When Stackler and Keithley returned to camp, they found Estrello awaiting a report. In silence Estrello listened as Stackler and Keithley revealed what they had learned.
“You were right, Stackler,” Estrello admitted. “First they wanted to know our location, so they’d know how far ahead of us to plan their ambush. Are they followin’ wagons ruts, or ridin’ somewhere to the north or south of our trail?”
“To the south, a mile or so,” said Keithley, “and then they turned west again. We didn’t take our horses, so if they come back that way, they won’t know we’re onto them.”
“Estrello, you’ve been over the trail before,” Stackler said. “If you were planning an ambush, you must have some good ideas as to likely places.”
“Rocky Point, about thirty miles from here,” said Estrello. “It’s near a mile long, from north to south, and impossible for a wagon to cross. Some rocks are head high. Once we get there, we’ll go around it to the south. It’s a near perfect place for an ambush.”
“Not if you don’t get within rifle range of it,” Stackler said. “Anybody planning an ambush will have to assume you’ll follow the wagon ruts that lead up to and around the rocks. But suppose, before you reach this Rocky Point—before you’re within rifle range—you drive south a mile or two, and then after bypassing the ambush, turn west again?”
Estrello laughed. “That would frustrate the hell out of them. We’ll do it.”
“Do you know of any other likely places for an ambush?” Keithley asked.
“Nothing the equal of Rocky Point,” said Estrello. “Taking us by surprise, a few men with Winchesters could gun us all down once we were within range. There’s so many rocks—so much cover—our only defense would be for men to ride north and south, get behind the attackers and catch them in a crossfire.”
“That might be something to consider,” Keithley said, “once we know they’re holed up at this Rocky Point. We can circle the rock formation, staying out of rifle range, but what will stop the same bunch from trying again? Next time, we may not be fortunate enough to know they’re there.”
“That’s an even better idea,” Estrello said. “When we’re a day away from Rocky Point, we’ll divide the outfit, with half riding north and half riding south. We’ll circle wide and come up on that bunch of bushwhackers from behind. By God, we’ll show ’em how the cow ate the cabbage. I’m obliged, Keithley and Stackler. That was a smart move.”
The gang had nothing to do for the rest of the day, except clean and oil their Colts and Winchesters. After Estrello had explained the proposed attack on the bushwhackers, most of the outlaws seemed to regard Stackler and Keithley with some respect.
“Oh, I hope it works out,” said Betsy.
“It will,” Bill assured her. “All we have to do is give this bunch time to get in position. It’s the only sure means of surviving an ambush.”
“My God,” said Amanda, “how many more times will we have to fight?”
“At least twice,” Mark said. “Once at Rocky Point, and again when we reach the old camp on the Washita. But don’t worry about Rocky Point. If Estrello knows what he’s talking about, we’ll win big time at Rocky Point.”
“Rocky Point seems so obvious,” said Amanda. “Suppose they set up an ambush somewhere else?”
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Mark said. “Ed’s goin’ to take the lead with his wagon from here on to the Washita. He believes his dog will warn us of bushwhackers on the trail ahead before we get within rifle range.”
“Of all the years I’ve known Estrello,” said Amanda, “I’ve never seen him look with favor on anything or anybody except Ed’s dog.”
“We owe old Arky plenty,” Mark said, “and I just hope Ed can teach him not to bark at the wrong time.”
Satisfied they had found the perfect site for an ambush, Upton and Trevino rode back the way they had come. It was suppertime when they reached Bowdre’s camp. The outfit gathered around to hear their report, and the pair didn’t disappoint them.
“It’s a field of stone that runs a mile or more north and south,” said Trevino. “Wagon ruts come within just a few yards of it before turning south to go around it. There’s so many rocks, you can set, squat, or stand.”
“How far from the Estrello camp?” Bowdre asked.
“We figured thirty miles,” said Trevino. “Somebody in their outfit’s got a dog. He cut loose barking last night, and we had to hightail it.”
“Damn,” Bowdre said. “They’ll see your tracks.”
