“As a last resort, it might work,” said Keithley, “but it would take some almighty powerful acting to pull it off.”
“I don’t favor that,” Bill said. “Suppose it falls through? The girls end up there under Estrello’s blankets, and the rest of us end up dead.”
“But it may be the only real hope we have,” said Betsy. “Can’t you imagine what this bunch would do if they suddenly had a hundred thousand dollars in gold to divide among themselves? They’d murder us all to silence us.”
“She has a point there,” Keithley said. “That could hold everything together until we’re back from St. Louis, but what happens when we can’t stall any longer, and it’s time to divvy up the gold? I’m not a very trusting hombre, and I’m the kind who would expect a double-cross. Especially with us hopelessly out-gunned.”
“I can’t deny that,” said Mark, “and somehow we have to split this outfit. The gold—or even the promise of it—might do that, but the subject must be brought up without it involving Amanda and Betsy. Is there anybody in this outfit who can likely stir up trouble over this gold, without creating suspicion?”
“Clemans and Ursino,” Keithley said. “They was part of the original gang, and they fell out with Estrello when he allowed Jake and the girls to take the gold. I’d say it wouldn’t take much to get Vernon and Nick up to a fighting pitch, since Jake’s gone and only Amanda and Betsy know where the gold is.”
“That settles it,” Bill said. “We’ll have to figure some way to get this bunch in a fight over this gold. Any ideas?”
“Clemans, Ursino, and Stackler are old-timers with this bunch. Soon as they saw the way the stick floated, they started tryin’ to work their way in with Estrello. But Estrello felt like Jake had betrayed him, and he ain’t trusted nobody since. Those three old-timers have long been in favor of bustin’ up this outfit,” Keithley said.
Mark sighed. “That gets us back to having to trust somebody. Can you find out just how far we can go with Stackler, Ursino, Clemans, Sullivan, and Long?”
“I think so,” Keithley said, “but it’s a touchy situation. We have to stir up enough hell to send ‘em all after the gold, without them goin’ before we’re ready.”
“Then we’ll have to let these other men in on the scheme to give up the gold, so we can count on them when we come up against Estrello,” said Bill. “Do you reckon we can depend on Clemans or Ursino to raise some hell when we’re ready for it?”
“Either or both,” Keithley said. “They ain’t liked Estrello since he took over the outfit, after they had that first fallin’out over the gold.”
“It gets complicated,” said Mark. “What we must do is return that stolen gold and see that this whiskey smuggling along the Arkansas is stopped. For those who are willing to join us, the reward is freedom from prosecution, among other things. Those who are unwilling and insist on fighting must be gunned down to the last man.”
“The two of you talk like federal men,” Keithley said. “Can you tell me for sure who’s siding you?”
“The state of Texas and the federal government,” said Bill. “When the time comes, we have the necessary proof. But before we do anything else, we must organize as many men as we can, who will stand their ground when there’s a showdown with Estrello.”
“Yes,” Keithley said, “and they’ve got to hold off until we’ve completed this whiskey run from St. Louis. Let me talk to Nick, Vernon, and Ed. I think they’re about ready to give up on the whiskey smuggling anyway. They got so much of a price on their heads, they might just hang it all up if the amnesty deal is good enough.”
“It’ll be good enough,” said Mark, “but we must convince everybody involved that the run to St. Louis must come first. Any amnesty deal is a two-edged sword. Those accepting amnesty will have their crimes forgiven, while those who refuse will die with their guns in their hands.”
“Now I can see which way we’re headed,” Keithley said. “We must separate the sheep from the goats. By the time we haul this load of whiskey from St. Louis, we should have two different camps: one ready to keep smuggling, and the other willing to give it up in return for freedom from prosecution.”
“That’s what is all boils down to,” said Mark. “Somehow this whiskey problem must be resolved, and the only way we can do it is divide and conquer. Even then, the odds will be unbelievably long.”
Chapter 4
Contrary to what Wolf Estrello had hoped, a new cloud mass moved in from the west, and instead of the rain ceasing, it took a new start.
