“Damn them,” said Mark, “They’ve got him. They’ve got Ed!”
Amanda and Betsy were weeping, while Bill swore under his breath.
“He may still be alive,” Vernon said. “Otherwise, why bring him back?”
The first thing Estrello did was give Wilder hell for all the unnecessary shooting.
“If he’s alive, cut him loose,” Estrello said.
“He’s alive,” said Wilder, “but damn it, he shot two of us before we—”
“You got his guns?” Estrello asked.
“Yeah,” said Wilder. “You think I’m a damn fool?”
“Turn him loose,” Estrello said.
“Why should I?” Wilder asked. “He done his best to kill us.”
“Good for him,” said Estrello. “He’s a better man than any of you.”
Stackler lay facedown. Estrello whipped out his knife, slashing the bonds on Stackler’s wrists. He then cut the lariat loose from Stackler’s ankles.
“Damn you,” Wilder shouted, “you’ve ruint my lariat.”
“After all that unnecessary gunfire,” said Estrello, “I ought to slit your damn throat. Get up, Stackler, if you can.”
Stackler was game, but he got only as far as his hands and knees.
“Carl, Lee,” Mark said. “Let’s go get Ed.”
Wilder saw them coming and drew his Colt. “Nobody sent you any invites,” he said. “The bastard stays where he is until he can get up on his own.”
“Wilder,” said Estrello, “put the gun away.”
“Estrello,” Mark said. “Ed’s hurt. We want to do for him what we can.”
“Take him, then,” said Estrello.
“No,” Wilder said, cocking the Colt.
But Wilder’s hard eyes were on Carl, Lee, and Mark. Calmly, Estrello drew his Colt and slammed the muzzle of it against Wilder’s head, just above the ear. Wilder went down, his Colt blasting lead into the dirt at his feet. Without a word, Estrello took the Colt from Wilder’s hand, shoving it under his own waistband. Stackler was again trying to get to his feet, and again he failed. Carl and Lee each took one of Stackler’s arms, while Mark took his feet, and they managed to get him back to their own little camp near Stackler’s wagon.
“I’ll get some whiskey from the wagon,” said Carl.
Carl took the wooden bucket and tapped one of the kegs in Stackler’s wagon. The outlaws said nothing. Betsy and Amanda had hurriedly brought blankets. Stackler had been placed on his back, and unconscious, he still groaned in pain. He face was gashed in many places, and his chest was a mass of blood to his waist, for all the buttons had been torn from the front of his shirt.
“He may have some hurts we can’t see,” Betsy said. “Take off his Levi’s.”
Stackler had livid bruises all over his lower back, thighs, and legs.
“Much as I hate to suggest it,” said Nick, “I think we’d better give him enough of that whiskey to knock him out for a while.”
“He hasn’t been shot, at least,” Amanda said.
“He might be in better shape if he had been,” said Vernon. “Tomorrow, he’ll be in real misery, and whether he has fever or not, the whiskey’s a good idea. Let him sleep through as much of the pain as he can.”
With Carl and Lee holding Stackler in an upright position, Mark forced a large quantity of the whiskey into the wounded man. Ed groaned, and with the shock of the whiskey, just for a few seconds, he opened his eyes.
“Sorry, pardner,” said Lee. “You’ve been bad hurt, and the whiskey will help.”
Stackler tried to speak, but the words trailed off, and he closed his eyes. Then from the woods behind them there came a slight noise.
“Damn it,” Mark said, “and we’re unarmed.”
Finally, from the brush emerged a tan-and-white hound. The animal sat down, fixing his eyes on the wounded Stackler.
“Maybe that’s the dog we heard barking,” said Amanda.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Vernon said, “and it may have been him that attracted Wilder to Ed’s hiding place.”
The dog made no move. Stackler’s companions began doctoring his many wounds as best they could.
St. Louis. August 15, 1866.
Dan Rowden, St. Louis county sheriff, knocked on the door of the post commander’s office and was given permission to enter. Rowden got right to the point. “I’ve heard you and your men have taken into custody some of the outlaws smuggling whiskey into Indian Territory, Captain.”
