Across the Rio Colorado

by Ralph Compton

  “That makes more sense than anything I’ve heard since we left St. Louis,” Hansard said. “Suppose we elect you wagon boss an’ tell Hedgepith to go to hell?”

  “Leave Hedgepith alone, and let him think he’s giving the orders,” said Creeker. “I got no ambition to be wagon boss. I just want to get to Texas with all my hair, and without any arrows in my carcass. We all got to work together.”

  Quietly, without warning Hedgepith, they all vowed their support.

  Nightly, when the camp was asleep, Lora Kirby slipped away to join Riley Creeker, and a few days after Hook’s death, she had some truly astounding news.

  “Hedgepith’s in for a surprise, if he thinks Hook’s saloon women are going to work in a Texas saloon,” she said.

  “What are they goin’ to do?” Creeker asked.

  Lora laughed. “It’s what they’ve already done. They’ve been slipping away at night, meeting some of the teamsters. Every last one of them—Mabel, Reza, Eula, Sal, Nettie, and Cora—has been spoken for, once we get to Texas.”

  “I reckon them gamblers—Savage and Presnall—had better learn to dance,” Creeker said. “I swear, the sweetest part of this whole thing is goin’ to be watchin’ it all collapse around Hedgepith’s ears.”

  Creeker and his men split up, five riding ahead of the wagons, and five riding behind. They were trailing McQuade’s party, which lessened the possibility the Kiowa might hit them from the southwest, but Creeker’s eyes were constantly on the back-trail. But when the attack came, it was from the south.

  “God Almighty,” Ellis shouted, “yonder they come!”

  Remembering what Creeker had told them, the teamsters reined up and hit the ground with their guns in their hands. Creeker and his men were out of their saddles, and twenty-five men formed a line of defense the length of the strung-out wagons. The Kiowa, riding bunched, fanned out. It proved their undoing, for the defenders singled out individual targets, and after the first volley, more than fifteen Kiowa horses galloped away riderless. The remaining Kiowa whirled their horses and retreated.

  “Anybody hit?” Creeker shouted.

  “Hell, no,” said Slaughter. “We was ready for ‘em, an’ shot first.”

  Hedgepith stalked down the line of wagons, his eyes on the jubilant teamsters. When he spoke, there was impatience in his voice.

  “You men did your jobs, and there’s no celebration in order for that. Now get back to your wagons and get them moving. Creeker, you and your men take your positions and keep your eyes open.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and walked back to the lead wagon. Slaughter and the other teamsters had their hands near their pistols, but Creeker laughed. It proved contagious, and the men soon had the wagons moving again. Quietly, Creeker rode alongside each wagon, commending the men for their valiant defense. It solidified his unofficial leadership of the party, leaving Hedgepith in an even more weakened position than he realized. Creeker and his men rode warily, but they reached the bank of the Canadian River half a mile upstream from McQuade’s outfit, without incident.

  McQuade and his party had heard the shooting along their back-trail, and there was little doubt in anybody’s mind as to the reason behind it. There was talk among the men, during supper.

  “From the shootin’, I’d say they put up a good fight,” Will Haymes observed.

  “If they did,” said Ike, “it was in spite of Hedgepith, and not because of him. The man don’t strike me as havin’ much common sense.”

  “Somehow I don’t think they’re depending on Hedgepith, when it comes to defense,” McQuade said. “Creeker and his bunch may have hired on as gunmen with Hook, but they have become something more than that. The frontier has a way of taking a man through the fire. He’ll come out of it bigger, stronger, and tougher, or he’ll bend and break.”

  “This bein’ the Canadian,” said Ike, “you figure we’re maybe a week away from the crossin’ of the Red?”

  “Not more than ninety miles,” McQuade replied. “If nothing else happens to slow us down, we’re not more than a week away. I believe if we can get another two days behind us, the Kiowa will back off.”

  “Then all we got to worry us is the Comanches,” said Gunter Warnell.

  “Maybe,” McQuade said, “but we can’t afford to let down our guard. I can’t shake the feeling that the Republic of Texas has some surprises in store for us, and that most of them won’t be pleasant.”

