Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “Hell, after that, it’s the Comanches,” said Eli Bibb.

  “One thing at a time,” McQuade said.

  The first stars were out as McQuade and Mary made their way to the wagon.

  “You’d better get some sleep, if you’re going on watch at midnight,” said Mary.

  “I aim to keep you awake until I go on watch,” McQuade said.

  “You’re going to take off more than just your hat, then.”

  “Considerably more,” said McQuade.

  CHAPTER 7

  At first light, Creeker and his nine companions rode out, unsure as to where to start searching for their lost mounts.

  “We’ll ride a five-mile circle,” said Creeker, “lookin’ for shod tracks. Any one of you findin’ tracks, foller ’em. Somewhere these damn Indians had to come together. From there we ought to have some kind of trail leadin’ us to their camp.”

  The stock had stampeded toward the east, and it soon became apparent that the Kiowa had been driving the horses. While the mules had slowed and fanned out, the horses had continued considerably farther than spooked animals would have run on their own. Finally the horses had been allowed to scatter, with the intention of discouraging pursuit.

  “Each of us will track one horse,” said Creeker, “but we don’t know that bunch didn’t take a roundabout way, so one of us could reach that camp ahead of the others. Watch what you’re doin’, and don’t stumble into the midst of em.”

  They separated, and within a mile, Creeker realized they had done the right thing, for he found a set of unshod tracks pursuing the shod ones. Both horses had slowed from a gallop, to a trot, to a walk. Creeker followed the tracks eastward for half a dozen miles, reining up on a rise, aware that he might be approaching the camp. Suddenly there was the bray of a mule, and Creeker’s animal answered. Creeker dismounted, and taking his rifle, crept to the top of the rise. Below him were Groat, Porto, Dirk, and Nall. Besides the mules they rode, there were the five missing animals needed to draw the wagons. Leading his mule, Creeker descended the rise.

  “Reckon what these varmints are worth to Rufus Hook?” Nall asked. “By God, way he talked to us, we oughta hold ’em for ransom.”

  “Never mind them,” said Creeker. “Did the trails you were followin’ lead here?”

  “Yeah,” Nall replied. “We reckoned the others would, too, so we waited. Looks like them Indians all left here together.”

  They waited less than an hour for their five companions. There being a spring, they watered their mules and took the trail of the Indians and their stolen horses.

  “They ain’t but one thing botherin’ me,” said Dirk. “When we find that Indian camp, how do we go about gettin’ our horses without bein’ shot full of arrows?”

  “It depends on how many Indians are in that camp,” Creeker replied. “If there’s just a few, maybe we can ambush the varmints. If there’s a hundred, we’ll have to come up with somethin’ else.”

  “Let’s do them like they done us,” said Rucker, “and stampede all the horses. Then all we got to do is round ’em up.”

  “Damn, Rucker, why don’t we just ride in and ask for ’em back?” Groat suggested.

  Slack laughed. “Groat’s right. Them Indians ain’t gonna be settin’ there shaking in their teepees, while we gather up our horses.”

  “Shut up, the lot of you,” said Creeker. “They’ll hear us comin’, five miles off.”

  The trail they were following had begun to veer toward the northwest. Half a mile to the north, an Indian observed them, while his companion had taken a similar position less than a mile to the south. As though by prearranged signal, each Kiowa mounted his horse and galloped away to the northwest. The Kiowa camp boasted more than fifty warriors, and they came alive as their sentries rode in. Within minutes, they were mounted and riding toward the southeast. Eventually they divided, half of them continuing toward the southeast, while the rest rode toward the northeast.

  “I got the feelin’ we’re almighty close to them Indians,” said Ellis. “Maybe one of us ought to ride ahead …”

  His voice trailed off, as a ridge to their right suddenly blossomed with hard-riding, screeching Indians.

  “Take cover!” Creeker shouted.

