Across the Rio Colorado Page 8

  The sound of the big fifties carried, and ten miles back, Ike Peyton heard and understood. Gunter Warnell had already reined up his teams and was off the wagon box, going for his horse, secured to the rear of the wagon by a lead rope.

  “What is it?” Maggie cried.

  “McQuade’s in trouble,” said Ike. “Big trouble.”

  “Eli, Cal, Will,” Gunter Warnell shouted, “those of you with horses, saddle up and ride. They’re after McQuade.”

  Within seconds, twenty men rode out at a fast gallop. The only assurance they had that Chance McQuade still lived was the distant rattle of gunfire.

  McQuade had little time to choose adequate cover. There was only an enormous waist-deep hole that been left when a mighty oak had long since been uprooted by high winds. Dragging his Sharps from the boot, McQuade left the saddle. Rolling, he plummeted headfirst into the hole, which was full of dead leaves. While he knew not what manner of reptile might have gotten there ahead of him, it couldn’t be any more deadly than the lead that tore into the ground just seconds behind him. He could feel the blood soaking the back of his shirt from his two wounds, but they were the least of his worries. Suddenly the shooting stopped, an almost certain indication they were circling his position. When he was surrounded, his refuge would become indefensible, and they could rush him. Grimly, he contemplated his situation. He had the single load in his Sharps .50, the six loads in his revolver, with an additional dozen loads in an oilskin pouch. With them closing in, he was limited to the loads within his weapons. There would be no time to reload. Suddenly a voice boomed out.

  “McQuade, we got you surrounded. I’m Gid Sutton, and you gunned down two of my riders. Now, you come out of that hole and face me like a man. Even break. If you can best me, you’re off the hook.”

  “Sutton,” McQuade shouted, “you’re a lying, yellow coyote, tempting me with an even break after you and your varmints tried to ambush me. Come and get me, if you have the sand.”

  “By God, we got the sand and we got the guns. You’ll die like a trapped rat.”

  As McQuade had feared, he was surrounded and they were well within pistol range. Guns roared as they neared his refuge, lead slamming into the banks above his head and showering him with dirt. He waited, hoping for a lull so that he might take some of them with him, but something struck the side of his head like a club and he knew no more …

  “Yonder they are,” Ike Peyton shouted. “Dismount and use your pistols.”

  Peyton left his saddle while his horse was on the run. His companions followed his example, and with their revolvers, they cut down on the retreating outlaws. Outnumbered, Sutton and his followers ran for their horses and rode away.

  “No,” Will Haymes shouted, as some of the men were about to mount and pursue the outlaws. “Our hosses is spent, and McQuade’s around here, bad hurt or maybe dead.”

  As gently as they could, they lifted McQuade from the hole. The back of his shirt was bloody from neck to waist, while blood welled from a terrible wound above his left ear.

  “My God,” said Ike Peyton, “his pulse almost ain’t there. We got to get the bleedin’ stopped, if we ain’t already too late.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Removing McQuade’s shirt, they found that besides his head wound, he had been hit four times.

  “This is no place to work on him,” said Will Haymes. “We got to get him back to the wagons.”

  “Will’s right,” Ike agreed, “but we’ll need water, so we’ll bring the wagons to him. There’s a creek three or four miles back. Will and me will take him there. Take McQuade’s saddle from his dead hoss, and then the rest of you light out for the wagons.”

  “What about yours and Will’s wagons?” someone asked.

  “Maggie and Minerva can handle them as far as the creek,” said Ike. “Now ride.”

  Given the extent of his wounds, there was no good way to handle Chance McQuade. He was wrapped in blankets and Will Haymes hoisted him up to Ike, who steadied him as best he could. Their ride back to the creek seemed agonizingly slow, and when they finally reached it, they eased McQuade to the ground. Will felt for the pulse, and while it was weak, it was there. While they would need hot water to cleanse the wounds, that could come later. Ike sought just the right kind of soil, and mixing it with water, created a mass of mud. This he and Will spread over McQuade’s terrible back wounds. Blood from his head wound had crusted on his head and the side of his face, but the bleeding had stopped.