  The night on the banks of the Canadian River was peaceful, and with all possible precautions, they crossed the river and rolled on toward the southwest. Another milestone would be the distant Red River, beyond which lay the land on which all their hopes and dreams rested.

  In western Indian Territory, outlaw Gid Sutton and his five surviving men—Withers, Vance, Taylor, Paschal, and Byler—had established an outlaw stronghold. Following their devastating defeat by Chance McQuade’s outfit, they had set about establishing another band of renegades more formidable than the first. Outlaws had come from Kansas, Indian Territory, Nebraska, north Texas, and from as far away as Colorado. After his ignominious defeat, Sutton had kept a man on the trail of the Hook and McQuade parties. Thus he had come up with a plan to enrich himself, and in so doing, get revenge. Sutton’s companions were getting restless.

  “Damn it, Sutton,” said Withers, “how much longer you goin’ to hold off? We already got sixty men, not countin’ ourselves. That’s more’n we ever had before.”

  “I wouldn’t mind havin’ a hundred,” Sutton replied. “We made a mistake, last time, not goin’ after them supply wagons trailin’ McQuade. Hell, there’s a fortune in goods, just for the taking. Once we take them wagons, McQuade and his bunch will come runnin’ to the rescue. That’s when we cut ’em down, and I want enough men to do it proper.”

  “This bunch ain’t gonna set here on ready much longer,” said Vance.

  “There’s some things you ain’t told ‘em,” Paschal said. “I was close enough to see them twenty-five hombres just shoot hell out of attacking Indians, without losin’ a man. We ain’t goin’ up agin a bunch of short horns. Them teamsters and the gun-throwers with ’em is every bit as tough as McQuade’s party.”

  “Just keep your mouth shut,” said Sutton. “These hombres don’t have to know everything. Byler, tomorrow I want you to scout both parties, lettin’ us know where they are. I want ’em across the Red and in Texas, before we move in. Then we’ll be free of Kiowa.”

  “But not of the Comanches,” Taylor said.

  “Hell, Taylor,” said Sutton, “you want ever’thing handed to you on a silver plate? We git them wagons to Texas, we ain’t all that far from them settlements along the Brazos an’ the Rio Colorado. We ain’t splittin’ all the booty with these varmints for nothin’. They’ll be ridin’ shotgun, keepin’ the Comanches off us, until we can convert them wagonloads of goods to cash.”

  “I like that better than goin’ after McQuade’s outfit, just for revenge,” said Withers.

  “Me too,” Vance said. “Revenge don’t put no gold in my pockets.”

  “Sutton’s got the right idea,” said Paschal. “Them supply wagons is never that far behind McQuade’s outfit. Once we go after them wagons, we’ll have to fight McQuade’s party sure as hell, revenge or not.”

  “He’s right,” Taylor said. “I was watchin’ that day one of the bunch from the supply train met McQuade on the trail. Whatever their reason for the two trains travelin’ apart, they’re friendly to one another. I saw McQuade an’ this other hombre shake hands.”

  “Then don’t let me hear any more complaints about waitin’ for more men,” said Sutton. “We’ll be needin’ ’em. Besides, we got plenty of time. Every day we wait, them wagons will be that much closer to the settlements. That’ll be one day less we’ll have to wrassle with them.”

  That quieted them. Sutton went to their supply wagon, and as he so often did, looked upon their arsenal of weapons and ammunition. There were two kegs of black powder, a wooden
box of empty whiskey bottles for use as bombs, and coil after coil of fast-burning fuse.

  “By God,” said Withers, from behind Sutton, “it looks like we’re goin’ to war.”

  “Maybe we are,” Sutton replied. “This time, we’ll have some surprises.”

  McQuade had kept the wagons traveling three abreast, although the terrain had turned stoney and irregular. One day after crossing the Canadian River, Ike Peyton’s wagon slid a left rear wheel into a rut with enough force to snap the axle.

  “Damn,” said McQuade, under his breath.

  “I don’t like suggestin’ this,” Ike said, “but we may have to go back to a column of twos, instead of threes. There’s narrow places where it’s hell keepin’ three side-by-side wagons far enough apart so’s the wheels don’t hook one another. These damn jugheaded mules all wants to walk the same path.”

  McQuade laughed. “I know how they are, Ike. We’ll have just about enough time to replace that axle and make it to the next water, before dark.”

