Across the Rio Colorado Read online

  The dawn broke to a chill wind and an overcast sky. While water obviously wouldn’t be a problem, McQuade wasn’t satisfied to ignore the danger of Indian attack. So he rode ahead as usual, looking for sign. Once the rain came, there would be no sign, and the Kiowa might be just over the next ridge. But McQuade saw no Indian sign, and he found a suitable creek not more than eight miles distant. The day’s drive would be short, but they needed time to circle the wagons, graze the stock, and lay in as much dry firewood as time permitted. The rain might last for several days. As McQuade was riding back to meet the wagons, he could hear the rumble of distant thunder. There would be lightning, one of the hazards most feared by a frontiersman. Most of the families in his party had wisely avoided overloading their wagons. A man and his wife might be crowded, but at least they could sleep dry. He thought of Mary, as he so often did, and the changes she had brought to his life. But she had changed as well, from those first days when she seemed afraid to speak, to a frontier woman with strength. Following the Indian attack, she had assisted him in the care of the wounded without a whimper.

  “Maybe another five miles,” McQuade shouted, upon reaching the wagons. They had all become trail-conscious to the extent that he no longer had to explain his reasoning. Not a one of them would question this short day’s drive, because of the coming storm.

  Quickly the wagons were circled, and the stock was taken to graze. They must all be brought in before the rain came, because there would be limited visibility, providing the Kiowa with a perfect opportunity for a stampede.

  “It’s mighty early for supper,” said Gunter Warnell, “but I’d rather eat now than have to hunker under a wagon, later.”

  “Let’s get the fires going, then,” Ike said. “I reckon we’ll get our share of eatin’ in the rain for the next day or two.”

  The women soon had the meal started. Ike had brought a large square of canvas, and stretched between two wagons, it provided enough shelter for a continuous fire, even in the hardest rain. Thus on rainy nights, there was always hot coffee for the men on watch. A triple watch kept enough men on duty so that each of them could remain just inside his wagon, near the rear pucker. Unless there was trouble, they could remain dry, invisible in the shadow of the wagon canvas. It afforded safety to women and children against Indians slipping into the wagons with knives. Because of the impending storm, the first watch went on duty early, and with supper over, those who could do so retired to their wagons. The rain came with a roar of rushing wind, battering the wagon canvas, and thunder shook the earth. Mules brayed and horses nickered, but the wagons had been circled three-deep, and there was nowhere to run.

  “It’s so good to have you here beside me,” said Mary. “I’m so afraid of storms.”

  “Nothing to fear except the lightning,” McQuade said, “and so far, it’s not striking.”

  But that quickly changed, and McQuade held the trembling Mary close, as brilliant blue shards of lightning rippled across the rain-swept sky. There was a resounding crack as a bolt struck a tree somewhere close, and the smell of brimstone was strong. Thunder had become continuous, each rising crescendo sounding like an echo of the last.

  “Oh, God,” Mary cried, her trembling hands covering her ears.

  There was nothing they could do except wait, and the storm continued to grow in its intensity. Finally, when it seemed to reach the very peak of its fury, lightning struck in their very midst. The concussion was so severe that it robbed McQuade of his hearing for a few seconds, but his horrified eyes saw one of the wagons disappear in a blinding blue flash. There was the quick smell of burning flesh. Then his hearing returned. A woman screamed. Quickly McQuade was out of the wagon and running, unsure as to what he could do, but feeling the need to do something. Other men were there, none of them able to get close to the furiously burning wagon. A coal-oil lantern exploded, adding to the fury.

  “The Henderson wagon,” Ike shouted, barely audible above the roar of the storm.

  The Henderson wagon was on the inside of the wagon circle, and only the driving rain saved the other nearby wagons. McQuade ran to the rear pucker of one of the wagons, and heard weeping. It was Lucy Tabor.

  “Lucy,” McQuade cried.

  “Cal’s dead,” said Lucy, between sobs.

  “Maybe not,” McQuade said, climbing into the wagon. But Cal Tabor had no pulse, and McQuade felt for the large vein in the neck. There he felt a faint throb.