“Damn it,” said Estrello, “we can get these empty wagons to the landing at Fort Smith aboard the boats bound for St. Louis. By the time the boats return from St. Louis with the wagons and whiskey, the ground should be dry.”
Wilder laughed. “Estrello, you sweat and worry like an old woman.”
Some of the other outlaws laughed, reason enough for Estrello to wonder how many of them would side with him in an open rebellion. Estrello chose to ignore the remark, and gave an order. “I want these teams hitched and the wagons ready to go at daylight. I want you riders strung out the length of the caravan, and don’t concern yourselves with only what’s ahead. An attack could come from any quarter.”
Todd Keithley hurriedly harnessed his teams. His wagon was close enough to Ed Stackler’s to allow Keithley a chance for some fast talking.
Stackler took only a minute to make up his mind. “I’d shuck it all, Keithley, for a chance to ride back to Texas and start over. Just to be able to lie down at night without a pistol in my hand.”
“There’s not much I can tell you,” said Keithley, “except the State of Texas and the federal government aims to offer amnesty. Those choosing not to accept will be hunted down to the last man.”
“I can understand that,” Stackler said. “How long before the showdown?”
“Sometime on the last leg of the run with the whiskey,” said Keithley. “Probably after we take the loaded wagons off the boats beyond Fort Smith. I need your help in getting to Ursino, Clemans, Long, and Sullivan. Can you do it without Estrello or his bunch deciding something’s wrong?”
“If I can’t do it today, I will tonight,” Stackler said. “Where do the new men stand?”
“With us,” said Keithley, “and that’s all I can tell you.”
The wagons were ready to go at dawn, and despite the soggy ground and the continued rain, Estrello shouted for them to move out. Mark and Amanda were on the box of the wagon that had belonged to Jake Miles, Bill and Betsy had the wagon directly behind. The remaining wagons were strung out to the rear. They hadn’t progressed a hundred yards when trouble struck. One of Mark’s lead mules stepped into a leaf-filled stump hole, and as a result of the shock and pain, the animal reared, trying to escape the harness. One of the outriders—Drew Wilder—drew his rifle from the boot and swinging it hard as he could, struck the spooked mule in the head. Stunned, the unfortunate animal sagged to its knees. That was as long as it took Mark Rogers to launch himself from the wagon box. He swept Wilder out of the saddle, and when the two got to their feet, Wilder had his hand on the butt of his Colt. When Mark hit him, he lay on the muddy ground and began cursing Mark.
“Nobody manhandles Drew Wilder and lives to talk about it,” he snarled.
“Nobody mistreats an animal when I’m around,” said Mark. “Next time—if there is one—I’ll kill you.”
“What the hell’s holding things up?” Estrello shouted, reining up.
“One of the mules stepped into a deep hole and got spooked,” Clemans said. “Wilder slugged the varmint with the muzzle of his rifle. Rogers came off the wagon box like a cougar, after Wilder. It ended just like you likely saw it.”
“I did see most of it,” said Estrello. “Wilder, you’re not a teamster. If you ever lay a hand on one of these animals again, you’ll answer to me.”
“When I choose to talk to you,” Wilder snarled, “you’d better have a cocked pistol in your hand.”
T
he Spaniard—Alonzo Bideno—stood tense, his hand near the butt of his Colt, for he and Wilder were friends. Only when he saw Mark watching him did he let it go. Some of the other men had turned hard eyes on Wilder. Mark ignored him, however, and was examining the injured mule.
“How badly is he hurt?” Estrello asked.
“He’s not going to be working for a few days,” said Mark, “and you can see where he was hit by Wilder’s rifle.”
“Damn you, Wilder,” Estrello said. “We don’t have another mule to replace him.”
“Well, use a horse,” snarled Wilder.
“You do not mix horses and mules,” Estrello said in disgust. “Rogers, this is part of your team. What do you suggest?”
“Mules and horses don’t pull the same,” said Mark, “but they can work together when they’re harnessed right. Bring me two horses that ain’t easy spooked.”
