Across the Rio Colorado Page 9

  Ike took the old bible and in a not-too-steady voice, read the Psalm. He then turned to the second passage, and from the thirteenth verse of the fifteenth chapter of St. John, read:

  Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

  Mary turned away, weeping, leaving them to fill in the grave. More than two hours had elapsed since McQuade had been given a second dose of whiskey, and feeling his forehead, Mary found he was sweating. She sat down beside him, took one of his leathery hands in hers, and bowed her head.

  One by one, men came to Ike, expressing their appreciation for his having stood up to Rufus Hook. They seemed to look to him for an answer to the ultimatum laid down by Gid Sutton and his band of outlaws.

  “Damn it, Maggie,” said Ike, “we’re trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. If I had all the money in the world, I wouldn’t pay them blood-suckin’ bastards what they’re demanding, and I sure don’t aim to hand McQuade over to ’em. That don’t leave but one way out. We got to fight. But they’re killers, and some of us will die.”

  “Maybe not,” Maggie said. “I’ve overheard some of McQuade’s talk, about fighting on your own terms, attacking instead of waiting to be attacked. Why don’t you ask yourself what he would do, and then do it?”

  “God bless you, Maggie,” said Ike, giving her an unexpected kiss. “I got some talking to do.”

  They were a somber lot as they gathered at Ike Peyton’s request. Before he spoke a word, they knew the problem he was about to address.

  “Friends,” Ike said, “this mornin’ we had a threat laid on us, along with demands that are impossible. I can only speak for myself, but if I had all the money in the world I’d not pay one red cent toward them varmints McQuade gunned down. As for them taking him, I got to say, they’ll do it over my dead body.”

  There were shouts and cheers, and Ike waited until they subsided before continuing.

  “With that settled,” said Ike, “I reckon you’re all wonderin’ what we’ll be doin’ in the mornin’, when they come gunnin’ for us again. We’re goin’ to do exactly what Chance McQuade would do, if he was able. Come daylight, we’re goin’ to be staked out with our guns, waitin’ for Sutton and his outlaws. The women will be in the wagons. When that bunch rides in, we’re goin’ to just purely shoot the hell out of them, before they even get a shot at any of us. Now who can I count on?”

  To a man they rose up with shouts of agreement. When the uproar had died, Andrew Burke took it upon himself to speak.

  “They ain’t been no love lost between us Burkes and Chance McQuade, but by God, he’s a man with the bark on. He done right, standin’ up to Sutton’s gunmen, and you can count on us tomorrow. We don’t like bein’ shook down by thieves and killers.”

  “We’ll surround this camp before daylight,” said Ike, “and we want them all within range before we open fire. We’ll give them the same chance they give Reverend Flanagan.”

  Mary Flanagan spent her second night in the wagon with the wounded McQuade. She had a bucket of water and a tin cup, expecting him to be thirsty, and he was. The first time he awoke, it was only long enough to swallow half a cup of water. The second time, he seemed stronger. Taking her left hand, he felt the ring.

  “It … wasn’t a dream, then,” he said.

  “No,” said Mary. “You’re not having second thoughts, are. you?”

  “You should know better,” he said weakly. “I … thought … on an hombre’s … marryin’ day, he’d be busier than … this.”

  She laughed. “When you’re able, I’ll make it all up to you.”

  “Where are we?”

  “At a creek near where you were shot,” said Mary. “Nobody wanted to move on, with you feverish and sick.”

  She said no more, not wishing to burden him with all that had happened since he had been shot. She had no idea what he might do, if he knew that Ike Peyton and every man in the outfit would be waiting at dawn, prepared for a showdown with Gid Sutton and his outlaws. That he would be proud of them, she had no doubt, for not only were they about to rid themselves of Sutton and his renegades, they had defied Rufus Hook. McQuade was again asleep, and she lay down beside him. While she still wept bitter tears for her father, the old man had died knowing McQuade would care for her, and she took comfort in that.