  “He’s alive, Lucy. Just unconscious, and maybe with a concussion. Wrap him in all the blankets you can get your hands on.”

  McQuade left the Tabor wagon he found other men investigating nearby wagons, for the driving rain had begun to diminish the fire. While the lightning continued to flash, it was no longer striking, and in its light, McQuade recognized Maggie Peyton. Beside her was Mary, and in their night clothes they looked like a pair of half-drowned sparrows.

  “What about the Tabors?” Maggie shouted.

  “Cal’s unconscious,” McQuade shouted back. “Have you looked in on any of the others in nearby wagons?”

  “Some of them. They’re in bad shape, but nobody’s dead.”

  Slowly they came together in the rain, realizing that Ab and Flossie Henderson were gone, thankful that their loss had not been greater.

  “Back to your wagons,” said McQuade. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight. In the morning, we’ll see to them, doing what we must.”

  McQuade helped Mary into the wagon, helping her strip off the sodden gown. To his surprise, he realized he was barefooted, wearing only his drawers. Stripping them off, he used them to wipe the mud from his feet. Rolling in the blanket next to Mary, he found her weeping. He lay there holding her close until she finally slept, but for him, there was no rest. Strong on his mind was the Henderson wagon, and the charred remains within that awaited them, come the dawn.

  CHAPTER 10

  Most of Hook’s camp, Creeker, his men, and the teamsters, had to weather the storm as best they could. Mostly, they hunkered under wagons. There was one hilarious moment, however, when Hook lost his tent. Once the ground had grown sodden from the torrential rain, the storm-bred wind had gotten beneath the tent, ripping the stakes loose. The tent was swept away into the sky, leaving Hook standing there cursing. Dawn broke without any end of the rain in sight.

  “Damn it,” Groat moaned, “we’ll be stuck here a week, waitin’ for the sun to dry up all this mud.”

  But the rain slacked to a drizzle, and by early afternoon the sky had begun to clear. With help from some of the teamsters, Hook rescued his wayward tent from a tree. The men were in a better frame of mind by supper time, for just a few hours of sun had begun to dry the ground. After supper, Hook spoke to Hedgepith, and the two entered the tent, where Hook lighted a lantern.

  “Hedgepith,” said Hook, “I want you to destroy any and all papers entitling Lora Kirby to a land grant in Texas. Any other promises I may have made in writing, I want voided and destroyed. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Hedgepith replied, “but I disagree with you. The grant you have promised her depends on her proving up. If she fails—which she will—then the grant reverts to you. Excluding her will mean one less grant. I can’t see hurting us financially, just because your personal relationship with her has gone to hell.”

  Hedgepith was caught totally off guard by Hook’s reaction. His right fist smashed into the lawyer’s chin, tipping over the stool and spilling Hedgepith to the ground.

  “My relationships are none of your damn business,” Hook snarled, “and only through my generosity are you sharing anything with me. I’m considering reducing your share, and it’s becoming a temptation not to cut you out of it completely.”

  “You’ll never do that,” said Hedgepith, sitting up and wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “I gave up my practice in St. Louis, just on your word, and you’re going to keep it. Perhaps I can’t make you, but I can make you wish you had.”

  “Are you threating me,
you damn fool?” When Hook laughed, it was evil and without humor. “There’ll be no law in Texas, except what I allow. I can put an end to all your legal hocus-pocus with a little piece of lead.”

  Xavier Hedgepith said no more. He got to his feet and left the tent, and nobody within the camp seemed aware of the hard words between himself and Hook. And that suited Hedgepith perfectly.

  When the rain had ceased, McQuade and some of the other men contemplated what remained of the Henderson wagon.

  “It’s only fittin’ and proper that we do somethin’ for them,” said Ike, “but I purely got no stomach for siftin’ through them ashes.”

  “We have plenty of shovels,” McQuade said. “Why don’t we all pitch in and cover the remains with dirt? The earth is soft from the rain, and we can still bury them deep.”

  “I believe that’s best,” said Will Haymes.

