Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “My God,” said the storekeeper, “you’d better ride out and keep goin’. Even then, they might ride you down.”

  “You know them, I reckon?” McQuade said.

  “Only when I see them,” the man said cautiously. “They ride out of the Territory ever so often, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” said McQuade. “Mary, you and your father go ahead and round up what you need. I’ll wait for you.”

  McQuade turned back toward the door. Men had been drawn by the shot, arriving in time to see the dead man carried out. Some, including the Peytons and Warnells, were from McQuade’s camp.

  “There’s more of ’em in the saloon,” Ike said. “I reckon we’d best light a shuck away from here.”

  “Come on in and get what you came after,” said McQuade. “The fat’s already in the fire, and if we have to fight, I’d as soon do it here. Otherwise, they’re likely to follow and shoot some of us in the back.”

  Ike and Maggie entered the store, followed by a dozen others from the wagon train. McQuade lingered near the front door, where he could see through a front window. Before anybody was ready to leave the mercantile, McQuade saw the five men he had driven away enter the saloon. Within a few minutes they emerged, hunkering near the door and lighting cigarettes. McQuade had seen their kind before, and he thought he knew what was coming. From his pocket he took an oilskin pouch, and removing a load, shoved it into the empty chamber in his revolver. Eventually, when the emigrants were ready to leave the store, McQuade stepped out ahead of them. The five waiting men stood up, hooking their thumbs in their pistol belts.

  “My God,” said Ike Peyton, “we got a fight on our hands.”

  “No,” McQuade said, “they’re after me.”

  “Not five agin one,” said Ike. “You got Gunter, Eli, Cal, and me here to side you. If all five of ‘em draw on you, they’ll be drawin’ agin us, too.”

  “We’ll see how it stacks up,” McQuade said. “This is my fight.”

  “Is there no other way?” Mary Flanagan asked anxiously.

  “None that I know of,” said McQuade.

  McQuade walked toward the waiting men, and when he was within pistol range, he halted. When he spoke, he seemed totally relaxed.

  “You started somethin’ in the store, and I finished it. I shot your friend only after he drew first, and there’s no sense in any more of you dying for his mistake.”

  “It was you made the mistake, shootin’ him,” said the man who had seized Mary. “He was my brother, an’ there ain’t nothin’ you can say to change that. It’s you an’ me, damn you.”

  “You’d best keep it that way,” Ike Peyton shouted. “There’s five of us, and we’ll kill any one or all four of your friends, if they don’t stay out of it.”

  The four of them took Ike seriously, backing away and out of the line of fire. Chance McQuade remained where he was. Flanagan had his arm around Mary, and she stood there white-faced and trembling. A crow cawed nearby, and the man facing McQuade spoke.

  “When that crow sings again, I aim to kill you.”

  McQuade said nothing, and in the minds of McQuade’s companions, it seemed that a deadly clock was ticking off the remaining seconds of a man’s life. McQuade stood with his left hip swiveled toward his adversary, his pistol butt-forward for a cross-hand draw. To those who watched, it seemed incredibly awkward Suddenly the crow cawed again, and the gunman facing McQuade drew. He was fast—unbelievably fast—but McQuade was faster. None of them saw his hand move, but suddenly his pistol was spitting lead. His adversary blasted a single shot into the ground, and then McQuade’s slugs slammed into him. Like an empty sack he folded, striking the ground on his back. A playful wind from the approaching storm snatched his hat and blew it away. The remaining gunmen stared at McQuade, not believing their eyes. He had fired twice, and he stood there with his gun leveled until the four turned away. Only then did McQuade walk back to the store where his friends waited. The men were white-faced and silent, while Mary Flanagan was weeping.

  “We’d better be gettin’ back,” McQuade said. “That storm won’t hold off more than a few hours.”

  McQuade helped them load their purchases, and then helped Mary up to the wagon box. The rest of the men helped their women up, then mounted their boxes and turned their teams back the way they had come. McQuade rode alongside the Flanagan wagon. The men from the saloon seemed to have all come out to witness the departure of the wagons.

  “Damn,” said one of the outlaws, “I never seen any hombre pull a gun that quick.”

