Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “Meanin’ that we might ask for our grants without Hedgepith havin’ a hand in the pot,” said Ike. “I like the sound of that. I always felt like Hook had more cards up his sleeve than was on the table.”

  “We have another advantage that Hedgepith won’t know about,” McQuade said. “We’ve got friends right under Hedgepith’s nose. Creeker and his amigos aim to take and keep any grants assigned to them, and Creeker’s promised to pass along anything he learns that we might need to know.”

  “The man’s proven himself, as far as I’m concerned,” said Gunter Warnell. “He didn’t have to tell us Hook was dead.”

  The wagons again took the trail, and avoiding low places, were able to reach the area McQuade had chosen to circle the wagons for the night. While McQuade expected trouble from the Kiowa before crossing the Red, there had been no sign of them. Supper was over and McQuade had begun to breathe easy, when he was shaken by the sound of gunfire. It blossomed from behind the Burke wagon and was answered by a fusillade from the vicinity of Trent Putnam’s wagon.

  “Damn it, hold your fire!” McQuade shouted. “I’m within pistol range of both of you, and I’ll kill the next man that fires a shot. Drop your guns, and come out where I can see you.”

  It was just dusky dark, and McQuade had no trouble identifying Trent Putnam, as he crawled from beneath his wagon. From behind the Burke wagon, Luke emerged, followed by Andrew, Matthew, and Mark.

  “McQuade,” said Andrew, “this is a private affair. Why the hell can’t you mind your own business?”

  “When lead begins to fly within the wagon circle, it is my business,” McQuade said grimly. “Now what’s this all about?”

  “I caught that snake-eyed Burke lookin’ in through the back of my wagon,” shouted Putnam.

  “No excuse,” said McQuade. “There’s a canvas flap that lets down over the pucker. If it wasn’t down, that’s your fault. What do you have to say, Burke?”

  “The pucker was open,” Luke said sullenly, “and I didn’t see nothin’ but the two of ’em swilling whiskey from a bottle.”

  “Maggie,” said McQuade, “take a look in the wagon and be sure Selma’s all right.”

  Maggie did, returning with a look of disgust on her face.

  “She’s passed out, dog-drunk,” Maggie said.

  “Putnam,” said McQuade, “you and Burke have gone out of your way to be a bother to the rest of us, and I think it’s time we extracted some punishment. Obviously, you don’t like one another, and with all guns and knives aside, I want the two of you to have it out with your fists. When one of you can’t get up, it’s over. There’ll be no stomping or kicks to the head.”

  “That ain’t fair,” Andrew Burke shouted. “He outweighs Luke thirty pounds.”

  “Too bad,” said McQuade. “Luke will just have to fight harder.”

  “Maggie,” Ike said, “this could get nasty. You women should go to your wagons.”

  “Mind your tongue, Ike Peyton,” said Maggie. “I can’t speak for the others, but I’ll be here to the finish, if they strip one another naked.”

  “So will I,” Ellen Warnell said, and her sentiments were echoed by other women who had overheard.

  “Mary?” said McQuade.

  “I’m staying,” Mary said. “I don’t like either of them, but I like Trent Putnam least. I want to see Luke beat the hell out of him.”

  “Shame,” said McQuade, raising his eyebrows, “that’s no way for a preacher’s daughter to talk.”

  “Your fault,” Mary said. “You’ve corrupted me.”

  Some of the women had added wood to the supper fires, and coffee was brewing, as the two men removed their shirts. Each eyed the-other in grim satisfaction. It was better than they had expected from McQuade. Burke made the first move, charging Putnam, who stepped aside and tripped him. There was some laughter, as Burke went facedown in the dirt, for when he tried to get up, Putnam kicked him in the behind, flattening him again.

  “Damn it, Luke,” old Andrew shouted, “don’t just lay there.”

  Luke rolled sideways, lest he be booted again, and got to his knees. But Putnam was waiting for him, and Burke was barely on his feet when the heavier man charged, driving his fist toward Luke’s sweating face. But Burke seized the wrist, and taking advantage of the momentum, drove his right boot hard into Putnam’s groin. Putnam screamed in agony, and as his feet left the ground, Burke released the captured fist. Putnam fell facedown in a cloud of dust, and lay there sobbing. Virtually falling from the wagon, the drunken Selma ran to him.

