The Winchester Run

by Ralph Compton

  “If it isn’t too much trouble,” Nelson snarled, “some of you tell me how this began.”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Hattie. “That idiot, Sergeant Embler, struck the pot as I was trying to pour his coffee. Most of the hot coffee spilled down his front.”

  “The skunk was about to hit Hattie with his pistol,” Rachel said, “but I just happened to have this skillet, and I hit him first. He fired the shot that struck one of the mules.”

  The furious Lieutenant Nelson looked from one of his men to the other, each of them trying mightily not to laugh. Suddenly Nelson drew his Colt, cocked it, and shoved it under Private Stearn’s chin.

  “Now, Private,” Nelson gritted, “why don’t you tell me how this all began?”

  “I—I . . . she . . . told it straight, sir,” Stearn mumbled.

  “You’re telling me all this is Sergeant Embler’s fault?” Nelson bellowed.

  “Y-yes, sir,” said Stearn.

  For a terrifying moment, it seemed that Lieutenant Nelson was going to blow off the unfortunate private’s head. Finally Nelson eased down the hammer, holstered the weapon, and went after Sergeant Embler. Rubbing the back of his head, Embler sat up, regarding the Colt in his right hand with some confusion.

  “Get up, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Nelson snapped.

  “I ain’t sure I can,” said Embler. “I think my skull’s busted.”

  Holstering the Colt, he got to his knees. A hand up would have been helpful, but nobody offered one. Embler stood there weaving like a tall tree in a hard wind, his eyes on the soaked front of his trousers. One of the women laughed. Then they all did. Embler’s face went red and his hand dropped to the butt of his Colt.

  “Sergeant,” said Lieutenant Nelson coldly, “don’t even think about it. Now move, you bungling fool. It seems you’re responsible for the stampeding of the horses and mules, and you don’t have three days to round them up. Take all the men with you except Corporal Irvin. He will remain here with me.”

  Sergeant Embler stumbled off, apparently uncertain as to the direction the stampede had taken. The privates followed, having heard the order shouted by Lieutenant Nelson.

  “Well,” Hattie said, “I don’t know if I accomplished anything else, but I enjoyed that.”

  “No more than I did,” said Rachel. “I’ve never put a skillet to better use.”

  “Hattie,” Mac said, “did you plan that?”

  “Of course not,” said Hattie. “If I had, I’d have poured it all on him, not just half of it.”

  “Well,” Rachel said, “aren’t you going to ask me if I planned to slug him with an iron skillet? The truth is, I’d have hit him with anything. I was just lucky, having this beautiful skillet in my hand.”

  The laughter began with Buck and spread among the others like a prairie fire. Much to the unfortunate Sergeant Embler’s relief, the stampeded mules and horses hadn’t run very far. Embler and the men quickly caught some of the horses and were thus able to go after the missing mules. Before sundown, they had accomplished the impossible. All the stampeded animals had been recovered. Port Guthrie had a chance to speak to Mac before they turned in for the night.

  “We lost a day,” said Guthrie. “Are we gonna make our move the day after tomorrow or delay it an extra day?”

  “We’ll go ahead as planned,” Mac said.

  There was little conversation among Mac’s outfit, and that was the way he wanted it. Time after time, he considered and discarded possible plans, always returning to the first one he and Guthrie had discussed. As the time drew nearer, he couldn’t help having some misgivings, but there seemed no better way.

  Houston, Texas. December 16, 1873.

  Texas Rangers Dan McDaniel and Arlo Camden were being briefed by the commander of the outpost, Captain Dillard.

  “This is strictly a surveillance mission,” said Captain Dillard. “The information is of a confidential nature, and is needed by the army. You are to ride the coastline from here to Corpus Christi, using binoculars to observe the gulf. The possible vessel under investigation probably won’t be near an established port, but in some out-of-the-way cove with an easy access to shore. It likely won’t show any markings or a flag. If you reach Corpus Christi Bay without a sighting, stay the night and return, repeating the procedure.”

  “Clear enough,” McDaniel said. “Should we spot such a ship, what are we to do?”

