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Authors: Ralph Compton

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“Don't just stand there, Puckett. I want these men seen to, and able to travel no later than tomorrow morning.”
“I'm a doctor, not a magician,” said Puckett, glaring at Hook. “I'll do what I can, but I can't promise you these men will be alive, come morning.”
Two of the men had arrows driven into their shoulders, while the third had one of the deadly shafts buried in his side. Puckett found an arrow on the ground that had struck a wagon bow. His eyes on the barbed point, he shook his head.
“What's wrong?” Hook demanded.
“Barbed points,” said Puckett. “They can't be drawn out.”
“The hell they can't,” Hook snarled. “They'll have to be.”
“Then you draw them out,” said Puckett, “and I'll doctor the wounds.”
“Damn it, you're the doctor,” Hook said. “Do what has to be done.”
“This is beyond any training I've had,” said Puckett. “Common sense tells me that if the shafts cannot be withdrawn,
they'll have to be driven on through. The pain would be unbearable, and the shock could kill a man.”
“If you don't remove the arrows, they're dead men anyway,” Hook said. “I'm ordering you to remove those arrows by whatever means you must.”
“Order be damned,” said Puckett. “I won't do it.”
“Hook,” Creeker said, speaking for the first time, “there're wagonloads of pain killer in front of you. Give these men enough whiskey to get them dog-drunk. While they're out, those arrows can be pushed on through.”
Hook said nothing, his doubtful eyes on Puckett.
“It might work,” said Puckett. “It's the only chance they have.”
“Then dose them with as much whiskey as it takes,” Hook said. He looked at Creeker, and the gunman's eyes never wavered. Hook saw rebellion there, and he realized that he must rid himself of Creeker, and probably the others, as well.
With the help of Savage and Presnall, Puckett tapped a keg for the necessary whiskey. Even then they could hear McQuade's outfit moving out, leaving them with wounded men, not knowing when the Kiowa might return. While Creeker and his men had managed to repel the attack, none of the Indians had been hit. But there had been many shots fired, and the attack hadn't gone unnoticed in McQuade's camp.
“They've discovered Hook's bunch,” said Ike. “Maybe they'll leave us alone.”
“Maybe,” McQuade said, “but keep your gun handy.”
Maggie, Eli, and Ellen had been made as comfortable as possible, knowing they could not remain another day so near the troublesome Kiowa. Besides, there were more ahead. McQuade rode out, as much to look for Indian sign as for water. Before reaching suitable water for the night, he had to ride around a slough, where there was standing, stagnant water. Reaching a clear-running creek, he watered his horse and rode back to meet the oncoming wagons.
When the wagons had been circled and supper done, McQuade and Mary retired to the wagon.
“This is one of them nights I don't aim to take off anything but my hat,” McQuade said. “It's too hot for blankets, and them damn mosquitoes is big enough to go after with a gun.”
“They're from all that standing water,” said Mary. “But this is just for one night, and then they won't bother us.”
But Mary couldn't have been more wrong. Thirty-six hours later, she was the first to be stricken with burning fever and bone-wracking chills. His watch over, McQuade returned to the wagon at dawn, to find Mary feverish and talking out of her head. Maggie had healed enough to be up and about, and McQuade went for her. She had once worked as an assistant to a doctor. By the time she reached the wagon, Mary was shaking with chill.
“My God, Chance,” said Maggie, “she has all the symptoms of malaria, and if she has it, there may be others. Whatever got to her may have gotten to them.”
4
“If she has it,” McQuade said, “you can count on others having it. I'll stay with her, while you make the rounds of the other wagons.”
Maggie hurried away, while McQuade sat there with his arms around Mary, dreading what Maggie might discover. He knew within minutes, for Ike Peyton, Gunter Warnell, Cal Tabor, and Will Haymes brought the bad news.
“Maggie says it's almost got to be malaria,” said Ike grimly. “A dozen families is sick with it, and they're all scared half to death. Agin Indians and outlaws we got a chance, but this could wipe us out, without a doctor and medicine.”
“I know where there's both,” McQuade said.
“You're thinking of Hook's doctor, Horace Puckett,”
said Gunter Warnell. “Do you really expect him to help us?”
“Yes,” McQuade replied. “If I have to hog-tie Rufus Hook and hold a pistol to his thick head for as long as necessary. Gunter, you and Will saddle your horses and come with me. The rest of you keep your guns handy against Indian attack, and tell those who are sick that we've gone for medicine and a doctor.”