  The others nodded their agreement, and they all took turns with the shovels. Within two hours they had a mound that would soon grass over, a grave more suitable than any of them had thought possible. Mary brought Miles Flanagan’s bible, and Ike Peyton read appropriate passages from it.

  “It was them that was taken and us that was spared,” said Ike, in closing, “and this ought to be as much a giving of thanks as a memorial to the Hendersons.”

  Despite the clearing skies and sunshine, there was a sadness, a sense of loss, that had descended upon them like a shroud. Most of the men occupied their time by taking the horses and mules to graze, but there was little for the women to do until supper time.

  “We need to leave this place as soon as we can,” Gunter Warnell observed. “We can’t forget what happened here, as long as we’re right on top of it.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said McQuade. “Maybe we ought to keep to high ground as much as we can, and move on in the morning.”

  “Let’s gamble on it,” Cal Tabor said. “I’d rather be fightin’ the mud than just sittin’ here waiting.”

  Rufus Hook spent the day in his tent, even after the skies had cleared and the sun had come out. He appeared briefly at supper, ignoring everybody and being ignored in turn. As had become the custom in Indian Territory, supper fires were extinguished before dark, and Hook no longer used a lantern. There was no movement within the camp until far in the night, when Lora Kirby slipped away to her rendezvous with Riley Creeker. But while Creeker and the girl talked of the future in Texas, a shadow crept toward the tent where Rufus Hook slept. Ever so stealthily it moved, and in its right hand the starlight glinted off the blade of a long knife …

  When everybody had eaten breakfast and Hook hadn’t appeared, Ampersand went to the tent and called to Hook. When his appeals went unanswered, the elderly Negro opened the flap and looked inside. With a terrified shriek, he turned and ran.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Groat demanded.

  Ampersand couldn’t speak. He pointed toward the tent with a shaking hand. Creeker, Groat, and Ellis went to investigate. When they stepped out of the tent, everybody in the party had gathered, wondering what had happened.

  “Hook’s dead,” said Creeker. “Somebody slit his throat from ear to ear.”

  “Them damn Indians,” Hiram Savage said.

  “I don’t think so,” said Creeker. “We had the wagons circled, with plenty of men on watch, and there ain’t that much cover around us.”

  “You’re sayin’ it was one of us that done him in?” said Snakehead Presnall.

  “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’,” Creeker replied.

  “We got no law, no proof,” said Slaughter, one of the teamsters, “and there’s nothing we can do for Hook. What’s to become of Hook’s wagons and goods, and who’s goin’ to pay us, when we reach Texas?”

  “Nothing has changed,” Xavier Hedgepith said. “Hook and I had an agreement that if anything should happen to him, I would follow through with his plans.”

  “Damned convenient for you,” said Creeker.

  “Are you accusing me?” Hedgepith snarled.

  “Take it any way you like,” said Creeker.

  “McQuade and his party should be told of Hook’s death,” Doctor Puckett said.

  “No,” Hedgepith said. “Insofar as the grants are concerned, nothing has changed. All the administrative work would have been done by me, not Hook. I will act on behalf of all, including McQuade’s party. For the time being, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. We have a duty to see that Mr. Hook is properly buried. Will some of you be responsible for the digging of a grave?”

  “Long as we’re gettin’ paid,” said Slaughter. “Hansard, will you help?”

  “Yeah,” said Hansard. “I’ll help.”

  Creeker began saddling his horse, getting Hedgepith’s attention.

  “Where are you going?” Hedgepith demanded.

  “These Indians are gettin’ so bold, I’m goin’ to look around for some sign,” Creeker replied.

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Hedgepith, but he said no more. With the mud, there was no possible way they could take the trail anytime soon, and Hedgepith wished to be rid of Creeker and his suspicions. Creeker rode north until he was well away from the wagons, and he then rode southwest, the direction they must later travel.

  “I think we’ll make this a short day, because of the wet ground,” McQuade said, as he prepared to scout ahead. “When you take the trail, keep to the high ground as much as you can.”

