Ralph Compton Whiskey River

by Compton, Ralph

  “He has his nerve,” said Betsy. “Breakdowns have been the least of our troubles, and if it hadn’t been for you, Mark, and the other teamsters, this whole bunch would have been scalped by now.”

  Bill laughed. “I think what we’ve been through so far will be nothing compared to what we’ll face when we reach the Washita. If there are three or four hundred Indians there, and they decide to take these wagons, there won’t be a damn thing any of us can do except die.”

  “What about those Indians whose horses you ran off last night? Can they catch up to us after they find their horses?”

  “Yes,” Bill said. “Trouble is, they may not be the problem. I don’t think there were more than fifty in the bunch. That means there may be lesser groups of them somewhere along the way. But the main trial is yet to come—when we reach the Washita.”

  Hiram returned after a little more than an hour, reporting no Indian sign.

  “Bueno,” said Estrello. “There’s nothin’ standin’ in our way.”

  But the left rear wheel of Ed’s wagon chunked into an unseen hole, splintering the wagon wheel. Estrello galloped back, reining up before Stackler’s wagon.

  “By God, didn’t you hear me when I said no more breakdowns?”

  “Estrello,” Ed said, “a man can’t avoid what he can’t see. Some of these holes and drop-offs are full of dead leaves, and you ought to have sense enough to know it. If you want somebody to replace me at the reins, then say so. I’m fed up with your hell-raising every time there’s trouble with a wagon.”

  Bill was off his wagon box and was already coming to help Mark and Ed replace the damaged wheel. Estrello turned away, seething in silence.

  The repair cost them the better part of an hour, and the wagons rumbled on toward whatever destiny awaited them at the Washita.

  Sim Bowdre was speaking to his band of outlaws, but it was mostly for the benefit of what was left of the old Barton gang.

  “I don’t want any of you in town if there’s a price on your head.”

  “Damn,” said Hugh Sterns, “that eliminates all of us who was with Barton.”

  “So be it,” Bowdre said. “If you get yourself locked in the calabozo, don’t holler for me, ’cause I won’t know you. Them of you as rides in, do it one or two at a time.”

  Bowdre was the first to ride in, for it was still early afternoon and the saloons would not be crowded. Bowdre went directly to the Territorial Saloon, for Buckshot Orr had once been a member of Bowdre’s band of outlaws. Orr was quick to pass along to the outlaws any useful information and was amply rewarded. The saloon was empty, except for Liz and Orr. Bowdre was a big man, six feet five without his hat, and seeing Liz, he doffed his hat and bowed. Liz repaid him with a smile.

  “About time Buckshot added some class to this place,” Bowdre said.

  “Yeah,” said Orr. “Now if I could just populate it with a better class of hombres . . .”

  Bowdre wasted no time making his way to the table where Liz sat. He hooked a chair with his boot and sat down.

  “Mind if I set, ma’am?”

  “Don’t ‘ma’ am’ me, damn it,” Liz said. “You know who I am.”

  Bowdre laughed. “I just took over what was left of Frank’s old outfit.”

  “They all have prices on their heads,” said Liz.

  “That’s why you won’t see ’em in town,” Bowdre said. “I forbid it. I was right sorry to hear about old Frank. We hated one another’s guts and the treacherous varmint got himself shot before I had a chance at him. I reckon you’re free now, ain’t you?”

  “Not free,” Liz snapped, “but reasonable.”

  As other patrons entered the saloon, Liz was drawn away from Bowdre, but she felt his eyes on her. Bowdre eventually left, not returning until near closing time. He wasted no time speaking to Liz.

  “When Buckshot closes, can we talk?”

  “I suppose,” said Liz. “Where?”

  “Here,” Bowdre said.

  Orr locked the door to the saloon and blew out all the lamps except one, which was turned low.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen, Sim, when you want out,” said Orr.

  They sat down at a table, and Bowdre wasted no time. “Your boys—the rest of Frank’s gang—want to go after that shipment Wolf Estrello has brought into the Territory. What can you tell me about it?”

  “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Because it’ll take somebody like me to take it off his hands. All old Frank got out of it was a piece of lead,” said Bowdre.