“Indirectly, Sheriff,” said Captain Hailey. “Through a streak of good luck and some solid thinking on the part of the crew of the New Orleans, we seemed to have gotten our hands on some of the scum from these parts who were producing the whiskey. Have any of them decided to talk?”
“They’re all singing like birds,” Sheriff Rowden said, “hoping to escape federal prosecution. That was Taylor Laird’s steamboat, and one of the six survivors—Burt Wills—had access to the boat. He was Laird’s second-in-command, and as soon as he discovered Laird was dead, he got nineteen men together, and they set off in Laird’s steamboat, with .50 caliber Sharps buffalo guns. Of course, you know the rest. They came up against a Gatling gun, and it was too much for them. That’s all we’ve been able to get out of them.”
“The four steamboats hauling the whiskey didn’t belong to Taylor Laird, then,” said Captain Hailey.
“We could find no evidence of it,” Sheriff Rowden said, “and Burt Wills claims Laird made arrangements for the steamboats. He believes the steamboats Laird contracted for came from New Orleans. We’ve checked out all local sources.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” said Captain Hailey. “During the war, when the government had its hands full, there’s been all manner of smuggling into and out of New Orleans. As I understand it, there’s a crime syndicate—a ring of criminals—in or around New Orleans, where a man with money can buy anything he wants, including murder.”
“And Taylor Laird had money,” said Sheriff Rowden. “My God, did he ever have it. From what Wills and his friends have told us, the outlaws who killed Laird not only took the gold they should have paid Laird for the whiskey, they cleaned out the safe as well. If Wills and his bunch hadn’t taken Laird’s steamboat and had just quietly buried Laird, they might have taken over this entire bootleg whiskey operation without anybody being the wiser.”
“You can prosecute the six captives you have, then,” said Captain Hailey.
“We can, and we will,” Sheriff Rowden said. “I just want to ask a favor of you.”
“Go ahead,” said Captain Hailey.
“Indian Territory is considerably out of my jurisdiction,” Rowden said, “and I’d be interested in knowing if, and when, you capture that bunch of outlaws who escaped with those four steamboats loaded with whiskey. That’s a lot of rotgut, and all it can do is further fan the flames of hatred that already exist.”
“I fully agree,” said Captain Hailey. “There’s a chance that we’re about to bust up this particular band of Indian Territory outlaws. If and when it happens, I’ll let you know.”
Fort Smith. August 15, 1866.
Ed Stackler, dosed with whiskey, slept for most of three days. During that time, Wilder and Estrello avoided one another, except for exchanging occasional hostile looks. On the fourth day, Ed sat up. The tan-and-white hound was still there, and it was the first thing Ed saw when he opened his eyes.
“Somebody reach me a gun,” he said. “That’s the varmint that gave me away as I was hidin’ from Wilder and his bunch.”
“None of us have our guns,” Todd said. “After you made a run for it, all our weapons were taken by Estrello.”
“Damn,” said Ed bitterly, “all I managed to do was get us in deeper. Now what in thunder can we do?”
“We haven’t been able to come up with anything,” Mark said. “Betsy managed to hide Jake’s Colt, and there’s five shells in it, but that’s all we have going for us.”
“Estrello and the other
s who were wounded on the steamboats are healed enough to ride,” said Todd, “but I see Jackman and Wilder picked up wounds of their own tonight. Good shootin’ in the dark, amigo.”
“Not good enough,” Ed said. “Good enough would have been to bore the varmints dead-center.”
Conversation died, for Estrello was headed their way. For a moment he looked at Ed and then he spoke. “Tomorrow we leave for the Washita. I hope that meets with everybody’s approval. Stackler, are you in shape to handle your teams?”
“I am,” said Stackler, his hard eyes meeting those of the outlaw leader.
“Bueno, ” Estrello said. “I’ll count on you.”
Chapter 12
Fort Smith. August 16, 1866.