  Without a sound, Ike Peyton assembled a hundred and twenty-five men an hour ahead of first light. Besides their rifles, every man carried a fully loaded revolver. Lest the outlaws become suspicious, every horse and mule was left within the wagon circle. Men moved out afoot, and since Rufus Hook’s camp was within sight to the north, Ike’s defenders all took positions in a skirmish line half a mile long, facing southwest. It was from the same direction the outlaws had appeared the day before, from the wilds of Indian Territory. They had two powerful advantages: Sutton and his outlaws didn’t believe they would fight for the wounded Chance McQuade, and they had enough guns to empty every outlaw’s saddle. Impatiently they waited. There was no sound except that of birds, and occasionally a nicker from a horse or the bray of a mule from within the wagon circle. Just when it seemed they weren’t going to try and make good their threat, they rode in from the southwest. As they rode through a clearing, Ike Peyton counted thirty men, each with his rifle across the saddle in front of him. They were strung out, well out of revolver range, but Ike had instructed his men to rely on the Sharps .50, making the first shot good. They reined up, and Sutton again shouted his ultimatum.

  “You farmers, this is Gid Sutton and his band. You just ran out of time.”

  “Wrong, Sutton,” Ike shouted. “You just ran out of time.”

  It was the signal they had agreed upon, and rifles roared in succession, each sounding like an echo of the last. Men fell all around Sutton, and all that saved him was his horse spooking and rearing. Head down, hugging the neck of his horse, the outlaw rode for his life. Others tried to follow, and were blown from their saddles. It was over in seconds, and only when Ike called them out did the defenders appear.

  “We’ll take a body count,” Ike said. “Take weapons, ammunition, anything we might be able to use.”

  “Look what I got,” said Gunter Warnell, who was leading a bay horse. “They killed McQuade’s bay, and I think it’s only fair they replace him.”

  “We’ll round up any other loose horses,” Ike said. “We’ll tie ’em behind the wagons, on lead ropes. They’ll be useful in Texas.”

  After taking a body count, they looked at one another in awe. They had gunned down no less than twenty-five of the outlaws. Will Haymes summed it up.

  “Gents, at five thousand dollars a head, I reckon we done run up a pretty good tab.”

  They made their way back to the wagon circle, triumphant, not having lost a man, and with nobody wounded. Within the Flanagan wagon, Chance McQuade had heard all the shooting, and Mary Flanagan could no longer remain silent. Quickly she told him of the demands of the outlaws, and of the cold-blooded murder of Miles Flanagan.

  “What you just heard,” she said proudly, “was Ike Peyton and his men answering those impossible demands, and taking vengeance for my father’s death.”

  “My God,” said McQuade, “how many … how many stood up?”

  “Every last one of them, Chance. A hundred and twenty men.”

  “Bring them here,” McQuade said.

  “Are you sure you’re strong enough?” Mary asked anxiously.

  “I’m strong enough,” said McQuade.

  They came, gathering as close as they could, Gunter Warnell leading McQuade’s bay. Mary had let down the wagon’s tailgate and McQuade lay on his belly, covered only with a blanket.

  “You’re one bueno outfit,” McQuade said, as forcefully as he could. “It’s been damn near worth gettin’ shot, to have you stand beside one another against a common enemy. I believe it’s this kind of solidarity that will bring Texas into the Union and make it a land of which we can all be proud. Now, if it’s God’s
will, we’ll beat Hook’s deadline, whether we go ahead of him, around him, or ride right over him.”

  Their shouting was heard in Hook’s camp, as Hook’s men harnessed the teams, preparing to move out. They drove wide of McQuade’s wagon circle, and every teamster had a fight on his hands, as the horses and mules shied at the dead men scattered along their path. Creeker, one of the hired guns, rode alongside Hook’s wagon, and he laughed at the expression on Hook’s face.

  “It looks like McQuade’s pussycats is turned into wampus kitties with claws a yard long, don’t it?”

  Hook gritted his teeth and said nothing. With Chance McQuade alive, his dream of taking the Texas land grants for himself seemed less and less like a sure thing.

  In the Flanagan wagon, McQuade was again soaked with sweat and breathing hard from exertion.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Mary scolded.