  “There’s a cure for his kind,” another of the outlaws said. “Shoot the varmint in the back, and he’ll bleed just like anybody else.”

  “Time enough for that, when they git to the Territory,” said a third outlaw. “Maybe they ain’t rich, but they got money to come here an’ buy. Farmers, an’ I’m bettin’ they’ve sold ever’thing they had. They’s got to be money in some of them wagons.”

  McQuade and his companions reached their camp, and while McQuade issued no warnings, the men who had witnessed the gunfight and knew the cause of it, quickly spread the word to those who hadn’t yet gone to the village. Well before dark, the rain began, and only because most of the families had brought extra canvas for shelter were they able to cook and eat their evening meal out of the rain. The wind was chill, and only because the back of the Flanagan wagon was facing the storm were McQuade and Mary able to remain dry, as they spent their usual evening on the wagon box. There was some lightning, none of it striking, and the night was peaceful enough. Mary had said little, and McQuade had an idea her mind was on the trouble that had taken place in town. She confirmed all his suspicions when she finally spoke.

  “If you had been killed, I don’t know what I’d have done. I think perhaps I would have died too.”

  “Do I mean that much to you?” he asked, speaking lightly.

  “Yes,” she replied, dead serious. “I was hoping that … perhaps you care for me. But if you do, how could you have taken such a risk?”

  He was struck dumb, for a reprimand was the last thing he had ever expected. For a moment he said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. When he finally did, he struggled mightily to control his temper.

  “Mary, this is the frontier. A man does what he has to do. Would you have had me stand there in the store and see you carried away by renegades?”

  “No,” she replied without hesitation, “but after that, why couldn’t you have simply refused to fight?”

  “Because, damn it, I would have been branded a coward, and I wouldn’t have lived out the rest of this year. You’d have hated me, like everybody else.”

  “But I want you alive,” she persisted. “Is that so wrong?”

  “Up to a point, no,” said McQuade. “I don’t enjoy killing a man, but when it’s him or me, what kind of choice do I have? If I’d backed down after I’d been called out, there’s a good chance none of us would have left there alive. Is that so difficult to understand?”

  “No,” she said, “but it’s difficult to accept. How can you be so … gentle with me, and then before my eyes, become a … a …”

  “Killer,” said McQuade.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” she almost whispered, “but I suppose it’s what … what I mean.”

  “Mary Flanagan,” said McQuade, “you mean a lot to me, but I don’t aim to spend all my time with you apologizin’ for what I am. I reckon you need to spend some time alone, thinkin’ about what happened today and what might have happened if I’d backed down. Then I want you to think about what we’ve talked about tonight. If there comes a time when you can accept me for what I am, for doing what I must do, then I’ll have somethin’ to ask you. Until then—because I don’t want to hurt you—I’ll stay away.”

  He stepped down from the wagon box and vanished into the rain-swept darkness. The Peytons peered through the canvas pucker of their wagon, and it was Ike who spoke.

  “I reck
on they had words. My God, what does the woman expect? He kilt two men because of her.”

  “Ike Peyton,” said Maggie, “you’ll never understand women, if you live to a hundred. She wants him, but she’s afraid of losing him in some senseless gunfight. It’s the fear of every woman, that she’ll give herself to a man, and he’ll get his fool self killed.”

  “Maybe I don’t understand women,” Ike said, “but I understand men, and until that little Flanagan gal knows at least as much as I do, she won’t be sharin’ McQuade’s bed, and it’ll be his choice. If he hadn’t stood up to that shootout, they might have gunned us all down. By God, Chance McQuade’s a man with the bark on, and Mary Flanagan’s a fool if she throws him down. Why don’t you talk to that woman, before McQuade washes his hands of her?”

  “Maybe I will,” said Maggie.

  The rain continued all night and most of the next day, and when the skies finally were clear, it was too late for the sun to suck up any of the moisture. Even where they sat, some of the wagons had mired down.

  “I think we’ll be spending one more day here,” McQuade said. “It’ll take some time for this mud to dry up. There’s no point in leaving here, only to get bogged down a mile or two along the way. Here, there’s plenty of water.”

