“Liz,” said Paschal, “I want to talk to you in between games.”
“I never saw you in my life, and I have nothing to say to you,” Liz said.
“Well, I say different,” said Paschal. “We had more than a few rolls in the hay. You ain’t forgot that, have you?”
Buckshot Orr—carrying his sawed-off namesake—saw trouble coming and headed for Paschal, who made no move toward his Colt.
“You’d better make yourself scarce, pilgrim,” said Orr. “That’s Sim Bowdre’s woman.”
“I don’t see Bowdre’s name on her nowhere,” Paschal said. “Anyway, all I want is just to talk to her. Is there any harm in that?”
“I reckon not,” said Orr. “But get on the bad side of Bowdre, and it’s your funeral.”
When the poker game ended and the players left the table, Paschal drew back a chair and took a seat.
“What the hell do you want?” Liz asked in a deadly low tone.
“Maybe I want my woman back,” said Paschal.
“I’ve never been your woman, and I’m not now,” Liz replied.
Paschal laughed. “We had us some good times behind old Frank’s back. Ain’t no reason we can’t have some more.”
“You’re a damn fool, Lefty Paschal. I know you’re part of Bowdre’s gang, but here you are, looking for a roll in the hay with me. I’ll do one thing for you. If you get out of here and promise not to come back, I won’t tell Bowdre you were here.”
“I ain’t afraid of Bowdre,” Paschal said.
“That’s good,” said Liz. “Here he is now.”
Lefty looked toward the door and his blood ran cold. Sim Bowdre had followed him to town and stood there with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, near the butt of his Colt. Sensing trouble, Orr brought out his sawed off twelve-gauge.
“I want no trouble in here, gents. If there’s blood to be spilled, spill it in the street.”
“I’ll meet you in the street, Paschal,” said Bowdre, “unless you’re yellow.”
Paschal got to his feet and started toward the door. Liz Barton remained at the table, saying nothing. Bowdre had walked about twenty yards down the dirt street. There was no moon, only the light from distant glittering stars and the lamplight that bled through the saloon windows. Bowdre still stood with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, just above the butt of his Colt.
“I don’t see the need for this,” said Paschal. “Liz has been everybody’s woman. She was mine while Frank Barton was still alive, and she’ll be somebody else’s woman when she’s tired of you.”
“Maybe,” Bowdre said, “but she’s mine now. Pull iron when you’re ready.”
There was no help for it. Paschal drew faster than he ever had in his life, but before his finger could tighten on the trigger, he saw flame burst from the muzzle of Bowdre’s Colt. Paschal stumbled backward and sat down in the dusty street. Finally, he lay down flat on his back and didn’t move again. Doors of other saloons burst open as men rushed out to see what had happened. Several men had drawn their guns, covering Bowdre.
“Somebody get the sheriff,” a man shouted.
Sheriff Glen Taggart had held the office for many years, and with most of the outlaws holed up in Indian Territory, there had rarely been any trouble in town.
“Anybody witness this shootin’?” Taggart asked.
“I did,” said Orr. “It started in my place, over a woman. I made ’em come out to the street. The dead man went for his gun before the other made a move.”
“What’s your name, stranger?” Sheriff Taggart asked, turning to face Bowdre.
“Simmons Bowdre. This varmint come in and challenged my right to a woman that had no interest in him. I invited him out, and he wasn’t fast enough. You need anything else from me, Sheriff?”
“I suppose not,” said Sheriff Taggart, “but stick around town for a while. This hombre may have a price on his head. If he has, you’re entitled to the reward.”
“I’m not anxious to claim blood money,” Bowdre said, “but I’ll be in the Territorial Saloon for a while.”
Lefty Paschal’s body was carried away, and Sim Bowdre went back into the saloon. It had suddenly all the patrons it could handle, as men discussed the shooting. Some of them were sneaking looks at Liz, who sat alone at the poker table. Bowdre boldly walked over, dragged out a chair, and sat down beside Liz. Those who had been watching her quickly turned their attention elsewhere.
“An interesting situation,” said Bowdre. “Was he before Frank or after Frank?”
“During Frank,” Liz said.
