Across the Rio Colorado (23 page)

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Authors: Ralph Compton

BOOK: Across the Rio Colorado
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The sun had already slipped beneath the western horizon, fanning out a glorious array of crimson fingers that reached toward the deepening purple of the distant sky.
“Ike,” McQuade shouted, “keep ‘em moving. Creeker and me are ridin' ahead to scout the spring.”
McQuade kicked his horse into a fast gallop, and doing likewise, Creeker fell in beside him.
T
rue to McQuade's prediction, the wagons were circled by starlight, and considerable time was needed to lead the stock to and from water. Supper was late, and the second watch had to relieve the first so they could eat.
“Water won't be as plentiful here as it was in Indian Territory,” McQuade told them, “and we may have to travel farther each day to reach the next water. The Comanches know we're here, and we'll be fighting them. A hundred and thirty-five wagons, three abreast, that's forty-five wagon lengths, strung out on the trail. Your only chance is to see them in time, rein up, grab your guns and fight. At night, we'll continue with two watches, half of us until midnight, the rest until dawn.”
The night passed without incident, and when the wagons took the trail the following morning, Creeker again rode out with McQuade.
“You're askin' for it,” said Creeker, “ridin' alone in Comanche country.”
“I reckon you're right,” McQuade said. “I'll feel a lot better if you get scalped along with me. By the way, I never did get around to learning what was in that wagon we took from the Sutton gang.”
“Some ammunition,” said Creeker, “but mostly fuse and black powder. Two kegs of it. We loaded it all into Doc Puckett's wagon, along with the weapons taken from
those dead outlaws. I got a feeling Sam Houston's militia can use it all.”
“I reckon we should have tried to round up Sutton's horses, but we have about all the stock we can handle,” McQuade said.
“It wouldn't have been easy,” said Creeker. “Some of that bunch ran out, and as they took their own horses, they spooked the rest. They were a cut-throat lot.”
“Something tells me I'll be seeing Gid Sutton again,” McQuade said. “He's a vindictive varmint, and he carries a grudge.”
McQuade and Creeker were more than ten miles ahead of the wagons, and still hadn't seen any sign of water.
“Filling the water barrels on each wagon is startin' to seem like a good idea,” said Creeker. “We must have traveled eighteen miles yesterday. Any more than that won't be possible. I like to have the wagons circled before dark.”
“So do I,” McQuade said. “We'll give it another five miles, and if we don't find decent water, we'll look for graze and plan on a dry camp.”
The first water they found was a stagnant pool in a box canyon. There was no spring, and no coyote or deer tracks.
“If it's not good enough for coyotes and deer, it's not good enough for us,” McQuade said. “We'll ride on a ways.”
“Still no Indian sign,” said Creeker. “I don't know which is worse, findin' it or not findin' it.”
“It can be bad news, either way,” McQuade said. “They can come and go without any sign, if it suits their faney.”
When they eventually reached water, it was beyond their wildest expectations, for it was a fast-flowing river.
6
“I figure we're about thirty-five miles south of the
Red,” said McQuade.”This has to be the Trinity.”
“What's the next river beyond it?” Creeker asked.
“The Brazos,” said McQuade. “As I recall, there are three major rivers in Texas, all of them emptying into the Gulf of Mexico. There's the Trinity, the Brazos, and the Rio Colorado.”
“How much farther to the Brazos?”
“A good twenty miles,” McQuade said. “That's about where we'll want to circle our wagons and ride south to find Sam Houston's militia. His camp, from what those returning emigrants told us, is at the crookedest part of the Rio Colorado.”
“Tomorrow's drive, however long it takes, should get us to the Brazos,” said Creeker, “and the day after, we'll go looking for Houston's militia. God, it'll feel good to reach some kind of destination, even if only to fight Mexicans.”
After watering their horses, they rode back to meet the oncoming wagons. They were less than half way, when off to their right, a single rider appeared. He galloped his horse until he was riding even with them.