“No,” said Upton. “We left the horses near a mile away and went in on foot. When we rode on, looking for a place for the ambush, we rode south a ways before riding west. We didn’t follow the wagon ruts.”
Wilson Soules laughed. “We didn’t know either of you was that smart.”
“Shut up, Soules,” said Bowdre. “It was the right thing to do. Tomorrow we ride.”
Fort Worth, Texas. September 4, 1866.
Lieutenant Wanz, Sergeant Waymont, and Corporal Tewksbury had just returned from Indian Territory and were reporting to Captain Ferguson.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Wanz, “there must be three hundred Indians camped there at the south end of the Washita. Undoubtedly, it’s where the smugglers will take the whiskey.”
“Then we may not have much time,” Captain Ferguson said. “If that friendly Kiowa was telling the truth, Estrello and his outfit are doomed, and there are some men who are on our side who may die with the rest.”
“Who are they, sir?” Lieutenant Wanz asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Ferguson. “I want you and two hundred soldiers there before the shooting starts. When you issue your challenge, my men will identify themselves and join you if they’re still alive.”
“What about the Indians, sir?” Wanz asked.
“They’re renegades,” said Captain Ferguson. “They get the same treatment as the outlaws. It may be a bloodbath, but there’s no help for it. There are some good men with Estrello, and I promised them amnesty for any wrongdoing in exchange for their help in bringing the Estrello gang to justice. They made me a promise, and by the Eternal, I aim to see that they come out of this alive, if I can.”
“How many men, sir?” Sergeant Waymont asked.
“Only two of my choosing,” said Captain Ferguson, “but if there are others worthy of amnesty, they will have been told long before now. If you see some men break away from Estrello’s ranks, cover them as best you can.”
“Sir,” said Corporal Tewksbury, “if we’re permitted to know, how were you able to learn of the renegade Indians gathering and the arrival of the wagonloads of whiskey?”
“I didn’t know for sure about the Indians,” Ferguson said, “until you and your men rode into the Territory. The whiskey smugglers made a big mistake in St. Louis. One of them murdered and robbed an illegal whiskey dealer, and his men pursued Estrello’s four steamboats. One of Estrello’s steamboats had a Gatling gun on the forward deck, and with it they managed to sink the pursuing steamboat. There were six survivors rescued by a commercial steamboat. The survivors talked, and Captain Hailey, commander of the outpost in St. Louis, telegraphed me that the whiskey was on its way.”
“My God, how long has this whiskey smuggling been going on, and us unable to stop it?” said Wanz. “I’ve heard that enlistments are down, and that soldiers are not held in high regard. This should help us.”
“I think so,” Ferguson said. “Offer them all a chance to surrender, Lieutenant, and be sure every man riding with you has a Henry repeating rifle.5 If they choose to fight Indians, outlaws, or both—shoot to kill.”
Chapter 17
Indian Territory. September 5, 1866.
The day after Upton and Trevino returned, Bowdre ordered the outfit to move out. But they didn’t continue following the wagon ruts. Instead, they rode almost five miles to the south and then turned west.
“We can be there by noon,” Bowdre said, “and until
this bushwhacking’s been done, I don’t want no fires. We’ll be on cold rations. With the wind out of the west, smoke will travel a long ways.”
“No smoking, either,” said Upton, who didn’t smoke.
“No smoking, no fires, no hell-raising of any kind,” Bowdre said.
Bowdre’s outfit moved on, stopping only to rest the horses. The sun was well past noon high when Bowdre judged they had traveled considerably more than thirty miles.
“Ridin’ north from here,” said Bowdre, “we ought to come in behind them rocks where we’ll set up the ambush. We should be at least two days ahead of Estrello’s outfit. All we got to do is load our guns and set behind them rocks until we hear the rattle of wagons.”
Estrello’s outfit laying over an extra day allowed Bowdre’s band to pass undetected and reach the ambush site. But that’s where Bowdre’s luck ran out. At breakfast, before taking the trail, Estrello had something to say.
