Ralph Compton Whiskey River

by Compton, Ralph

  Aboard the pursuing steamboat, the men were jubilant. While their fire was raking the deck of the steamboat ahead, their quarry was still out of Winchester range, unable to effectively return the fire. Wills made a run for the pilothouse and Captain Tyndall. Lead shrieked all around him as the buffalo guns cut loose a covering volley.

  “Tyndall,” said Wills, “stay within range of our buffalo guns, but not within range of their Winchesters.”

  “They’ve slowed down some,” Tyndall said. “I’ll try to match their speed.”

  But the sun was down, dusk fast approaching, and visibility wasn’t good. With a crash like rolling thunder, the Gatling gun sent a fusillade of lead at the pursuing steamboat. Two of Wills’s men were killed, and two more seriously wounded.

  “Tyndall,” Wills shouted, “fall back! Fall back!”

  Tyndall had slowed some, but they were still within range of the Gatling gun. Another blast from the big gun wounded two more men. Finally, they were out of range.

  “Gatling gun,” said one of Wills’s men. “We ain’t no match for that.”

  “Its range is considerably more than that of a Winchester,” Wills said. “We’ll stay well out of reach of their guns and cut down on them with ours. They can’t see us all that well in the dark.”

  “Hell,” said one of the outlaws, “that same dark won’t let us see them. We’re shootin’ blind now.”

  “Then hold off on the gunfire,” Wills said. “There’ll be a moon later, and if we still haven’t stopped them, we’ll be right on their heels come daylight. Some of you take the men who are wounded down to the second deck, where we can use a lantern to see to their wounds.”

  “They’ve stopped shooting,” said Estrello. “We hurt them some. Anybody hit besides Jabez?”

  “No,” Irvin said. “They’re going to the second deck, below us.”

  “They’re holdin’ off, likely until moonrise,” said Wilder. “Maybe even until first light.”

  “Captain Savage has got somethin’ to say,” McCarty announced.

  “Stay where you are, Wolf,” said Wilder. “I’ll handle it.”

  Hating Wilder, Estrello said nothing, for some of the other outlaws were watching.

  “Within the hour,” Captain Savage told Wilder, “we’ll be forced to make a wood stop. How do you intend to accomplish that, without us being blown to bits?”

  “We’ll load the wood before moonrise, when they can’t see well enough to shoot.”

  Burt Wills was in what remained of the pilothouse, and Captain Tyndall had some bad news.

  “We’re low on wood,” Tyndall said, “and those other boats will be up against the same problem. Trouble is, they can load before moonrise when we’re blind, and then hold us at bay until all the fuel we have is gone.”

  “We’re not gonna let that happen,” said Wills. “We’ll wait for moonrise if we have to, but as soon as we can see well enough, we’ll deal them some more lead poison. Two of our men are dead and four wounded. We’ll have to end this fight before they can do us any more damage.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more at stake here than just ending the fight,” Captain Tyndall said. “Were you ever aboard a steamboat when the boilers exploded?”

  “No,” said Wills.

  “Well, I was,” Tyndall said, “and that particular time, nobody was shooting at us. I’ve tried to tell Laird he needed some iron sheathing on this steamboat, but he wouldn’t listen. Now you’d better listen. That last volley from the Gatling sent three slugs into the boiler room. They didn’t hit anything vital . . . this time.”

  “I understand,” said Wills. “We’re going to try to put them out of business before the Gatling gun can be used again.”

  Aboard the Aztec steamboat, Wolf Estrello stomped into Captain Savage’s pilothouse.

  “Why the hell have you slowed down so much?” Estrello shouted. “You’ve practically stopped.”

  “Like I told Wilder, we must have fuel, or we’re not going much farther,” said Captain Savage. “I’m waiting for the first three steamboats to get into position. Then I’ll take my position behind the Midnight.”

  “Damn it,” Estrello groaned, “they’ll catch up to us.”

  “Wilder says we can load our wood before moonrise,” said Captain Savage. “He thinks if they can’t see us, they can’t shoot at us.”

  “Oh, damn Wilder,” Estrello said. “That Gatling’s an overgrown scattergun. Fire it in the general direction of anything, and it spits out a stream of lead two yards wide. We got to get them before they get us.”