  “Damn you,” the woman cried, her eyes on Luke, “you’ve killed him.”

  “I reckon not,” said Luke, “but he may never be a daddy.”

  The shocked silence McQuade had expected didn’t happen. The women laughed along with the men. But Trent Putnam wasn’t finished. He struggled to his knees, and finally to his feet. He stood there swaying like a tall pine in a high wind, until he finally had enough wind to speak. He then turned hard eyes on Luke Burke.

  “I ain’t never liked you, Burke. Poke your nose in the back of my wagon again, and I’ll blow it off, along with your head.”

  “There’ll be no more shooting, Putnam,” said McQuade, “unless I do it. Pull a gun one more time, and I’ll kill you myself. That goes for you Burkes, too.”

  “By God,” Putnam said, “when we get to Texas, you won’t be wagon boss no more. Then I aim to get me a gun and go after some Burke blood. You hear that, boy?”

  “I hear it,” said Burke, “and I’ll be ready. Your carcass will be dog meat.”

  The Burkes returned to their wagon, while Putnam and Selma returned to theirs, taking the time to cast dirty looks at McQuade.

  “Maybe you should of just let them shoot one another,” Ike said.

  “It was a temptation,” said McQuade, “but the way they were throwing lead so recklessly, they might have shot someone else.”

  McQuade and Mary returned to their wagon, while the men on the first watch returned to their positions.

  “It’s not enough that we’re plagued with Indians and outlaws,” Mary said. “We have the Putnams and the Burkes in our own wagon circle. What I fear is that by stopping them from killing each other, you may have them both trying to kill you.”

  “I’ve been on the bad side of the Burkes ever since St. Joe,” said McQuade. “Putnam can climb on the wagon, if he likes. One more coyote added to the pack won’t make that much difference.”

  When Creeker returned from his meeting with McQuade, Hedgepith was waiting.

  “See any Indians?” Hedgepith inquired.

  “No,” said Creeker shortly.

  “See anybody from McQuade’s party?”

  “I rode wide of their wagons and went ahead of them,” Creeker said.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Hedgepith persisted.

  “I told you I rode wide of them,” said Creeker, in a dangerously calm voice.

  Hedgepith said no more, but the look in his eyes said he didn’t believe Creeker. Without another word, he turned and went into the tent that had belonged to Hook. Creeker unsaddled his horse, while Groat and Slack looked at him and grinned.

  “Now that he’s tall dog in the brass collar, he just ain’t trustin’ at all,” Dirk said. “I’d not be surprised if he took to doubtin’ us all.”

  “Don’t push him,” said Creeker. “There’s goin’ to be a showdown in Texas, and we got trouble enough between here and there.”

  “I reckon you know somethin’ we don’t,” Porto said. “You been talkin’ to McQuade, ain’t you?”

  “I’m admittin’ nothing that might get back to Hedgepith,” said Creeker.

  “Damn it,” Porto said, “that’s an insult. I ought to gut-shoot you.”

  Creeker laughed. “We got friends in McQuade’s party. That’s all you need to know for now. That and the fact that none of McQuade’s people trust Hedgepith. They’re looking for a fight in Texas, and McQuade knows where we stand.”r />
  Hedgepith sat in the tent going over sheaves of paper, seeking any loopholes he might have missed. He had his doubts about Creeker and the men who had hired on with him, but this was no time for a division within his limited forces. He must wait until he reached Texas and had assumed control of the grants for which Rufus Hook had applied. Only then could he purge himself of the likes of Creeker and others who might stand in his way.