  “I had to,” said McQuade. “They stood up for me when I was unable to stand up for myself, and I couldn’t let it pass. Anyhow, I have to get out of this wagon and clean up myself. I’m a mess, and these blankets are ruined.”

  “The blankets can be washed,” Mary said, “and so can you. Your bandages must be changed again. I’ll bring soap and water and take care of you.”

  “Who stripped me after I’d been shot? You?”

  “No,” said Mary. “Some of the other women. I was in such a state of shock, I wasn’t of much use.”

  “I reckon Hook’s right about one thing,” McQuade said. “Me gettin’ myself ventilated has got us all neck-deep in trouble. With Hook’s wagons ahead of us, we’ll have to take the trail tomorrow.”

  “You did what you had to,” said Mary, “and you have the support of every man in this outfit. I know father was proud of you, and he’d be prouder still of the way they all stood up for you this morning.”

  “He was a man in every sense of the word,” McQuade said, “and what’s bothering me is the fact that I’m indirectly responsible for his death. I gunned down two of them, and from there on, it was vengeance.”

  “Your killing two of them might have rushed them some, but everybody—Ike and all the others—believe they would have come after us, and that many more than my father might have died. In his own way, he died for us, forcing us to take a stand. Ike and the others did what, they believed you would have done.”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased with them,” said McQuade. “I want you to bind these wounds as tight as you can, so I can get up and out of this wagon.”

  “I’ll bind the wounds, but if you try to get up, you’re going to fall on your face. You are just three days from being shot, of us not knowing whether you would live or die, and I think you should rest another day or two.”

  His wounds cleansed and bound, McQuade tried to rise and found himself unable to do so. He lay back, breathing hard.

  “You lost a lot of blood,” said Mary, “and you need several more days of rest and good food. Ike and some of the others want to talk to you, but you don’t have to get up for that. We’ll let down the wagon’s tailgate, and they’ll come to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” McQuade said.

  CHAPTER 6

  Despite McQuade’s protests, the train remained where it was for two more days, and on the sixth day following the ambush, they moved out. McQuade’s newly acquired bay trotted behind the Flanagan wagon. McQuade lay on blankets, while Mary drove.

  “I didn’t know you could handle a team,” said McQuade. “Can you cook too?”

  “Not a lick,” she said, with a straight face. “You should have asked some questions before you bought the farm.”

  “I reckon,” said McQuade, “but I was just too struck with the looks of the farm. How much longer until we can get some plowing done?”

  ‘Until I know you’re able to stand the shock. I don’t want you to have a relapse and die, just when I’m getting used to you.”

  “Well, for your sake, I hope it’s worth the wait,” McQuade said. “Who’s doing the scouting for water, while I’m piled up in here?”

  “Ike Peyton and Will Haymes, mostly.”

  “What about their wagons?”

  “Maggie and Minerva are driving them,” said Mary.

  “The lead wagons?”

  “Of course,” Mary said. “Why not? They handle the teams as well as Ike and Will.”

  “Some of those outlaws escaped,” said McQuade. “Suppose they belly-down with their Sharps fifties and blast Maggie and Minerva off those wagon boxes?”

  “Ike and Will thought of that,” Mary said, “but Maggie and Minerva wouldn’t have it any other way. They want to know, when we’re all in this together, why only the men are allowed to be shot. Why is that?”

  “We’re selfish brutes, set in our ways,” said McQuade.

  After supper, Ike and Will—accompanied by some of the other men, spent an hour with McQuade discussing the trail ahead.

  “Looks like Hook’s wagons are a day or more ahead of us,” Ike said. “There appears to be plenty of springs, creeks, and rivers in Indian Territory, so water ain’t a problem. But we ain’t forgot what Chad Guthrie said, about knowin’ the trail ahead. What surprises me is Hook bein’ so damned anxious to run on ahead of us. Don’t he know there’s Kiowa in Indian Territory?”

  “But for the stampede that flattened his camp, Hook’s had virtually no trouble since leaving St. Louis,” McQuade said. “Maybe he’s got a mite too much self-confidence. You’re right to continue scouting ahead. We must know, firsthand, what we’re up against. About all we can expect from Hook is that he’ll take some of the edge off the hostile Indians and outlaws ahead of us.”