  “My God,” said Will, “it’s a miracle, him bein’ hit three times, without puncturin’ a lung.”

  “Yeah,” Ike said, “but a lung ain’t the only worry. If a slug strikes bone, it can mess up a man’s vitals.”

  Long before they heard the rattle of the approaching wagons, there came a patter of hoofbeats. Mary Flanagan had borrowed a horse and came at a gallop, tears streaking her face as she rode. Her long dress hadn’t been suitable for riding, and while it was hiked embarrassingly high, she neither noticed nor cared. She all but fell from the saddle, and by the time she knelt beside McQuade, she was so winded she couldn’t speak. But Ike Peyton knew what was on her mind, and he spoke as reassuringly as he could.

  “He’s alive, Mary. We had to get mud on him to stop the bleeding.”

  She nodded. There was little more to be done until the wagons arrived. The wounds could then be cleansed and bandaged. Not wishing them to observe her trembling hands or her continued weeping, Mary got up, clenched her hands behind her back, and stood staring into the creek.

  “Somethin’ we ain’t considered, Ike,” said Will. “If that lead didn’t go on through, he may be needin’ a doc, an’ you know where the nearest doc is.”

  “I know,” Ike sighed, “and I know who he takes orders from.”

  When the first two wagons came in sight, Maggie Peyton and Minerva Haymes were at the reins. Not only had they handled the teams well, they were ahead of the rest of the wagons. Nobody bothered trying to circle the wagons until they learned how McQuade was. Within minutes the women had a fire going, and water on to boil. Miles Flanagan went to examine the wounded McQuade, where he knelt with his head down. He then went to Mary without speaking a word, for none was necessary. When the girl’s fresh tears had ceased, Flanagan spoke to Ike Peyton.

  “Our worldly possessions are few. There’s room for him in our wagon.”

  As was usually the case, when there were women to see to a wounded man, they were allowed to do so. The men went about circling the wagons and unharnessing the teams for the night. Maggie Peyton had removed McQuade’s boots, and with others lifting him up, she unbuttoned and removed his trousers. Looking up into Mary Flanagan’s stricken face, she spoke.

  “Mary, this won’t be pleasant and perhaps not proper.”

  “I don’t care,” she cried, “I’m staying. He said … we might have just … one day.”

  They had no idea what she was talking about, but she was allowed to stay. Having had some medical training, Maggie took charge.

  “We must turn him on his back,” said Maggie. “Some of you hold that blanket tight, so the mud doesn’t flake off. Mary, you’re going to help me turn him over.”

  Mary did so, coloring at the sight of the naked McQuade, but she recovered quickly, for none of the other women were in the slightest perturbed.

  “Ah,” Maggie said, with satisfaction, “the wounds are clean. There’s no lead to be dug out of him. We can disinfect and bandage him.”

  “Then he’ll be all right,” said Mary eagerly.

  “We won’t know for a day or two,” Maggie said. “The good news is there’s no lead in him. The bad news could be, there’s some internal damage we don’t know about, something the lead did on its way through. If he’s hurt inside, there may be nothing we can do for him. We should know by this time tomorrow.”

  “Take him to our wagon,” said Mary. “I’ll stay with him until he’s better, or- …”

  Her words trailed off, but they all understoo
d what she had meant to say. McQuade was taken to the Flanagan wagon, and Mary never left him, even to eat. Food was brought to her at supper time. She was nodding with weariness when McQuade suddenly spoke.

  “Mary?” His voice was weak, and she had to lean close to hear him.

  “I’m here, Chance. I’m here.”

  “I … have a question … I was goin’ to ask … in Texas,” he said, “but there … may not … be time. Remember I … told you we might … have just … one day?”

  “I remember,” she cried, her voice breaking.

  “Mary, will you … marry me … now?”

  “Yes,” she said, through tears.