  After a full day of sun, the land had dried. McQuade rode out ahead of the wagons, and having ridden not more than ten miles, he reined up before the North Canadian River. It was a milestone in their trek, for when they crossed the North Canadian, the Canadian was only some fifteen miles beyond. That meant they were less than a hundred miles from the crossing of the Red, which would take them into Texas. Elated, McQuade rode back to meet the wagons. Once they reached the bank of the North Canadian, circled the wagons, and unhitched the teams, there was rejoicing. Whatever trials awaited them in Texas, they were almost free of Indian Territory. McQuade had gradually increased the number of men on watch until everybody felt secure, but they were still vulnerable when they were on the trail. But the next morning, while they were crossing the North Canadian, the Kiowa came galloping in from the northwest. McQuade shot the lead rider off his horse, but the Kiowa fanned out in a long line, several attacking a single wagon. Hardy Kilgore was thrown off his wagon box, a lance driven through his middle. Jason, his son, got off one shot, only to have an arrow driven deep in his chest. Terrified, the Kilgore teams veered away from the attacking Kiowa, toppling the Kilgore wagon in the swirling brown water. McQuade fired five more times, accounting for four more of the attackers. Men from wagons which were not under attack had reined up their teams and were taking careful aim. One after another, Kiowa horses galloped away riderless, and the attack ended as suddenly as it had begun. McQuade hardly knew where to begin. Women wept, men cursed, and mules brayed their terror.

  “The Kilgores,” Maggie Peyton cried.

  “Too late for them,” shouted Ike.

  Starting with the lead wagons, McQuade worked his way back, seeking the wounded or the dead. Odessa Bibb had an arrow in her left side, while Lucy Tabor had a shaft in her left thigh. Andrew Burke had a bloody gash under his right arm, where a Kiowa lance had narrowly missed being driven through his chest. Four wagons had crossed the river, and had escaped the attack.

  “We’ll take the rest of the wagons across,” McQuade shouted, “and circle them on the south bank. We’ll be here a while.”

  Quickly they complied. The Kiowa would be returning for their dead, which numbered more than twenty. When the wagons had been circled and the men were unhitching their teams, the women were getting fires going and putting water on to boil. Minerva Haymes had taken mud and was smoothing it over Andrew Burke’s wound, to stop the bleeding.

  “Maggie,” said McQuade, “you and Mary get the whiskey and see that Odessa and Lucy drink plenty of it. When it’s had time to work, those arrows will have to come out.”

  “Don’t I know,” Maggie said. “We’ll see they’re proper drunk.”

  “Ike, you and Gunter saddle up and ride with me,” said McQuade. “We have to find Hardy and Jason Kilgore, if we can. Will, I want you, Eli, and Cal to see that everybody who is assigned to the third watch take up positions surrounding the wagon circle. While I doubt the Kiowa will attack again, we can’t afford to gamble.”

  McQuade saddled his horse, and followed by Ike and Gunter, rode off downstream. They had no trouble finding the wagon, for the unfortunate mules had drowned and were acting as a drag. McQuade rode into the river and with his knife, cut the harness. He then tied one end of his lariat to a rear wagon wheel and looped the other end around his saddle horn. But the burden was too much for one horse. Ike rode in and tied his lariat to the wagon’s other rear wheel. Slowly they dragged the wagon out of the water, but there was no sign of the bodies of either of the Kilgores.

  “My God,” said Gunter, “they’re lost in the river. We may never find them.”

  “Beyond a doubt they both died in the attack,” McQuade said. “We’ll ride downriver a ways and maybe find them in the shallows.”

  But they rode for more than five miles, and the North Canadian seemed to increase in depth and in force. Finally the banks became so steep and overgrown with brush and oak thickets that McQuade called off the search. The trio returned to the wagon circle with the grim news, and McQuade went to the Bibb wagon to look in on Odessa.

  “I gave her half a bottle of whiskey,” said Mary. “Maggie’s seeing to Lucy.”

  When McQuade reached the Tabor wagon, he found Cal there with Maggie. Lucy was already asleep.

  “Cal,” McQuade said, “you know that arrow has to come out, and you know the procedure. I don’t think it’s proper, me workin’ over another man’s woman, with her all …”

  “Stripped down,” Maggie finished.

  “Yes,” said McQuade. “Cal, why don’t you …”

  “My God, no,” Cal cried. “I … I’m so spooked, I … I couldn’t.”

  “It’s up to you, McQuade,” said Maggie, “and don’t go gettin’ the whim-whams about doctorin’ a woman. You stripped me down and drove an arrow out of my leg, and not one of these other females is built any different.”

