Across the Rio Colorado (27 page)

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Authors: Ralph Compton

BOOK: Across the Rio Colorado
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“Yes,” she admitted, “but sometimes it's not easy to practice what he preached. Don't you know that?”
“I know,” said McQuade, relenting. “Take Lora in and be friends with her, if you can. I know Creeker will feel better. Not so much for his sake, but for hers.”
“I'll be as much a friend as she'll allow me to be,” Mary said. “Maybe we can both worry about you and Creeker together.”
“Yes,” said McQuade, with a sigh. “That will be a great help to us.”
O
n the morning of the seventh of July, McQuade and Creeker prepared to ride south in search of Sam Houston's militia. Within his bedroll, each man packed a quart of whiskey and in a pack behind each saddle, there was food for two weeks. Before departing, Creeker spent a few minutes alone with Lora, while McQuade joined Mary in the wagon.
“I can't promise you I won't worry,” said Mary. “The only answer my father ever had to my mother's worrying was to say some prayers. I'll do that.”
“Thank you,” McQuade said. “I believe that will do more good than the worrying.”
Creeker was with Lora in Doctor Puckett's wagon, and her feelings were much the same as Mary's.
“I don't even want to think of what would become of me if you never came back,” she said.
“Then don't think of that,” said Creeker, “because I'm comin' back. You think, after I've drifted from pillar to post all my life, that I'm goin' to lose it all, just when I've found you and there's a future ahead?”
“I know you won't, if you can help it,” she said. “The way I've lived my life, God has always seemed awfully far away. Mary says instead of worrying, we should talk to Him.”
“That's good advice,” said Creeker. “We'll be as careful
as we can, and even taking our time, we should be back in six days.”
Everybody gathered to see them off and wish them well, and as the rising sun began building a glory on the eastern horizon, they crossed the Brazos and rode south. Riding at a slow, mile-eating gallop, they rested their horses once an hour. When they reached fresh water they took a longer rest, allowing their horses sufficient time before they drank. They saw no one.
“We're makin' good time,” Creeker said. “We could likely reach the Rio Colorado late today, if we tried.”
“We could,” said McQuade, “but I don't think that's wise. The river runs just about all the way across Texas, and we don't know where we'll find the Monclova camp or the Sam Houston camp. We don't want to stumble onto Monclova while we're looking for the militia, and I want to reach the Rio Colorado with some daylight ahead of us.”
“Those returning emigrants didn't tell us where Monclova's bunch is,” said Creeker, “and that's the one thing we most need to know. While we know Houston hopes to build a town on the river, how are we to know where we'll find Monclova's camp?”
“We don't know that he has a permanent camp,” McQuade said. “In fact, we don't even know where along the river those grants are located. If we can find Houston's militia, they should have some idea as to where Monclova's bunch is.”
“We also don't know that Monclova ain't had more men join him,” said Creeker. “If he had fifty men before, he could have a hundred by now.”
“Against fifty armed men, we'd be a pair of gone geese,” McQuade replied, “and any more wouldn't make much difference. We just have to avoid Monclova's bunch.”
“We can do it, just you and me,” said Creeker, “but not with the wagons. If these Mexicans don't have a permanent camp, and are just ridin' around, they'll spot us.”
“I'm considering asking Houston for as many outriders as he can spare. Suppose we had fifty mounted men riding the length of the train, from the lead wagons to the last?”
“With enough ammunition, we could stand off an army,” Creeker said, “and we have the ammunition. We even got that pile of guns we took from Sutton's gang.”
“If we were told the truth, that Houston has at least two hundred men, then there is virtually no way Monclova can hurt us,” said McQuade. “And that goes for the Comanches, too.”
“This expedition has taken on a lot more promise since Hook and Hedgepith cashed in,” Creeker said.
“Yes,” said McQuade, “and what began as one man's greedy obsession may well change the course of history. The irony of it is, if both Hook and Hedgepith had lived to reach Texas, their dreams of a town would have been in vain. I believe the Mexican government would have seized the wagons and everything in them, using the ammunition and the weapons against Sam Houston's rebels.”