“That ain’t sayin’ a hell of a lot for your loyalty,” said Bowdre.
“I didn’t promise loyalty,” Liz said. “At least, not to you. Besides, I was done with Lefty before I met you. He was here trying to rekindle the fire. I told him to get lost. He was about to do that when you showed up.”
“You’re my woman, damn it,” said Bowdre, “and if any more of your old fires flame up, I’ll put them out just like I did this one. Let’s go back to the hotel for a while.”
Liz got up and started for the door with Bowdre.
“Liz,” Orr shouted. “I need you to deal. We got a full house.”
“Liz will be back in an hour,” said Bowdre. “Until then, deal ’em yourself.”
“Damn it,” Liz said, “you didn’t have to tell the whole town where we’re going and what we’ll be doing.”
Bowdre laughed. “Them that knows me will know what I’m doin’, and after this, I don’t reckon there’ll be any varmints tryin’ to move in on you.”
When it was time for Liz to return to the saloon, Bowdre went with her. They found Sheriff Taggart there.
“Bowdre,” said Taggart, “that hombre had a threethousand-dollar price on his head. I’ll put in for the money, and you can pick it up at my office.”
“Use it for whatever needs improvin’ in the town,” Bowdre said. “I don’t like to earn money like that.”
Seldom was such generosity known, and the men who had gathered in the saloon all cheered.
“Drinks are on the house,” shouted Orr.
When Sim Bowdre returned to camp, he was leading Paschal’s horse.
“What happened to Lefty?” Will Macklin asked.
“He got himself gunned down over a woman,” said Bowdre. “It wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed out of town like I told him.”
“Who shot him?” Loe wondered.
“I did,” said Bowdre. “He drew on me, and he was a mite slow. It wasn’t a total loss, though. There’s a three-thousanddollar price on his head.”
“The rest of the outlaws looked at one another unbelievingly as Bowdre unsaddled his horse and Paschal’s.
“My God,” Harve said, “I’ve known some cold-blooded sons-of-bitches in my time, but Bowdre’s got’ em all skinned.”
“Now there’s only nineteen of us to go after Estrello’s load of whiskey,” Green Perryman said. “There was just nineteen men in the Barton gang when we attacked Estrello and eleven died. Tarnation, this could be an omen of some kind.”
There was little talk in the outlaw camp as the men considered Paschal’s death and the cause of it. Paschal wasn’t the first man to have died over a woman, but seldom was it at the hand of one who should be tolerant and trusting. Sim Bowdre was neither, his men decided, as they took his measure. Some of the men had split up, talking in twos and threes. The seven remaining men from the old Barton gang had gathered out of earshot of Bowdre’s riders.
“I’m sticking with this outfit through the raid on Estrello’s wagons,” Perryman said, “and then I’m gettin’ out. I want me a stake, and that’s all.”
“I think you got the right idea,” said Macklin. “Lefty wasn’t a gun-crazy fool. He wasn’t all that fast. I think he was pushed into drawing.”
And so went the conversation, Paschal’s old outfit all but certain their companion had been forced into a shoot-out. The quiet talk didn’t go unnoticed by Bowdre and his men.
Blake McSween was the first to speak of it aloud.
“They ain’t likin’ it’ cause Bowdre gunned down Paschal.”
“It does make a man wonder just how far Bowdre will go, when somebody gets on the bad side of him,” said Bagwell. “A woman has been the undoing of many a man.”
“I wouldn’t want Bowdre knowin’ it,” Winters said, “but I’ve had enough of the Territory. Once we pull off this raid on Estrello’s whiskey wagons, I’m going back to St. Joe and stay there.”
“Hell, I’m thinking we should have all headed for parts unknown after that fool attack when Frank was killed,” said Weaver. “Now we’re stuck with Bowdre, a varmint who kills one of his own men over some damn woman. I got the feeling he’d sell out everyone of us if it was to his advantage.”
“Best spread your blankets,” Bowdre shouted. “We ride at first light.”
“Bowdre,” said Wilson Soules, “when you rode off to town after Lefty, you forgot that you were going to send Weaver Upton and Lefty to get ahead of Estrello’s wagons, to set up an ambush. Now Lefty’s gone.”
