Across the Rio Colorado (24 page)

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Authors: Ralph Compton

BOOK: Across the Rio Colorado
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“Now who do you reckon is responsible for that?” Ike Peyton said.
“I have my suspicions,” said McQuade. “Some of you come with me. I'm going to pay a visit to the Burkes.”
McQuade had purposely assigned the Burkes to the second watch, and he wasn't in the least surprised to find them all awake, for it was close to midnight. He was surprised, however, to find them all gloriously drunk. Luke and Selma were there, as well.
“Well, McQuade,” said Andrew, “we was just about to mosey over there an' see what all the excitement was about. Hell of a time for a fire, with the Comanches gatherin'.”
“Where did you get the whiskey, Burke?”
Burke laughed. “We ain't got a drop of whiskey. Drunk it all.”
Selma giggled, and Luke caught her to keep her from falling. Foolish grins on their faces, Matthew and Mark leaned against the wagon. Andrew sat on the ground, his back against a wagon wheel, his old hat tipped down over his eyes. Not only had many of the men followed McQuade, but some of the women had, too. McQuade turned to them.
“We won't get anywhere with this bunch until they're sober,” said McQuade. “There's a place in the river where we watered the stock, where the water's shallow.”
McQuade seized Andrew Burke by the ankles, dragging him away from the wagon. Ike Peyton caught him under the arms, and they headed for the river. Burke cursed them every step of the way. With a heave, McQuade and Ike slung him off the bank and into the shallow water. Other men had seized Matthew, Mark, and Luke in a similar
fashion, and they quickly joined their father. Not to be outdone, Maggie Peyton and Ellen Warnell brought Selma, kicking and screaming, to the river bank. She too was thrown in. The lot of them sat there cursing, and McQuade had an answer for that.
“The lot of you are going to sit there until you shut your mouths,” said McQuade.
“Damn right,” Ike said. “We'll stand here till daylight, if need be, throwin' the lot of you back in, for as long as it takes. When you're sober enough to come out of there, we'll talk about some rules for you varmints.”
Everybody stood there in grim silence, and it was Selma who gave in first.
“I'm freezing. I want to come out.”
“Come on,” said McQuade, “and then I want you to return to your wagon.”
She crawled out on hands and knees, nobody offering to help her. When she got to her feet, she stumbled off toward her wagon.
“By God, I'm comin' out,” Matthew said, “and anybody tries to put me back, he comes in with me.”
“I'll put you back,” said McQuade, “if that's what it takes.”
Matthew crawled out and sat on the bank, squeezing the water out of his hair. Mark, Luke, and Andrew followed.
“Now,” McQuade said, “we're going to talk about my burned wagon canvas.”
“You got no proof we burnt your damn wagon canvas,” said Andrew sullenly.
“I don't know of another soul in this outfit who would have set fire to my wagon canvas,” McQuade said. “Only you Burkes. But I don't have any proof. What do the rest of you think should be done?”
Without a word, a dozen men quickly stripped the canvas from the Burke wagon.
“We got no proof,” said Ike, “but we know you Burkes pretty damn well. Consider it your own wagon
canvas you burnt. We still got to deal with you for stealin' that whiskey, but we'll leave that up to McQuade.”
“From now on,” McQuade said, “at least one of the men on watch will be stationed at those wagons loaded with whiskey. Anybody breaking into these wagons is subject to being shot. Will, that will be your post for the rest of the night. You Burkes have played out your string. I've reached the point that I could shoot the whole damn lot of you, and still sleep with a clear conscience.”
With that, McQuade turned away, and except for the Burkes, everybody followed. The men who had stripped the canvas from the Burke wagon quickly stretched it over the bows of McQuade's wagon and secured it to the wagon box.
“Come on, Mary,” said McQuade, taking her arm, “and get what sleep you can. I'll be going on watch pretty soon, and I'll just wait until then.”
“Do be careful,” she cautioned. “One of them could shoot you in the back.”
He said nothing, realizing the truth of it. He found Ike leaning against his wagon.
“Sooner or later,” said Ike, “one of that bunch is goin' to try to kill you.”
“They've tried before,” McQuade said. “I've had to shoot two of them. That's why they're down on me.”
“Don't turn your back on them,” said Ike. “If they cause any more trouble, I believe we should cut their wagon out of the circle and let them shift for themselves.”
“It's a temptation,” McQuade said. He made the rounds, speaking to the other men on watch, finding most of them of the same mind as Ike. When he reached the Burke wagon, he found Andrew, Matthew, Mark, and Luke there. All had changed into dry clothes, for in the starlight, he could see the wet ones strung across the wagon bows to dry.
“The lot of you are on the second watch,” said McQuade, “and it's in progress.”
“We just ain't in the mood for it, McQuade,” Andrew said. “Some other time.”
“Your choice,” said McQuade. “If you refuse to pull your weight, your wagon can be cut out of the circle. There's already been talk of that, and we'll vote on it tomorrow. I've made the rounds, and I haven't seen Luke. Pass the word along to him.”
McQuade made the rounds of the guard posts at least once an hour. He had caught a few of the younger men sleeping—or worse—gathering to talk. He wasn't surprised when he again visited the various posts, when he found the Burkes where they were assigned. Even Luke was there. McQuade said nothing. He didn't doubt that any one or all four of them would back-shoot him if the opportunity presented itself, but there was a measure of safety in the fact that so many feared exactly that. While the Burkes hadn't been there for the hanging of the captured members of Gid Sutton's gang, they were very much aware of it. If McQuade were shot in the back and the guilty Burke couldn't be singled out, every one of them would face the swift justice of the rope. McQuade doubted any of them hated him that much. He made his way to Doctor Puckett's wagon, expecting the doctor to be awake, and he was. The man never slept when the wounded might become feverish and need whiskey to fight infection. It was a trait McQuade admired.