  Despite the circumstances, Cal laughed. “Go ahead, McQuade. Lucy is expecting you to take care of her. I’m goin’ to do the only decent thing, and stay the hell out of your way.”

  McQuade sighed and began punching the loads from the cylinder of his revolver …

  CHAPTER 11

  McQuade spent more than an hour driving through and removing the arrows from Lucy Tabor and Odessa Bibb. Crowded as it was within the wagons, Maggie and Mary remained with him, cleansing and bandaging the wounds. As usual, the procedure took its toll, and wrung out, McQuade returned to the wagon. He had liked Hardy and Jason Kilgore, and their deaths had shaken him. Any man deserved a decent burial by his friends, and their bodies having been lost in the muddy North Canadian dragged him even deeper into the depths of despair. Returning to the wagon, Mary found him sitting on the tailgate, staring morosely at the ground.

  “For a man who just spent an hour with two naked females, you’re awfully grim,” she said, seeking to cheer him.

  “I’m almighty tired of removing arrows, especially from naked females,” he said, without a trace of humor.

  She was immediately sorry. Placing the medicine kit in the wagon, she boosted herself up on the tailgate beside him.

  “It isn’t the arrows, is it?” she asked.

  “No,” said McQuade. “At least Odessa and Lucy are alive.”

  “You’re blaming yourself for what happened to the Kilgores.”

  “Mary, there’s a reason, a cause, for everything.”

  “But you didn’t know the Kiowa would attack while we were crossing the river.”

  “No,” McQuade said wearily, “but I knew they’d take another swipe at us before we could get out of Indian Territory. The worst possible time for an Indian attack is during a river crossing. My God, why didn’t I make allowances for that?”

  “What more could you have done?”

  “I could have stationed fifty men at the river,” said McQuade, “protecting each of the wagons as they crossed. They struck where we were the most vulnerable.”

  “But if you had taken fifty men from their wagons, stationing them near the river, that would have left their wagons, their women and their children unprotected.”

  “Bless you, Mary,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders, “but I just can’t help feeling that I could have—should have—done something differently.”

  Mary said nothing, for Will Haymes was approaching.

  “Some of us would like to have a service for the Kilgores,” said Will, “even though we … they … were lost. Would you and Mary join us?”

  “Yes,” McQuade said.

  “I’ll get the bible,” said Mary.

  It was a s
ad gathering, and it was done quickly, but somehow they all felt better for having participated. Afterward, there was nothing to do but wait for time and the whiskey to begin the healing process for Odessa and Lucy. While it seemed unlikely that the Kiowa would return, McQuade kept a double guard posted for the rest of the day, tripling it at sundown.

  Half a mile upriver, the significance of the early morning attack by the Kiowa wasn’t lost on Creeker and his men. In seconds, they had their weapons, and were prepared for an attack. The remaining fifteen teamsters were quick to follow their example.

  “What’s going on?” Hedgepith demanded, emerging from his tent.

  “Indian attack downriver,” said Creeker.

  “If you’re considering riding down there,” Hedgepith said stiffly, “Don’t.”

  “If I could get there in time to be of any help, I’d go,” said Creeker. “It would be the decent thing to do, but you wouldn’t understand that.”

  “I understand that you’d be wasting ammunition better spent defending your own camp,” Hedgepith said. “Now put your weapons away and get these teams harnessed for the trail.”

  The men eyed Hedgepith in disgust as he returned to his tent. Slaughter, one of the teamsters, turned to Creeker with a question.

  “Since they hit McQuade’s camp this morning, when do you reckon they’ll be comin’ after us?”

  “Late today or early tomorrow,” Creeker replied. “We can’t be more than a hundred miles north of the Red, and when we cross it, we’ll be in Texas. If you aim to cross the Red with your hair in place, forget any orders you get from Hedgepith. Startin’ tonight we better cut back to two watches, so’s we got more men awake and ready. Today, when we take the trail, there’ll be five of us ahead of the first wagon, and five behind the last. All of us will be watching for Indians. If you hear one of us sing out or fire a shot, rein up and hit the ground with your guns ready.”