“I changed my mind,” Bowdre said. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. Which of you wants to ride with Upton?”
“I will,” said Duncan Trevino.
“Bueno,” Bowdre said. “The rest of us will allow you a day and a night to get ahead. When you’re ready to double back, you’ll find us following the wagon ruts. From there we’ll take our positions for the ambush. We got to make it good the first time.”
Indian Territory. August 28, 1866.
The wagons journeyed on, and to everybody’s amusement, the tan-and-white hound ran alongside Ed’s wagon.
“He needs a name,” Vernon said. “What do you aim to call him?”
“I’m thinking of calling him either Vernon or Clemans,” said Ed, “but I haven’t decided yet. I’d hate to hurt his feelings.”
Estrello had taken to sending a rider to scout ahead for Indian sign, and there seemed to be none.
“That’s when you have to look out for Indians, when there’s no sign,” Bill said.
“Maybe they’ve all gotten together and are waiting for us at the Washita,” said Betsy.
“That’s the worst possible thing that could happen,” Bill said. “We’ve been fortunate so far, by them coming after us in smaller numbers. Two or three hundred of them, all of the same mind, and they can take anything we have, including our scalps.”
Amanda and Mark were having a discussion of a different nature.
“I’m committed to you,” said Amanda, “and all I know of you is what I’ve experienced while you’ve been with Estrello’s gang.”
“That should be enough,” Mark said. “I don’t know any more about you.”
“Oh, but you do,” said Amanda. “Betsy and me told you and Bill about us all the way back to when Ma died and old Jake took us in.”
“All right,” Mark said with a sigh, “what else do you want to know about me?”
“Tell me about the women,” said Amanda.
“What women?” Mark asked.
“You’re near thirty years old,” said Amanda. “There must have been other women. You’ve never been to a ... whorehouse?”
“Never. Well, once,” Mark said, “but I didn’t go in.”
“Why not?” Amanda asked. “Afraid?”
“Yes, damn it, I was afraid,” said Mark. “I was with some other gents who went on in. They spread it all over the whole damn county that I was feather-legged, afraid of the girls.”
“You’ve never seen a naked woman then,” Amanda persisted.
“Once,” said Mark, “until I saw you. I was maybe twelve or thirteen, and she was maybe a year older.” He refused to look at her.
Amanda laughed delightedly.
“Laugh, damn it,” Mark said. “You’re the only one I ever told.”
“Come on,” said Amanda, “I’m not making fun of you. What do you remember most about her?”
“She was barefooted, wearing only a dress,” Mark said, “and when she skinned it off, she didn’t have . . . anything . . . on her chest. She was as flat as a billiard table.”
* Amanda laughed until she cried. Mark said nothing, his eyes on the mules’ behinds.
“I won’t ask you about the rest of her,” said Amanda. “At her age, Betsy and me were as flat as you say she was, poor girl. But as you’ve noticed, we’ve filled out some over the years. I noticed it didn’t bother you all that much when you and Bill first found Betsy and me naked, hiding from Estrello in the woods.”
“Well, hell,” Mark growled, “I’d growed up some since then.”
“And I wasn’t flat-chested,” said Amanda.
“No,” Mark said. “You lived up to everything I expected, and more. Now suppose you tell me how you felt when two strangers found you and Betsy jaybird naked in the woods. As I recall, neither of you seemed in the slightest embarrassed.”
“We didn’t have so much as a handkerchief to cover ourselves,” said Amanda. “Why be embarrassed when there’s nothing you can do about it? I’d been scratched and raked by thorns, with so many hurts, I couldn’t think of anything else. Besides, after Estrello had stripped us, you and Bill were welcome.”
“It’s something I’ll never forget,” Mark said. “I’m just living for the day I can get you back to Texas.”
“So am I,” said Amanda, “and I can promise you, there’ll be no surprises. What you’ve already seen is what you’ll get. Without the scratches from briars and thorns, of course.”
The wagons and teamsters had their best day since they had left the steamboats at Fort Smith. Estrello had sent Bideno to scout ahead, and Bideno reported no Indian sign of any kind.