The trio rode out, uncertain as to how far behind Hook's wagons might be. To their surprise, they found the wagons remained circled where they had been at the time of the Indian attack.
“Hook's had some men wounded or killed,” said McQuade, when they sighted the circle of wagons. It was still early, and smoke rose from breakfast fires. Even in daylight, Hook wisely had men on watch. McQuade was about to sing out, when Creeker saw them and waved them in.
“I must see Hook,” McQuade said.
Creeker nodded. Dismounting, McQuade and his companions followed Creeker to the cook wagon. Hook sat on a stool, eating from a tin plate. He eyed McQuade without any friendliness. McQuade didn't beat around the bush.
“Hook, we need a doctor and medicine. We have a dozen families with chills and fever. It could be malaria.”
“Get the hell out of here,” Hook shouted, dropping his plate. “You'll infect us.”
“I'm not leaving here without your Doctor Puckett,” said McQuade.
Hook's shouting had gotten attention, including that of Dr. Horace Puckett. But Hook was furious. He turned to Creeker, Groat, Porto, and the others, with a direct order.
“I want these three out of here,” Hook snarled. “If they don't go, shoot them.”
“I'll kill the first man that pulls a gun,” said McQuade.
“Nobody's going to pull a gun,” Creeker said, his cold
eyes on Hook. “Dr. Puckett, I believe these men have need of you.”
“We have a dozen families down with chills and fever, Doctor,” said McQuade. “Could be malaria, we think.”
“It can be treated with quinine,” Puckett said, “and we have an adequate supply.”
“I have an adequate supply,” said Hook, “and it will be saved for our own use.”
“Rufus,” Puckett said, “this is contrary to everything you promised me, before leaving St. Louis. You told me these people were to become residents of your planned community, that I would see to their needs. Well, they need me now, and I'm going, and I'm taking with me the necessary medicine for treatment.”
“You go, then by God, don't bother comin' back,” Hook snarled.
“If that's the way you want it,” said Puckett mildly. “But remember, nobody knows the probable cause of malaria. Whatever lies ahead—whatever infected Mr. McQuade's party—may infect yours as well. Mr. Creeker, will you have one of your men saddle my horse, while I get my personal effects, my bag, and the necessary medicine?”
“Groat,” Creeker said.
Groat went to saddle the horse, while Creeker remained where he was, his hard eyes on Rufus Hook. Xavier Hedgepith, who had witnessed it all, spoke to Hook.
“Don't be a damn fool. You already have three wounded men, and the doc's right. We could all be needing him, before this is done. Now you talk to him, before he leaves.”
Clearly, Rufus Hook didn't wish to retract any of his harsh words, but he was all but surrounded by hostile faces. When the doctor returned, prepared to mount the horse, Hook grudgingly spoke.
“I was wrong, Doc. Since you'll be seein' to these people in Texas, I suppose it's your duty to doctor them
along the way. Take what you need, do what needs doin', and come on back as soon as you can. We got three men near dead.”
“You can pour whiskey down them as well as I can,” said Puckett shortly. “If this is malaria, it could become an epidemic. I'll return when I have done my duty.”
He mounted the horse and rode out, following McQuade and his companions. Just for a moment, McQuade's eyes met those of Creeker and his men, and no words were needed. There were sighs of relief when the four horsemen rode into the McQuade wagon circle. It took Doctor Puckett only a few minutes to diagnose the illness as malaria.
“There are several kinds,” said Puckett. “The most common is the thirty-six-hour variety. The attacks come every three days, with an almost continuous feeling of exhaustion and an inability to function. I'm beginning treatment immediately of those who are ill, and I'll remain with you until we are sure the danger of epidemic has passed.”
McQuade watched with relief as Mary and the others were dosed with quinine. Doctor Puckett was up all night, checking the condition of his patients every hour. Maggie Peyton was with him, watching, listening, learning. By dawn of the next day, there was a definite improvement in all those stricken. Mary sat up, eating her breakfast and drinking coffee.
“It's no less than a miracle, the doctor coming to take care of us,” she said. “How did you manage it?”
“The doctor had something to say about that,” said McQuade. “Thank God all Hook's people don't take his orders without question.”
Doctor Puckett remained with them three days. Between visits to his patients, he asked countless questions about the frontier, which McQuade attempted to answer. Maggie went to great lengths, feeding the genial doctor, making fresh coffee, and seeing that he had a place to sleep when he finally found time for it.
“We'll hate to see you go,” said McQuade.
