Across the Rio Colorado Page 6

  “So it all comes back to Hook’s saloon,” said Mary.

  “It does, as far as I’m concerned,” McQuade said. “I’m not one to excuse a man just because he’s drunk. I don’t drink, because I know what whiskey does to a man. Should I get drunk and kill a man, he’s just as dead as if I’d been cold sober. So none of these people have any excuse for what happened, least of all, Trent Putnam.”

  “Let’s not talk about them anymore,” said Mary. “When all this started, you were about to heat up my coffee. It’s cold again.”

  McQuade laughed. “You’re in luck. I have a fresh pot.” Drawing her close, he kissed her long and hard, and whatever difficulty awaited them at dawn faded into oblivion.

  Well before dawn, Trent Putnam was stone sober, cursing anyone who came near. But Chance McQuade was one of the men on the last watch of the night, and with just a few words he silenced Putnam. The camp was up and about well before first light, and so that they might get the unpleasant duty behind them, McQuade called for a vote as to what should be done with Luke Burke and Trent Putnam. Now conscious, Luke Burke was brought out into the wagon circle on blankets. Trent Putnam had been freed from the wagon wheel and allowed to restore the circulation to his arms and legs. McQuade wasted no time.

  “Burke, you’re accused of fooling around with Putnam’s woman, while he was gone to Hook’s saloon for whiskey. Putnam, you’re accused of shooting Burke, when you returned, drunk. I have the authority to expel both of you from this wagon train, as well as the woman who’s been fooling around with the two of you. Do any of you have anything to say?”

  “I was drunk,” Putnam said. “I didn’t know what I was doin’.”

  “No excuse,” said McQuade. “You were sober when you decided to get drunk.”

  “The woman’s been makin’ eyes at me,” Luke Burke said weakly. “I didn’t take nothin’ but what was offered.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Selma cried. “I was just makin’ Trent jealous, so’s he’d marry me, like he promised.”

  “We have a decision to make,” said McQuade. “Do we allow this trio another chance, or do we expel them from this wagon train?”

  Before anybody could respond, the Reverend Flanagan got to his feet, raised his hand, and cleared his throat. Greeted by silence, he spoke.

  “Friends, I’m a believer in repentance. All of us are sinners saved by grace. I propose that these three sinners be forgiven, with provisions for punishment if they backslide. I’m prepared to perform a marriage ceremony, which will fulfill Mr. Putnam’s promise to this woman, Selma. Unfortunately, assuming that Mr. Putnam agrees to leave the whiskey alone, we have only his word. Likewise, we will have only Mr. Burke’s promise that he will stay away from Selma, who will be a married woman. I propose that these two men take an oath before us all to forgo the evil in which they engaged last night. Should either violate that oath, they will then be expelled from this community.”

  “What about the woman, preacher?” somebody shouted.

  “Should the woman, Selma, be found in violation of her vows, she too will be driven out of our midst,” said Flanagan. “Now, Mr. Burke and Mr. Putnam, do you agree to take this proposed oath and abide by it?”

  “Yeah,” Burke said. “I’ll take it.”

  “Mr. Putnam?” said Flanagan.

  “I’ll take it,” Putnam growled.

  “Now, young lady,” said Flanagan, turning to Selma, “if you’ll stand here next to Mr. Putnam, I’ll make an honest woman of you.”

  “I ain’t tyin’ myself to that whore,” Putnam shouted.

  “If I’m a whore, you made me one,” Selma cried.

  “I was about to make that same observation,” said the Reverend Flanagan. “If you are unwilling to fulfill your promise to this young woman, Mr. Putnam, I’m going to suggest to these good people that you be driven from their midst.”

  “I’ll do it, damn it,” Putnam bawled. “Get it over with.”

  Putnam stood there with an expression on his face like he’d been eating sour pickles, grunting out his vows, while the women of the company smiled in satisfaction. When the brief ceremony ended, the Reverend Flanagan had some further advice for Trent Putnam.

  “If you threaten or physically harm this woman as you did last night, then I believe a good horsewhipping or public hanging might be in order.”

