Across the Rio Colorado Page 5

  “My God,” said one of the cowboys, “what’s that?”

  McQuade laughed. “That’s Rufus Hook’s piano.”

  With some help from some of the other men, McQuade told the Texans about Hook and his grandiose plans for building a town.

  “I never heard of such,” Guthrie said. “You mean he’s got a saloon out here on the plains, with women, whiskey, and gambling?”

  “That he has,” said McQuade, “and since you was kind enough to warn us about the Kiowa and the Comanche, I’m warning you gents about Rufus Hook’s saloon.”

  Guthrie laughed. “There ain’t a saloon between New Orleans and San Francisco Texans can’t tame. I reckon we’d best ride over there and have a look at Hook’s rolling medicine show. If he aims to set up a saloon in Texas, he’ll have to get used to us. We’ll give him a head start.”

  They mounted and rode away, and after they had gone, Ike Peyton spoke.

  “They’re a likable bunch, and I hate to see ’em ride over to Hook’s place. If they got any money, Hook will get it, and then have them shot if they protest.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said McQuade. “They’re all armed, and they’ve been fighting the Comanche and the Kiowa.”

  There was no further conversation, for McQuade and his people were listening for some sign the Texans had arrived. It took less than half an hour, and then there were no gunshots. There was shouting, cursing, and the sound of glass breaking. The piano became silent, and what obviously was a brawl in progress continued for some minutes. Finally there was the sound of walking horses, and when they were near enough, McQuade called out a challenge.

  “That’s far enough. Identify yourselves.

  “Guthrie and friends. What’s left of us.”

  “Come on,” said McQuade.

  Guthrie and two of his cowboys were mounted. The other two were slung over their saddles.

  “Dead?” McQuade inquired.

  “Not quite,” said Guthrie. “They jumped us, two to one, and just pistol-whipped the hell out of us. I don’t know how bad Pete and Juno’s hurt.”

  “Ike, Gunter, and Eli, help me get these men off their horses and into the wagon circle,” McQuade said. “Guthrie, you and your amigos come along. We have medicine and bandages.”

  A fire had been kept so that men on watch would have coffee. Maggie Peyton set the coffee pot aside and hung a pot of water to boil. Ellen Warnell and Odessa Bibb brought medicine kits. Mary Flanagan was there, offering her help, if needed. While Guthrie and two of his cowboys were on their feet, they had lost blood, having been cut with knives or broken bottles. Their heads had been bloodied, but they weren’t hurt nearly as bad as the two men who were unconscious. Their scalp wounds were serious to the extent that Lucy Tabor and Minerva Haymes had to sew the lacerated scalp together with needle and thread.

  “These men need rest,” said Maggie Peyton. “Why don’t you leave them here for the night, so we can look after them?”

  “That’s kind of you, ma’am,” Guthrie said, “but I reckon it’s our own fault we got all busted up. We wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

  “It’s no burden,” said Ike. “The rest of you can stay, if you want.”

  “I reckon not,” Guthrie said. “Somebody’s got to take over the watch at midnight. If you will look after Pete and Juno, I’d be obliged. We’ll leave their horses, and some of us will be here in the morning, early.”

  Unsteadily they mounted their horses and rode away.

  “I’m sorry they went to Hook’s saloon,” said Maggie Peyton. “We don’t even know why they were beaten.”

  “They didn’t talk much,” McQuade said, “but I’d say Hook’s in for a surprise. While these Texas hombres are polite and quiet, they don’t take to being pushed around. It’s not over.”

  And it wasn’t. An hour before first light, all hell broke loose. There was the roar of guns, the bawling of cattle, the thunder of hooves. Men shouted and whooped, and there were shrieks of terror from women within the Hook wagons. Glass shattered, and there was a thud as a wagon was toppled. Horses nickered, mules brayed, and suddenly it was over.

  “My God,” said Cal Tabor, in awe, “what happened?”

  McQuade laughed. “I’d say that herd of Texas longhorns stampeded right through Mr. Hook’s camp.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the Reverend Flanagan said.

  “Some of us ought to ride up there and have a look,” Gunter Warnell said.