  Reaching the area McQuade had chosen, they circled the wagons, unharnessed their teams, and took the stock to graze. The women got the supper fires going, and had supper ready when the stock was driven back within the wagon circle. The sun dipped behind a dirty gray bank of clouds on the western horizon, and as twilight fell, there were flares of lightning.

  “Another storm comin’,” said Ike Peyton. “Sometime tomorrow.”

  Strong on all their minds was the tragic night the Hendersons had gone to a flaming death after their wagon had been hit by lightning. While they were willing to take their chances with outlaws and hostile Indians, they had no control over the elements.

  “I’m going to pray there won’t be any lightning,” Mary said, when she and McQuade had gone to their wagon.

  “There can be lightning without it striking,” said McQuade. “We have no control over it, and I think we’ll be safer in the wagon than anywhere else.”

  “But there are so many iron parts to a wagon,” Mary said.

  “There are no iron parts to a tree,” said McQuade, “and a lot more trees are hit than wagons. I been on the frontier for twelve years, and I’ve seen a wagon struck by lightning only once. God knows, that was enough.”

  When the wagons took the trail at dawn, the wind had risen. Coming out of the west, it brought the unmistakable smell of rain. McQuade rode ahead as usual, aware that there might not be much time before the storm reached them. On a good day, the wagons might travel as far as fifteen miles, but with a storm building, McQuade would settle for ten or less. Being caught on the move during a storm was bad enough, because of the lightning, but there was another more common danger. Severe thunder and lightning could stampede the teams. While mules were faster than oxen, they spooked at anything or nothing, and their being harnessed to a wagon wouldn’t deter them. McQuade rode what he estimated was a little more than ten miles. While there was no fresh water, there was a dry arroyo which the rain would soon fill. McQuade rode back to meet the wagons, finding the teams moving at a gait faster than usual. The wind grew in intensity, rolling the big gray clouds in from the west. The sun was barely noon-high when clouds swept over its face and the first big rain drops splattered on wagon canvas.

  “Keep going,” McQuade shouted, as the lead wagons slowed. “Maybe three miles yet.”

  Thunder pealed closer, and while lightning wasn’t striking, it flicked golden tongues of fire from low-hanging clouds. Each time thunder shook the earth, mules brayed in terror, but every man kept his teams on a tight rein. Just when McQuade believed they were going to make it, all hell broke loose. Lightning struck a tree a dozen yards to the left of the lead wagons. A flaming torch forty feet high, it terrified the teams nearest it, and the teams drawing all three of the lead wagons stampeded. They tore off to the northwest, as Ike Peyton, Gunter Warnell, and Will Haymes fought to rein them in. The teams drawing the next three wagons, finding nothing ahead of them, lit out straight ahead. The situation quickly worsened, as lightning struck again, somewhere close. Sheets of rain roared in on the wind, and the flaming tree sputtered out. Through valiant efforts of the men on their wagon boxes, the teams were held in check.

  McQuade rode after the stampeding teams, and through the driving rain, saw the Peyton wagon jam a pine between the right rear wheel and the wagon box. The wheel was torn off and the wagon rolled on its right side. Maggie was thrown free, but McQuade saw no sign of Ike. The Warnell and Haymes wagons had met similar fates, the shuddering mules coming to a halt only when they could drag the disabled wagons no farther. Maggie was on her hands and knees when McQuade reached her. She had a gash over her left eye, and the rain was washing blood down over her face. Dismounting, McQuade took her arm and they ran through the mud and driving rain toward the wrecked wagon. They quickly found Ike, his right leg caught under a wagon wheel.

  “Busted leg,” Ike gritted.

  “Some of us will be back for you,” McQuade said. “Maggie, stay with him, while I see about the others.”

  “They’ll need help,” said Maggie.

  “But not here in the rain and mud,” McQuade said. “We’ll have to get them to shelter in some of the other wagons.”

  Men who had managed to control their teams now left their wagons and ran to the aid of their less fortunate neighbors. Already half a dozen men had lifted the disabled wagon enough to free Ike Peyton. Gunter Warnell knelt over Ellen, his left arm bent at an awkward angle.