  “I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” Liz said.

  “Oh, but you can,” said Bowdre. “Now that old Frank’s out of the picture, what are my chances?”

  “That depends on what’s in it for me,” Liz replied.

  “A hotel room in town, good grub, decent clothes, and money,” said Bowdre.

  He dropped five double eagles on the table before her.

  Liz laughed. “Is that all?”

  “Damn it, woman,” said Bowdre, “with me payin’ the hotel and buyin’ everything else, a hundred dollars will last you a week, won’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Liz said.

  “I got a room at the hotel. We’ll go there. Buckshot, come unlock the door.”

  After Orr had let them out, Liz turned back and spoke to him. “Sorry, Buckshot, I got a better deal.”

  For the time and place, the hotel was fancy. There was a dining room with solid oak tables and chairs. There was plush carpet, even in the hall. Bowdre’s room was on the second floor. When they entered the room and Bowdre turned around, Liz had skinned out of the dress, and she had worn nothing else.

  “Well?” said Liz.

  “Well, I think it’s bedtime,” Bowdre said.

  Indian Territory. August 26, 1866.

  The Indian attack came as a total surprise. It came from the rear, and the only warning any of them had was gunfire from the three outriders trailing the last wagon. Teams were reined up, and teamsters grabbed their Winchesters. The rest of the outriders had dismounted and had let loose with a hail of lead, forcing the attackers to turn and ride for their lives. By some miracle, none of the teamsters had been hit.

  “Anybody that’s wounded,” Estrello shouted, “come to the first wagon.”

  Hiram, Odell, and Hamby showed up. All had arrow wounds. Hamby was wounded in the side, but the barb had gone on through. Hiram and Odell each had an arrow in the thigh.

  “Hell, we can’t take the time for any doctorin’ here,” said Wilder. “That bunch may hit us again.”

  “We’ll see to our wounded before goin’ any farther,” Estrello said. “Keithley, bring the medicine chest from your wagon. One of you see how many of the varmints we accounted for.”

  Vernon and Nick had already gone to take a body count.

  “Vernon and me counted seventeen of ’em,” said Nick.

  “That’s enough to bring the others back for revenge,” Wilder said.

  “Not necessarily,” said Ed. “There weren’t more than fifty of them, and that being the case, we cut down a third of them. That’s bad medicine for Indians.”

  “Ed’s right,” said Todd. “They won’t try another direct attack. At least, this bunch won’t. They’ll come at us in camp, where we all don’t have our Winchesters in hand and expecting them.”

  Ed cleaned and bandaged the wound in Hamby’s side, while Estrello himself drove out the arrows in the thighs of Hiram and Odell.

  “Them of you that’s wounded have to make it on to the next camp,” Estrello said. “Then you can take enough whiskey to sleep off the pain and fever.”

  The wounded were hurting before Estrello judged it was time to end the drive for the day. The three wounded men were dosed with whiskey and were stretched out on some of their blankets.

  “My God,” said Betsy, “suppose two hundred of them came after us like that?”

  “We’d get some of them,” Bill said, “but some of them would
get us. We’ll just have to hope that if Broken Nose aims to take this whiskey, he’ll wait until we get it to the Washita River. If he’s got two hundred renegades, or even a hundred, we’ve had it.”

  “Tonight,” said Estrello, “the first and second watches will be cut in half. One half of each watch will watch camp, while the second half circles our horses and mules. We’re not taking a chance on that bunch coming back. If they do, we’ll be ready.”

  Estrello himself got up far in the night, and finding his three wounded men feverish, dosed them with more whiskey. By morning, they were much improved, except for massive hangovers. The trio was unable to ride, and despite Estrello’s impatience, the caravan was forced to sacrifice another day.

  “Damn it,” said Estrello, “this is the perfect time for that bunch to come after us.”

  But despite their increased watchfulness, they were not disturbed during the night, and by the next morning, the wounded men were able to ride. The wagons again took the trail, the outriders keeping a careful watch in front and behind.

  Fort Smith. August 26, 1866.