  “Saddle up and come along,” said McQuade. “We wouldn’t want Mr. Hook to get the idea we don’t care.”

  Ike, Gunter, Eli, Cal, and Will saddled their horses, and not to be outdone, Reverend Flanagan rode one of his mules. While the devastation wasn’t as great as McQuade expected, it was serious enough. The thud they had heard was the piano striking the ground, for the wagon in which it had sat lay on its side. Ampersand’s cook wagon had been toppled, and the saloon tent was no more. It had been trampled into the ground, along with a pair of barrels that had contained whiskey. Tables and chairs had been reduced to firewood, while six near-naked women stood looking at their wagon, which lay on its side. Most gratifying of all, however, was the sight of Rufus Hook and Lora Kirby standing where their tent had once stood. The women looked at McQuade and his companions, and Chance tipped his hat. He wheeled his horse, and with the others following, rode back to their wagon circle. They had been there only a few minutes, when Chad Guthrie and his seven men rode in.

  “How’s Pete and Juno?” Guthrie inquired, as though nothing else had happened.

  “They’re awake and hungry,” said Maggie Peyton. “All of you are invited to eat with us, if you like.”

  “Ma‘am,” Guthrie said, “you just don’t know how welcome that invite is. We just had us a bad night. Somethin’ spooked them cows, and they’re scattered from here to yonder. We’ll be all day and tomorrow, roundin’ ’em up, and we’re two men shy.”

  “That’ll give Pete and Juno time to rest and heal,” said Ellen Warnell.

  “Your cows wrecked Hook’s camp,” Cal Tabor said. “He may come looking for you, expecting damages.”

  “Let him come,” said Guthrie. “Considerin’ what he done to us last night, after one of his slick-dealin’ gamblers cheated us, I reckon we’ll just call it even. We’re as peaceful as we’re allowed to be, but we purely ain’t opposed to shootin’ no-account coyotes that won’t have it no other way.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Chad Guthrie and his cowboys had breakfast within McQuade’s wagon circle. Pete and Juno got unsteadily to their feet, declaring themselves able to ride.

  “We’ll be here at least another day,” Guthrie said. “Maybe longer. We can’t afford to lose any of the herd, this close to market.”

  “I reckon Rufus Hook and his bunch will be leaving, after they’ve picked up all the pieces,” said McQuade, “but they’re not the forgiving kind. Be sure you post a guard.”

  “We’re obliged for your kindness,” Guthrie said. “It’s the way folks ought to be, and you’ll make good Texans. If you’re ever in east Texas, along the Trinity, look for my brand, the C-G Connected. You’ll be welcome.”

  McQuade’s wagons took the trail without seeing anybody from Hook’s camp. McQuade had learned something of the trail ahead from Guthrie and his cowboys, but he wanted to see for himself, so he rode ahead of the wagons, as usual. While good water was essential, he wasn’t nearly as concerned with that as with the possible presence of outlaws. Indian Territory had long been the refuge for hostile Indians, but it had also become a haven for renegade whites. Villages in southern Kansas, southwestern Missouri, and western Arkansas were looted by renegades who immediately disappeared into the wilds of Indian Territory. McQuade doubted that these outlaws would hesitate to attack a wagon train, if only for the livestock. When McQuade eventually found water, he also found the remnants of a fire, not more than a few hours old, and a profusion of tracks. He back-trailed them to the northwest fo
r more than two miles, primarily to determine the number of riders. He decided there were at least twenty-four. They had been following a stream, and before leaving it, had built a supper fire. McQuade followed the tracks far enough to establish a direction. The riders had circled to the southwest, telling McQuade what he wished to know. All the horses were shod, and that many white men bound for Indian Territory meant they almost had to be outlaws. He rode back to meet the oncoming wagons. He would wait until the wagons were circled and supper was done, before telling them of the tracks he had seen and his suspicions regarding them. Reaching the wagons, McQuade rode back along the line, speaking to the men and their wives, atop the wagon boxes. He tipped his hat to Mary Flanagan, and when he reached Hardy Kilgore’s wagon, Hardy hailed him. McQuade turned his horse, riding alongside the wagon.