  “Get your father,” McQuade said. “Must … talk to … him … while I can.”

  “I’ll get him,” said Mary.

  The girl found Flanagan at his customary place during the first watch. She told him only that McQuade was conscious and wanted to talk to him. Because of the limited space within the wagon, she waited outside while Flanagan entered.

  “Is that … you … preacher?” McQuade asked weakly.

  “It is, my boy,” said Flanagan. “What do you want of me?”

  “Your … permission. Mary has … promised … to marry … me.”

  “You have my permission,” said Flanagan. “Just as soon as you’re able, I’ll perform the ceremony.”

  “No,” McQuade whispered. “Tonight, while … I’m conscious.”

  “Mary has agreed to this?”

  “Yes,” said McQuade. “In my saddlebag … there’s a little … white box. Bring it.”

  Flanagan left the wagon, and having seen him enter, many of the train’s men and their women had gathered. Flanagan told them as quickly and as simply as he could of Chance McQuade’s strange request.

  “I brought his saddle in,” Gunter Warnell said. “I’ll check his saddlebags.”

  Quickly he returned with the little white box and passed it to Flanagan. He opened it, and they all crowded close. Lantern light winked off the little gold band, and some of the women wept. They all knew that McQuade must have bought the ring when he had ridden back to St. Louis, only a day or two after meeting Mary Flanagan.

  “Mary,” said Flanagan, “there’s so little room in the wagon, you get in and I’ll stand outside. Chance, we’re ready. Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” McQuade said, and they could barely hear him.

  “Then we must get on with the ceremony,” said Flanagan. “Mr. Peyton, will you hold the ring until the proper moment?”

  With Cal Tabor holding the lantern so Flanagan could read from his bible, he quickly performed the ceremony. McQuade did his best to speak loud enough for them to hear his responses. Being unable to place the ring on Mary’s finger, Flanagan did it for him. She leaned down, kissing Chance long and hard.

  “God,” said Eli Bibb, under his breath, “that’s enough to finish him.”

  “Mr. McQuade needs his rest,” Flanagan said. “We should leave him alone.”

  They quickly moved away, leaving Mary Flanagan McQuade beside the wounded Chance. She became aware that he was trying to speak, and she leaned closer.

  “You’re mine,” he said softly, “if just … for a … day …”

  He said no more, the only sound being his ragged breathing. She felt his forehead and it was hot and dry to the touch. Covering him with a blanket, she stretched out beside him, but not to sleep. Moments later, there was a sound outside the wagon.

  “Mary?” It was the soft voice of Maggie Peyton.

  “Yes, Maggie?”

  “Here’s a bottle of whiskey,” said Maggie. “I thought it best not to give you this, with your daddy here, but McQuade’s going to need it. Before morning he should have a raging fever. Whatever it takes, get half of this down him, saving the rest. He’ll need it all and maybe more, to sweat that fever out.”

  “Thank you, Maggie,” Mary said. “I’ll see that he takes it.”

  Maggie Peyton knew what she was talking about, for McQuade began talking out of his head, as the night wore on. Mary found him burning with fever, and when she finally got the prescribed whiskey down him, she was exhausted. With the first gray light of dawn she again felt his forehead and found the fever hadn’t subsided. She was about to force more of the whiskey down McQuade, when Maggie spoke.

  “Is this the first or second dose?”

  “The second,” said Mary. “I gave him the first maybe four hours ago, and his fever’s no better.”

  “Here’s some water,” Maggie replied. “Let’s give him a little of that before he takes any more whiskey. Sometimes the cure’s worse than the ailment. Why don’t you come out of there for some breakfast and hot coffee?”

  “I think I’ll have to,” said Mary.

  With McQuade severely wounded, many of the emigrants were in a quandary as to what they should do. Ike Peyton chose to speak to them.

  “I can’t see jouncin’ McQuade around in a wagon before his fever’s broke. I believe we should stay here for a day or two. Does anybody object to that?”