  Liz Barton found her alliance with Sim Bowdre entirely to her liking. She knew that sometimes he would be in town twice a week, and sometimes not at all. He was by no means critical and would never demand to know what she did while he was away. Her room was in the nicest hotel in town, and nobody questioned her presence when Bowdre wasn’t there. The second night he spent with her, he had some questions.

  “Liz, I keep hearing about eight wagonloads of whiskey bound for the Washita. I hear that Estrello has done this before, avoiding trouble with the Indians because they want the whiskey. What can you tell me about that?”

  “Not much,” said Liz. “I know they’re on their way to the Washita now. Frank’s idea at first was to waylay them on the return trip and take the whiskey. Then he changed his mind, and before the wagons reached Fort Smith, he attacked them.”

  “Empty wagons?” said Bowdre. “What in hell for?”

  “He hated Wolf Estrello,” Liz said, “and hoped to cripple him. But Estrello’s bunch turned it around, crippling us. We lost eleven men, including Frank.”

  “How many men does Estrello have?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” said Liz. “Frank said more than thirty. We had nineteen.”

  “I have twenty-two including what’s left of Frank’s bunch. They’re clamorin’ to go after that whiskey.”

  “Be careful if you do,” Liz said. “Besides the teamsters, there were more than twenty outriders, every one with a Winchester.”

  “I’m obliged for what you’ve told me,” Bowdre said. “If we can pull this off, there’ll be something nice in it for you.”

  Liz laughed. “You’re my kind of man, Bowdre. You do something nice for me, and I’ll go on doing nice things for you.”

  Indian Territory. August 27, 1866.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” Sim Bowdre told his band of outlaws. We’re going to take all that whiskey off Wolf Estrello’s hands and sell it ourselves. We’ll ride at first light. Does anybody object to that plan?”

  “No,” they shouted in a single voice.

  “I got a question,” said Will Macklin, once a Frank Barton rider. “Are we goin’ in, all of us shootin’ and raisin’ hell, or do you have a plan that won’t get us all shot dead?”

  “Before anybody pulls a gun, I’ll have a plan,” said Bowdre.

  Chapter 15

  Indian Territory. August 27, 1866.

  Wolf Estrello pushed the men and animals to the limit. They were still a hundred and fifty miles from the Washita.

  “You’re pushing too hard, Wolf,” said Wilder. “The men can take it, but look at the horses and mules. They’re gaunt, and these twelve-hour days is gettin’ to ’em.”

  “Mind your own damn business, Wilder,” Estrello said. “I’m still bossin’ this outfit.”

  But Wilder’s warning proved almost prophetic. Two mules came up lame and had to be replaced with horses. Worse, the eight Indian mounts they had captured were not broken to harness, and Estrello gave up on them. Instead, he used the saddle horses belonging to Carl and Lee.

  “Somebody’s going to pay,” Lee said, “if I find whip marks or any other signs of mistreatment.”

  “Count me in on that,” said Carl. “When I throwed in with this outfit, there wasn’t nothin’ said about my horse pulling a wagon with a bunch of damn lop-eared mules.”

  “Then keep your eyes well ahead of your teams, lookin’ for trouble spots,” Estrello said. “Some of these damn delays can be avoided.”

  “A man can’t see beyond the lead team of a six-mule hitch,” Todd said. “He’s just got to take his chances. I’m gettin’ a mite tired of the teamsters gettin’ the blame when a mule stumbles or a wheel breaks. You’ve got a heavier load on these wagons than ever before. I think it’s time you considered that.”

  “The loads ain’t too heavy,” said Estrello. “Just teamsters who are too careless, or just don’t give a damn.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Vernon said. “If you think that poorly of us, you might just decide not to pay us at the end of this run.”

  “Once we reach the Washita and settle with the Indians, you’ll get everything that’s comin’ to you,” said Estrello.

  “I’m obliged for the warning,” Todd said.

  “Yeah,” said Vernon, “we’re obliged.”

  Fort Smith. August 28, 1866.

  Liz was already awake when Sim Bowdre sat up in bed and rolled and lighted a cigarette.