  “Hell, there’s plenty of water everywhere,” said Hardy Kilgore. “Just a little muddy, I reckon.”

  “I don’t like the thought of laying over another day,” Gunter Warnell said. “We’re too close to town and that bunch at the saloon.”

  “It won’t make any difference whether we’re here or fifty miles south,” said McQuade, “because those outlaws ride in and out of Indian Territory. When they decide to come after us, they’ll find us.”

  “You think they’ll come, then,” Warnell said.

  “Yes,” said McQuade, “and they’ll wait until we’re deep enough into the Territory, so there’ll be no witnesses.”

  McQuade was aware that Mary Flanagan had heard his exchange with Warnell, and she quickly turned away, before McQuade’s eyes could meet hers. There was little to do, as they waited for a day of sun to dry up enough of the mud for them to continue. Despite all the trouble that had resulted directly from Hook’s tent saloon, some of the single men from McQuade’s train continued to go there. This included the Burkes, for Matthew and Luke were well enough to be up and about, and they made no secret of their visits to the Hook saloon. Miles Flanagan spoke of it to McQuade.

  “Let them go,” said McQuade. “The next time they get in trouble, they’re on their own. They’ve been warned.”

  Indian Territory. May 16, 1837.

  McQuade circled the wagons on the east bank of the Neosho River, estimating they were a little more than five hundred miles from their destination. Rufus Hook’s wagons were upstream, within sight of McQuade’s camp. During supper, Mary Flanagan surprised McQuade, when she spoke to him.

  “I must talk to you tonight.”

  McQuade nodded. Everybody seemed to know they had been on the outs. Some of the other women observed Mary’s action and smiled knowingly. As soon as the first watch, including Miles Flanagan, took its positions, the area around the Flanagan wagon became deserted.

  “My God,” said Ike Peyton, “when a bunch of females gang up on a man, he purely ain’t got a prayer.”

  “We haven’t ganged up on McQuade,” Maggie said. “We’ve done the man more of a favor than he’ll ever know.”

  When McQuade reached the wagon, he mounted the box without a word. Since Mary had invited him, he would allow her to set the tone of their meeting. She wasted no time.

  “I’ve been miserable since I … since you … stopped talking to me, and I want you to know I’m sorry for what I said.”

  “You told me what you believed,” McQuade replied. “You’re a grown woman, and you are entitled to your opinion.”

  “That’s all it was,” she said, “and I was being selfish. I realize that, now.”

  “So now you won’t hold it against me if I get myself shot dead.”

  “Not if it’s something you must do,” she said. “Please, you must understand that I’ve had no experience with men. All I could see was … you lying there dead, leaving me alone.”

  “I can’t promise you that won’t happen someday,” said McQuade.

  “I don’t expect such a promise,” she said. “I’ve never had anything that lasted, and I wanted us … to be different.”

  “Mary,” said McQuade, “I’m thirty-two years old, and I wouldn’t have lived this long, if I wasn’t careful. If I became anything less than what I am, you’d end up hating me, and I’d hate myself. All a man can do is play out the hand he’s been dealt, and I don’t know as he’s got the right to ask a woman to share that.”

  “A woman takes a man for better or worse. I allowed my own selfishness to stand in the way of that, and I have two things to tell you. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  “Mary,” said McQuade, “this is the frontier. We may have a lot of time, or we may only have tomorrow. In either case, let’s not waste any of it, hassling over the right and the wrong of things. If you’ll have me, once we get to Texas, I’m asking you to share my life. What there is left of it.”

  “I’m accepting, Chance McQuade. If we have a day, a year, or ten years, let us make the most of it.”

  They made their peace in silence, two shadows coming together on the wagon box in the stillness of the night.