“It makes you wonder,” Creeker said. “I heard a preacher once that said God uses the ungodly to perform miracles. I don't know if Sam Houston's a godly man, but he's about to witness a miracle.”
To the south, along the Rio Colorado, Houston's battered forces had just beaten back an attack by Monclova's Mexican renegades. Houston himself had a bloody arm, while a dozen others had more serious wounds. Three men had died. Houston's lieutenants—Joshua Hamilton, Stockton Saunders, and Alonzo Holden—looked grim.
“There may not be enough ammunition to withstand another siege, sir,” Hamilton said.
“We'll hold out as long as we can,” Houston replied. “Have we medicine to treat the wounded?”
“Only alcohol for disinfectant,” said Saunders. “Nothing for pain, nothing to fight the possible infection.”
“The spirits of the men are pretty low,” Holden said. “We no longer have ammunition for hunting, and the soup's gettin' damn thin.”
“We've reached the end of the trail,” said Hamilton. “We can no longer fight to save Texas, for there's nothing to fight with. We must save ourselves, if we can. You must soon make a decision or the men will desert.”
“Tomorrow,” Houston said, “I'll talk to them.”
They left him then. Removing his battered hat, he knelt and bowed his head.
Miguel Monclova was pleased when his lieutenants, Pedro Mendez and Hidalgo Cortez, reported to him.
“We do as you say,” Mendez exulted. “We attack at dawn, hit them hard, and then we ride away. Three die, many be wounded.”
“
Excelente
,” said Monclova. “There are yet too many of them and not enough of us, but that soon change. We have more men, more guns, more ammunition.
Por dios
, then we kill them all.”
McQuade and Creeker found a secluded spring, cooked their supper, and doused their fire before dark.
“What about Comanches?” Creeker asked. “Do we dare sleep?”
“One at a time,” said McQuade, “and then with one eye open. We'll move well away from the spring, and sleep near the picketed horses. They'll warn us if anybody tries to slip up on us.”
“You sleep first,” Creeker said, “and I'll wake you at midnight.”
“Keeno,” said McQuade. “I want to get an early start in the morning. I'd like to reach the Rio Colorado by noon. Then maybe we can find the militia's camp before dark.”
McQuade arose at midnight. They had left the spring, picketing the horses on a wide plateau, with virtually no cover for potential enemies. McQuade looked at the twinkling
stars in a purple velvet sky, at the barren plains, and thought of Mary. He had slept but little, already awake when Creeker had come to awaken him. He was eager to take the trail south, to meet with Houston, to relieve himself of the responsibility of the wagons and the multitude of people who depended on him. But would he ever truly be free, as long as the territory was in the clutches of Mexico? He got up and walked, restless, and well before first light, Creeker was awake.
“I haven't slept very well,” said Creeker. “Maybe it's those Comanches, fresh on my mind. What say we conceal a small fire, stir up some breakfast, and hit the trail?”
McQuade laughed. “We're both of the same mind. I've been thinkin' of that very thing for the last hour or two.”
They rode south, watchful but seeing nobody, and well before the sun was noon high, they came upon a river which they believed was the Rio Colorado. Almost immediately, the river widened into what became a small lake. They rode until the banks again narrowed and the river flowed on toward the southeast.
7
“It's got to be the Rio Colorado,” said McQuade. “The question is, do we ride up- or downstream to find Houston's militia?”
“Ever since we rode south, I've been wishing we'd gone through Hedgepith's papers,” Creeker said. “It wouldn't hurt if we knew where along this river those grants lie.”
“I've thought of that, myself,” said McQuade, “but I've changed my mind. I believe if we went nosin' around those grants, we'd be more likely to run into Monclova's outfit. I'm thinkin' Sam Houston is in no way involved in these grants, beyond trying to recruit men to fight for Texas.”