“I won't be that far away,” Puckett replied. “I expect Mr. Hook's wagons will be catching up to you. He's had three wounded teamsters sweating out infection, but he's an impatient man. He won't wait for that. Besides, I suspect that whatever infected your party with malaria won't spare his. It'll be a miracle, if by the time he catches up to you, some of his men aren't sick.”
That same afternoon, they heard the rattle of wagons. Hook had arrived, and it was but a short time until Creeker rode in. Nodding to McQuade, he spoke directly to Doctor Puckett.
“The chickens has come home to roost, Doc. We got us some sick
hombres,
and the sickest of the lot is the big rooster himself. He's scared he's gonna die, and the rest of us is scared he won't.”
“It's what I've been expecting,” said Puckett. “Will one of you bring my horse?”
McQuade saddled the animal and brought it to him, handing him his bag after he had mounted. They all gathered around, wishing him well, inviting him back. Creeker tipped his hat and rode out, Puckett following.
“Even with Hook havin' control of these Texas grants,” Ike said, “I feel better just knowin' Dr. Puckett will be there.”
“So do I,” said Maggie. “He knows his medicine, and he's promised to teach me just as much as I'm smart enough to learn, once we get to Texas.”
“Speakin' of Texas,” Will Haymes said, “I been keepin' track, and this is June tenth. We been on the trail six weeks.”
“We're better than half way across Indian Territory,” said McQuade, “and while we've seen no more smoke, I don't believe we're done with the Kiowa. I think we'll go on posting a double guard and trailing the wagons three abreast. Those of you in wagons one and three, from front to back, keep your eyes open. You'll have an opportunity to see attacking Indians first, and I want all of
you to be especially watchful as we pass through brushy or wooded stretches where there's plenty of cover. Cut loose with your guns, even if you don't hit any of them, and don't let them get close enough to hurt any of us. Ask Ellen, Maggie, or Eli how it feels to have an arrow driven through you.”
Creeker slowed his horse until he and Doctor Puckett were riding side by side, and it was Creeker who spoke.
“What do you think of McQuade's outfit, Doc?”
“They're good people,” said Puckett, “and I believe I'm going to like being a part of this Texas colony. It's going to be a success in spite of Mr. Hook.”
Creeker laughed, slapping his thigh with his hat.
W
ith three teamsters wounded, Rufus Hook had been in a precarious situation, unable to distance himself from the hostile Kiowa. While Creeker had little respect for Hook, he had persuaded three of his men—Dirk, Nail, and Rucker—to take on the three wagons until the teamsters were able to resume their duties. But by the time Hook's wagons had caught up to McQuade's party, the trio of make-do teamsters were fed up. With Hook and seven other teamsters ill with what almost had to be malaria, there was obviously going to be another delay, allowing McQuade's outfit to forge ahead.
“Damn it,” said Rucker, “I didn't hire on as no teamster. I'm done as a wagon jockey for Hook.”
“Me too,” Dirk and Nall said in a single voice.
“I told you it was for just long enough to get us away from that bunch of Kiowa,” Creeker said. “By the time Hook and the rest of these
hombres
is cured of malaria, them three gents that was wounded should be able to handle their teams again. I ain't cozyin' up to Rufus Hook, if that's what's botherin' you. Seein' how McQuade has pulled that bunch of his together, I got me a feelin' that things is goin' to be a hell of a lot different, once we reach Texas. Hook's goin' to be some surprised, and that's why I'm goin' easy on him now.”
“We'll still be under his thumb, even in Texas,” said
Groat. “Ain't you forgettin' he's got all our names down for land grants, with plans for us signin' it all over to him?”
“It's a long ways between what he's expectin' and what he's goin' to get,” Creeker replied. “When I get that grant in my name, it's mine, and Hook can go to hell.”
Ellis laughed. “I like the sound of that, but what's the good of fiddlefoot hombres like us owning land grants in Texas?”
“None, I reckon,” said Creeker, “if you aim to go on selling your soul and your gun to varmints like Hook. Me, I got ambition for somethin' better, and the way to start is ownin' land with my name on it.”
“By God,” Ellis said, “you done changed your tune some, since leavin' St. Louis.”
“I have,” said Creeker, “and I got Rufus Hook to thank for that. I've sold my gun, but by God, I'm still a better man than he is. Someday, not that far off, there'll be law on the frontier, and when it comes, I don't aim to be on the wrong side of it, with a gun in my hand.”