  “My boy Jason saddled his horse a while ago, and rode down the back-trail,” said Kilgore. “He wanted to see what Hook’s bunch was doin’. The piano didn’t survive the stampede, and they left it behind. But they got the rest of it together, and are followin’, maybe half a dozen miles back.”

  “Thanks, Hardy,” McQuade said. Obviously, Hook wasn’t going to challenge Guthrie’s outfit, although some of Hook’s gunmen could ride back and attack the camp after dark.

  There was no sign of the Hook wagons until after dark, when they circled half a mile upstream, and their supper fires were visible. Within Hook’s patched-up tent, a lighted lantern hung from the ridge pole. Seated at a table, papers before them, sat Rufus Hook and his attorney, Xavier Hedgepith.

  “Damn it,” said Hedgepith, “why don’t you just give up the saloon on the trail?”

  “No,” Hook said. “We’re less than fifty miles out of St. Louis. Tomorrow, I’m sending Nall and Groat back to town for another tent.”

  “All you’ve done is turn that bunch of settlers against you. Hell, by the time we reach Texas, they’ll be sold on McQuade and hating your guts,” said Hedgepith.

  “That’s exactly what I’m aiming to do,” Hook replied. “I want them relying entirely on McQuade, until we reach Texas. Then McQuade will die, and without a leader, they’ll give in without a fight.”

  “Hook,” said Hedgepith, “you’re not the first with plans to build an empire at somebody else’s expense, and there’s always some element that can’t be controlled. This bunch has seen McQuade spit in your face and get away with it. Before dawn this morning, your camp was flattened by a herd of longhorn cows, and you took it. By the time these people reach the Rio Colorado, they’ll be so set against you, they’ll have to be slaughtered to the last man.”

  “Hedgepith,” said Hook, “you just see to it that the papers for individual grants have been drawn up accordin’ to my instructions. All you got to do is be sure the grant reverts to me, when they fail to live up to their end of the deal. You sure you got papers on all of them?”

  “You know damned well I have,” Hedgepith said shortly. “I got papers on everybody in McQuade’s train, includin’ McQuade. I got papers on everybody in this camp, except for your whores and old Ampersand. If, by some miracle, this works out, you’ll control near two million acres.”

  “It’s goin’ to work,” said Hook savagely. “I’ve fought too hard, come too far to see it fail. I’ll kill any man—or any number of men—gettin’ in my way.”

  McQuade was pleased to see that all the families, more than eighty, had arranged themselves into groups of five or more, and were sharing their cooking. The others—in a total of seventeen wagons—were single men, some of whom were accompanied by women of questionable reputation. The Burkes were part of this group, and they all kept to themselves, becoming part of the train only when the wagons were on the trail. McQuade began to wonder if the Reverend Flanagan hadn’t taken a permanent position on the first watch, to allow Mary some privacy. For the third night in a row, McQuade found Mary alone on the wagon box.

  “I’m glad your daddy’s comfortable on the first watch,” he said, taking his place next to the girl.

  “So am I,” said Mary. “I think he’s more concerned with the single men who brought women than he is with me. I’m afraid he’s about to try and show them the error of their ways, and that might mean trouble for you.”

  “I don’t see how it could,” McQuade said. “Most of our folks have come together in a way that can’t be anything but helpful. I can’t see anything worse than this bunch of young hell-raisers fighting among themselves, and with Hook supplying plenty of whiskey, there’s not much we can do. As for their women, I’ve known plenty of men who have kept one, although they’re usually squaws.”

  “Have you ever … kept a woman?”

  “No,” said McQuade. “I’ve had some experiences, but no woman’s ever been interested in me for more than a few hours. Usually until my money ran out.”

  “I didn’t know you had money,” she said.

  “I don’t,” said McQuade. “I blew it all in St. Louis, when I went back for grub. Do you want me to get lost?”

  “No,” she said. “You’ve been here beside me for three nights, and I’d miss you if you went away. Besides, you were nice to my father when he didn’t deserve it.”

  “This is our fourth night together,” said McQuade. “Maybe we should celebrate. Do you want me to bring you some hot coffee?”

  “No,” she said, “I’m sick of coffee. Can’t you think of something better?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can,” he said. Drawing her to him, he kissed her on the lips, long and hard.