During the night, the storm that had been threatening for several days broke, and by first light there was a virtual sea of mud.
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere in this,” Estrello said. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
But the rain continued all day and for the most part of the night.
“The rain will help us,” Carl said. “Those of you who have been wounded will get a little more time to heal.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much rain in August,” said Lee. “We may be stuck here for another week.”
“That means the showdown will be delayed a few more days,” Bill said. “Something may change in our favor by then.”
“I wish I could believe that,” said Betsy.
“Oh, let’s look on the bright side,” Nick said. “Ed got himself a dog.”
“Ah, go to hell,” Ed said.
But the tan-and-white animal had remained with them and, as added assurance that he wouldn’t be driven away, had made friends with Amanda and Betsy.
Estrello waited two days after the rain had ended, then gave the order to move out. But the terrain was still hazardous and muddy. In the afternoon, Lee’s wagon broke a rear axle, and the caravan traveled no farther that day. The following day, the left rear wheel of Ed’s wagon slid into a leaf-filled, invisible hole, splintering the wheel.
“Damn it,” Estrello raged. “We’ve had two major breakdowns in two days. You damn teamsters better start watchin’ for holes and drop-offs.”
“It’s impossible to see through a pile of drifted leaves,” said Ed. “Why don’t you cut Wilder a brush broom and let him walk ahead of the wagons, brushing all those dead leaves out of the way?”
Estrello ignored the comment, but the others didn’t. Some of the outlaws laughed, and Wilder was furious. He eyed Stackler as though measuring him for a coffin, and Stackler grinned at him. After two days on the trail, they hadn’t traveled more than twenty miles, and on the third day, they found Indian sign in abundance.
“Unshod horses,” Vernon said. “Must have been near a hundred.”
“Wilder,” said Estrello, “follow them a ways and see if they went on, or doubled back. It looks like they rode north, and I doubt they were headed for Fort Smith.”
Wilder said nothing, doing as he was told. In two hours, he caught up to the wagons. “The varmints rode to the Arkansas and set up camp not far from where the steamboats docked,” he said. “No squaws. Looks like a war party.”
“How many of ’em?” Estrello asked.
“Could be a hundred, maybe more,” said Wilder. “I couldn’t get any closer.”
“We know they’re not here to attack Fort Smith,” Estrello said, “so that leaves us.”
Ed and his companions had heard the exchange, and Ed spoke. “This is the time to demand that Estrello return our weapons. If nobody else feels up to walking into the lion’s den, then I will. We must defend ourselves.”
“I’ll do it,” said Mark. “You’ve done more than your share.”
Mark stalked down to the outlaws’ main camp with a show of confidence he didn’t feel. The outlaws saw him coming, and nobody said anything. Mark spoke to Estrello, ignoring all the others. “Estrello, we heard what Wilder told you about that party of Indians. I’m here to tell you we want our weapons back. If you’re attacked, don’t you think ten more guns might make a difference?”
“We’ll take our chances,” Wilder shouted. “You ain’t gettin’ ’em back. Not after Stackler shot me and Jackman.”
Mark laughed. “Wilder, if somebody was out to kill you, wouldn’t you shoot back?”
Some of the other outlaws laughed, for it was a telling point. Wilder’s face went red.
Before he could respond, Estrello spoke. “We’ll likely need all the guns we can get. Go ahead and take them. They’re in the ‘possum belly’ under Stackler’s wagon.”
“No, by God,” Wilder roared. “Arm that bunch, and before we’re done, we’ll end up on the business end of their guns.”
“Wilder,” said Estrello in a dangerously low voice, “you just looked in on what you claim was a hundred or more Indians. I’m concerned with us keeping our scalps, not your personal likes and dislikes.”
“Hell, it wasn’t you that Stackler shot,” Wilder snarled. “He shot Jackman and me.”
“Damn good shootin’ in the dark,” said Hedgepith.
Most of the other outlaws laughed, making Wilder all the more angry. Spitefully, he shouted so that all could hear him. “How many of you think old Wolf’s took leave of his senses, givin’ back the guns to Stackler and that bunch?”
