
Slowly they rode toward the river, knowing they must soon dismount and continue on foot. When McQuade estimated they had ridden a mile, he reined up.
“We’d better leave the horses here,” he said.
They dismounted and continued on foot, and they soon heard the rattle of wagons. A thicket offered cover, and they crept closer, until they could see a clear stretch along the river. There were a dozen wagons, and beyond a doubt the reinforcements had arrived, for they rode in a column of fours, stretching back farther than McQuade and Creeker could see. When the caravan had finally passed, McQuade nudged Creeker. They got to their feet and returned to their horses. Their comrades saw them coming, and by the time they had dismounted, they were surrounded.
“The reinforcements are here,” said McQuade, “and there are twelve wagons.”
“Then we need only wait for dark,” Houston said. “Then we can find their camp and lay our plans accordingly.”
“After they settle down somewhere,” said McQuade, “we’ll need some daylight to plan an ambush. We must choose a location where there is cover for us, and little or none for them. Most important, our trap must be near enough so that they don’t give up chasing us before we lure them into it.”
“You speak with the voice of experience,” Houston replied. “I’d consider it a favor if you will choose the place for the ambush. It will be you and the men riding with you who will be in the most danger. Therefore, you should lay the ambush as near as possible to the Mexican camp. Allow us to take up the fight.”
“We must have good cover for the ambush,” said McQuade, “regardless of how far we must ride to lure them into it. The greatest risk for us will be at the time of our attack. Once they’re in pursuit of us, shooting from the back of a running horse, we won’t be in that much danger.”
“We’re likely to be a while settin’ up this ambush,” said Summerfield. “I can see the need for some daylight in choosin’ a place with cover, but this bunch could just ramble on, havin’ a new camp ever’ night.”
“Maybe,” McQuade said, “but I don’t think so. They have enough men and supplies to justify a permanent camp. If they don’t set up one today, they will tomorrow.”
“There’s little we can do, then,” said Houston, “until we know they’ve established permanent camp. You are aware of where Monclova’s old camp was?”
“Yes,” McQuade said, “and if that’s their destination, they should reach it sometime the day after tomorrow. After dark, Creeker and me will look in on their camp, but we’re still a day away from our ambush, I think.”
Being downwind from their adversaries, it was safe to have a supper fire. Houston ordered the fire doused well before dark. McQuade and Creeker rode upstream, believing a light west wind would bring them sounds from Monclova’s camp before they rode into it. A distinctive smell of wood smoke was sufficient warning, and they dismounted.
“We’ll continue on foot,” said McQuade. “I doubt this will be more than an overnight camp, but we must be sure.”
They crept close enough to see, and there was no look of permanence. The river bank was much too high, even to water the horses, and the animals would have to be led to and from water. There also was too much cover for potential enemies. McQuade and Creeker returned to their horses and rode downriver, reporting to Houston what they had seen.
Houston sighed. “Then we’ll just have to wait. I can’t imagine why they chose such a place for a camp, even overnight.”
“Monclova’s feelin’ his oats,” said McQuade, “and on the frontier, over-confidence can become fatal.”
“Well, hell,” Elgin Summerfield said, “if there’s plenty of cover, we could surround the varmints in the dark and cut ’em down.”
“We could try,” said McQuade, “but after the first volley they’d be shooting at our muzzle flashes, and some of us would be cut down. More than half of them would escape, and there would be a running battle for God knows how long. The only sensible way is for us to do exactly what we’ve planned to do. What you’re proposing is too much a military maneuver, where they expect to lose some men. I don’t expect to lose any. If all of you will stick to our plans, we’ll come out of this alive.”
It was a telling argument, and McQuade could see acceptance in their eyes. Impatient though they were, he was talking sense, and they knew it.
Houston again ordered a breakfast fire, and they took their time, eating leisurely. The Mexican forces—if they were bound for Monclova’s original camp—would reach their destination sometime in the early afternoon. McQuade was hunkered down, enjoying a last cup of coffee, when Houston joined him.
“The rest of us will remain here,” said Houston, “while you and Creeker ride ahead. I see no reason for all of us advancing, until we’re ready to lay an ambush and launch our dawn attack.”
“That’s wise,” McQuade replied. “If they do reach Monclova’s old camp, and we’re sure they intend to remain there, I think we’ll have a look at the country to the south of the river. We’ll begin looking for a likely place to spring the ambush.”
“I can see the need for luring them south,” said Houston, “with them strung out along the river. That means your attack will have to come from up- or downriver, unless you intend to attack from across the river.”
“Creeker and me will split our forces,” McQuade said, “and we’ll hit them from east and west. We’ll fan out in a line, gun down as many as we can, and then swing south. We won’t actually enter their camp. When we’re beyond it, we’ll come together and ride a slow gallop toward the ambush, where you and the rest of our forces will be waiting.”