“How is he, Doc?” McQuade asked softly.
“Still no fever,” said Puckett. “He's a strong man. He may pull through without fever or infection.”
“I hope he does,” McQuade said. “We should reach the Brazos tomorrow, and it's from there that Creeker and me will ride to Houston's camp.”
“You could take someone else with you,” said Puckett. “He won't be comfortable in a saddle for at least a week.”
“From what I've seen of him, he won't wait that long,” McQuade replied. “He's come a long way—he and his
friends—since they hired on with Hook in St. Louis.”
“A lot of us have,” said Puckett. “I must admit I wasn't proud of our outfit with Hook in control, and less so when it fell into Hedgepith's hands. Frankly, I had little confidence in Creeker and the men who accompanied him, but it was they who stood up to Hook, and later, Hedgepith. It was Creeker who pulled the teamsters together and set up a defense against Indian attacks. These are the kind of men Sam Houston will need, if he's to win Texas for the United States.”
“I fully agree, Doc,” said McQuade. “God knows how many years we are away from law on the frontier. I hate being judge and jury, but we all have to be strong enough to tie a noose until something better comes along.”
“Speaking of a noose, what are we going to do about the Burkes? I thought of them when I saw your wagon canvas in flames.”
“So did everybody else, including me,” said McQuade. “We had no proof, but with all of us of the same mind, we may have taught them the error of their ways. Last time I was at their wagon, they had pulled in their horns and had taken their positions on watch.”
“They're a cowardly lot,” Puckett said. “I suppose they had been at the whiskey.”
“I haven't checked out either of the wagons,” said McQuade, “but I don't know where else they would have gotten it. From now on, there'll be a man near those wagons, with orders to shoot any and all thieves.”
“It's the devil's brew,” said Puckett. “I'd suggest that it be destroyed, but it has its place as a medicine. I know of nothing better to combat a. fever, or to drug a man, allowing him to sleep through pain.”
“I've been thinking of that,” McQuade said, “and like everything else, it'll be in short supply. If the war with Mexico comes about as we expect, it'll be needed.”
“With that in mind,” said Puckett. “I have a request. When you speak to Houston, tell him about the whiskey,
suggest that it be set aside for use as medicine. Tell him a doctor recommends it.”
“Doc, I like the way you think,” McQuade replied. “I'll use your exact words.”
McQuade went on his way, somehow feeling better for the time spent with the doctor.
At dawn, McQuade returned to Doctor Puckett's wagon, wishing to know Creeker's condition before he made plans for the day.
“Still no fever,” Doctor Puckett said. “When he wakes, we'll see how he feels.”
“He's awake,” said a voice from within the wagon, “and he feels like breakfast. Where is Lora?”
“Under the wagon, where I slept,” said Lora. “I'll bring you breakfast.”
“Quick, woman,” Creeker said. “All I can taste is whiskey. I feel like somethin' sick just crawled down my throat and died.”
“I reckon that answers my question,” said McQuade. “We'll move on to the Brazos.”
“If you scout ahead,” Creeker said, “don't go alone. I won't be there to save your hide.”
“You can rest easy,” said McQuade. “I don't aim to ride out at all. I know we have to reach the Brazos today, no matter how far it is. We'll just make as good a time as we can, startin' after breakfast.”
McQuade climbed into one of the whiskey wagons, and since everything seemed intact, went on to the second one. It was the wagon from which some barrels had been lost when the teams had stampeded, and there was some room. One of the barrels had been tapped, for the smell of whiskey was strong. The bung hole was near the top, and finding the bung on the wagon floor, McQuade used the butt of his revolver to drive the wooden plug in tight. He then wrestled the barrel up next to the others.
“Doc,” said McQuade under his breath, “you've got
ne hell of a lot of medicine here, if we can just keep the Burkes and their kind away from it.”
The wagons took the trail and all seemed secure. Since McQuade would be ahead of the lead wagons all day, he left Groat, Slack, Rucker, and Ellis behind the last wagons. The last few wagons were the most vulnerable during an Indian attack, but when the attack came, it was from a quarter least expected. The lead wagons were coming upon an
arroyo,
and with a mad whoop, mounted Indians came swarming out like angry bees. McQuade had his revolver out, but an arrow creased the rump of his horse, and the animal reared. Men reined up, leaping off their wagon boxes, prepared to fight. Guns roared, frightened mules brayed, as women on the wagon boxes fought to hold the teams. Many Indian ponies raced away riderless, and the attack ended as suddenly as it had begun. Despite his spooked horse, McQuade had accounted for two dead Comanches, but what concerned him was their wounded. The first six wagons had borne the brunt of the attack, and while a dozen deadly arrows had pierced arms and legs, only one man was down. McQuade leaped out of his saddle and ran to the fallen Ike Peyton. Maggie was already there, her face pale, her hands trembling. For all the doctoring she had done, helping others, there was nothing she could do for Ike. A Comanche arrow was buried deep in his chest and there was bloody froth on his lips. Doctor Puckett came on the run, elbowing his way through weeping women. Mary stood beside Maggie, who pushed her aside. She knelt beside Ike. His eyes had dimmed and as he recognized approaching death, he spoke.
“McQuade …”
It was little more than a whisper, and McQuade leaned close to hear any last words.
“Take care … of … Maggie …”
It was the end. McQuade stumbled to his feet, wiping streaming eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. Someone took his arm, and it was a moment before he could see well
enough to recognize Mary. Maggie stood up, her weathered face a mask of pain, and when her knees gave way, it was Doctor Puckett who caught her.
“Take her to our wagon, Doc,” said McQuade, “and Mary, you stay with her.”
“That would be best,” Puckett said. “We have many wounded.”

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