  Wheeling their mules toward the south, preparing to ride for their lives, they reined up, for coming at them was an equal force of whooping Indians. The mules spooked, and in the mass confusion that followed, not a shot was fired. Men were clubbed from their saddles, and when they came to their senses, they were mounted, with their feet bound and their hands tied behind them with rawhide thongs. They were alive, but nothing more. Each had a bloodied head and had been relieved of his weapons. Each mule was secured by a lead rope, an Indian riding behind, and the captives looked at one another in hopeless despair. They were riding toward the northwest, toward the Kiowa camp, and not a man of them had any doubt as to what would become of them there …

  Chance McQuade had ridden out ahead of the wagons, and as was his custom, he took cover in a thicket, when he stopped to rest his horse. It was from there that he saw the Kiowa and their captives crossing his trail, half a mile ahead.

  “Well, by God, horse,” said McQuade, “some of Hook’s bunch has got their tails caught in an almighty deep crack.”

  McQuade waited until the procession was out of sight. He then rode on until he found suitable water a little more than five miles ahead. After resting and watering his horse, he returned the way he had come. Reaching the point where the Kiowa had crossed with their hapless captives, McQuade reined up. Common sense told him it was none of his business what became of Hook’s men, but compassion won out. He rode cautiously the way the Kiowa had gone. Obviously, the Indians had satisfied themselves their captives had been alone, and they had no fear of pursuit. Fortunately, McQuade was downwind from the camp, and long before reaching it, he smelled wood smoke. A dog barked nearby, and he reined up. It was time to leave his horse, lest it nicker and betray his presence. Carefully, quietly, he crept forward until he reached a slight rise. From the crest of it, he could see at least part of the camp below. He counted a dozen teepees, and he wasn’t able to see them all, because of trees and obscuring brush. But he could see enough to cause his blood to run cold, for the Kiowa were placing a line of wooden stakes in the ground. McQuade counted ten, equaling the number of captives. After the evening meal, after some satisfying torture, the ten captives would be burned at the stake. McQuade had seen enough. Quickly he returned to his horse, mounted, and rode away. When he met the wagons, he judged they would reach water well before dark. He waited until the teams were being rested, to tell his companions of the capture of Hook’s men and their probable fate.

  “If it was anybody else,” Will Haymes said, “I’d be all for going to their rescue, but I ain’t forgot the nasty way Hook treated us, while you was laid up, near dead.”

  “That was Hook’s doing,” said McQuade. “These men haven’t done anything to us, and for our sake as much as theirs, we can’t allow them to be murdered. If the Kiowa manage to get by with this, they’ll believe their medicine is almighty strong, and they’ll give us hell from now on.”

  “I reckon I understand your thinkin’,” Ike said, “but I don’t favor gettin’ some of us shot full of arrows, savin’ Hook’s bunch. With that many Kiowa, how do you aim to get us into that camp and get them captives out?”

  “We’ll create a diversion, takin’ their minds off the captives,” said McQuade. “Nothin’ is more important to an Indian than his horse. We can ride in just after dark. Some of us will stampede their horses, and that should rid the camp of most of them. We’ll assign men to shoot any who try to prevent us from completing the rescue. Ten men, each leading an extra horse, will free the captives.”

  “There ought to be at least sixty of us,” said Cal Tabor. “With ten men going after the captives, that would allow twenty-five to stampede the horses, and an equal number to shoot any Indians that decide to stand and
fight.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of men, just to stampede the horses,” Hardy Kilgore said.

  “I don’t want them just stampeded out of the camp,” said McQuade. “I want them run far enough to keep those Indians afoot for two or three days. The longer they’re without horses, the less likely they are to come after us with revenge on their minds. We’ll kill as many Kiowa as we must, and no more. I want only to free those men, and to convince the Kiowa that we’re bad medicine. That’s how I feel. Do any of you object?”

  “I do,” said Andrew Burke. “Us Burkes wouldn’t carry a drop of water to Hook to save his soul from hell. And that goes for anybody that’s cozied up to him.”

  “You Burkes are out of it, then,” McQuade said. “Anybody else?”

  “Yeah,” said Trent Putnam. “Leave me out of it.”

  Quickly, a dozen others—single men—refused to participate. They were looked upon with contempt by other men, but McQuade said nothing to them. Instead, he spoke to the majority.