“A brilliant maneuver,” said Houston. “I’m feeling better about this all the time. Just keep far enough ahead of them so they can’t reach you from behind.”
“We will,” McQuade replied, “but we don’t want to lose them. Once we know they’re coming, with the intention of following us into the canyon, we’ll ride like hell toward the box end. There we’ll dismount, and those who survive the ambush will have to face us.”
McQuade and Creeker waited until noon before they rode out, allowing Monclova’s forces time to reach the old camp, if that was their destination. They followed the river, for again the light west wind was in their faces. There would be ample warning before they were near enough to risk discovery. Again campfire smoke alerted them, and they reined up.
“On foot from here,” said McQuade.
The camp was situated in a long clearing along the river, with virtually no cover for potential enemies, so McQuade and Creeker had to circle to the south. Their eventual view of the camp, however, told them what they needed to know.
“It’s near noon,” McQuade observed, “and there’s a coffee pot hung over a cook fire.”
“Yeah,” said Creeker, “and there’s two tents next to the river.”
Teams had been unhitched from the wagons, and horses grazed nearby. Men relaxed, heads on their saddles, tall-crowned, wide-brimmed sombreros tipped over their eyes.
“Let’s get back to our horses,” McQuade said. “It’
s time to find a place to arrange our ambush.”
Well out of sight of the river, they rode south, and not more than two miles distant, they found exactly what McQuade was looking for. The canyon began shallow, growing wider and deeper. There was a seep, allowing for lush vegetation and a strung-out stand of willows. Along the length of the canyon there was enough cover to hide an army, and at the farthest end, a wall twenty feet high.
“This ambush had better work,” said Creeker, “or we’re gonna be a flock of dead peckerwoods, when we run headlong into this box end. Are you gonna tell the others of this, before we ride?”
“Yes,” McQuade replied. “I won’t ask a man to gamble, without telling him what the odds are.”
Reaching Houston’s camp, they dismounted.
“They’ve dug in at Monclova’s old camp,” said McQuade, “and we’re ready to attack tomorrow at dawn. We went ahead and found a place for the ambush.”
With some help from Creeker, McQuade told them of the box canyon, of the risk.
“This attack may be even more dangerous than we thought,” said Houston.
“It could be, if anything goes wrong with the ambush,” McQuade admitted. “For that reason, I’m not holding any of you to your commitment, if you don’t like the looks of it. Just remember, if you ride with me, our lives will be in the hands of these men led by Mr. Houston. If you have doubts, I won’t think unkindly of you if you speak up. Silence honors your commitment.”
Not a man spoke.
“It’s settled, then,” said McQuade. “We’ll ride to the canyon tomorrow morning, well before first light. Those of you who will man the ambush will have to take your horses to the nearest cover, returning to the canyon on foot. Are there any questions?”
Again there was silence, and McQuade sighed with satisfaction. They now had only to wait for the dawn, and whatever destiny held in store.
Reaching the shallow end of the canyon, McQuade and Creeker reined up. Houston and the hundred and fifty men who would wait in ambush veered away, toward the south. They would conceal their horses, returning to the canyon afoot. They had been gone not more than a quarter of an hour, when they returned, moving quietly through the predawn darkness.
“Good luck,” said Houston quietly, as he led his men into the canyon.
McQuade waited another quarter hour before lifting his hand as a signal to ride. The riders divided, half of them going with Creeker, the others with McQuade. Creeker and his force rode eastward, while McQuade’s men rode west. They would sweep in along the river bank, attacking the camp from two sides. Beyond it, they would then come together, riding toward the canyon and the deadly ambush. Reaching their position to the west, McQuade’s men fanned out in a skirmish line, awaiting a signal from Creeker. And Creeker wasted no time. There was a fearful screech that would have made a Comanche envious, and before it died away, the rattle of gunfire. McQuade and his men thundered in from the west, their revolvers roaring. Men shouted and cursed, firing a few retaliatory shots, but the surprise was total. Twenty, thirty, forty men were down, dead or dying.
“Sangre de Cristo, Miguel Monclova bawled,”to your horses! Kill them!”
With no time for saddles, the defenders leaped on their horses and galloped in pursuit of the attackers. As McQuade had instructed, his men slowed their mounts almost to a walk, allowing Monclova’s defenders to gain on them. Monclova himself, seizing a rifle, ran to a horse, mounted, and galloped madly after his soldiers. Reaching the shallow end of the canyon, McQuade and his followers kicked their horses into a fast gallop. Reaching the box end of the canyon, they swung out of their saddles and sought cover, preparing to fight for their lives. Houston and his men waited as long as they dared, until the vengeful riders were all within gun range.
“Fire!” Houston shouted.
There was a thunder of guns that sounded like a single shot, echoed many times. One of the first to die was Monclova himself, and seeing their leader fall, his men had only one thought, and that was to save themselves. But the jaws of the ambush had closed on them, and there was no retreat. They galloped on, only to run headlong into a wall of lead from McQuade and his men. When it finally ended, the silence seemed all the more profound, as Houston’s forces came together.