  “You distracted me some last night,” Bowdre said, “and I didn’t get around to telling you I’ve decided to go after Estrello’s wagons. I figure them renegade Indians will buy from me as quick as they will from Estrello. Such a haul will take us plumb out of the outlaw business, I figure.”

  “Watch your step,” said Liz, “or you may get put out of the outlaw business in a way you’re not counting on. Some of those men with Estrello are carrying two Colts, with the extra loaded cylinder in their pockets. They shot Frank’s outfit all to hell, without one of them taking the time to reload.”4

  “Hell, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Bowdre said. “I don’t aim to ride headlong into them. We’ll get far enough ahead to set up an ambush.”

  “He’s got outriders who do nothing except watch for trouble,” said Liz. “They’re all armed with Winchesters, which they used until they were close enough for their Colts. And then they started cuttin’ us down.”

  Bowdre laughed. “How many did you shoot?”

  “Not a damn one,” Liz admitted. “When they gunned down Frank, I got the hell away from there. So did the others who lived to talk about it.”

  “Well, they’re ready to have another go at it, and so are my bunch,” said Bowdre. “I’ll be gone for a few days. Wish us luck.”

  “I will,” said Liz. “You’ll need it.”

  After a leisurely breakfast with Liz, Bowdre rode back to his camp on the outskirts of Indian Territory, not far from Fort Smith. His bunch was hunkered around a small fire, drinking coffee from tin cups. Bowdre dismounted, took a tin cup, and poured himself some coffee before he spoke.

  “Tomorrow we ride to relieve Wolf Estrello of that load of whiskey. I’m told he’s got more than thirty men. Some of them carry two Colts. Probably an extra loaded cylinder, too.”

  “Hell, I thought they all had two Colts and an extra cylinder,” said French Loe, one of the survivors of the attack that had taken Frank Barton’s life. “The lead was comin’so thick and fast, we couldn’t get close enough without bein’ shot to doll rags.”

  “That’s what you get, ridin’ headlong into’ em,” Bowdre said. “We’ll have to get well ahead of them and set up a foolproof ambush.”

  “You think Estrello ain’t sending a scout ahead, looking for Indian sign?” Whit Sumner asked.

  “He is, unless he’s a damn fool,” said Bowdre. “It’ll be our business to lay an ambush without leaving any horse
tracks if we have to walk five miles.”

  “Then leave me out of it,” Weaver Upton said. “I ain’t walkin’ no five miles.”

  “You ain’t sharin’ in the loot, either,” said Bowdre. “Damn it, do what you’re told, or saddle up and ride.”

  “Aw, I was just joshin’,” Upton said, trying to cover his mistake with a grin.

  “Now,” said Bowdre, “who can drive a six-mule hitch?”

  “I can,” Hugh Stems said.

  “So can I,” said Hez DeShea.

  “Me, too,” Whit Sumner said.

  “I can do it,” said Kirk Epps.

  “Same here,” Tasby Winters said.

  “Same goes for me,” said Wilson Soules.

  “It goes for me, too,” Cordell Kazman said.

  “I can,” said Blake McSween.

  “So can I,” Burly Grimes said.

  “Bueno, ” said Bowdre, “that’s nine, and I only need eight. Now who wants to ride out today, get well ahead Estrello’s outfit, and set up an ambush?”

  “I’d like to go,” said Lefty Paschal. “I owe that bunch a dose of what they give us.”

  “Not that I don’t trust your judgment, Lefty,” Bowdre said, “but I’m sending Upton with you. He’s part Comanche. Set the ambush far enough ahead to allow us to get there well before the wagons.”

  “How do we know which way they’ll be goin’, except somewhere in Indian Territory?” Cordell Kazman wondered.

  “They’ve done this before,” said Bowdre, “so there’ll be wagon ruts. Anybody got any reason to believe they won’t follow the same route this time?”

  Nobody spoke. It was all laid out carefully, and the outlaws nodded in satisfaction. But things got complicated when Paschal quietly took a horse after dark and rode into Fort Smith. He headed for the Territorial Saloon and wasn’t all that surprised when he found Liz Barton there, working as a house dealer. He winked at her, but she didn’t so much as nod in his direction. Paschal got bold and approached the table.