  “Study it for markings,” said Captain Dillard. “Anything that might identify it or the country from which it came. Take careful note as to its location, and then get that information to me pronto. Comprender?”

  “Sí” the rangers replied in a single voice.

  McDaniel and Camden rode out, following the shoreline from Houston, bound for Corpus Christi Bay.

  “We do an almighty lot to help the army, after the shabby treatment we got from them durin’ the war,” McDaniel said.

  “I’ve noticed that,” said Camden. “Durin’ the war and Reconstruction, they always had enough troops to stomp our suspenders down around our boot tops. Now they never have enough soldiers in one place to fight off an attack by Comanche squaws.”

  “I hear they’re needin’ all the soldiers on the high plains,” McDaniel replied. “They let the Indian situation go to hell while they whupped us. Now they got some catchin’ up to do, I reckon. Maybe they got Quanah Parker and the Comanches on the run, but old Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, and them Sioux ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “I’m kinda wonderin’ why they’re expectin’ a sailing ship to be anchored somewhere between here and Corpus Christi,” said Camden. “Sounds like some varmints from outside the United States aims to bring somethin’ in or take somethin’ out. In either case, wonder what it could be?”

  “White slavery, maybe,” McDaniel said. “I hear there’s a pile of money bein’ made by sellin’ women from this country into Mexican whorehouses.”

  “What a stinkin’, lowdown thing for men to do,” said Camden. “I could hold a stick of dynamite in my teeth, swim out there after dark, and sink their damn ship.”

  McDaniel laughed. “Whoa. Pull in your horns. We don’t know anything about this ship, or even if there is one. All we got to do is find out if there is or if there ain’t, and report back to Captain Dillard.”

  “It ain’t quite two hundred miles to Corpus Christi,” Camden said. “A two-day ride.”

  “Maybe longer,” said McDaniel, “because we got to stop every few miles and sweep that water with the binoculars. If there’s a ship at anchor, the sails will be furled, and we won’t have an easy time findin’ it.”

  They rode on, stopping at regular intervals to study the seemingly endless blue water of the Gulf of Mexico. Finally, a few minutes before sundown, they reached a freshwater stream that flowed into the gulf.

  “Good place to bed down for the night,” McDaniel said. “We’ve covered near seventy miles, I figure.”

  “At this pace, we’ll be three days gettin’ to Corpus Christi,” said Camden. “I thought Captain Dillard seemed a mite anxious for us to investigate this and get back to him.”

  “He is anxious,” McDaniel agreed, “but lookin’ across miles of nothin’ but water is a lot like lookin’ across a desert. Your eyes get to seein’ things that ain’t there, or maybe overlookin’ things that are there.”

  South Texas. December 16, 1873.

  Ranger Bodie West reined up, unsaddled his horse, and picketed the animal on the north bank of the Rio Colorado. As the westering sun hid its face from the approaching darkness, West stretched out, his head on his saddle. He had removed only his hat, and close at hand was his Winchester. Wary of lighting a fire, he did without coffee, drinking water from his canteen. As so often was a Ranger’s lot, a handful of jerked beef became his supper. Finishing that, he followed it with the rest of the water in the canteen. Tilting his hat over his eyes, he dozed, depending on his horse to warn him of any danger. As he thought of Captain Vance and his suspicions, he weighed them against his
own. West had allowed himself two days to reach the point on the Rio Colorado where he believed the six wagons would have approached the river. If they crossed it and continued south, they had to be headed for the Mexican border, which meant they would already be lost to Captain Vance. However, if Vance was right—if there was a sailing ship waiting to receive the stolen arms—the wagons would have followed the Rio Colorado for at least three or four days. It would have been a convenient source of water until it became necessary for the caravan to travel to the south of Austin, on its way to the coast. Tomorrow, West would know, one way or the other. Unless he found evidence the wagons had traveled eastward along the river, eventually veering away toward the south, his ride would have been all for nothing.

  Victoria, Texas, overlooking Matagorda Bay. December 16, 1873.