The two horses were brought. Mark left the first two mules in harness. Ahead of them, he harnessed the two horses. Finally—ahead of the horses—he harness two more mules. The remaining two mules—including the injured one—he tied to lead ropes behind the wagon.
“Hell, that ain’t never gonna work,” Tull McLean said.
“It wouldn’t for you,” said Mark, “but it will for me.”
Outlaws they were, but they had respect for a man’s ability to handle his horse. Mark took the time to speak to the skittish horses, ruffling their ears. Amanda still sat on the wagon box, and Mark climbed up beside her. After several false starts, the two horses settled into their harness, and the wagon was again moving.
Not until after supper did Keithley have another chance to talk to Bill and Mark. “All the men in question are with us,” Keithley said. “You got Wilder a mite upset with you, though. He’s trying to turn the others against us.”
“Bueno,” said Mark. “That gives him a reason for hating me, without involving the stolen gold or the illegal whiskey. That was a damn fool thing to do, hurting a mule when you don’t have one to replace it, but it worked to our advantage. Wilder didn’t make himself any friends, and he may have hurt his standing with Estrello.”
“I’m on the second watch tonight, with Nick, Vernon, and Ed,” said Keithley. “I aim to answer any questions they may have. At some point, one of you will need to talk to Long and Sullivan. There’s so few of us, we must nail down what we have.”
Fort Smith. July 25, 1866.
Despite a night and most of a day of rain, the empty wagons were no trouble. The outfit made camp one day away from their rendezvous point beyond Fort Smith. Wilder made no secret of his dislike for Mark Rogers, but nobody seemed to take him seriously. At night, his wagon empty, a teamster generally slept in or under it. Since Betsy was with Bill, and Mark with Amanda, they chose to tie the canvas puckers at front and back and spend their nights in the wagons. It afforded some privacy, while providing endless material for crude jokes among the other men. Amanda and Mark sat within their wagon, while behind them, Betsy and Bill occupied the second wagon.
“While I appreciate the wagon,” Amanda said, “I can’t imagine why Estrello’s allowing us to use it. He never allowed Jake or anybody else to sleep in the wagons, even when there was room.”
“I can,” said Mark. “Estrello’s being forced to change some of his habits. Bill and me have created some trouble for him because we ruined his plans for you and Betsy, and he’s not sure where we’re going to stand when the showdown comes.”
“Lord, I wish this was all over and we could just ride back to Texas,” Amanda said.
“So do I,” said Mark, “but the worst is yet to come. Rough as it may be, we have to give thanks to the Almighty. There’s a small chance that some of us will be able to redeem ourselves. Sooner or later, a man ridin’ the owlhoot trail will forget for just a little while who and where he is. Just long enough for somebody to pull a gun maybe half a second quicker.”
Amanda shuddered and moved closer to him. She tried changing the subject. “If I tell you something about me, will you promise not to laugh?”
“Things being the way they are, I think I can safely promise that,” said Mark.
“Ever since you and Bill rescued Betsy and me,” Amanda said, “I find myself believing the story you told Estrello—that Betsy and me were promised to you and Bill five years ago, that you’ve come to hold us to that promise.”
“We have,” Mark said.
It was pitch dark within the wagon. She couldn’t see his face, and there wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice that might have branded the whole thing a joke.
“You . . . have?” Amanda asked.
“Of course we have,” said Mark. “We’ve told you that. I think there’s a destiny laid out by the Almighty for every man choosing to try and follow the straight and narrow. I believe our destiny—mine and Bill’s—includes you and Betsy. Is that good enough for you?”
She crept closer and responded with a kiss.
“That answers a lot of questions,” Mark said. “I just wish you and Betsy had somethin’ to wear under your shirts. Way it is now, when you . . . ah . . . jiggle about, it could send a man’s mind gallopin’ down the wrong trail.”
She laughed. “Would one of those minds belong to you, and another to Bill Harder?”
“Damn,” he said, “I always take everything one step too far.”