“Hell, Creeker,” Dirk said, “when we get to Texas, we'll be lucky to have a thousand dollars amongst us. How far can we get with that?”
“Texas is owned by Mexico,” said Creeker, “and they're almighty anxious to settle the land. Why do you reckon they're dealing with greedy varmints like Hook? Once we get our hands on a grant, we'll ride to Mexico for some horses, cows, and bulls. When we got the seed stock, the natural increase will do the rest.”
“Creeker,” Groat said, “you're either the smartest hombre I ever met, or the biggest damn fool.”
“He's started usin' his head for something other than a place to hang his hat,” said Ellis. “A damn fool is a hombre that hires out to an old buzzard like Hook, jumpin' ever' time he hollers froggy. I'm with you, Creeker.”
To Creeker's satisfaction, they all sided him, agreeing
to split with Hook after reaching Texas. But Creeker had a word of warning.
“We'll have to play along with Hook, because we'll need the money he's paying us, so it'll mean resisting the urge to gut-shoot him when he's orderin' us around.”
But Creeker found it increasingly hard to follow his own advice. When Hook had recovered from his bout with malaria, he became more the tyrant than ever. One night after supper, when Lora Kirby refused to accompany him to his tent, he knocked her to the ground. He was about to kick her, when Creeker seized him by his shirt front and flattened him with a punch to the jaw.
“Damn you,” said Hook, “you're fired. Get on your horse and ride.”
“You might want to think on it some,” Groat said. “If he goes, we all go.”
“Maybe I'll go with 'em,” said one of the teamsters who had been wounded. “If it wasn't for them and their quick gun work, the Indians would of kilt us all.”
“And we ain't even close to bein' out of Indian Territory,” said another.
Again Hook was forced to swallow his rage or risk wholesale rebellion, and some of the teamsters eyed him with something less than respect.
On watch, Creeker suddenly became alert, his gun in his hand. There was no moon, and while the shadow had been fleeting, Creeker knew someone was there. He cocked the pistol, and it seemed loud in the stillness.
“No,” came a desperate whisper. “It's me. Lora.”
Creeker let the hammer down and holstered the weapon. She crept out of the shadows and he guided her to a distant pine that stood in a small clearing. From there, even in the dim starlight, he could see anybody approaching. She eased herself down next to the tree, and Creeker sat down beside her.
“I never got a chance to thank you for what you did,” she said.
“I wasn't expecting any thanks,” said Creeker. “Where I come from, however lowdown a man is, he don't slap a woman around.”
“No decent woman,” she said, “but he knows what I am, and so do you.”
“We've all done things we ain't proud of,” said Creeker, “but that don't mean we have to go on doing them.”
“Easy for you to say,” she replied, “but you know why he brought me along.”
“You don't aim to teach school, then.”
Her laugh was bitter. “I can barely read and write.”
“Most of these folks goin' to Texas have pulled up roots and aim to make another start in a new land. Why not you?”
“Me?” Again she laughed, and it trailed off into a sob. “A whore in St. Louis is still a whore in Texas. I've been fooling myself. Hook promised me a better life than I could ever hope for in St. Louis, but the more I see of him, the more certain I am that I'm lost to anything good and decent. I was better off, being everybody's woman, than a slave to a brute like Rufus Hook.”
“If you could free yourself of him,” Creeker asked, “would you?”
“My God, yes,” she cried, “but I'm committed. He'd kill me.”
“Not while I'm around,” said Creeker, “if you're bein' honest with me.”
“I am,” she said, her voice trembling. “I've never had any man interested in me, but for a roll in the hay. What do you want?”
“More than a roll in the hay,” said Creeker. “I know what you've been, and now I'm lookin' to what you can be. From here on to Texas, if I stand up for you, will you stay out of Hook's bed?”
“What happens when we reach Texas?”
“Plenty,” Creeker said. “Somewhere behind the paint, behind all that you have been, I've got a gut-feelin'
there's an honest woman. Let me have a look at her. We'll talk again, any night of your choosing. But starting now—tonight—you're no longer Hook's woman. You are a school marm, and nothing more.”
“He'll laugh in my face.”
“Let him,” said Creeker. “If he tries to force you, or to hurt you in any way, scream your head off. I'll beat hell out of him.”
“I've never heard you called anything but Creeker,” she said. “Do you have any other name?”
“Riley,” he said. “Riley Creeker. Are you really Lora Kirby?”
“Yes. My daddy is a Methodist preacher in Illinois. Since I was a child, I've listened to him preach that people were going to hell. I hope he never knows just how right he's been.”