  Rangers Dan McDaniel and Arlo Camden had reined up a few minutes before sundown. The never-ending waters of the gulf looked bloodred as purple shadows crept across the face of the earth. By the time the crimson waters of the gulf faded to black, the first distant stars would be winking sleepily. Having unsaddled their horses, Dan and Arlo waited for the animals to roll.

  “If you’ll picket them,” Arlo said, “I’ll take the binoculars and have a look at the big pond. Won’t be nothin’ there, but we’ll have to tell Captain Dillard we looked.”

  “Yeah,” said Dan. “Go ahead.”

  Dan had picketed the horses and was gathering wood for a small fire, when there was an excited shout from Arlo.

  “By God, there’s somethin’ out there!”

  “Tarnation,” Dan said, “let me have the binoculars.”

  “I aim to,” said Arlo. “I saw somethin’ kind of dancin’ around, and then it was gone. Here, aim these binoculars in the direction I’m pointin’ my finger.”

  Dan took the binoculars but could see nothing. The gray curtain of night had met the blackness of the far-reaching waters of the gulf.

  “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” Dan said. “If they’re the kind of pilgrims Captain Dillard seems to think they are, this would be a more logical place than Corpus Christi.”

  “Damn right,” said Arlo. “Corpus Christi’s a government port. It’s the last place a bunch of smugglers would drop anchor. I just hope we can get the word back to Captain Dillard before they load their cargo and escape.”

  “We can ride back in half the time,” Dan said. “We won’t have to stop and search the gulf with those binoculars.”

  South Central Texas. December 16, 1873.

  “Damn it, get those wagons moving!” Lieutenant Nelson shouted.

  “We’re restin’ the teams,” said Port Guthrie. “We rest ’em every hour, and you know that.”

  “The policy has just been changed,” Lieutenant Nelson said. “You’ll rest them once every two hours, starting today.”

  Guthrie said nothing. Mounting his wagon box, he led out. The other wagons rumbled along behind, followed by Mac Tunstall and his captive outfit. Behind them rode all the soldiers except Lieutenant Nelson and Sergeant Embler. Nelson rode ahead of Guthrie’s lead wagon, while Embler still drove Trinity’s wagon, the seventh in the caravan. Mac had seen Nelson double back and speak to Port Guthrie almost immediately after the teamster had halted the wagons to rest the mules. Nobody doubted what Nelson’s order had been.

  “The lieutenant don’t know any more about handlin’ mules than he does men,” Red observed. “Overwork the teams, and these wagons will all end up stalled.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Hattie asked.

  “It would be for us,” said Mac. “That would scuttle Nelson’s plan to sell all of us into Mexico, and he’d have no reason for keeping us alive.”

  In the lead wagon, Port Guthrie fumed, his eyes on Lieutenant Nelson’s back. Under his breath he spoke.

  “One more day, you bastard. Just one more day.”

  Mac Tunstall had similar thoughts, and when Trinity’s eyes met his, he knew the same ominous clock was ticking in her mind. Late that night, when the camp had settled down, Red took a chance reaching Mac.

  “You have somethin’ in mind,” said Red. “When do you aim to tell the rest of us?”

  “I’ve kept it quiet,” Mac said, “because I didn’t want Nelson suspecting anything. Now I reckon it’s time all of you know what’s coming. If it works out, you and me will each have a loaded Winchester in our hands. We’ll have to raise enough hell for the others to arm themselves from Trinity’s wagon. There’ll be no time for indecision. Now here’s what I’ve planned for late tomorrow afternoon . . .”

  Mac spoke quietly, and not until he had finished did Red speak.

  “Risky, amigo, but I can’t improve on it. You want me to tell the others?”

  “Yes,” Mac said, “but do it quietly and impress upon them all the importance of this being kept quiet. Tomorrow, I don’t want Nelson or any of his men to see any difference in any of us. This is our only chance.”

  “I’ll pass the word,” said Red, “and I’ll play my part.”

  “Speak to Port Guthrie,” Mac said, “and have him alert the rest of the teamsters. It’s best that I not be seen talking to any of you.”

