Across the Rio Colorado Page 2

  “Derby hats, boiled shirts, clawhammer coats, and Sunday britches,” said Cal Tabor in disgust. “Who you reckon will be replacin’ their busted axles and broken wheels?”

  “Not me, by God,” Will Haymes said.

  “I reckon it can’t get much worse,” said Ike Peyton.

  But it could and did. The Reverend Miles Flanagan, an old zealot whose only sermon was fire, brimstone, and damnation, arrived.

  “I am the Reverend Miles Flanagan,” he said, by way of introduction, “and this is my daughter, Mary. Should any man of you look at her with lust in your hearts, I shall command Almighty God to strike you dead.”

  Mary, with blond hair and blue eyes, looked to be maybe twenty-five, and she kept her eyes on her clasped hands. Chance McQuade regarded the girl with interest, wondering if she were about to expire with shame. Flanagan had brought a tent, and while the girl struggled to erect it, the Reverend sat on the wagon seat, studying his bible.

  “Here,” said McQuade, “let me help you with that.”

  “Please,” she said, her eyes on Flanagan, “I can manage.”

  But McQuade helped her erect the tent, under the watchful eyes of the Reverend Flanagan. He glared at Chance as though he might order God to strike him dead at any time, and McQuade returned his gaze with all the venom he could muster.

  “Thank you,” the girl whispered.

  “You’re welcome,” McQuade replied. “My pleasure, when I can be helpful.”

  “McQuade,” said Ike Peyton, “if he can send anybody to hell, you’re goin’ to get your tail feathers burnt off to the roots.”

  “That old varmint don’t speak for the God I believe in,” McQuade said.

  Finally, a dozen men rode in, each on a good horse and armed to the teeth. McQuade walked out to meet them, and they reined up. The lead rider spoke.

  “You McQuade, the wagon boss?”

  “I am,” said McQuade. “Who are you, and the pack ridin’ with you?”

  “I’m Creeker. Eventually you’ll meet the rest of the boys, but for now, their names won’t mean nothin’. Mr. Hook’s hired us to shoot Injuns an’ anybody else that gits too troublesome. You take care of the wagons, an’ we’ll git along.”

  McQuade said nothing. The dozen riders unsaddled near the river, allowing their horses to roll.

  “My God,” said Gunter Warnell, “that’s got to be a bunch of killers.”

  “I expect you’re right,” McQuade said. “I’m startin’ to wonder what kind of town this is goin’ to be, considerin’ the kind of materials Hook’s usin’ to build it.”

  “I aim to talk to some of the other families,” said Ike Peyton. “From what I’ve seen, we ought to organize. I don’t like the looks of some of the folks that’ll be goin’ with us.”

  “Hell, I’d pull out and go back to Indiana,” Eli Babb said, “but Hook made it clear he wasn’t refundin’ anybody’s money. I ain’t givin’ the old buzzard two hundred dollars, and I want that grant I been promised.”

  In the days that followed, sixteen more wagons arrived, increasing the total to a hundred and twenty. The teamsters, hired by Rufus Hook, were all close-mouthed, but it wasn’t difficult for McQuade to learn what the wagons contained. There was barrel after barrel of flour, sugar, and molasses. There were hundred-pound sacks of beans, whole hams, sides of bacon, bags of roasted coffee beans, clothing, boots, hats, kegs of coal oil, black powder, rifles, revolvers, knives, smoking tobacco, and plug. Two entire wagons had been devoted to barreled whiskey. There were even a few books and a chalk board for the proposed school.

  “We ain’t seen the school marm yet,” Cal Tabor said.

  “But I got an idea we will,” said Will Haymes.

  And they did. The last day of April, Rufus Hook showed up in the last wagon, and he had with him a girl who didn’t look a day past eighteen. When Hook reined up, almost all the families were represented. Many intended to complain about the less-than-desirable individuals with whom they would be traveling. But before anybody could say anything, Rufus Hook spoke.

  “I’m sure some of you will be surprised to find me traveling with you, but I am not the kind to take your money and send you away, into unknown circumstances. While I have bargained in good faith with the Stephen Austin estate, I intend to be there, assuring myself that each of you receive the land you have been promised. I am sure enough of the future of the proposed town of Hookville, that I have personally funded a young lady who will teach school there. This is Lora Kirby.”