“I’ve decided we ain’t takin’ the wagons down through the woods, missin’ Rocky Point. If we don’t do away with that bunch, they’ll hound the hell out of us. We’ll follow these old wagon tracks to within five miles of Rocky Point, and that’s where we’ll leave all the wagons. We’ll divide the outfit, half of us ridin’ south, the other half ridin’ north. After we’re past Rocky Point, and we know they’re waitin’ for us, both halves of our outfit can come together behind Rocky Point. We’ll have them in a crossfire, without any cover.”
“I got to hand it to you, Wolf,” said Shadley. “That’s pure genius.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Wilder said. “This whole thing’s bein’ set up just on the word of Keithley and Stackler, and I don’t trust either of them.”
“That makes us even, Wilder,” said Stackler. “I don’t trust you either.”
“Neither do I,” Keithley said. “I won’t be surprised to see you throw down your gun and run for it if the shooting gets hot enough.”
Furious, Wilder went for his gun, only to find both Stackler and Keithley had their Colts drawn, cocked and ready.
“That’s enough, damn it,” said Estrello. “By all rights, you should be dead, Wilder. If you ever pull iron against any of my men again, I’ll kill you myself. If you want to fight, save it for the bushwhacking. As to trusting the judgment of Stackler and Keithley, every damn one of you knows there’s no better place for an ambush between here and the old camp on the Washita than Rocky Point.”
The wagons moved on along the rutted trail, not quite three days from Rocky Point.
Bowdre and his outfit came out three miles west of Rocky Point. There they rode north until they reached the rutted wagon road. They followed the road until it began to curve to the southeast, for they were approaching Rocky Point from the west. When the expanse of stone came into view, they all reined up, staring in admiration.
“By God, I’ve never seen a better, more natural ambush,” Bowdre said.“Upton, you and Trevino told it true.”
There was a stream flowing from somewhere out of the massive rock formation, and it provided water for men and horses. The men unsaddled their horses and, taking saddles and Winchesters, found protected positions from which they could see the rutted wagon road approaching Rocky Point. Clouds had obscured the sun, and there was a light wind out of the west. The outlaws stretched out, heads on their saddles, hats over their faces, and dozed.
“Damn it,” said Bowdre, his eyes on the gathering clouds, “it’ll be raining by tonight. That’ll slow down the wagons another two or three days.”
Bowdre wasn’t the only one watching the darkening sky.
“I had hoped we could reach Rocky Point and get the ambush behind us,” Ed said. “Now these ruts will be knee deep in mud. That bunch could change their minds about Rocky Point and come after us while we’re bogged down.”
“I don’t think so,” said Todd. “It’s as near perfect a place for an ambush as I’ve ever seen. They know we’re headed that way. They’ll wait.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mark said. “Guessing wrong on an ambush, you don’t get to draw a second card.”
Thunder rumbled, sounding far away. Arky, Stackler’s hound, took refuge beneath one of the wagons.
“If it has to rain,” said Amanda, “maybe it’ll quit before dark. If there’s lightning, it’s always more terrifying in the night. This would be a terrible time for a stampede.”
“Hush,” Mark said. “Don’t even think such thoughts.”
But far away, golden shards of lightning swept grandly across the horizon. After the wagons had been semicircled for the night, the first wind-whipped raindrops pattered on wagon canvas.
“Everybody in the saddle,” Estrello shouted. “We got to hold the horses and mules if we can.”
Amanda and Betsy saddled their own horses, preparing to ride.
“Betsy,” said Bill, “we have enough riders.”
“Yes,” Mark said.“The both of you could be trapped in a stampede.”
“Perhaps,” said Betsy, “but not likely. We’re Texans, you know.”
Nothing Bill or Mark could say would change their minds. While thunder rolled, shaking the earth, lightning contented itself by lighting the horizon.
“No lightning striking,” Estrello shouted. “We can hold’em now.”