  McQuade rode out ahead of the wagons, as they began their journey through the wilds of Indian Territory. Strong on his mind was the advice of Chad Guthrie, warning him of the importance of scouting ahead. Almost immediately after crossing the Neosho River, he discovered the tracks of many shod horses. They had crossed the river somewhere to the north, following the storm, for the tracks were plain. He followed the tracks, expecting them to veer to the southwest, which they soon did. McQuade sighed, having no doubt it was the same bothersome outlaws, and they now had a grudge against Chance McQuade. He rode on, having little choice, knowing he had practically no defense against an ambush. Even as he followed their tracks, having doubled back, they could be lying in wait for him. But he saw nobody, and eventually he reached the stream where the outlaws had spent the night. It would be suitable for the wagons at the end of the day, but instead of immediately riding back, he continued to follow the trail. When the renegades had ridden away, they hadn’t deviated from their southwesterly direction. McQuade reined up and rode back to meet the wagons, his mind on the men ahead. From the tracks he had learned two things: apparently they intended to remain just ahead of the wagons, and their number had grown after he had killed two of them. Both factors were disturbing, for he now had every reason to believe that—whatever their original motive had been—they were concerned now with vengeance. Reaching the wagons, McQuade said nothing about the tracks, and his suspicions of what lay ahead. There was a possibility, however slim, that within the next several days the outlaws would change direction, making his fears groundless. But there was no hiding the numerous tracks, and long before reaching the creek where they would circle the wagons for the night, the men in the lead wagons—Ike Peyton and Gunter Warnell—realized there was something McQuade hadn’t told them. They wasted no time in questioning him.

  “I followed them a ways, beyond here,” McQuade admitted, “and I’m hoping this may be just a coincidence, that they’ll continue on.”

  “You’ve killed two of their number,” said Warnell. “It seems more likely to me that they’re planning to wait until we’re deep into Indian Territory, and then shoot you.”

  “I’m considering that,” McQuade said, “but it’s a problem I’ve created for myself. I’ve no right to alarm everybody in the outfit, when we’re just dealing with suspicions.”

  “Chance,” said Ike Peyton, “you’re too damn generous for your own good. If these men are planning to kill you, it’s of concern to every one of us. What you done was in our behalf, and it’s unfair, you shoulderin’
all the blame.”

  “Ike,” McQuade replied, “I appreciate your concern, but there’s nothing any of you can do. You remember what Chad Guthrie told us about scouting ahead. We must know who or what is lying in wait for us.”

  “Then you take the reins to one of the wagons, and let one of us scout ahead. Surely these varmints won’t shoot one of us, just because they got a mad on for you.”

  “I’m obliged for the offer, Ike,” said McQuade, “but from a distance, one man may look like another. Besides, a man alone is vulnerable. If they’re vengeance-minded, any one of us might be gunned down.”

  So McQuade continued scouting ahead, taking all the precautions he could, but on the morning of their fourth day in Indian Territory, the renegades came after him. The tracks he had been following continued on, but he rode wide of them half a mile or more, north or south. They still might lay an ambush for him, but he wouldn’t make it easy for them. The water he chose for day’s end was roughly twelve miles ahead of the wagons, and prior to riding back to meet them, McQuade had watered his horse and was himself bellied-down for a drink. The stillness of the morning was suddenly shattered by a gunshot, and the lead slammed into the creek bank, just inches from McQuade’s head. He rolled away as more lead plowed into the bank where he had been lying, and as slugs screamed after him, he ran for his horse. They were after him with long guns, and one slug from a Sharps .50 could cut a man in half. But reloading time and a galloping horse made use of the Sharps near impossible, and once he was in the saddle, they would be forced to pursue him with revolvers. Mounting on the run, he kicked the bay into a fast gallop back the way he had come. As he had expected, the long guns became silent. That meant they were coming, with the intention of riding him down. When he eventually reached a clearing, he looked back and saw them. Fanning out in a rough horseshoe formation, their intentions were to flank him, and with lead coming from three directions, they could scarcely miss. He had but one chance, and that was to outride them, but the distance was too great. Long before he reached the oncoming wagons, the bay would be lathered and heaving. But the valiant horse never had a chance. It screamed when the first slug struck it, and he felt it falter as it broke stride. The pursuing riders were within range and gaining, and lead whined around McQuade like angry bees. He was hit in the back, above his pistol belt, and again, high up, in his left shoulder. The hoofbeats of the faltering horse were as a ticking clock, for time was fast running out. He could only take cover, holding out as long as his ammunition lasted …