  It became Miles Flanagan’s finest hour, as he was cheered and applauded. Many of the men and women had their eyes on the young men of Putnam’s caliber, and McQuade felt it was a good time to speak his mind.

  “Let this be a lesson to the rest of you who are tempted to visit Hook’s saloon. While we can’t keep you away, when you show up drunk and raising hell, we can make you almighty sorry you went. Now let’s get breakfast and get these wagons on the trail.”

  It was a crisis averted, and none of them were concerned with breakfast until they had spoken to McQuade and Flanagan. The Burkes glared at McQuade, but other men and some of the women stared them down, and they retreated to their wagon, helping Luke.

  “I’m so glad that’s over,” said Mary, bringing McQuade a tin cup of coffee.

  “I’m glad the Reverend Flanagan was here,” McQuade replied. “I thought maybe they should have another chance, but not without some rules. Solomon himself couldn’t have laid it out any better. Forcing Putnam to marry Selma was pure genius.”

  “I thought it was sad. He didn’t want her. How could she be happy, knowing that?”

  “I don’t know,” said McQuade, uncomfortable, “but he had used her, and he owed her something, didn’t he?”

  “No,” she said. “If I’d been in her place—if I’d been used by a man, and he didn’t want me—I’d kill myself before I’d marry him.”

  McQuade was on dangerous ground, and he said nothing, sipping his coffee. One of the other women spoke to Mary, drawing her attention from him. “Somewhere, somehow, those Burkes are going to cause trouble,” said Maggie, as the big wagon rumbled along. “Did you see how they looked at McQuade?”

  “Yeah,” Ike replied, “but Chance McQuade can take care of himself. Them Burkes has had it in for him, long before he joined us as wagon boss. It’s just his damn hard luck to have ’em show up on this ride to Texas.”

  “Well, I hope nothing happens to him,” said Maggie, “if only for Mary Flanagan’s sake. Have you noticed how she looks at him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I ain’t,” Ike said. “Her daddy’s took a permanent place on the first watch, leavin’ ’em alone on that wagon box. I don’t have to look at the gal to know she’d like to share his blankets.”

  “Ike Peyton, you should be ashamed of yourself. She’s a nice girl.”

  “Didn’t say she wasn’t,” said Ike, “but she’s female. You was a nice girl, too, but I didn’t have no problem gettin’ you in my blankets.”

  She colored, but Ike leaned over, forcing her eyes to meet his, and she laughed.

  The day after Hook’s saloon tent had been trampled beyond use, two men leading a pack horse had ridden back to St. Louis for another tent. They brought some lanterns to replace those that had been broken, and shortly after Hook’s wagons had been circled for the night, the new saloon tent had been erected. The dozen gunmen Hook had hired were already tired of the inactivity. Following the stampede that had demolished much of the camp, they had wanted to go gunning for the cowboys, but Hook had restrained them. Now they squatted beneath a lantern in the evenings, playing cards and grousing among themselves.

  “Fifty dollars a month ain’t all that much money,” said Dirk, “when you consider we got no hope of ever raisin’ the limit.”

  “Yeah,” Mook agreed, “seein’ as how he aims to file for grants in our names, and then take the land for himself. That just rubs me the wrong damn way.”

  “You all knew what the deal was, when we hired on,” said Creeker. “It’s a mite late to complain, ‘cause none of us is gettin’ more than we been promised. Fifty a month ain’t
bad pay for settin’ on our hunkers until we’re told to fight.”

  “I don’t mind settin’ on my hunkers,” Slack said, “if the money’s right, and what I mean by right, is us gettin’ a better share when we’re about to be used to build Rufus Hook a damned empire.”

  “I’d favor takin’ us a bigger share—maybe all of it,” said Rucker, “if there was a way we could do it. We could take over these wagons and maybe sell all this freight, once we get to Texas, but the real money’s in the taking over of the grants. Hook’s got all the land sewed up in some legal jumble we’d never be able to figure out.”

  “It’s all been done by that shyster lawyer, Hedgepith,” Groat said. “Suppose we was to throw in with him, gettin’ rid of Hook? Then, once it’s all tied down and legal, we just shoot Hedgepith and take it all.”