  With that, McQuade rode out. The condition of the ground was such that if Indians had been near since the rain ended, there would be tracks. McQuade had been gone only a short time, when Ike Peyton, in one of the lead wagons, shouted the caravan to a halt. A hundred yards ahead of them, a rider had trotted his horse out of the brush. He sat facing them, his hands shoulder-high, and shouted a question.

  “Where’s McQuade?”

  “Who wants him, and for what purpose?” Ike inquired.

  “This is Creeker, and I have some information for him. I’m alone, and I’m peaceful.”

  “McQuade’s scoutin’ ahead,” said Ike, “and he’s been gone only a few minutes.”

  “I’ll catch up to him, then,” Creeker said. “I’m obliged.” He quickly galloped away.

  “What in tarnation is that all about?” Gunter Warnell wondered.

  “I got an idea we’ll know, after he talks to McQuade,” said Ike. “It sure didn’t hurt, us helpin’ Creeker and his bunch escape them Indians. Makes me wonder if somethin’ big ain’t took place in Hook’s camp that McQuade ought to know.”

  Creeker rode on, expecting McQuade to challenge him, and McQuade did.

  “That’s far enough, until I know who you are. You’re covered.”

  “I’m Creeker, and I have some information for you.”

  Leading his horse, McQuade stepped out of some brush and waited for Creeker to join him. Creeker dismounted, and quickly related to McQuade what had happened to Hook, and Hedgepith’s intention of taking over.

  “I reckon we’ve swapped the devil for a witch,” said McQuade.

  “You think there’s goin’ to be trouble with Hedgepith, once we reach Texas, then?” Creeker said.

  “Probably more than we’d have ever had with Hook,” McQuade replied. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re dead right,” said Creeker. “Even before Hook was killed, me and my bunch was mostly mindin’ our business, with plans of our own, when we get to Texas. Now, with Hedgepith in the saddle, that’s all the more important.”

  “Hook had plans for you there,” McQuade said, “and you’re expecting Hedgepith to try and hold you to them.”

  “Hook had plans, made legal by Hedgepith, to claim grants in the names of every man of us, and then, for little or nothing, have us sign the grants over to him. While I can’t speak for Hook’s teamsters and the rest of his followers, those of us you cut loose from the Indians are taking our grants. Without law any closer than Mexico, that lawyer stuff of Hedgepith’s ain’t worth the pape
r he wrote it on.”

  “That’s exactly the way the rest of us feel,” said McQuade. “We’ve all been expecting a showdown with Hook, once we reached Texas. Now it looks like the showdown may become a bigger fight than any of us expected. But I believe we should play our cards close until we get to Texas. We still have Kiowa ahead of us, and beyond them, the Comanches, so we’re in no position to challenge Hedgepith. I aim to see that my party knows what I’ve just learned from you, but we’ll say or do nothing to warn Hedgepith.”

  “That’s the way we’re goin’ to play it,” Creeker said. “If Hedgepith comes up with anything you should know, I’ll get word to you.”

  “We’re obliged,” said McQuade. “If you need help on the trail, or after we finally get to Texas, we’ll side you.”

  “I’m makin’ you the same offer,” Creeker said. “We don’t forget who our friends are.”

  Impulsively, Creeker offered his hand and McQuade took it. Then, without a word, each mounted his horse. Creeker rode back the way he had come, while McQuade went on the way he had started. When McQuade found a suitable place to circle the wagons for the night, he rode back to meet the caravan. The sun bore down with a vengeance, drying the land. While the teams were being rested, McQuade took the opportunity to relate what he had learned from Creeker.

  “I ain’t trusted Hedgepith since I first laid eyes on the varmint,” said Hardy Kilgore.

  “Me neither,” Eli Bibb said. “Sure as hell, he kilt Hook, or had it done.”

  Most of the others were suspicious of Hedgepith, and McQuade could see doubt in their eyes, a dread that their chance for a Texas land grant had died with Rufus Hook.

  “Nothing’s changed,” McQuade assured them, “except that we’ll be dealing with this lawyer, Hedgepith, instead of Hook. Creeker tells me that Hedgepith’s responsible for all the legal papers. What we might have in our favor is that the Mexican government may not accept Hedgepith as a replacement for Hook.”