  “If that was coffee,” she gasped, “I’d have a second cup.”

  “Anything to please a lady,” he said, repeating his performance.

  Suddenly the silence was shattered by the scream of a woman, followed by a man’s cursing. The woman screamed again, and there was a shot. McQuade leaped from the wagon box, his revolver in his hand. There was a full moon, and stumbling around in the wagon circle was a stark naked woman. A man lay on the ground before one of the wagons, while another stood over him with a pistol.

  “Drop the gun,” McQuade shouted, “or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  The pistol clattered against a wagon wheel and fell to the ground. McQuade recognized the man as Trent Putnam, who had a woman with him. She cowered fearfully against one of the wagons. Hardy Kilgore came running with a lighted lantern, and while McQuade held his pistol on Putnam, Kilgore brought the lantern close enough for them to identify Luke, the youngest of the Burkes. Ike Peyton knelt beside him.

  “He’s alive,” said Ike. “Maggie, stir up the fire and put on some water to boil.”

  “I’m goin’ to string the bastard up,” Andrew Burke shouted. “He shot Luke.”

  “You’re not stringin’ anybody up,” said McQuade grimly. “Putnam, why did you shoot Burke?”

  “He was with my woman,” Putnam bawled. “Look at her standin’ over yonder, naked.”

  “With your woman, in your wagon,” said McQuade. “Where were you?”

  “Gone to Hook’s saloon, after whiskey,” the naked woman cried. “He was gone near an hour, and come back drunk.”

  Putnam stumbled and would have fallen, if he hadn’t steadied himself against a wagon wheel. It was a touchy situation, and McQuade sought a solution. His voice slurred, the drunken Putnam spoke.

  “Selma, I … I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “One of you bring Selma a blanket,” said McQuade. “We’ll have to separate her from this varmint, until we decide what to do with him.”

  “No,” Selma cried. “I’ll go back to the wagon. He’ll be all right, when he’s sober.”

  “Go on back to the wagon, then, unless you’re hurt. Are you?”

  “No,” she said. “He tried to … strangle me.”

  Two of the men carried the wounded Luke to the fire where Maggie Peyton had water boiling. While Ike raised him up, Maggie unbuttoned and removed his shirt. The wound was high up, sparing bones and vitals.

  “Some of you tie Putnam to
a wagon wheel,” McQuade said. “We’ll decide what to do with him when he’s sober.”

  “By God,” Andrew Burke snarled, “he ain’t gettin’ off, after shootin’ Luke.”

  “I’d say one’s as guilty as the other,” said McQuade, “so punishment ought to be the same. Maybe I’ll just boot the both of them out of this train.”

  “Luke’s my boy,” Burke shouted. “You can’t do that to him.”

  “The hell I can’t,” said McQuade. “What do you say, people?”

  There was a roar of approval, and some of the men cursed Burke.

  “In the morning, before breakfast, we’ll take a vote,” McQuade said. “Putnam should be sober by then, and Burke should be conscious. He wasn’t hit that hard. Some of us will keep an eye on Burke and Putnam the rest of the night. I’ll need four men, each standing a two-hour watch. The rest of you Burkes go back to your wagon and stay there. Putnam will stay tied to that wagon wheel, and he’d better be safe and sound, come the morning.”

  When Luke Burke’s wound had been dressed, Maggie Peyton covered him with a wool blanket, and except for Eli Bibb on watch, the others returned to their wagons. The hour was late, but McQuade found Mary Flanagan waiting for him.

  “Sorry,” he said, as he climbed up beside her. “I reckon you saw and heard it all.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a naked woman standing before so many people. What’s going to become of her?”

  “I have no idea,” said McQuade. “Hopefully we can put the fear of God into Trent Putnam, as well as Luke Burke. As far as I’m concerned, they’re three of a kind. Selma whatever-her-name-is ought to be horsewhipped for whoring around with Burke behind Putnam’s back, while Burke’s a damn fool for fooling around with another man’s woman. It’s unlikely Putnam would have been trying to strangle the woman if he hadn’t been drunk, and he wouldn’t have been drunk if he hadn’t been to Rufus Hook’s saloon.”