  “Forgot to tell you,” said Will Haymes, “but besides that bay of yours, we rounded up the rest of the hosses belongin’ to them dead outlaws. There’s twenty-four of them, trottin’ along on lead ropes behind our wagons.”

  “A job well done,” McQuade said. “What did you do with all those dead hombres?”

  “Just what we figured they’d of done with us,” said Will. “We left ‘em all where they fell, and when we was ready to move out, we drove around ’em, so’s not to spook the teams.”

  Taking the lead had wrought some drastic changes in the Hook camp. The saloon tent remained packed in a wagon, the lanterns and the cook fires were put out well before dark, and the night watch had been doubled. Each morning, Hook sent two riders scouting ahead for water and possible Indian sign. But while his men were quick with their guns, Indian Territory was new to them, and they were uneasy. The second day after Hook’s caravan had taken the lead, his advance riders failed to return.

  “Creeker,” said Hook, “take Slack with you and see what’s happened to Byron and Mook. They should have been back hours ago.”

  “I ain’t likin’ the looks of this,” Slack said, as he and Creeker rode out. “Byron and Mook wasn’t afraid of the devil hisself. If something’s happened to them …”

  Something had happened to the two gunmen. Creeker and Slack found them facedown on the bank of a creek, their scalps gone and their backs shot full of arrows.

  “Damn,” said Slack, “what are we goin’ to do with ’em?”

  “Leave ’em where they lay,” Creeker said. “This is something I want Hook and all the others to see.”

  “I got me a gut-feelin’ this scouting ahead is about to become damned unpopular,” said Slack. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I’m gettin’ some nervous twitches betwixt my shoulder blades.”

  They took the back-trail at a fast gallop, while the Kiowa who had been observing them mounted his horse and rode away toward the southwest.

  “Dead?” Hook shouted. “How could that have happened? I hired you men for your fast guns.”

  “Shoot a man in the back,” said Creeker, “and a fast gun don’t mean doodly squat.”

  “Damn it,” Hook said, “we must have a place to circle the wagons for the night, with water. Why didn’t you ride on?”

  “No need to,” said
Slack. “Byron and Mook had already found us a creek. I reckon we’ll have to drag ’em away, so’s they don’t pollute it.”

  Hook’s wagons had stopped so that the teams might be watered, and most of the men had come forth to hear what Creeker and Slack had to report. Now their eyes were on Rufus Hook, and he could see potential rebellion.

  “Back to your wagons,” Hook shouted.

  Reluctantly the men climbed to their wagon boxes and clucked to their teams, every man with a long gun at his feet and a loaded revolver under his belt. When eventually they reached the fatal creek, they stared unbelievingly at the arrow-riddled bodies of Byron and Mook.

  “Groat, Porto, Dirk, and Nall, get shovels from the cook wagon and bury those men,” said Hook, “and be quick about it.”

  The four men chosen deliberately took their time performing the grim task, allowing the rest of Hook’s company to get full benefit from the grisly objects bristling with Kiowa arrows. The women, including Hook’s Lora Kirby, all huddled in a single wagon, some of them weeping. Xavier Hedgepith looked over his glasses at the furious Hook.

  “I believe,” said Hedgepith, “I advised you against taking the lead. In McQuade’s wagons there are well over a hundred armed men. Including yourself, you had thirty-five, now shy Byron and Mook. McQuade, despite the fact you hate his guts, has experience you and your hired guns are lacking, and he has men who will fight for him. Take away your money, and who in this outfit cares a tinker’s damn for you?”

  “Shut up,” Hook roared. “Damn you, shut up.”

  But with the exception of the four men digging graves, most of Hook’s outfit had heard Hedgepith’s words, and in their eyes, Hook saw the truth of what Hedgepith had said. Creeker was the first to speak.

  “I reckon you’ve about played out your string, Hook. You ain’t payin’ near enough for a man to risk what happened to them gents layin’ over yonder shot full of arrows. I’m of a mind to ride back to St. Louis, takin’ with me anybody that’s wantin’ to go.”