“The only question is, will they kill us before or after they attack the wagons,” Bill said.
“Before, unless a miracle takes place,” said Mark. “I don’t expect one out of Estrello or any of his bunch, but we have six amigos out there who’ll help us if there’s any way.”
“Damn it,” Estrello hissed, “they’ve been gone plenty long enough to have been back. Some of us had best go looking for ’em.”
“No,” said Keithley. “They may have been captured, and if they have, the Indians will set a trap for the rest of us. Let’s get back to the horses and decide what to do.”
When they reached the picketed horses, it was Clemans who spoke. “I think the horses and mules are on this side of the Indian camp, under a considerable guard. That means Bill and Mark have likely been captured, and there’s a good chance they won’t live past first light unless we make our move before then.”
“Hell, they’re dead men any way we go at it,” Wilder said. “They’ll use them to suck in the rest of us. While we’re settin’ here on our hunkers, Harder and Rogers may already be dead, and this bunch of Indians may attack the wagons at first light. We ain’t doin’ no good here.”
“All of you who feel that way, mount up and ride,” said Ed. “Me, I aim to do what I can to save them.”
“So do I,” Nick said. “They’d do it for us.”
Quickly, Todd, Vernon, Lee, and Carl made similar vows.
“Way I see it,” said Estrello, “if Harder and Rogers are alive or dead, these Indians are still plannin’ to attack the wagons, probably at dawn. If we aim to do anything on our own, we’d best be decidin’ what and when.”
“From the sound of horses and mules,” Carl said, “the livestock is between us and the Indian camp. When we attack, that’ll stampede the horses and mules again. Unless we want to drive them deeper into Indian Territory, we’ll have to circle around and attack from the west.”
“Then let’s ride,” said Estrello. “Couple of you bring the horses belongin’ to Harder and Rogers.”
The twenty-four men rode several miles wide of the Indian camp, approaching it from the west. They dismounted, listening. They were now downwind from the Indian camp, and the slightest noise could easily be heard.
“Some of us still have to get close enough to learn if Bill and Mark are alive,” said Nick. “If they are, we can’t just ride in shooting.”
“Even if they’re alive,” Wilder said, “there won’t be a hell of a lot we can do for ’ em.”
“Maybe not,” Nick said, “but I aim to try.”
“I’ m going with you,” said Vernon. “The rest of you wait here. Give us half an hour.”
“That’s all,” Estrello said. “If they aim to hit the wagons at first light, we can’t spend any more time here.”
Leaving their horses, Nick and Vernon crept through the brush. The first light of the approaching dawn had already grayed the eastern sky. From a thicket Nick and Vernon were finally able to see part of the Indian camp, and what they saw made their blood run cold. Bill and Mark were tied to a pine tree, back-to-back, and even as Nick and Vernon watched, Indians were piling brush around the base of the tree.
“Let’s go,” said Vernon. “We don’t have much time.”
Estrello and his men waited expectantly.
“Bill and Mark are alive, about to be burned at the stake,” Vernon said.
“What do you aim to do about it?” Estrello asked.
“Vernon and me aim to cut ’ em loose,” said Nick. “All of you have your Winchesters. Go in shooting and make every shot count. Once you’re through the Indian camp, drive the horses and mules ahead of you. We’ll lead our horses as far as we can.”
The men set out for the Indian camp, working their way slowly through a concealing thicket. When they could see the camp, a fire had been started, and from it a pair of Indians were preparing torches for the captives tied to the tree.
“Mount up,” Nick said. “Shoot fast and straight.”
“Don’t give up, pards,” said Ed, “Texas is comin’ after you.”
With piercing Rebel yells, they galloped their horses toward the Indian camp, firing as they rode. Nick and Vernon had knives in their hands as they leaped from their saddles.
Chapter 14
Indian Territory. August 24, 1866.
