Ralph Compton Whiskey River (2 page)

BOOK: Ralph Compton Whiskey River
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“They have,” said Ab gravely. “There's already a full company of them in Austin. But that's not the problem. The problem is the newly appointed tax collectors. First thing they done was re-assess everybody's spreads, and them that couldn't pay lost everything. They started out takin' what belonged to those of you who went to war.”
“The sons of bitches,” Mark said. “We wasn't here. They've taken our spread?”
“Yours, and a dozen others, all up and down the Brazos,” said Ab. “They're bein' held by men armed with scatterguns.”
“By God,” Bill said, “we'll organize the rest of the rightful owners and raise hell.”
“I don't think so,” said Ab. “Riley Wilkerson, Mike Duvall, and Ellis Van Horn tried to do exactly that. Without weapons, they attacked armed men and were shot down like stray dogs. The others that come back saw how it was, and left, traveling west. You can fight, but you can't win.”
“Legalized murder, then,” Mark said.
“That's what I'd call it,” said Ab, “but I wouldn't say it too loud.”
“Ab,” said Bill, “we don't have a
peso
between us, and I don't know when we'll be able to pay you, but we need grub. Can you help us?”
“Some,” Ab said cautiously. “The state's been up against a blockade, and supply lines still ain't open. All I got is homegrown beef, beans, and bacon. No coffee, salt, or sugar.”
“We'll accept whatever you can spare, and be thankful,” said Mark.
“You don't aim to back off, then, do you?” Ab asked.
“Hell no,” said Mark. “I don't know what we'll do, but by the Eternal, we'll be doing something.”
“Just be careful, boys,” Ab said.
“We're obliged to you for the warning,” said Bill. “At least we won't be walking into it cold.”
Ab filled two gunnysacks with supplies. Mark and Bill thanked the old man and left the store. Nobody paid any attention to the two riders as they rode south. Darkness was several hours away, and they rode into a stand of cottonwood where there was a spring they remembered.
“Whatever bronc we have to ride,” Mark said, “I'll feel better jumpin' on it with a full belly.”
There was lush graze near the river, and the half-starved mules took advantage of it. Mark and Bill built a small fire over which they broiled bacon. Their meager meal finished, the angry duo set about making plans to reclaim their holdings.
“From what Ab told us,” said Bill, “there shouldn't be more than two of these varmints with scatterguns guardin' our spread, and we'll likely find one of 'em holed up in my shack and the other in yours. We can take 'em one at a time and get our hands on them scatterguns.”
“That'll bring the soldiers,” Mark said. “We can't stand off the damn army with a pair of scatterguns. Besides, we were granted amnesty by signing pledges not to take up arms against the Union.”
“Soldiers and amnesty be damned,” said Bill. “Just because they beat us don't give ‘em the right to move in and rob us blind while we're not here to defend what's ours. Soon as it's dark enough, I'm movin' in. You comin' with me?”
“I reckon,” Mark said. “We'll likely light more fires than we can put out, but we can't just let them pick us clean. Hell, we'll do what we have to.”
When darkness had fallen. they could see a distant light in the window or each of their shacks. They first approached Bill's spread, and in the dim light from a window, they saw the dark shadow of a horse tied outside the shack.
“You spook the horse,” said Bill, “and I'll get him as he comes out the door.”
Taking a handful of rocks, Mark began pelting the horse. It nickered, reared, and then nickered again. It had the desired effect. The door swung open, and the man with the scattergun started out. In an instant Bill had an arm around his throat and a death grip on the muzzle of the shotgun. He drove a knee into the man's groin, who, with a gasp of pain, released the shotgun. As he doubled up in agony, Bill seized the shotgun's stock and slammed it under the unfortunate man's chin.
“One of 'em down,” said Bill with satisfaction.
“God almighty,” Mark said, kneeling by the fallen man, “his neck's broke. He's dead.”
“I didn't shoot him,” said Bill, more shaken than he wanted to admit. “I promised that I wouldn't take up arms, and I didn't.”
“We can't leave him here,” Mark said. “What do you aim to do with him?”
“Leave him where he is for now,” said Bill. “He ain't goin' nowhere. After we've took care of the varmint at your place, we'll dispose of the both of them where they'll never be found. Nobody can prove anything against us.”
“Maybe you're right,” Mark said. “We've gone too far to back out now.”
Mark and Bill found a shallows and crossed the Brazos afoot, Mark carrying the confiscated shotgun.
“Give me the scattergun,” said Bill. “If this one goes sour, I'll do the shootin'. So far, they got nothin' on you.”
“No,” Mark said. “This is my place. I won't have you takin' a rap for what I should have done. This time, you spook the horse, and I'll get the drop when the varmint comes bustin' out.”
Bill began antagonizing the picketed horse, and the animal reacted predictably. But the animal's owner didn't come busting through the front door. He came around the corner of the house, and Bill threw himself facedown just in time to avoid a lethal blast from the scattergun. Like an echo, Mark fired, and the deadly charge caught the guard in the chest. He collapsed like a crumpled sack.
“My God,” Bill said, “now we're into it.”
“So we are,” said Mark. “Would you feel better if I'd let him cut you in two with that cannon?”
“This is no time for damned foolishness,” Bill said. “There's still a chance we can get out of this if we can stash this pair where they'll never be found, and we got to do it fast. There'll be rain before morning, and it'll cover our trail. Get a blanket from inside. We don't want blood all over this hombre's saddle when his horse shows up somewhere.”