  “By God,” said Eli Bibb, loud enough for everybody to hear, “that gal’s been doin’ all her educatin’ in a saloon, and she ain’t been usin’ books.”

  There was a roar of laughter, and Hook pounded his fist on the wagon seat. When he had them silenced, he spoke again, angrily.

  “For every dollar each of you have paid, I am investing thousands, and I won’t have any of you speaking ill of those who are working for me. I have gone to great lengths to see that this journey is as pleasant and as safe as possible. If any one of you—man, woman, or child—interferes with my destiny, the consequences will be severe.”

  Flicking the reins, he drove on toward the river. There he reined up, helping Lora Kirby down. Unbidden, Creeker and another of the hired guns unloaded yet another tent from Hook’s wagon, and began erecting it.

  “That’s an almighty big tent, for one gent,” said Cal Tabor.

  “But just about right for one old buzzard and a saloon woman turned school marm,” Eli Bibb said.

  “My woman ain’t likin’ none of this,” said Cal Tabor, “and she says most of the other women don’t like it either. But what are we goin’ to do about it?”

  “Them of us that feels that way ought to draw up some rules,” Ike Peyton said. “You got any ideas, McQuade?”

  “Yeah,” said McQuade. “Do what I aim to do. Those of you who can’t stomach this bunch that Hook’s bringin’ along, keep away from them. Plan your supper fires together. Me, I got no choice. I’ll be taking my meals from the cook wagon. But aside from that, I aim to mind my own business to the extent that I can.”

  “You’re sayin’ if there’s trouble, we can’t count on you?” Ike Peyton asked.

  “Get together as many as you can of like mind,” said McQuade, “and I’ll side you, if it comes to that. Mind you, I’m just the wagon boss and guide. I can’t tell Hook not to spend his nights in that tent with his school marm, just to please your women. But I’ll do everything I can to keep your wagons rolling, and if anybody—including Hook—does anything harmful to the train, they’ll answer to me. I’ll stand up to them with a gun, if I have to.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” Ike Peyton said. “I’ll line up some others who’ll side you, if it comes to that.”

  “Do that,” said McQuade. “Remember, we take the trail tomorrow, and I look for some things to change, pronto, once we leave here.”

  The trail to Texas. May 1, 1837.

  “Wagons, ho,” McQuade shouted.

  The wagons took the trail three abreast. McQuade had made no arrangements with Rufus Hook as to where his wagons were to fit into the scheme of things, and as a result, Hook’s twenty-one wagons ended up at the very end of the train. McQuade rode ahead of the wagons, guiding them south and slightly to the west. Once the wagons were moving, McQuade rode back down the line, looking for potential trouble. He found it immediately, for Rufus Hook was beckoning to him.

  “McQuade,” said Hook, “I don’t like my wagons following the others. Some of my teamsters are falling behind.”

  “Mr. Hook,” McQuade said, not bothering to conceal his disgust, “some of your men are not teamsters, and that’s your problem, not mine. Your wagons have dribbled in over the past two weeks. You and your men have ignored me. I made it a point to work with these people who are ahead of you, they know where they’re supposed to be, and they’re not falling behind. I’d suggest that you tighten your ranks and pace your teams to ours. Hostile Indians like n
othing better than to find a train split, with a few wagons lagging behind. I have my wagons organized, and I’d suggest you organize yours.”

  McQuade rode on to the tag end of the train, circled it and started back. He grinned at Creeker and his heavily armed companions, as they followed Hook’s wagons, eating dust. Most of the emigrants had horses and cows trailing their wagons on lead ropes, and they, in addition to the wagons, stirred up enormous clouds of dust. McQuade rode alongside Ike Peyton’s wagon, and Peyton spoke.

  “How’re they makin’ it back yonder?”

  McQuade laughed. “If this was a cattle drive, they’d all be ridin’ drag. Hook wants his wagons to take the lead. I told him no.”

  “Thanks,” said Peyton. “I reckon it’ll get rough before we reach Texas.”

  “I reckon,” McQuade agreed. “I’ve been down some hard trails, but I have a feeling this one will be the granddaddy of them all.”

  Chance McQuade didn’t know just how right he was.