“Bad news,” said McQuade. “Eventually there'll be another to our left, and maybe three or four taking up the slack behind us.”
“We can't be more than five or six miles ahead of the wagons,” Creeker said. “We can ride like hell.”
“They're counting on that,” said McQuade. “Our horses will be winded and blowing in half that distance. If we can find some cover, there's a chance we can hole up until help can reach us.”
Just as McQuade had predicted, a rider soon appeared to their left, and when Creeker turned in his saddle, there were three bobbing specks on their back-trail.
“Three of 'em behind us,” said Creeker.
“The flankers will keep us from riding away to either side,” McQuade said, “while the three behind us will continue to close the gap. They're goin' to try and get close enough to put some arrows in us before we reach the wagons, and before help reaches us.”
Then McQuade did a strange thing. Drawing his revolver, spacing his shots, he fired three times into the air.
“You reckon they'll hear?” Creeker asked.
“I don't know,” said McQuade. “It's a gamble, but we don't have a lot of cards on the table. Ike, Cal, and Will are in the lead wagons. Ease back to a slow gallop and spare your horse as much as you can.”
Not quite five miles distant, the wagons rumbled along. Maggie was speaking, when Ike raised his hand for silence. Suddenly he reined up his teams, as Cal and Will already had done. As other wagons rumbled to a stop behind him, Ike grabbed his Sharps .50 and leaped off the wagon box. Cal and Will were saddling the horses that trotted behind their wagons.
“Gunter, Eli, Joel, Tobe,” Ike shouted, “saddle your horses and let's ride. McQuade and Creeker are in trouble somewhere ahead.”
The men moved quickly, and within minutes, seven riders galloped forth to meet whatever trouble lay ahead.
“They're closing in,” Creeker shouted. He drew his revolver and fired twice, without effect.
“You might as well save your ammunition,” said McQuade.
But the Comanches flanking them had ridden in close, and arrows began flying. One of them tore a gash across McQuade's left arm, above the elbow, and his horse screamed as it took an arrow in the throat. The valiant animal stumbled, took a second arrow and fell. McQuade kicked loose just in time, rolled free and came to his feet, his revolver in his hand. He shot one of the flanking Comanches off his horse, but the three galloped along the back-trail, coining closer. Hearing the roar of the revolver and seeing McQuade afoot, Creeker wheeled his horse, his gun blazing as he rode. The remaining Comanches were all close enough, and arrows whipped close. One ripped through Creeker's left side, while a second slammed into his shoulder. On he rode, his good arm outstretched to McQuade, who caught his hand. With
McQuade behind him, Creeker wheeled the horse, kicking it into a fast gallop. They could hear the pound of hooves as the Comanches gained on them.
“There's an
arroyo
ahead,” McQuade shouted.
Creeker needed no urging. McQuade slid off the horse, and seconds later, Creeker all but fell out of the saddle. The arroyo was shallow. Neither man could stand without being exposed from the waist up. McQuade was on his knees, ready to fire, but the Comanches had slowed their horses, and with good reason. There was a shout, as seven riders came thundering from the north. Like smoke, the Comanches faded into the distance and were gone. Ike had caught Creeker's fleeing horse, and the seven men reined up.
“We got here as quick as we could,” Ike said.
“Creeker took two bad ones,” said McQuade. “Some of you help him mount his horse, and I'll double up with one of you.”
“Hell,” Creeker grunted, “I ain't dead yet.” Seizing the horn, he mounted his horse.
They reached the wagons to find their companions anxiously awaiting them. Lora all but fell off the wagon box getting to Creeker.
“How far are we from water?” Doctor Puckett asked.
“Maybe six miles,” said McQuade. “I just got a scratch, but Creeker took a couple of bad ones.”
“Creeker,” Puckett said, “we'll need water to tend those wounds. Can you make it six more miles?”
“I'll manage,” said Creeker. “The important thing is that we get these wagons circled before dark.”