Aware that they were about to lose their captives, the Indians directed most of their fire toward Nick and Vernon, allowing their companions to unleash a withering fire with their Winchesters. Nick went down, an Indian arrow through his left thigh, and on hands and knees, he reached Bill. He slashed the bonds that secured Bill, who helped him to his feet. Unwounded, Vernon cut Mark free, and Mark paused.
“Our Colts!” Mark shouted.
Their gun belts had been placed on a blanket, and despite the danger, Mark seized them before leaping up behind Vernon’s saddle. Bill had helped Nick up first, then swung up ahead of him. Estrello’s bunch had unleashed a devastating fire, and the Indians could no longer concentrate on the escaping captives. Hedgepith was flung from his horse, an Indian lance driven through his middle. Kendrick was struck twice in the back by arrows, and then took a Winchester slug through the chest. The mules and horses, spooked by all hell having busted loose, were off and running, taking with them most of the horses belonging to the Indians, as well. Soon the desperate riders were out of range, and had to slow their horses. But the stampeded animals had calmed down and some were attempting to graze.
“Get those horses and mules running again,” Mark shouted.
Finally, after half a dozen miles, Mark reined up, waiting till the others caught up to him before he spoke. “Those of you who are wounded, go on back to camp and have your wounds tended. The rest of us are going to make it damned hard for this bunch of Indians to round up their mounts this time.”
Besides Nick, two of Estrello’s gang had been wounded. Tilden had been struck a glancing blow by a lance, and the entire left side of his shirt was bloody. Wilder had been shot in the right shoulder. Nick had to be helped to mount one of the saddleless horses. He then followed the two wounded Estrello men back toward camp. Having kept the horses moving for what Mark judged was twenty miles, he reined up.
“This ain’t far enough,” Estrello said.
“We’re not done with them,” said Mark. “We’re going to cut out our own horses and mules, and you can drive them back to camp. Bill and me are going to take these Indian horses far enough to keep this bunch afoot for a week.”
“By God, see that you do,” Estrello said. “I lost two good men, thanks to you and Harder gettin’ yourselves caught.”
“You’d have lost a lot more than that if you’d waited for them to attack us,” Ed said.
Most of the men were quiet, having looked death in the face and survived. Quickly, the riders separated their own stock from the Indian horses. Bill and Mark recovered their own mounts, and Nick’s saddled horse was among those being driven back to camp. When only the Indian horses remained, Bill and Mark continued driving them to the northeast, toward Fort Smith.
“You know, there ain’t more than fifty horses here,” Bill said. “Is that all the Indians there was in that camp, or did we miss some of the horse?”
“I think this was an entirely different bunch of Indians,” said Mark. “A smaller band. I believe we might have unfairly criticized Estrello for not having run the horses far enough. We’ve overlooked the fact that we’re back in Indian Territory, and that all Indians don’t ride together. The bunch whose horses were scattered night before last are likely still out looking for them.”
“You’re right about that,” Bill said. “That means we still have two hundred miles from here to the Washita, and if we live long enough to get there, we’ll still have to face all of Estrello’s four or five hundred Indians come to buy whiskey.”
“Unless it’s Broken Nose and his bunch,” said Mark. “If they still got it in their heads to just take the whiskey, it’ll all
be over for us.”
“If I had anything to say about it, I’d just let them have the damn whiskey in return for ’ em leaving us alone,” Bill said. “Estrello’s on the prod because he lost two men coming to our rescue, yet he’ll risk everybody’s lives to save those loads of rotgut whiskey.”
Bill and Mark continued driving the stampeded Indian horses until the sun was well past noon high.
“I’d say we’ve brought them sixty miles,” said Mark.
“At least that far,” Bill agreed. “There’s a possibility we’re overlooking. We must have killed at least a dozen of them, and that’s enough to convince an Indian he’s having a bad medicine day. They may just go after their horses and leave us be.”