  “Tell it to Wilder,” said Captain Savage. “He’s giving the orders.”

  Estrello’s beefy face turned crimson with fury, and, covertly watching, Captain Savage wore a half smile.

  “Wilder,” Estrello said, “if we make this next wood stop, that damn bunch is gonna get close enough to cut down on us again.”

  “Estrello,” said Wilder, with barely concealed fury, “if we don’t stop for fuel, they’ll have us dead in the water. We’re making the stop for wood whether you like it or not.”

  When the first three steamboats were in position to take on wood, Captain Savage took his place behind the third craft. Wilder had men ready to lower the ramps, and the crew immediately began loading wood from the dock. Far up the river, well out of range, they could see the shadowy hulk of the pursuing steamboat. The Mississippi being so wide at that point, the black-and-gold steamboat was keeping to the farthest bank.

  “He’s working his way even with us,” Estrello shouted. “That’ll put them in range of all our steamboats.”

  “And them within range of our Gatling gun,” said Wilder. “Let ‘em come a mite closer. Then swivel that gun around and fire at ’em. This thing you’re shootin’ ain’t a Winchester. It lays down a wide swath of lead, and even in the dark, it can be deadly.”

  But the pursuing steamboat stopped just out of range.

  “The damn nerve of them,” Estrello shouted, “they’re waiting for us to move on, so’s they can take on wood. Let’s just set here until their wood runs out, and see how far they can go.”

  “Set here till moonrise,” said Wilder, “and they’re in position to broadside all four of our steamboats. By God, can’t you see that’s what they got in mind?”

  Aware of the possible danger, all the. steamboat crews were hurriedly loading wood. In the next hour the moon would rise. Brice and Renato still crouched beside the Gatling gun, and it already held a belt of cartridges.

  “Hell, we’re within range,” said Brice. “Let’s blast ’em out of the water.”

  “No,” Wilder said. “We’d only get one shot. When we move on, they’ll have to take on wood. That’ll put us well ahead of them. We’ll wait and go after them when their boat’s on the open river.”

  Wilder had no sooner spoken when there was the roar of gunfire from the other steamboat. McCarty lay on the deck unconscious, bleeding from a deep gash above his left ear. Irvin and Suggs crumpled to the deck of the Star as all the boats came within range, docked as they were. It was too much.

  “Fire,” Wilder shouted.

  But Brice and Renato hadn’t waited for the order, and the clattering roar of the Gatling gun drowned out everything else.

  “Hold your fire!” bellowed Burt Wills. “We’re too close. Back it up.”

  Captain Tyndall backed the steamboat up beyond range, and there was no more firing. But the Estrello outfit had three more wounded men. McLean was down, lead in his right leg, but he still clung to his Winchester. McCarty had a graze to his head and a wound in the shoulder. And Brice had been hit twice, once in the shoulder and once in the leg. Estrello’s steamboat had only four men who hadn’t been hit, except for Captain Savage and his crew. In the confusion, Captain Savage slipped off the steamboat, and for the first time since the race with death had begun, the captains had a chance to talk. Savage spoke rapidly, for even then, Wilder was headed for them, his Winchester ready.

  “
Break it up,” Wilder snapped. “Back to your steamboats.”

  The captains obeyed, but the damage had been done. For the first time, the men piloting the first three steamboats knew why Estrello had reversed the order of the first and fourth steamboats. They also knew if the heavy gunfire in any way damaged the steamboat with the Gatling gun, the first three steamboats would have no defense except Winchesters. “Damn it, that was a waste of ammunition,” said Estrello. “Whose side are you on, Wilder?”

  “Shut your mouth, Wolf,” Wilder said. “I ain’t gonna set here like a frog with a pair of busted legs, taking their fire without returning it. You don’t know it was ammunition wasted.”

  “You damn fool,” said Estrello. “You’re gonna get us all killed. Where’s Brice, one of the two men assigned to the Gatling gun?”

  “Flat on his back on the deck, with two wounds,” Renato said.

  “Mr. Wilder,” said Estrello, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “if you don’t mind, I’ll help Renato man the Gatling gun.”

  “Go ahead,” Wilder said. “Get up there and get shot, so I don’t have to do it later.”