  CHAPTER 1

  Without Rufus Hook being aware of it, Chance McQuade had quietly singled out every man among the hundred families he believed he could trust. Thus more than sixty men within the train were prepared to assist McQuade in any way they could. While it would be impossible for McQuade to be aware of everything that took place within the ranks, word could be relayed to him rapidly. Almost every wagon had at least one good horse trailing on a lead rope, a definite advantage in case of outlaw or Indian attack. Once the train was moving, McQuade rode alongside Ike Peyton’s wagon.

  “Ike, I’m scouting ahead to find water for the night. If there’s trouble, fire three shots.”

  Peyton nodded. Maggie, his wife, sat stiffly beside him. She didn’t yet share his dreams of a Texas land grant. As he rode, McQuade sorted out the families, studying strengths and weaknesses. While there were just a hundred emigrant wagons, there were more than four hundred emigrants, for a good four-fifths of the men had wives, sons, and daughters. The rest were single men who had teamed up, with as many as four to a wagon. McQuade saw them as potential trouble, for there had been fistfights over various women, before the train had taken the trail. Some of these single men had bought whiskey in St. Louis, and when boredom overtook them, McQuade reckoned he would have to crack some heads. Eventually he came upon a creek with sufficient graze to supplement the grain carried in each of the wagons.

  “About twelve miles, hoss. About all we can expect out of ’em, the first day. You get yourself a drink, and we’ll ride on back.”

  Estimating the distance at nine miles, McQuade met the wagons. There was something he must settle with Rufus Hook, and he decided to be done with it. Hailing the leaders, he waited until the wagons were near enough for him to be heard.

  “Rein up, when you cross that ridge yonder. Give your teams a rest.”

  McQuade rode on, noting that other wagons had begun to slow as the leaders followed his orders to rest the teams. It would provide an opportunity for McQuade to speak to Rufus Hook. By the time McQuade reached Hook’s wagon, it and the rest of his entourage had ground to a halt. Hands on his knees, chewing an unlit cigar, Hook sat like a nervous toad. He said nothing while Lora Kirby eyed McQuade with interest.

  “It’s customary to circle the wagons at the end of the day,” said McQuade, without any greeting. “Do you want to circle your wagons with the rest, or will you have a circle of your own? I suppose I should tell you that most of your emigrants don’t favor mixing with whores, gamblers, and gunslingers.”

  Hook laughed, and it was ugly without humor. “Is that their terminology or yours, McQuade?”

  “Mine,” said McQuade bluntly.

  “We have enough wagons for our own circle,” said Hook. “Never let it be said that Rufus Hook corrupted any righteous man who was unwilling. For those who are willing, you may spread the word that after supper, there will be gambling, whiskey, and other entertainment available at the Hooktown Saloon tent.”

  Lora Kirby laughed, and McQuade said nothing. Words failed him, and he rode away. From the seat of his wagon, Miles Flanagan was watching. Mary sat beside him, and again Chance McQuade was drawn to her. For an instant her eyes met his, and she quickly looked away. On impulse, McQuade reined up next to their wagon.

  “Preacher,” said McQuade, “when we circle the wagons for the night, Rufus Hook aims to have a circle of his own. Within that circle, there’ll be a saloon tent, with whiskey, gambling, and … women. You’re welcome to join our circle.”

  “Mr. Hook has promised to build me a church when we reach Texas,” Flanagan said stiffly. “I must assume he is an honorable man, until he convinces me otherwise.”

  “I reckon he’s about to do that,” said McQuade. “I’m told the devil quotes scripture when it suits his purpose.”

  “Don’t talk down to me, you young fool,” Flanagan roared.

  McQuade said no more. Wheeling his horse, he rode back to the head of the caravan.

  “Father,” said the girl timidly, “suppose he is telling the truth?”

  “We shall see,” Flanagan said shortly.

  Reaching the head of the caravan, McQuade waved his hat. “Move ’em out,” he shouted.

  The big wagons rumbled on. A cow got loose from a lead rope and went loping away, pursued by a young girl and her mother. McQuade rode ahead, reining up when he reached the creek where they would circle the wagons for the night. He guided Ike Peyton’s and Gunter Warnell’s wagons into position, one beside the other. The others, using the first two as a guide, formed a rough circle two abreast. The huge circle crossed the creek at two points, allowing water for the stock and for cooking.