Suggs, Irvin, and Jackman sided with Wilder.
Estrello ignored them, and Mark headed for the wagon. Clemans, Keithley, Stackler, and Ursino joined him.
“It’s times like this,” Nick said, “when Estrello seems almost human.”
“Don’t get too soft on him,” said Mark. “Before this is over, you may be face-to-face with him, his Colt spittin’ lead.”
As night approached, Estrello had something to say, and it was met with some mixed emotions. “Until this Indian threat is over, we’re going to stand guard over the wagons. Half the outfit until midnight, the rest of it until dawn. The first watch begins at dusk.” He pointed to Wilder, Mark, Bill, and ten others. “You’re on the first watch until midnight. The rest of us will take over the second watch. Keep your eyes open, your guns loaded, and your mouths shut. There won’t be a moon until late.”
“I hate it, all of you being on the same watch with Wilder,” said Betsy. “He could shoot one of you and blame it on the darkness.”
“I think he’s made it a little obvious he doesn’t like any of us,” Nick said. “It’s to our advantage. If he starts taking shots are us, Estrello will know why.”
“With Bill and Mark and the rest of us, and five of them on the first watch, there’ll be enough of us to watch one another’s back,” Vernon said.
“There’s a chance the Indians won’t show up after dark,” said Carl. “Some of the tribes are superstitious about fighting at night. With our luck the whole bunch is likely Comanches. They’ll kill at midnight as readily as they will in the middle of the day.”
Darkness crept in, bringing with it a few stars. Carl and Lee worked as a team, Vernon and Todd as a second, Nick and Ed as a third, while Mark and Bill made up a fourth. Of Estrello’s men, there was Hiram, Odell, Hamby, Suggs, Wilder, and Irvin. The wagons had been half circled, with the circular side to the north to provide some protection for the defenders should the expected attack come from that direction. The teamsters stood watch over the first five wagons, while the six Estrello men took the last three. The moon had yet to rise, and the darkness seemed all the more intense when drifting clouds covered the faraway stars.
But there was no sign of the Indians during the first watch. Estrello and the rest of the outfit took over at midnight, while the first watch rolled into their blankets. Nothing seemed amiss until first light. Irvin and Suggs had taken it upon themselves to watch Nick’s wagon, which was the last in line.
“I aim to take a look at my wagon,” said Nick. “I wouldn’t put it past Suggs and Irvin to tap one of the kegs and drink some of the stuff.”
By the time Nick reached
the wagon, he could smell raw whiskey. He loosened the rear canvas pucker, and all the barrels still had sealed lids. Finally, he looked under the wagon and saw the dribble of whiskey. The rest of the outfit was having breakfast when Nick got Estrello’s attention.
“They got to us last night,” Nick said. “You’d better have a look.”
Estrello slammed down his tin cup and without a word headed for Nick’s wagon. Nick hunkered down, pointing to the thin stream of escaping whiskey.
“Barrel may have sprung a leak,” said Estrello.
“I doubt it,” Nick said. “See those wood shavings on the ground? One of ’em managed to cut through the wagon box, and then through the bottom of one of the kegs.”
“Hell’s fire,” shouted Estrello, “that would have taken him half the night. I want to know when this happened and who was responsible for watching this wagon.”
“The moon rose late,” Nick said, “and from the puddle beneath the wagon, I’d say the Indians did this before midnight.”
Estrello said nothing, making his way back to the rest of the outlaws. His eyes roamed over them all, and finally he spoke. “Who had watch over that last wagon over yonder, during the first watch?”
“Irvin and me,” said Suggs. “Why?”
“Because while you two were standing there jawing, an Indian got under the wagon and cut a hole all the way into a whiskey barrel. God knows how much whiskey he took, and the rest is being wasted on the ground.”
“Ah, hell,” Irvin said, “I don’t believe that. I’ll see for myself.”
Ralph Compton Whiskey River Page 18