  Aboard the Star, the latest volley from the pursuing steamboat had wounded three more men. Vernon Clemans, Todd Keithley, and Nick Ursino had been stuck by the flying lead. Nick was out cold from a slug that had burned its way across his skull. Todd and Vernon had both been struck in their upper thighs. Bill and Mark were seeing to the wounded men, using the medicine chest from Keithley’s wagon. Amanda and Betsy had remained on the lower deck.

  “Mark,” said Keithley, “why don’t you tell Carl, Lee, and Ed to hold off with their Winchesters? They’ll end up wounded or dead, and we don’t owe Estrello’s bunch anything. Another volley or two, and Estrello won’t have an outfit. Let him fight his own war.”

  “Todd’s right,” said Mark. “I’ll get to them before there’s any more shooting. The fewer fighting men this outfit has, the better our chances of breaking away.”

  “They’re movin’ out,” Captain Tyndall shouted. Slowly, the four dark hulks crept from the crude loading dock into the main stem of the Mississippi.

  “No shooting,” said Wills. “We’ll catch up to them after we’ve replenished our fuel.”

  Feverishly, the crew began loading firewood, and before they had completed their task, the moon had risen. The steamboat took to the river again at full speed, and within less than an hour were again within sight of their quarry.

  “Here come the bastards again,” Wilder shouted.

  The gold portion of the steamboat’s hull shone brightly in the moonlight. After having so many wounded, Estrello’s outfit had given up returning fire with Winchesters and were depending on the Gatling gun.

  “Slow this thing down some,” Wilder demanded, and Captain Savage did so.

  “Whatever you plan to do,” said Captain Savage, “you’d better do it quick. The pilothouse and my controls can’t stand another hit like the last one.”

  “Just a little closer,” Wilder said, “and we’ll let the Gatling talk again.”

  But their pursuers, with the long-range Sharps .50s, cut loose again. A slug caught Estrello in the shoulder and laid him out on the deck. Wilder leaped to the dais on which the Gatling gun was mounted, and helping Renato feed a new belt of shells into the weapon, soon had it ready to fire. The steamboat had imperceptibly slowed, catching the captain of the pursuing steamboat by surprise.

  “They’re within range, damn it,” Estrello shouted. “Fire!”

  Wilder kept cranking out fire from the Gatling gun until the belt of shells was gone, but it no longer mattered. There was a massive explosion, as steam, smoke, and fire engulfed the black-and-gold steamboat. A deadly ricochet had hit one of the boilers, and three of the four had exploded.

  Chapter 10

  The black-and-gold steamboat broke in half, and the remains sank quickly. But a half a mile downstream, a commercial steamboat, The New Orleans, paused on its way to St. Louis. Captain Virgil Troy had observed most of the spectacle through a spyglass the steamboat’s pilot, Hankins, had handed him.

  “What do you make of that?” Hankins asked.

  “A running fight,” said Troy. “One of the four steamboats has a Gatling gun, and that seems to have made a difference.”

  “We can get around the wreck and go on,” Hankins said.

  “We can, but we’re not,” said Troy. “If we play by the rules, we’ll have to take aboard any survivors. Under the circumstances, the authorities must be told. Those four steamboats without markings could be involved in hauling the illegal moonshine we’ve been hearing about.”

  “Maybe that was the law after them, that got sunk,” Hankins said.

  “I doubt it,” said Troy.

  Keeping as near the farthest bank as possible, the four steamboats were soon past the commercial craft. Hankins piloted the big steamboat as near the bank as he safely could, near where the explosion had occurred. He beheld six bloody, dripping-wet men standing there, watching the steamboat as it came toward them. Wills, Tyndall, and four of the gang had survived the blast.

  “You men are welcome aboard,” Captain Troy shouted. “We’ll take you to St. Louis.”

  “To St. Louis and the law,” said Captain Tyndall. “They must have seen the fight before we sank.”

  “Well, damn it, we can’t just stand here in the middle of nowhere,” Wills said. “Better that we get back to St. Louis and see if there’s anything left of Taylor Laird’s empire.”

  “I hope somebody’s found and buried the varmint if we’re goin’ back there,” said one of the men. “Otherwise, he’ll be ripe enough to puke a buzzard.”