  “All the horses, mules, and other livestock goes into the circle,” McQuade shouted.

  “I like that,” said Eli Bibb, “all the stock bein’ in the circle.”

  “Not often I’ve been able to do it,” McQuade said. “You have to have lots of wagons. This is about the only way to avoid having Indians or renegades stampede the horses and mules.”

  Supper fires blazed at every wagon. It was time for Chance McQuade to take his first meal at Rufus Hook’s cook wagon, and he found himself reluctant to go there. What was wrong with him? He put his mind to it, and almost immediately came up with the answer. His confidence lay with the emigrants who squatted around their supper fires, who likely had sold everything they owned, for teams and wagons to take them to the Rio Colorado. That, he concluded, was why he felt like a bull in a sheep pen when he was near Rufus Hook’s camp. With misgivings, his dismounted near the cook wagon, nodding to the aged cook, Ampersand. Being there ahead of the others, he accepted the tin plate of food and the tin cup of coffee offered him. There was steak, beans, boiled potatoes, hot biscuits, and dried apple pie. While he couldn’t fault the food, he had little appetite. He watched as some of Hook’s hired guns erected a large tent. When they had it up, one of them backed a wagon to the entrance. They unloaded tables, chairs, and a roulette wheel. From a second wagon, two men manhandled a barrel of whiskey to the ground. It was rolled into the newly erected tent. The canvas was removed from the first wagon, revealing an upright piano. The rear of the wagon was then backed into the tent. One of the women was helped into the wagon, and taking her seat on a stool, began playing the piano. Even as McQuade watched, men from the farthest circle of wagons, men without wives, wandered into the saloon tent where a makeshift bar had been set up. Four of the men were the Burkes—old Andrew, Matthew, Mark, and Luke. They eyed McQuade, daring him to challenge them. But McQuade said nothing, finishing his supper. The woman at the piano struck up a lively tune, and the rest of the women quickly found partners for a rollicking dance. Men had brought tin cups, and the whiskey flowed freely. Snakehead Presnall sat at one of the tables, shuffling a deck of cards. Hook’s gun-throwers had begun filing by the wagon, having their plates served. Doctor Horace Puckett and Attorney Xavier Hedgepith sat at one of the tables in the saloon tent, a bottle between them. There was no sign of Rufus Hook or Lora Kirby,
but that seemed about to change. As the revelry in the saloon tent increased, the Reverend Miles Flanagan stepped down from his wagon box. For a horrified moment, he fixed his eyes on the saloon tent. Mary Flanagan sat on the wagon seat, her face pale, expecting the worst. It wasn’t long in coming. Flanagan stalked to the big tent which had been erected for Rufus Hook and Lora Kirby. Standing there with hands on his hips, he issued a challenge.

  “Mr. Hook, this is the Reverend Flanagan. I would have a word with you.”

  “Later,” Hook shouted.

  “Now,” Flanagan shouted back.

  Flanagan said no more. Seizing a tent post to the left of the tent, he wrenched it out of the ground. Quickly he repeated his performance with the tent post to the right, and the front of the tent collapsed. Hook fought his way free and stood facing Flanagan. Trying mightily to control his temper, he spoke.

  “Reverend Flanagan, I will excuse a man an occasional mistake. This time, I’m making allowances for you being a preacher. I won’t do it again. Now tell me what you want, and then get out of my sight.”

  “What I want,” said Flanagan, “is for you to shut down this Sodom and Gomorrah in our midst. When I agreed to accompany you to this proposed town in Texas, I wasn’t told of your intention to create dens of iniquity such as this. I won’t tolerate it, sir.”

  “Preacher,” Hook replied, “my inviting you to Texas don’t give you a license to run my business. We ain’t that far from St. Louis. You’re welcome to hitch up your teams and return there.”

  With that, he turned away, beckoning to his hired guns, who were eating supper. Four of them put down their plates. While two seized the tent stakes and drew the ropes tight, the others took sledges and drove the stakes back into the ground. Miles Flanagan looked around, and the only friendly face he saw was that of Chance McQuade. It was to McQuade that he spoke.