“Anybody hit?” McQuade asked of his men.
There was only silence, and McQuade could hear Houston asking the same question. Again there was only silence, but only for a moment. Men shouted, waving their hats, and above it all came the bull voice of Sam Houston.
“God be praised, it is a miracle.”
“It’s all of that, and then some,” Doctor Puckett observed. “We wiped them out, and we didn’t lose a man.”
“No,” said McQuade, “we didn’t wipe them out. Some escaped, but I doubt they’ll stop short of Matamoros. We won this time, but it’s only the start of something bigger than all of us.”
“I’m goin’ to take some men and round up some extra horses,” Creeker said. “We’ll be needin’ them to haul our wagonloads of supplies back to the fort.”
“By God,” said Elgin Summerfield, “after all that work makin’ black-powder bombs, we didn’t use a one. Mine’s still in my saddlebag.”
“There’ll be need for them later on,” McQuade said. “Our victory couldn’t have been more complete.”
Triumphant, they returned to Houston’s fort. Texans all, Santa Anna’s soldiers referred to them as los Diablos Tejanos, the Texas Devils. In a fight that Sam Houston led to the finish, they saw the Stars and Stripes raised as Texas achieved statehood, and when the dust finally settled over the bloody plains of south Texas, they claimed their land grants along the Rio Colorado …
EPILOGUE
The Texas Colony, founded in 1822 by Stephen Austin, fell on hard times after Steve Austin’s death in 1836. After the bloody disaster at the Alamo in 1836, and the victorious retaliation by Texans at San Jacinto, Mexican-American relations went from bad to worse.
Samuel Houston was born in Rockbridge County, Virginia, on March 2, 1793. After distinguished service in the United States Army, Houston resigned in 1818 to study law. He opened a law office in Lebanon, Tennessee, and in the years to follow, he served in a variety of elected offices, including two terms in Congress and as governor of the state of Tennessee. Houston made his first trip to Texas in 1832, to report on Indian affairs to his old friend, Andrew Jackson. While he was in Texas largely as an Indian agent, Houston was caught up in the rising storm of opposition to Mexico. As the threat of conflict grew stronger, Houston—with a commanding presence and an ability to raise confidence and enthusiasm—quickly rose to prominence.
In the years that followed, Sam Houston twice served as governor of the Republic of Texas. On February 19, 1846, the Lone Star flag of the Republic of Texas was lowered for the last time, and in its place flew the stars and stripes. On February 21, the Texas Legislature elected Sam Houston to the United States Senate, where he represented Texas for fourteen years. Houston was inaugurated governor of Texas on December 21, 1859, but in 1861—opposing secession—he was forced out of office.
Between 1833 and 1855, Santa Anna became dictator of Mexico three different times.
Brilliant blue shards of lightning rippled across the rain-swept sky. There was a resounding crack as a bolt struck a tree somewhere close, and the smell of brimstone was strong. Thunder had become continuous, each rising crescendo sounding like an echo of the last.
There was nothing they could do except wait. Then, when the storm seemed to reach the very peak of its fury, lightning struck in their midst. The concussion was so severe that it robbed McQuade of his hearing for a few seconds, but his horrified eyes saw one of the wagons disappear in a blinding flash. There was the quick smell of brimstone, of burning flesh. Then his hearing returned. A woman screamed. McQuade was out of his wagon, running …
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Ralph Compton
The Trail Drive Series
THE GOODNIGHT TRAIL
&
nbsp; THE WESTERN TRAIL
THE CHISHOLM TRAIL
THE BANDERA TRAIL
THE CALIFORNIA TRAIL
THE SHAWNEE TRAIL
THE VIRGINIA CITY TRAIL
THE DODGE CITY TRAIL
THE OREGON TRAIL
The Sundown Riders Series
NORTH TO THE BITTERROOT
ACROSS THE RIO COLORADO
Notes
1 Texas was admitted to the Union in 1845.
2 The “’possum belly” or “cooney” was slung beneath the wagon to carry dry firewood.
3 Springfield, Missouri was founded in 1835.
4 Malaria is an infectious febrile disease now known to be transmitted by the anopheles mosquito.
5 The town, originally named Waterloo, was founded in 1838. The name was changed to honor Stephen Austin, Father of Texas. Austin became the state capital in 1850.
6 In the vicinity of the present-day cities of Fort Worth and Dallas.
7 Lake Buchanan, near the present-day town of Lampasas, Texas.
8 A good horse, rested often, can cover as much as five miles in half an hour, over flat ground and lesser slopes. A slow gallop doesn’t tire a horse as quickly.
Trail map design by L. A. Hensley.
Copyright © 1997 by Ralph Compton.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ACROSS THE RIO COLORADO
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Across the Rio Colorado Page 33