  Strangely enough, nobody did, perhaps because they realized that with McQuade unable to scout the trail ahead, one of them would have to replace him. Mary managed to get the rest of the whiskey down McQuade. Suddenly there was the sound of a shot, and lead screamed off the iron tire of a wagon wheel. Men scrambled for their guns, but there were no more shots. Instead, there was a challenge shouted by a voice they all had heard before.

  “This is Gid Sutton, and that segundo of yours salted down two of my men. We got some lead into him yesterday, but we know he’s alive. One way or another, I aim to have him. Are you givin’ him up, or do we have to take him?”

  “You’ll have to take him,” Ike Peyton shouted.

  “About what I expected,” said Sutton. “That bein’ the case, the ante goes up. I figure them two men that died was worth five thousand apiece. I want McQuade and ten thousand in gold. Until you come across, I’ll kill one of you every day. Male or female, it don’t make no difference to me.”

  “That’s an insane demand,” Miles Flanagan said. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Before any of them could stop him, Flanagan had left the safety of the wagon circle and stood in the open.

  “No, preacher,” a dozen men shouted, but Flanagan might not have heard.

  “Mr. Sutton,” said Flanagan, “I am a minister of the Lord, speaking for God-fearing people. In the name of common decency, I am asking you to withdraw your demands.”

  “One a day, preacher,” Sutton shouted, “and you get to be the first.”

  Half a dozen rifles roared, and Flanagan was slammed to the ground on his back, all but cut in half by the lead from the big Sharps rifles.

  “No!” Mary screamed, seeking to break out of the wagon circle. Maggie Peyton and Ellen Warnell restrained her.

  But there were no more shots. Men and women alike stood in stunned silence, the only sound being the weeping of Mary Flanagan. Finally Ike Peyton, Will Haymes, Gunter Warnell, and Cal Tabor took blankets and recovered Flanagan’s riddled body. Sutton had driven home his threat in a manner that left no doubt as to his intentions. There must be a decision made before the dawn of another day, or someone else would die. Aware that many of them were looking to him, Ike Peyton spoke.

  “Gunter, enlist some help and begin digging a grave over yonder by the creek. We’ll lay the preacher to rest before we do anything else. Maggie, will you talk to Mary and see if there’s anything special we ought to do?”

  But before the grave had been dug, there was more trouble. Rufus Hook and three of his gunmen rode up, dismounted, and entered the wagon circle. Hook wasted no time in making known the purpose of the visit.

  “What is the reason for this delay? Where is McQuade?”

  As calmly as he could, Ike Peyton explained what had happened, up to and including the killing of Miles Flanagan.

  “Since McQuade got himself and the rest of you into this predicament,” said Hook, “I see no re
ason why I should concern myself with how or whether any of you get out of it. All I have to say is that I have the authority to appoint a new wagon boss, which I intend to do if these wagons aren’t on the trail by this time tomorrow. Do all of you understand that?”

  “We understand it,” somebody shouted, “but we ain’t abidin’ by it.”

  “Then I suppose this is a good time to inform you that if you do not reach Texas in time to claim your grants by July fifth, they revert to me. It’s in your contracts.”

  “Somehow that don’t surprise me,” said Gunter Warnell.

  “Mount up and get the hell out of here,” Ike Peyton said angrily. “We’ll be there, by God, and Chance McQuade will be with us.”

  Without another word, Hook and his companions rode away. A little embarrassed, Ike spoke to the people around him.

  “Maybe I was out of line, speakin’ for all of us, but I’ve had about all I can stomach of that slimy varmint.”

  “So have I,” said Gunter Warnell. “Let’s hear it for Ike.”

  They shouted their agreement, even the women, and it even brought a smile to the wan face of Mary Flanagan. When the grave was finished, they gathered sadly around as the body of Miles Flanagan was lowered into it.

  “Mary,” Ike Peyton asked, “what would you have us do that’s fittin’ and proper?”

  “Here’s his bible,” said Mary. “Take it and read the Twenty-third Psalm, and one other passage that I’ve marked.”