  Red slipped away into the night, and Mac sighed. It seemed they’d been captives for months. They were more than three months out of Kansas City, and just nine days away from Christmas, he thought dismally. Would they be celebrating the most joyous Christmas any of them had ever experienced, or would they all lie dead in these lonely wilds of south Texas?

  Victoria, Texas, overlooking Matagorda Bay. December 17, 1873.

  The day dawned clear, and as soon as it became light enough to see, Rangers Camden and McDaniel had their binoculars trained on the distant Gulf of Mexico.

  “Now I don’t see a damned thing but water,” Arlo said. “I wonder if what I saw last night was kind of like a mirage, somethin’ that I wanted to see?”

  “Maybe not,” said Dan. “We’ll wait a while, until the sun’s up. Let’s have some coffee and breakfast. Then we’ll try again.”

  An hour later, Arlo again got out the binoculars. “Here,” he said. “You first.”

  Dan scanned the distant horizon but saw nothing. Again he tried, and froze.

  “There it is!” he shouted. “There it is!”

  Arlo grabbed the binoculars. “You’re right,” he yelled. “I see it, too.”

  They waited for the vessel to come closer, and slowly but surely it did.

  “We’d better get off this rise,” said Dan. “They may have a man on deck, watching the shore through binoculars.”

  They led their horses over a rise and took a position where they were unlikely to be seen from the approaching vessel.

  “She’s without a flag,” Dan said. “That means they don’t want to be recognized.”

  “That means there won’t be any markings on the ship itself, then,” said Arlo. “There’s no reason for us to kill another day waitin’ for it to come close enough to see the hull.”

  “You’re right,” said Dan. “We can better use the time gettin’ back to Captain Dillard with this information. Let’s ride.”

  South Texas, along the Rio Colorado. December 17, 1873.

  Ranger Bodie West was nearing the end of his second day, without having found any sign of the elusive wagons along the Rio Colorado.

  “Well, hoss,” said West, “if sundown finds us with no more sign than we got right now, it’s back to Austin and goodbye, Winchester wagons.”

  The sun was less than an hour high when West reined up at the shallows where the wagons had crossed to the south bank of the Rio Colorado. He rode across, satisfying himself that the wagons, while leaving the river, had continued eastward. They had not gone south, toward the Mexican border! He studied the tracks of the horses and learned there had been at least twenty mounted riders.

  “Hoss,” said West, “I got me an idea all them riders ain’t outlaws. I reckon we’ll just ease up on ’em tomorrow about sundown, and offer our servic
es to them that’s in need.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Houston, Texas. December 18, 1873.

  Rangers Dan McDaniel and Arlo Camden reported to Captain Dillard as ordered, and Dillard listened while they told him what they had seen. Only then did he speak.

  “I’ll telegraph this information to the Ranger station at Austin. What they do with it is up to them.”

  “But Captain,” McDaniel said, “if this bunch on the ship is up to no good, it’ll be a shame to allow them to escape.”

  “I fully agree with you, Dan,” said Captain Dillard, “but we have no charges against anybody. There’s nothing illegal about anchoring a ship off Matagorda Bay. I think it’s a situation where the army’s not sure which way to turn, and what we’ve done, probably, is provide them with an alternative. If anything more is asked of us in regard to this, or if I eventually learn what it’s all about, I’ll satisfy your curiosity.”

  “Damn it,” Arlo grumbled, “they let you get just deep enough to get interested, and then you have to back off without knowin’ what happened.”

  South Texas. December 18, 1873.

  Despite Mac’s admonition to the contrary, he could feel an underlying excitement that had become all too obvious among his outfit. He only hoped their captors didn’t pick up on it before his plan even saw the light of day. Only Port Guthrie showed no emotion, and Mac was thankful for the resourceful teamster. The day was unseasonably warm, and by the time the sun was noon-high, the teams were heaving, their hides dark with sweat. Mac approached Lieutenant Nelson with a request he fully expected to be denied.

  “Nelson, the mules are about ready to drop in their tracks. They should be rested at least once an hour, and you—or somebody—should be riding ahead, looking for water. We don’t have enough in the kegs aboard the wagons for another dry camp.”