  “I heard Hedgepith’s already in for half, once it’s settled,” Drum said. “Just why in tarnation would he join us in a double-cross when he’ll be a rich man, anyhow?”

  “Or he could have it all,” said Porto. “Hell, he don’t need us to double-cross Hook.”

  “You’re wasting your time, all of you,” said Creeker. “Between Hook and Hedgepith, they got this thing nailed down so tight, we couldn’t loosen it with blasting powder.”

  McQuade rode out well ahead of the wagons. He estimated they had traveled at least fifteen miles a day. It was good time, but there had been no breakdowns. He had seen to it that every wagon’s wheel hubs had been well greased. The weather had been favorable, much of the spring rain diminishing by the end of April. But from experience, he knew the mighty mountains far to the west wore halos of white, that when conditions were right, a veritable wall of rain would sweep across the Kansas plains, creating oceans of mud. As he squinted his eyes in the blue of the early morning sky, he could see a faint haze that crept up to the edge of the western horizon. He had seen that cloud band before, and whatever it brought to Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana Territories, it meant rain in Kansas, Nebraska, Missouri, and Indian Territory. McQuade believed they had one more good day on the trail. Eventually he found water for the night’s camp, and rode back to meet the wagons.

  “We had to pour some whiskey down Luke Burke,” Ike Peyton said. “Fever’s got a holt of him. Putnam and his woman’s been at it again. She can out-cuss him, when she gets goin’.”

  McQuade shook his head and rode on down the string of wagons, speaking to all the families as he went. He only nodded to the Burkes. Putnam and his less-than-happy bride eyed him in silence. Reaching the last wagon, McQuade lagged behind, watching the back-trail. There was no sign of Hook’s wagons, but that wasn’t surprising. He wondered how they would fare after a drenching rain, when the prairie was wheel-hub deep in mud. Riding back to the head of the train, he jogged his horse alongside the Flanagan wagon for a ways, enjoying Mary’s presence.

  When the wagons had been circled for the night and the teams unharnessed, McQuade spoke to the men.

  “There’s rain on the way, probably by tomorrow night. While we wait for supper, we’d do well to load as much dry wood into the wagons as there’s room for. Those of you with a cowhide, or a big enough piece of canvas, I’ll show you how to stretch it beneath your wagon, makin’ a ’possum belly.”2

  Once it became dark enough, they could see lightning dancing along the far western horizon, and the wind had a moist feel to it.

  “There’ll be rain before dark,” Gunter Warnell predicted, as they gathered around the breakfast fire. “We been havin’ it too good.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that,” said Will Haymes. “That’s temptin’ fate.”

  His words gained considerable credibility when one of their horses nickered and one of the sentries sounded the alarm.

  “Riders comin’.”

  McQuade and half a dozen men stepped outside the wagon circle, waiting as a group of men rode in from the northwest.

  “That’s far enough,” McQuade shouted. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  The men reined up and one of them spoke.

  “Now that’s just damned inhospitable talk. Wouldn’t you say so, boys?”

  There were growls of agreement. In the predawn darkness, McQuade counted two dozen men.

  “I’ve always believed when a man asks you a question, you owe him some kind of an answer,” said McQuade.

  “Let’s just say we’re ridin’ the way you’re headed,” said the stranger, “and for grub, we’d be willin’ to see that you ain’t bothered by Injuns or outlaws.”

  “Sorry,” McQuade said, “but we can’t take on anybody else to feed. As for Indians or outlaws, we have more than a hundred armed men. Ride on.”

  “We aim to,” said the stranger. “We’ll be seein’ you.”

  “We’ll be ready,” McQuade said grimly.

  They rode away, taking the same general direction the wagons must go.

  “That sounded mighty like a threat,” said Cal Tabor.

  “It was,” McQuade said. “They would have ridden with us long enough to figure some way to steal our stock, killing as many of us as necessary. We’ll keep our eyes open from now on, especially after we reach Indian Territory.”