“How old are you, Lora?”
“I'll be nineteen in August,” she said. “And you?”
“I'm twenty-three. There's still time for us.”
“You've given me hope,” she said. “I'll talk to you again tomorrow night.”
She faded into the shadows and Riley Creeker watched her go. Without the paint and the hopelessness in her eyes, she would be beautiful, he thought. But could she—would she—resist Rufus Hook's demands? He found himself hoping she would.
McQuade's party again took the trail, and he rode ahead, seeking water and looking for Indian sign. Water seemed abundant in Indian Territory, and he concerned himself with Indian sign. When he eventually found a creek that suited him, there were ashes from an old fire and days-old tracks of a dozen unshod horses. There had been no recent rain, so McQuade was able to determine that the Indians had ridden in from the west, and that they had departed to the southwest. McQuade rode back to meet the wagons. There was little to be done defensively, when they had no idea where the Kiowa were. When the wagons
had been circled for the night and supper was underway, McQuade told them of the tracks he had found, ahead of their arrival.
“Maybe we ought to triple the guard, from here on,” Ike suggested.
“I doubt that will help,” said McQuade. “A night attack would appeal to them only if they could stampede the stock. I think we'll strictly have to be on our guard while we're on the trail.”
“They took us by surprise, that first time,” Gunter Warnell said. “If we move quick, I believe we can drive them away before they're able to hurt us.”
“Just keep that in mind,” said McQuade. “Let them get too close, and some of you will die.”
The showdown between Rufus Hook and Lora Kirby came the night following Lora's meeting with Creeker. Hook had left nothing to anybody's imagination regarding his crude relationship with the girl.
“Into my tent,” he growled.
“No,” said Lora. “Never again.”
“We had an agreement,” Hook said, loud enough for everybody to hear. “That's why I brought you from St. Louis.”
“Then I'm breaking it,” said Lora. “Send me back to St. Louis, if you don't like it.”
“You know that's impossible,” Hook roared. “Now get in there, or I'll drag you.”
“Hook,” said Creeker, “the woman's had enough of you. Leave her be.”
“And I've had enough of you pokin' your nose in where it don't belong,” Hook said, his voice sinking to a growl. “This is none of your business.”
“I'm making it my business,” said Creeker ominously. “It becomes the business of us all, when you abuse a woman. What do the rest of you say?”
The teamsters said nothing, but it was evident that all nine of Creeker's companions would side him, if need be.
Their thumbs were hooked in their pistol belts, and their hard eyes were on Hook. Hiram Savage and Snakehead Presnall, Hook's gamblers, were careful to keep their hands away from their guns. While Doctor Horace Puckett had spoken not a word, his eyes were on Hook, and they said much. It became another standoff, as Hook stood his ground. As usual, it was Xavier Hedgepith who had to reason with Hook, and it was the lawyer who eventually spoke to Lora.
“There's obviously been a misunderstanding,” said Hedgepith smoothly. “Mr. Hook has agreed that you have been enlisted to teach school upon your arrival in Texas, and that your … ah … relationship with him is strictly voluntary.”
“I have no relationship with him, besides what he forced on me,” Lora said, “and now that I have a choice, I don't want him near me.”
It cast Rufus Hook in a bad light, and he turned hate-filled eyes on Creeker, whom he considered guilty of rank insubordination. Creeker glared right back at him, both of them knowing that one day they would clash. Neither could afford a personal struggle while they faced the hazards of Indian Territory. Creeker was elated when Lora again visited him late at night, the more so because of the change in her attitude.
“I never expected that,” she said. “I didn't believe he'd agree to leave me alone. I owe that to you, because I was afraid to stand up to him. But he'll find a way to get back at you. I could see it in his eyes.”
“He's had to swallow a lot of things that's rankled his gizzard,” said Creeker, “because of our situation. With all of us on the watch for Indians, we can't afford to fight amongst ourselves. Whatever hell-raising Hook has in mind will have to wait until we reach Texas.”
“He's applied for land grants in everybody's name. Even mine. He's counting on us all signing our grants over to him.”
“Yes,” said Creeker, “but there's usually a lot of difference between what a man wants or expects, and what he finally gets.”
“You're saying that everybody won't sign their grants over to Hook?”
“I can't speak for everybody,” Creeker said, “but if I'm able to get my hands on some Texas land, it's mine. I got nine hombres sidin' me that feel the same way.”
BOOK: Across the Rio Colorado
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