“That would be great,” said Mark. “It’s gonna be hell if we have to fight Indians all the way to the Washita, and then come face-to-face with Broken Nose and four or five hundred of his bunch.”
Judging that the Indian ponies had been driven far enough, Bill and Mark rode west to their camp. The wounded had been seen to. Nick had a bandage on his thigh. Wilder had his shoulder bandaged, while Tilden had a bandage around his middle.
“I reckon you run them ponies far enough this time,” said Estrello.
“We figured sixty miles,” Mark said, “but there was one thing that didn’t look right to us. There were only about fifty of those Indian ponies, and I don’t think we lost more than three or four—if that many—in the stampede.”
“Hell’s fire,” Estrello fairly shouted, “you’re sayin’ this ain’t the same bunch of Indians whose horses we stampeded the night before last. I never had this kind of trouble in the Territory before.”
“You’ve got it now,” said Mark. “We may have to fight every damn horde of Indians between here and the Washita, and when we get there, face up to Broken Nose and four or five hundred of his bunch. It’s something to look forward to.”
“We move out tomorrow at first light,” Estrello said.
“Then you don’t aim to allow the wounded time to heal,” said Mark.
“They can heal as they ride,” Estrello said coldly.
Mark said no more, but went to talk to Nick. Vernon was with him.
“Sorry about your leg, Nick,” said Mark. “I just want to thank you both for coming after us. It was about to get downright hot where we were.”
“It was no more than you’d have done for me or Vernon,” Nick said. “Estrello told us we’re moving out tomorrow. I reckon he didn’t want us gettin’ the idea we might be able to heal first.”
“He’s a cold-hearted bastard by anybody’s standards,” said Bill. “At least you’ll be on the wagon box with your sore leg. Tilden and Wilder will be in the saddle.”
Amanda and Betsy were excited when Bill and Mark rode in, but they waited until the duo had spoken to Nick and Vernon. From there, Bill and Mark hurried on to meet Betsy and Amanda.
“We’re so glad you’re back,” Amanda cried. “Estrello said two men were killed, and when we didn’t see either of you, we thought . . .”
“Not quite,” said Mark. “We drove about fifty Indian horses a good sixty miles before turning ’em loose.”
“I thought there was a hundred or more Indians,” said Betsy. “Why so few horses?”
“Likely because this was a different bunch of Indians,” Bill said. “A smaller bunch.”
“Dear God,” said Amanda. “Broken Nose and his bunch are just part of the problem.”
“I’m afraid so,” Mark said. “Bill and me were just considering the possibility that we’ll be fighting different bands of Indians all the way to the Washita, and that when we get there, we’ll have to face Broken Nose and four or five hundred of his followers.”
“Lord, what are we going to do when we finally reach the Washita?” Betsy asked.
“I wish I knew,” said Mark.
Fort Smith. August 25, 1866.
After Frank and most of the Barton gang had been wiped out and the remainder of the gang had deserted her. Liz Barton headed for the nearest town. She was hungry, with only a Colt and the clothes on her back, a result, she thought bitterly, of having shared Frank Barton’s name and his bed for half a dozen years. She stopped at a stream and did what she could to freshen herself, aware from her reflection in the water that she was still a beautiful woman. Her years in the bawdy houses, saloons, and dance halls hadn’t changed that. She needed a man gullible enough to fall for her charms, and strong enough to take all that she wanted from life. Reaching Fort Smith, Liz reined up before the Territorial Saloon. Until the man she sought came along, she must feed herself.
Buckshot Orr, owner and bartender, saw Liz come in. It was still early afternoon and the place was deserted.
“I’m looking for work,” said Liz.
“What kind of work?” Orr asked.
“Saloon work,” said Liz. “I can mix drinks, dance, sing, or anything else you require.”
Orr laughed. “I can appreciate that kind of talent. Who are you?”
“Just call me Liz. I can start any time. I’m hungry and need a place to sleep.”