  Once the wagons had taken the trail, McQuade rode ahead, not nearly as interested in finding water for the night’s camp, as in learning in what direction the mysterious riders had gone. True to their word, the horsemen had ridden the way the wagons must go. When McQuade reached suitable water which the wagons could reach before dark, he rode on for another ten miles, studying the tracks. That these men were outlaws, he had little doubt, and their appearing to ride on didn’t fool McQuade. While they might strike at any time, he expected them to wait until the wagons entered Indian Territory. He rode back to meet the wagons, and when the train stopped to rest the teams, some of the men gathered, wishing to know what McQuade had learned.

  “They’re riding on,” said McQuade, “but we can’t count on that. Starting tonight, we double our watch, and I’ll be ridin’ careful while I’m scoutin’ ahead.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Springfield, Missouri. May 12, 1837.

  McQuade circled the wagons five miles south of the little village of Springfield, the last link with civilization before entering Indian Territory.3

  “You won’t have the mercantiles of St. Louis, with their river commerce,” McQuade said, “but there ought to be some goods for those of you in need. This is likely our last chance to buy anything, unless we trade with Hook. We’ll lay over here an extra day, so a few of you at a time can ride into town.”

  “I am not so poor that I cannot contribute to the rations,” said Reverend Flanagan. “Those of you who so kindly fed me and my daughter, I want you to prepare a list that I may take to town. I will see that you do not run out of foodstuffs.”

  Realizing that Flanagan was sincere, the women of the families with whom Flanagan and Mary had been taking their meals prepared a modest list. It being a last opportunity to visit a store, some of the women elected to go along with their men, which involved taking some wagons. Mary would be going with her father, and McQuade saddled his horse and rode along with them.

  “It’s no St. Louis,” said Flanagan, as they approached the village.

  There were two mercantiles, however, with a saloon and livery in between. The hotel, a single-story affair, sat next to a cafe. There were no public buildings, no jail, and no law. There were many horses at hitch rails before the saloon, the hotel, and the cafe, but no cause for alarm. But Chance McQuade was wary. Certainly, the way they had come, there wasn’t another mercantile, saloon, cafe, or hotel closer than St. Louis. He knew of no other village in eastern Kansas or western Missouri, and certainly nothing in northern Arkansas except the brakes along the White River. What occasion had brought so many riders to this small town? Then he thought of the men who had appeared before dawn, offering to escort the wagons through Indian Territory for food.

  “Mary,” said McQuade, “stay near your father. The
re are entirely too many men here, to suit me. I’ll be around, if you need me.”

  Mary smiled, and while Flanagan said nothing, McQuade saw relief in his eyes. Reining up before the largest of the mercantiles, Flanagan took his time getting down, allowing McQuade to help Mary. Half a dozen men emerged from the saloon, pausing to eye the men and women entering the mercantiles. McQuade followed the Flanagans into the store, and it proved to have a better stock of merchandise than McQuade had expected. The probable reason, of course, was the nearness of Indian Territory and the absence of law. Obeying an impulse, McQuade stepped behind a display, where he could observe the door without being seen. Six men entered the store and stood there looking around. All were armed, with pistols thonged down on their right hips. Without hesitation, they headed in the direction the Flanagans had gone. McQuade followed, in time to see one of the men seize Mary and begin forcing her toward the door.

  “Take your hands off her,” Flanagan shouted.

  One of the men had drawn his pistol and was about to hit Flanagan, when he stopped, frozen by the cold voice of Chance McQuade.

  “Drop that gun, or you’re a dead man. You with the lady, turn her loose, and the lot of you get out of here.”

  The man who had seized Mary laughed. “You shoot me, it’ll be through her, bucko.”

  “Let her go,” said McQuade, “or I’ll kill all five of your friends.”

  One of the five made the mistake of reaching for his gun, and died with his hand on the butt of it. Mary Flanagan suddenly went limp and slid to the floor. Sullenly, the five men raised their hands.

  “Now,” McQuade said, “get out, and take that dead coyote with you.”

  Wordlessly, two of them gathered up the dead man, and they left the store. Mary got to her feet, her eyes on McQuade. Ignoring her father and the storekeeper, she came to him, and McQuade drew her to him.