“I figure we’re maybe a hundred and twenty-five miles from our old camp,” Estrello said during supper. “Ten more days, at the most.”
“I hope you have a plan, in case there’s three or four hundred Indians waiting there, with plans for taking the whiskey without paying,” said Wilder.
“We’ll know, well before we get there, what their mood is,” Estrello said. “I’ll ride on ahead myself, the last day before we reach the Washita.”
“You’d better ride ahead three days,” Ed said. “A day’s travel for a wagon is, at best, twelve miles. A good horse can cover that distance in an hour. All you’ll have to do is let that bunch of renegades know they’re within riding distance of these wagons and they’ll come after us.”
“Maybe you got something there, Stackler,” said Estrello. “We’ll need some time to get ready for whatever they have planned for us. In fact, I think I’ll do my own scouting the rest of the way to the Washita.”
“Suits me,” Tilden said under his breath.
“Me, too,” said Worsham. “He don’t really trust any of us too far.”
Fort Smith. August 29, 1866.
Liz Barton took full advantage of Sim Bowdre’s absence, entertaining men in the hotel room after the saloon closed, adding daily to the roll of bills she had begun to accumulate. She had no scruples. Keeping a bottle of whiskey handy, she often got a man dead drunk, rolled him for his money, and then dropped him, unconscious, through her window. Once or twice, Orr warned her, but soon gave it up, for she was bringing in far more patrons than he’d ever had before.
Indian Territory. August 30, 1866.
Upton and Trevino loaded their saddlebags with jerked beef and extra ammunition before riding in search of Estrello’s outfit.
“Just be damn sure none of ’em see you,” Bowdre warned. “Get far enough ahead so there’s not a chance of them suspecting anything, and choose a good place for the ambush. I don’t aim for us to get shot all to hell like Frank Barton.”
“Hell, we ain’t stupid,” said Trevino. “If you reckon we ain’t got sense enough to do this, then go do it yourself.”
“Mount up and ride, damn it,” Bowdre said.
Upton and Trevino rode out toward the southwest. Within an hour, they had found the wagon rut
s that had resulted from numerous wagon wheels.
“We got to be careful we don’t ride right into ’em,” Trevino said. “The wind’s nearly always out of the west, and that gives us an edge.”
“We can’t afford not to watch our back trail,” Upton said. “You never know when the damn Indians will trail an outfit, just waitin’ for a chance to strike. With Estrello’s bunch ahead of us, and Indians behind, we’re dead.”
“We got to make this ambush a success,” said Trevino. “I’ve had the feeling lately that we’ve about played out our hand. The war’s over, and I’m wonderin’ how long it’ll be until the government decides to clean up Indian Territory. Long as the Indian renegades can hide out here, the Indian problem won’t ever be took care of. There’ll be sodbusters, schoolma’ams and land grabbers from everywhere. We won’t have anywhere to hide.”
“I kind of get that feeling myself,” Upton said. “If we pull off this raid and the money is as good as Bowdre expects, I aim to take my cut and make myself scarce.”
“I hear there’s all kinds of good things happening in Missouri,” said Trevino. “Them as knows the Territory can get rich leadin’ settlers to south central Texas. There’s thousands and thousands of acres of land available as grants. There’s a wagon train leavin’St. Joseph every week or so.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Upton, “but there won’t nothin’ else pay off as big as ridin’ the owl-hoot trail.”
“No,” Trevino admitted, “the money won’t be as good, but what there is, you can enjoy it without dodging the law and keeping an eye behind you, so’s some bastard don’t shoot you in the back. You ever think how it would be, having a place of your own, with a warm bed and a woman beside you?”
“I think of it often,” said Upton.
“Then let’s make this Estrello raid a success and quit while we’re ahead.”
Chapter 16
Indian Territory. September 1, 1866.
The wagons were half circled, for the Estrello outfit had made camp for the night. With thirty-two men, Estrello had continued dividing them equally between the first and second watch, and then dividing each watch into two parties. Eight men watched the wagons, while eight others stayed close to the horses and mules. Estrello had assigned each of them to the same watch, so there was no confusion.
Ralph Compton Whiskey River Page 23