Driven by the west wind, the rain came slashing down in gray sheets, drenching every rider to the skin. Thunder continued to rumble, but the lightning held off. The horses and mules were afraid, but the presence of the riders kept them from running. The rain didn’t subside until far into the night, leaving mud and standing water in abundance. Worse, the clouds didn’t break up, and there was every evidence there would be even more rain. Thunder slowly faded into the distance, and when the rain started again, there was no thunder or lightning.
“The second watch can handle ‘em now,” Estrello said. “The rest of you can catch a few winks. Gettin’ up early won’t make no difference with all the mud and water. We’ll be here a while yet.”
Bowdre and his men had held the reins of their horses during the worst of the storm. When the rain settled into a steady downpour, they pulled their hat brims down over their shirt collars and turned their backs to the wind.
“Damn,” said Kirk Epps, “there ain’t nothin’ to do except set here and be wet and miserable. It may be a week before them wagons can travel.”
“When they get here—however long it takes—we’ll be ready,” Bowdre said.
The rain didn’t subside until almost noon of the next day. The stream ran bank full, and the men remained on the rock ledge, for in places the mud was over their boot tops.
Fort Worth, Texas. September 7, 1866.
Lieutenant Wanz had selected his two hundred men, and they all stood at ease on the parade field. The lieutenant had returned to the post commander’s office for a final word with Captain Ferguson.
“The troops are ready, sir,” Wanz said. “Do you want to inspect?”
“Not this time, Lieutenant.” said Ferguson. “They all have Henry repeaters?”
“Yes, sir,” Wanz said. “We had to do some borrowing and horse trading. Each man has been issued a hundred and twenty-four rounds of ammunition, along with enough field rations for ten days.”
“Then mount up and ride,” said Ferguson, “but don’t get there ahead of Estrello and his wagons. We want those renegades, but to go after them before Estrello and his wagons arrive would warn them of trouble. With a west wind, shooting can be heard for miles.”
“Yes, sir,” Wanz said. “We’ll stop a day short of the Washita, and I’ll send a scout ahead. We won’t make our move until the wagons arrive.”
“ Bueno, ”said Captain Ferguson. “Good luck.”
Lieutenant Wanz saluted, had it returned, and went to mount his command.
“Prepare to mount,” Lieutenant Wanz shouted. “Mount!”
As one, the soldiers swung into their saddles, riding north in a column of fours.
Indian Territory.
September 10, 1866.
Two days after the rain ceased, Estrello made the decision to move on. Within less than a mile, four wagons bogged down in mud up to the hubs. It became necessary to harness extra teams of mules to haul out the stranded wagons, and when they tried to move the second four wagons, they, too, became bogged down. Again it required the efforts of extra teams. But that was only one muddy bog. There were others, and three more times the wagons had to be rescued, using extra teams. The mules were exhausted, and the teamsters disgusted and angry. Mark sought out Estrello.
“There’s still too much mud and too many bogs,” said Mark. “All we’ve done is make the men mad as hell and exhaust the mules. We’ll have to have another day of sun. Maybe more.”
Extrello didn’t trust himself to speak. He merely nodded.
“Free those last two wagons, then leave all of them where they are,” Mark shouted.
“Thank God Estrello’s got sense enough not to fight this mud,” Bill said.
“Another two-day delay,” said Betsy. “How’s that going to affect the ambush we’re expecting?”
“Shouldn’t affect it at all,” Bill said. “If these varmints waitin’ for us have the brains God gave a paisano, 6 they won’t expect us until the sun sucks up some water and eliminates this mud. It don’t take a very bright hombre to know a wagon can’t travel in hub-deep mud.”
“At least we’re dry,” said Betsy. “I’ve never been so tired of wet clothes in my life. It’s been years since I slept in a warm bed, listening to rain pattering on the roof. There is a cabin on that place of yours in Texas, isn’t there?”
Bill laughed. “There once was,” he teased. “If it’s gone, we can always buy us a couple of slickers and sleep out in the brush.”
Ralph Compton Whiskey River Page 25