“You're likely right,” Creeker said, “but I can't help wondering if Monclova's camp won't be somewhere to the south. With this river flowing into the Gulf, it would
be easy to bring men and supplies along the coast, from Mexico. Maybe by sailing ship, if we are up against the Mexican government.”
“By God,” said McQuade, “you may be on to something. It's been a while since I've seen a map of the Texas coast, but it can't be more than three hundred miles from Matamoros to the point where the Colorado empties into the Gulf. We must discuss this with Sam Houston. My God, a sailing ship could drop hundreds of armed men right in his lap.”
“And ours,” Creeker said. “That would give them a supply line all the way from Mexico City to the Rio Colorado. The best we can do is what we're doing now: wagoning in supplies from St. Louis, or New Orleans.”
“Houston ought to have men watching Matagorda Bay,” said McQuade. “Any Mexican ship landing there will be bad news for all of us.”
They rode carefully, reining up when they saw the distant gray of smoke against the blue of the sky.
“Somebody's camp,” said Creeker. “Downriver maybe two miles.”
“Well-manned, I'd say,” McQuade replied. “That smoke can be seen a hundred miles in every direction. I believe we've found Sam Houston's militia, but we'll ride careful.”
Rounding a bend in the river, they reined up. Ahead was a log structure on the order of a barn, surrounded by a stockade constructed of upright logs. Beyond, along the river, a large number of horses grazed, while armed men stood watch. On a staff just above the stockade gate fluttered a flag with a single star.
“One thing I'm sure of,” said McQuade. “That's not the Mexican flag. I once saw one on a sailing ship in the harbor at New Orleans. Now the trick is to be recognized without being shot.”
The crude fort was between them and the massive herd of grazing horses, so they rode around behind it, away from the river. Once they were within sight of the herd,
but well out of rifle range, McQuade shouted to the riders.
“Hello, the fort. We're friends, come to see Sam Houston.”
Four men kicked their horses into a gallop, reining up fifty yards shy of McQuade and Creeker. The lead rider shouted a question.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
“McQuade and Creeker,” McQuade shouted back, “and we want to talk to Houston. We have a wagon train five days north of here. Now do we see Houston or not?”
“Ride around to the gate and wait there. I'll tell him you're here.”
McQuade and Creeker rode to the gate at the front of the stockade. The gate opened and the man who had challenged them went inside. His three comrades sat their horses and eyed McQuade and Creeker. Each man had a rifle under his arm and their eyes were full of suspicion and questions. The one who had gone to talk to Houston returned hurriedly.
“Mr. Houston will see you. Leave your horses here.”
McQuade and Creeker dismounted, following their host through the gate. The fort was crude in the extreme, providing only shelter. Bedrolls and blankets littered the dirt floor, saddles lay in piles, and rifles leaned against the walls. A dozen half-naked men lay on blankets, bloody bandages covering their various wounds. X-frame tables lined one wall, and men—fifty or more—sat on roughhewn benches. They got hastily to their feet, as McQuade and Creeker entered. There was no mistaking Sam Houston, as he came forth to meet them. His dress was rough, his old hat the worse for wear, and his boots muddy, but there was a certain eloquence about him, even in these rough surroundings. His voice was deep, his manner reserved, and he spoke courteously.
“Will you gentlemen be seated?”
“Not for a while,” said McQuade. “We've been in the saddle for two days. We have a lot to tell you. The most important is that we have fifteen wagonloads of supplies,
including guns, ammunition, and black powder, five days north of here.”
Every man within the building lost his reserve, surging forth, shouting questions, each seeking to drown out the other.
“Silence,” Houston bawled, and it had the desired effect. “These men have come to our rescue, God be praised, and the least we can do is show them some courtesy. Please continue, gentlemen.”
Taking turns, McQuade and Creeker told of the men and women who had signed on with Hook in St. Louis, seeking Mexican land grants. Without going into detail, they told of Hook's and Hedgepith's deaths, leaving the freight for the proposed town ownerless. The men cheered when told of the decision of the emigrants to not only join Houston's militia, but to contribute the fifteen wagonloads of supplies.

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