  “Damn shame we didn’t take time to bury him,” Wills said. “Not for his sake, but for ours. He might not have been missed for a while.”

  The New Orleans had gotten as close to the bank as it could. Wills and what was left of his men waded into deep water and with ropes thrown to them, made their way to the big steamboat’s deck. No questions were asked of them, and the survivors had nothing to say regarding their predicament.

  “Something uncommonly strange about all this,” Hankins said as he and Captain Troy watched the six survivors come aboard.

  “That’s exactly why I intend to report it,” said Captain Troy. “The law in St. Louis is too far afield for it to matter, but the military should be interested. We’ve been hearing of steamboats traveling to St. Louis and loading illegal whiskey. I think what we’ve just seen were four such steamboats.”

  “I still think the law might have been aboard the boat that sank,” Hankins said.

  “We’ll find out when we reach St. Louis,” said Captain Troy. From the inside pocket of his blue-and-white jacket he took a .31 caliber Colt revolver. After checking the loads, he returned the weapon to his pocket.

  St. Louis. August 7, 1866.

  Lieutenant Banyon knocked on the post commander’s door and was bid enter. He did so, saluting Captain Hailey.

  “At ease,” said Hailey, returning the salute. “Take a seat.”

  The lieutenant handed Captain Hailey a sheaf of papers.

  “That’s a complete report on what we learned about Taylor Laird, sir,” Banyon said.

  “I’ll read it at my leisure,” said Captain Hailey. “Give me a brief report.”

  “There were six of us,” Lieutenant Banyon said. “We found Taylor Laird dead, shot three times. The safe was standing open and virtually empty, so the motive could have been robbery. We checked out every bank in town, and Laird had no accounts in St. Louis of any kind. Apparently, he kept all of his money in the safe. Except for the offices near the front of the building, it was full of whiskey, thirty-six-gallon drums. I sent a detail of men there to dispose of it.”

  “Good, Lieutenant, good,” said Captain Hailey. “Were you able to find other properties owned or controlled by Taylor Laird?”

  “Three more locations,” Lieutenant Banyon said, “and more whiskey. They’ll be taken care of before th
e end of the week. We can’t do much about what happens in the territory, but we may have busted up this end of the whiskey smuggling.”

  “More so than you realize,” said Captain Hailey. “Just a while ago, I learned six men were taken into custody after the sinking of a steamboat somewhere far to the south. A commercial steamboat, the New Orleans, was near enough for the captain to see the tag end of an on-the-river fight in progress between the steamboat that sank and four others. The four had no identifying marks, and I suspect they’re involved in the transporting of illegal whiskey.”

  “Then there are witnesses?”

  “Yes,” said Captain Hailey. “The captain and his pilot were close enough to see it all through their spyglasses. From their report, one of the four boats that escaped was equipped with a Gatling gun. Hankins, the pilot, said the boilers exploded on the ship that sank.”

  “That’s it, then,” Lieutenant Banyon said.

  “Not quite, Lieutenant,” said Captain Hailey softly after the lieutenant had gone. Again Hailey reread the telegram he had received in response to his own, from Captain Ferguson at the Fort Worth outpost. It was painfully brief and worded so that if intercepted, it wouldn’t make sense. It read:

  “The long shots are the ones that pay. Mucho gracias. ”

  It was simply signed “Ferguson,” without a hint of what the captain intended to do, if anything.

  On the Mississippi. August 9, 1866.

  Estrello’s boats had ten wounded men, including Estrello himself. Only Jabez had been killed. Ed Stackler had taken the medicine kit from the wagon and was doctoring the wounds of Vernon Clemans, Todd Keithley, and Nick Ursino. Nick’s was the least serious, it being just a painful burn across his skull. Vernon’s and Todd’s were more serious, being in the thigh, and blood was draining into their boots. Amanda and Betsy were back on the upper deck, going from one man to another, attempting to help. On the Aztec, Renato was working over McCarty, for McCarty had been wounded in the shoulder, as well as the head. The other five wounded men had been hit in arms or legs, and the bleeding had been minimal. Bill, Mark, Amanda, and Betsy brought blankets from the wagons, seeing to the comfort of their wounded companions. Suddenly, there was a strange look in Bill’s eyes, and he collapsed on the deck, facedown.