  “We have more than enough men. I’ll be leading the party, and I’ll start by asking for volunteers. Fifty-nine of you. Stand over here beside me, if you’re willing to ride with me tonight.”

  Quickly they stepped forward, many disappointed because they hadn’t moved quickly enough. McQuade spoke to them.

  “We can’t all go, but I’m thanking each of you who offered. I won’t forget. Those of you who are left behind, I’ll feel better with you here to defend the camp.”

  Though McQuade’s voice was calm, it was a deliberate slap at those who had rebuked him, and they all eyed him in sullen disfavor. Several hours of daylight remained, and the women started supper so the men would have time to eat before riding out. When the men had eaten, McQuade walked back to the wagon with Mary.

  “You will be careful, won’t you?” she asked.

  “Not me,” said McQuade, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s always been my ambition to be shot full of Kiowa arrows.”

  “That’s one habit of yours I don’t like,” she said. “You’re always laughing at death.”

  “Sooner or later, he comes for us all,” said McQuade. “Crying won’t keep him away.”

  She said nothing, looking away from him, biting her lip. Immediately he was sorry, and sought to make her smile, but she refused.

  “You don’t have to put on an act for me,” she said. “If you want to risk getting yourself killed, I can’t stop you, but don’t expect me to laugh about it.”

  Instead of spending some time with her as he had intended, he left her at the wagon and returned to join the men who had congregated around the supper fire.

  “In what order to you aim for us to ride?” Ike asked.

  “I want you and Gunter with me in the freeing of the captives,” said McQuade. “Pick seven men to ride with us. Eli, I want you and Cal to choose twenty-three men to side you in stampeding the horses and mules. Will, you and Hardy will choose another twenty-three men to defend us against any Indians choosing to stand and fight. When you have all your men assigned to one of the three groups, we’ll go over our plan of attack.”

  McQuade had total confidence in them, and while they went about organizing for the attack, he poured himself another cup of coffee and kept out of the way. He was counting on Ike to choose the more accurate marksmen for those who would be charged with the defense of the attackers. In less than half an hour, Ike was ready.

  “Our first move will be to stampede the horses and mules,” said McQuade. “Eli, you and Cal will decide how best to begin, but I’d suggest a west-to-east run. The camp is at the foot of a ridge, and from what I could see, the stock is to the west. Get them on the run and keep them running, right through the camp. Don’t let up. We want that bunch left afoot for as long as possible, so that we can put them behind us. Will, you, Hardy, and your men hold your fire until the stampede clears the Indian camp, so there’s no chance of you hitting our riders. Any Indians failing to follow the stampede will be your responsibility.”

  “Where do you aim for us to find these captives?” Warnell asked.

  “They’ll be tied to stakes,” said McQuade. “Every man of us will need a sharp knife. We’ll ride in right on the heels of the stampede. When you’ve cut your man loose, he’ll be stiff from bein’ tied up. Get him up on the extra horse and ride like hell wouldn’t have it, back the way you come. We’ll group to the northwest. Those of you who have stampeded the horses and mules, keep them running. When you’ve run them at least ten miles, ride back to our camp. The defenders—those of you riding with Will and Hardy—cease firing just as soon as we’ve freed the captives. Swing wide, toward the northwest, and return to camp. Are there any questions?”

  There were none. They rode out at dark, McQuade in the lead. Later there would be a moon, but by then, the attack would be over.

  Mary watched them go, regretting her harsh words to McQuade. Suppose he died in the attack? Assailed by loneliness, she made her way to what remained of the supper fire and poured herself some coffee. The Peyton wagon was nearby, and Maggie spoke from the darkness.

  “Why don’t you come set with the rest of us?”

  “Thank you,” said Mary, “I will.”

  “It’s a woman’s lot to worry,” Odessa Bibb said. “They get themselves cut or shot, and we doctor them as best we can, so they can ride out and do it all over again.”

  Mary laughed, despite herself, and immediately felt guilty. Just as she had so recently accused McQuade of doing, she was making light of potential tragedy.