“You can start tonight,” said Orr. “Your pay will depend on your performance. There’s a room for you at the head of the stairs, and there’s plenty of grub in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
It was all Liz Barton had hoped for, and more. She dined on ham and eggs in the kitchen, and then made her way upstairs to the room Orr had assigned her. There was more than just the single room. In fact, the entire upper floor looked suspiciously like the cribs in a whorehouse. Removing her gun belt, hat, boots, and clothing, she stretched out on the bed. She had begun to doze when Buckshot Orr opened the door. Liz didn’t scream, flinch, or even speak. She lay there calmly, her eyes meeting those of Buckshot.
Orr laughed. “I just wanted to see if you got what it takes, Liz.”
“Are you satisfied?”
“Yeah,” said Orr. “For the time being. I might have other plans for you. You’re more than just another saloon woman.”
Liz laughed. “Just so we understand each other, my talents don’t include sleeping with the owner of the saloon.”
“You could do, and have done, worse, Liz Barton,” Orr said. “I knew Frank. He was a damn fool who was long on ambition and short of temper. He finally got what was coming to him. I’ve always thought you could have done better.”
“So you knew Frank,” said Liz. “I don’t remember you.”
“You wouldn’t,” Orr said. “I busted up with Frank before he got his hooks into you. Frank had an eye for the women, and he caught me in . . . shall we say, a bad position ... with a little gal who wasn’t nearly as talented as you.”
“If you knew Frank, you know the rest.”
“The outlaw bit?” said Orr. “Frank Barton didn’t have the makings of an outlaw. He wasn’t smart enough. Had some good men, though.”
“I know,” Liz said, a bit more friendly, “I tried keeping them together, but they didn’t like the idea of following a woman. I’ve been wondering where they went.”
“They’re with Sim Bowdre. He’s been a mite shorthanded. Now he’s got twenty-two men. He’s in here regular.”
“No price on his head?” Liz asked.
“None that I know of,” said Orr. “He’s too smart for that. He likes town living, warm beds, and warm women.”
“Sounds like my kind of man,” Liz said.
“Don’t count on it,” said Orr. “He didn’t like Frank either. You got anything to wear besides the shirt and britches you just got out of?”
“No,” Liz said. “Frank thought they were good enough for lying out in the Territory.”
“Well, they ain’t good enough for here,” said Orr. “When you get up, go to the mercantile. Get you some decent shoes and a dress or two. Charge ’em to me.”
“Thanks,” Liz said.
Orr closed the door, and Liz smiled to herself. So Sim Bowdre had twenty-two men, including what was left of the Barton gang. There m
ight be enough gunmen to take those wagonloads of whiskey from Wolf Estrello . . .
Indian Territory. August 25, 1866.
When the wagons were ready to roll, Estrello sent Hiram to scout ahead for possible Indian sign.
“It took him long enough to see the need for that,” said Amanda as she took her place beside Mark on the wagon box.
“I’m not sure it’ll do much good,” Mark said. “Those Indians haven’t come off too well with us. I don’t expect they’ll be leaving any unnecessary sign. Still, we can’t afford not to be as careful as we can.”
“I always thought Indians attacked moving wagon trains,” said Amanda. “None of these have, so far.”
“Tribes are most likely to do that,” Mark said. “These within the Territory are mostly renegades, and they’re not very predictable. The average Indian likes a good fight, while most of what we encountered seems to prefer stampeding our stock and picking us off one or two at a time.”
“But that hasn’t worked for them,” said Amanda. “Do you suppose they’ve given up?”
“No,” Mark said. “They know what these wagons are hauling, and they’re not about to give up on them. God knows what they’ll do next. We’ll just have to be ready for anything they throw at us.”
Estrello was in a foul mood because of the numerous delays. “Let’s get these damn wagons moving,” he shouted, “and you teamsters watch where you’re going. We got no time for breakdowns.”
Ralph Compton Whiskey River Page 21