In the second wagon, conversation lagged. Betsy and Bill had discussed their situation and their chances of survival until they were just plain weary.
“God,” said Betsy. “I’m so tired of this wagon, I could get out and start walking.”
“I’m of about the same mood,” Bill Harder said. “I feel like somebody took a single tree and just beat hell out of my back and shoulders. There’s some fool people around who thinks all a teamster has to do is set on his behind and signal the teams when to stop and go.”
“What else does a teamster do?” she asked, apparently deadly serious.
“This,” said Bill. Hanging her belly-down over the wagon seat, he proceeded to wallop her behind. When he turned her loose, she sat up with a giggle.
“Damn you, Bill Harder, before I stand before a preacher with you, I aim to have me some canvas underpants, some pantaloons, a girdle—”
“All that stuff’s against the law in Texas,” said Bill. “If a man has to fight his way over a desert populated with grizzly bears and rattlesnakes, the trip had damned well better be worth it. I think that was in Sam Houston’s platform when he ran for governor.”
She laughed. “Am I worth a desert full of grizzly bears and rattlesnakes?”
“One or the other,” said Bill. “Not both.”
“Amanda and Mark are sitting in that wagon in the dark,” Betsy said. “What do you think they’re doing?”
“How the hell should I know?” Bill demanded. “Why don’t you ask Amanda?”
“You don’t have to get miffed,” said Betsy. “It just seems like . . . with us planning to go before the preacher ... that we . . .”
“Ought to be doing considerably more than settin’ here holdin’ hands,” Bill finished.
“All right,” she snapped, “but if the time ever comes, you’ll have some idea as to where to start, won’t you?”
He couldn’t see her face, but he seized her shoulders and drew her so close their noses were touching. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
“I reckon you’re entitled to your opinion, but in the part of Texas I call home, a man don’t sample a woman’s favors until a preacher’s read from the book. Not unless he’s in a whorehouse and paying. Comprende?”
“Yes,” she said angrily, drawing away from him. “I’ll be twenty-four years old in October, and I’m . . . I’m . . .”
“Unused and unspoiled,” said Bill. “You can last a few more days. One way or another, we’ll be free of this outfit.”
“Being dead is a kind of freedom,” she said sarcastically.
“That’s gospel,” said Bill, “but whatev
er happens, you and Amanda won’t be any worse off than if Mark and me hadn’t come to rescue you. Would you rather wait a little longer for me, or share a bed with Estrello and Amanda?”
“That’s the trouble with damn Texas men,” she said, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “They have answers to everything, and they’re always right.”
The following day they circled wide, avoiding Fort Smith. Half a dozen miles east of town, they unharnessed the teams. Sundown was an hour away.
“The four boats will be here sometime tonight,” Keithley said when he had a chance to talk to Mark.
“It ought to be interesting,” said Mark. “Have you come up with any reason why he’s taking the entire outfit to St. Louis this time?”
“No,” Keithley said. “He’s never done this before. It’s almost like he’s building up to a big showdown of some kind. A fight that could get some of us killed.”
After supper Estrello sought out his first and second in command, Drew Wilder and the Spaniard, Alonzo Bideno. Wilder, still barely on speaking terms with Estrello, said not a word. When Estrello spoke, he tried to seem as jovial as possible.
“Amigos, I suppose you are wondering why this journey is different from the others.”
“I personally don’t give a damn,” said Wilder. “This is my last run. Then you can take this first in command thing and stuff it where the sun don’t shine.”
“Ah,” Estrello said, his voice cold, “a grudge is the hardest load with which a man can burden himself. What are your feelings, Alonzo?”
“That we are pushing our luck, señor,” said Bideno. “They tell us our price be going up this time. Our shares are already small. Now they threaten to become smaller, with as much or more opportunity for an hombre to die with his pistola in his hand.”
“Suppose I told you this is the last run, and that it will cost us nothing?” Estrello asked. “The war’s over, and there’s talk in Congress of sending the military to clean up Indian Territory. If and when that happens, I don’t aim to be here.”
Ralph Compton Whiskey River Page 7