McQuade was brought one of the extra horses. He rode it bareback until he reached his own dead animal. There he retrieved his saddle and bridle. He caught up to the lead wagons, joining Creeker, who rode with gritted teeth.
“I owe you one,
amigo,
” said McQuade.
“I quit keepin' score after that fight with Sutton's gang,” Creeker said. “What bothers me is that I may not be in shape to ride south with you to meet Houston.”
“We'll wait a couple more days, if we have to,” said McQuade.
They reached the bank of the Trinity without difficulty, and while the men circled the wagons and unharnessed the teams, the women started supper fires. Over one of them was a pot of water being heated to tend Creeker's wounds.
“Unfortunately, we have nothing for pain except whiskey,” said Doctor Puckett, “but there's a blessed plenty of that. Creeker, we'll make room for you in one of the wagons. I want you to put down enough whiskey to take you out, while I remove those arrows.”
“Doc,” McQuade said, “you don't know how glad I am to hear you say that. All the way across Indian Territory, I had to drive arrows through.”
“Take off your shirt,” said Puckett, “and I'll bandage your wound while we're waiting for the whiskey to take effect on Creeker.”
McQuade's wound was superficial but painful, and he could feel the arm beginning to stiffen. Puckett cleansed it with hot water, sloshed it full of whiskey, and applied a muslin bandage. Room had been made in the wagon Puckett drove, and Creeker had stretched out on blankets, waiting for the whiskey to work. During supper, McQuade told the rest of the party what he and Creeker had already discussed.
“Tomorrow may be another long day,” said McQuade, “because we'll be going all the way to the Brazos. Unless I'm totally wrong, it'll be maybe eighteen miles to the south. At that point, we won't be more than a hundred miles from the Rio Colorado. We'll circle the wagons on the Brazos and ride south, looking for Houston's militia. We must find Houston without being seen by Monclova's bunch, and I don't see any need for more than two of us to ride out. The fewer of us, the less chance we'll be seen. I aim to take Creeker with me. Are there any questions or objections?”
“Seems to me you're gettin' mighty damn partial to
that bunch that follered Hook and Hedgepith,” said Andrew Burke.
“Since you're making an issue of it,” McQuade replied, “I'll give it to you straight. I aim to take a man with me I can trust, and that eliminates all you Burkes. Is that clear?”
“Plenty,” said Andrew. “I reckon I just don't like the way you do things; McQuade. I been thinkin' about all these wagons loaded with guns, grub, an' all, an' I can't figger what makes this Sam Houston more worthy of 'em than us. Hell, I feel like I'm as deservin' as he is. We ain't started no fight with Mexico. He started it; let him finish it.”
“People,” McQuade said, trying mightily to control his temper, “you heard what Burke said. I think all of you know where I stand, so I'm not going to say a word. Give Burke his answer.”
There was an angry roar of indignation, and when it died away, individual voices could be heard.
“Turn the no-account varmint out of this wagon train.”
“Give him to the Comanches.”
“String him up.”
Burke turned his back on them and returned to his wagon. McQuade said nothing, and the uproar subsided. When Doctor Puckett had removed the arrows and tended Creeker's wounds, he spoke to McQuade.
“The wound to his shoulder is the most serious. While the arrow in his side looked bad, it had struck a rib and didn't go deep. He may come out of this without infection, since it was tended quickly.”
Since Creeker would be in no condition to take charge of the first watch, McQuade sought out Gunter Warnell.
“Gunter, will you take over the first watch while Creeker's unable to?”
“Sure,” said Warnell. “What do you aim to do about the Burkes?”
“Nothing,” McQuade said, “unless they create trouble.”
The Burkes wasted no time. Sometime before midnight, Mary screamed and McQuade awoke to find the wagon canvas in flames. He shoved Mary out of the wagon and tore at the canvas. Others came to his aid and the burning canvas was ripped away, saving the contents and the rest of the wagon.

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