  “Ike thinks McQuade’s plan will work,” said Maggie. “Chance is a careful man, Mary. A thinking man.”

  Creeker and his companions had been marched to a teepee and shoved inside. There they had remained, uncertain as to their fate.

  “Damn it,” Slack complained, “it’ll be dark in another hour. What in tarnation are they goin’ to do with us?”

  “Was I you,” said Rucker, “I wouldn’t be in no hurry to find out. I got a gut feelin’ this bunch has plans for us we ain’t goin’ to like.”

  He was more right than he knew. It began with the low throb of a tom-tom, growing in intensity until darkness shrouded the valley. At that time, the Kiowa came for them, and in the flickering light from a series of fires, they could see the line of stakes, each with a pile of brush at its base.

  “My God,” said Ellis. “My God.”

  Groat laughed. “You’d better call on somebody that knows you.”

  Each of the men was taken to a stake. They were backed up and their hands released long enough for them to be bound to the stakes. There they stood, as the tom-tom throbbed louder, each beat like the ticking of a deadly clock. Suddenly there was the drum of hoofbeats, shouting and shooting, and a veritable avalanche of horses and mules. Kiowa teepees were toppled, fires were scattered, and Indians scrambled to catch the wildly running horses. But when the shooting began, the horses were forgotten, as a dozen Kiowa fell dead or dying.

  “It’s our turn,” McQuade shouted.

  Leading the charge, McQuade rode to the farthest stake where Creeker stood, unable to believe his eyes. Bowie in his hand, McQuade was out of the saddle in an instant, slashing Creeker’s bonds.

  “Get on that horse and ride toward the northwest,” said McQuade.

  Creeker didn’t have to be told twice. There was no saddle, but he kicked the animal into a fast gallop. A Kiowa came after McQuade with a lance, only to stumble and fall, as a distant marksman saw the danger. In seconds, McQuade and his companions had set the captives free, and all of them—saved and survivors—were in the clear. While the thunder of hooves had begun to recede, there were still distant shouts and the sound of gunfire, evidence that McQuade’s men were doing their job well. The moon was rising, and when the devastated Kiowa camp was well behind them, McQuade and his companions reined up. Within seconds, Creeker and his companions joined them. It was an awkward moment, for not a man among the rescued doubted he had been given back his life.
McQuade spoke.

  “You men can keep the horses until you’ve recovered your own. We’ve stampeded the horses and mules far enough to allow you some time. I’d suggest you get at it as soon as it’s light enough to see. You’ll want to move on, before those Kiowa find their horses.”

  “McQuade,” said Creeker, “you’re the whitest man I ever met. We’ll get these horses back to you. I’m givin’ you my word.”

  McQuade said nothing. He rode away, his companions following. Creeker and his nine companions sat their horses, and it was Rucker who finally spoke.

  “After what I been through, I ain’t of a mind to take any lip from Rufus Hook. We got a full moon for maybe another four hours. I say let’s catch up to that stampede and get our horses and mules tonight. By God, I ain’t wantin’ to be anywhere close, when that bunch of Indians gather up their horses.”

  “Rucker,” said Slack, “that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said in all the years I’ve knowed you.”

  Being of a single mind, circling the Kiowa camp to the north, they rode away, seeking their horses and mules. More than five miles east of the Indian camp, the three factions of McQuade’s outfit came together.

  “Anybody hurt?” McQuade inquired.

  “Not a man in my bunch,” said Eli Bibb.

  “Nor mine,” Will Haymes said.

  “The captives are free,” said McQuade, “and we’ve done all we can do. Let’s ride.”

  “You really think Hook’s bunch will return our horses?” Gunter Warnell asked.

  “I do,” said McQuade. “Anyway, they were horses we took from Gid Sutton and his outlaws, and I wouldn’t begrudge any man a horse, here in Indian Territory.”

  “I reckon it wouldn’t have made any sense, cuttin’ them loose and leavin’ ’em afoot,” Ike Peyton said. “I wouldn’t want to see any man burnt at the stake, unless it was maybe Rufus Hook himself.”