  “How is she?” McQuade asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Warnell. “Both of us were thrown off the box. She hit her head on something, and the wagon’s front wheel ran over my arm.”

  “Stay with her,” McQuade said. “Others are coming to help you back to shelter.”

  McQuade found the Haymes wagon upside down, and no sign of Will or Minerva.

  “Will, Minerva,” he shouted.

  “We’re under the wagon,” Will answered.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, thank God,” said Will. “We’re bruised and skint up, but nothing worse.”

  “Help’s on the way,” McQuade said. “When some of the others get here, we’ll lift the wagon off you.”

  Joel Handy, Tobe Rutledge, and Isaac McDaniel were the first to arrive, and the four of them were able to raise one side of the wagon enough for Will and Minerva to crawl out. Their faces were bloody from cuts.

  “Joel,” said McQuade, “help Will unharness his teams. We’ll have to circle the rest of the wagons and secure all the stock. When the storm’s done, we’ll get to work on all the wagons that are disabled.”

  “How many others?” Haymes asked.

  “Five more, that I know of,” said McQuade. “The teams with the first six wagons all stampeded. Ike has a broken leg and Gunter a broken arm. I still don’t know about Bud and Bess Jackman, Oscar and Winnie Odell, or Levi and Callie Phelps.”

  “They’re all bein’ seen to,” Joel Handy said.

  “Tobe,” said McQuade, “unharness Gunter’s teams and lead them back to the rest of the wagons. He won’t be able, with a busted arm, and Isaac, I’d appreciate it if you’ll do the same for Ike. I have to get the rest of the wagons circled so we can begin caring for the injured.”

  McQuade mounted his horse and rode back toward the column of wagons, just in time to meet Eli Bibb and Cal Tabor. They, among others, had followed the second trio of runaway teams, and quickly reported to McQuade what had happened.

  “The women caught hell,” said Cal. “Bess Jackman’s got a busted ankle, Winnie Odell a broken arm, and Callie Phelps a broken hip. Bud, Oscar, and Levi got skint up some, but nothin’ worse.”

  “The wagons is tore all to hell,” Eli added.

  “We’re goin’ to be here a while,” said McQuade. “I’ll need both of you to help me in circling the wagons.”

  When the wagons were circled, the injured brought to shelter, and the stock secured, those who were able gathered to hear what McQuade had to say.

&nbs
p; “We have five people with broken bones. Somewhere, not too far behind us, is Doctor Puckett, with Hedgepith’s outfit. I’ve set a bone or two, but I’m no doctor. For the sake of those who have broken bones, I’m going to ask Doctor Puckett to set them. Some of you stretch Ike’s canvas between a couple of wagons, so we can have shelter for a fire. Puckett will need hot water. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  “You want a couple of us to ride with you?” Cal Tabor asked.

  “No,” said McQuade. “I don’t look for any trouble from Hedgepith over this.”

  McQuade saddled up and rode along their back-trail, unsure as to how far behind his outfit Hedgepith’s wagons were. The rain continued.

  Hedgepith’s party—not more than three miles behind McQuade’s—had fallen victim to the fury of the storm. While nobody had been killed or injured, teams had stampeded, severely damaging two wagons. Worse, these wagons, driven by Slaughter and Hansard, had been loaded with barreled whiskey. Five barrels, three from Slaughter’s wagon and two from Hansard’s, had been smashed. Hedgepith was furious.

  “Damn it, why didn’t you rein in the teams? You call yourselves teamsters?”

  “We rode out the stampede,” said Hansard sullenly. “Wasn’t nothin’ else we could do. We could of been killed.”

  “It would have been no great loss,” Hedgepith snapped.

  “You sayin’ our lives ain’t worth five barrels of whiskey?” Slaughter demanded.

  “Not to me,” said Hedgepith.

  “Then, by God, when you get my wagon patched up—if you do—then drive it yourself,” said Slaughter. “I want what you owe me, as of right now.”

  “Put me down for the same,” Hansard said.

  “Your deal with Hook was that you get paid when we reach the Rio Colorado,” said Hedgepith, “and I’m holding you to that. Pull out now, and you get nothing. Continue on, and you’ll be paid as promised. Minus the cost of the lost whiskey, of course.”

  But Hedgepith had gone too far, and Slaughter called him.