Riding their mules, they each led a horse with a dead man slung over the saddle. Far down the Brazos, they disposed of both dead men in a bog hole that overflowed from the river.
“A damned shame, lettin' these horses and saddles go, while we're ridin' a broke-down pair of old mules,” said Mark.
“Hell of a lot easier than explaining to the law where we got the horses and saddles,” Bill replied.
Just for a moment, the moon peeked from behind the gathering clouds, and turning, Mark looked back.
“What are you lookin' at?” Bill asked.
“Them horses,” said Mark. “They're followin' us.”
“Won't matter,” Bill replied. “There'll be rain before daylight.”
But the shotgun blasts had been heard at the old Duvall place, and by the time Mark and Bill returned to Bill's shack, they had unwanted company. While the pair still had the weapons they had taken from the dead men, they had no chance to use them. A cold voice from the darkness spoke.
“You're covered, and there's three of us. Drop the guns and step down.”
Mark Rogers and Bill Harder had no choice. Dropping the shotguns, they slid off their mules.
“You got nothing on us,” Bill said angrily. “These are our spreads, proved up before we went to war.”
“And confiscated for nonpayment of taxes,” said the hostile voice.
“What do you aim to do with us?” Mark asked.
“Turn you over to the military, come morning,” said their antagonist. “We heard the shooting. Now you coyotes show up with a pair of shotguns and the horses followin' you that belonged to Pritchett and Wade. We don't know what you done with 'em, but there's enough evidence for the law to consider 'em dead.”
“Yeah,” said a second voice with an ugly laugh, “they'll be the first ex-Rebs to face up to a military firing squad.”
The unfortunate duo was marched into Bill's cabin, where they were bound hand and foot. They were shoved roughly against a wall, where they slid down to uncomfortable sitting positions.
“My name's Crowder,” said the most talkative of their trio of antagonists. “Gortner and Preemo will keep you company and see that you don't get any ideas. I'll telegraph the military at Austin, and there'll be soldiers here by tomorrow.”
Waco, Texas. June 26, 1866.
The soldiers arrived in the late afternoon. There was a lieutenant, a sergeant, and two corporals. They stared for a moment at the two bound captives, and the officer spoke.
“I am Lieutenant Henry. Who are you men?”
“Mark Rogers.”
“Bill Harder.”
“As former Rebs, you signed amnesty oaths?”
“We did,” said Bill grimly. “We was given no choice.”
“From what I'm told, there's evidence the two of you are not only in violation of those oaths, but you have committed murder,” Lieutenant Henry said. “You will be taken to jail in Waco until I've had time to investigate these charges. If evidence points to your guilt, the two of you will be taken to the stockade at Fort Worth for trial. Do you either of you have anything to say?”
“Plenty,” said Mark, “but nothing that would help our cause. You might as well get on with your investigation.”
This time, as Mark and Bill rode into Waco on their gaunt mules, they attracted plenty of attention, for they wore manacles on their wrists and were followed by a soldier escort. Standing in the door of his mercantile, old Ab sighed, his heart heavy for the two young men who had only wanted to claim what was rightly theirs. Reaching the jail, Mark and Bill had an unpleasant surprise. The “sheriff” was Rufe Elkins, a down-at-the-heels rancher nobody liked. Not only had Elkins not gone to war, but had been suspected of rustling the cattle of men who had. He seemed especially gratified, seeing Mark Rogers and Bill Harder in irons.
“I been expectin' them two,” Elkins said with an evil grin. “I got cells just waitin' for 'em.”
“I'm Lieutenant Henry,” said the officer, not liking the man. “See to it they're issued decent clothing and are fed properly. For the several days they're likely to be here, I am holding you responsible for their well-being. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I . . . yes, sir, I understand,” said Elkins with considerably less enthusiasm. He was inclined to bully better men when he had the chance, but the cold eyes of Lieutenant Henry had taken his measure. Being a sheriff wasn't all that rewarding, but it paid better than his rawhide outfit, even with the cattle he was able to rustle. He said nothing to either of his prisoners as he locked them in a cell. Suppertime came. To the surprise of Mark and Bill, they were served a decent meal, including coffee.
“I reckon it all depends on which side of the war you was on, whether you get coffee or not,” said Mark.
“I reckon,” Bill replied.
“Haw, haw,” said Elkins, who had been listening, “you two bastards was purely on the wrong side.”
“You no-account son-of-a-bitch,” said Bill. “It don't take guts to lay out in the brush and steal other men's cattle when they're away at war.”
“Hidin' behind them soldiers, you got a big mouth, Harder,” Elkins snarled. “Maybe when them soldiers has gone on their way, you'll find
me
behind you with a loaded Colt.”
“If I do,” said Bill grimly, “you'd better use it, or I'll take it away from you and put it where the sun don't shine.”
Waco, Texas. June 29, 1866.
Lieutenant Henry didn't return for three days. When he did, his manner was grim, and he wasted no time confronting Rogers and Harder. When he stood before the barred door, Mark and Bill rose to their feet.
“We found the bodies,” said Lieutenant Henry. “You're both under military arrest upon suspicion of murder. You'll be taken to Fort Worth for trial. Attorneys will be appointed to defend you. Meanwhile, anything you say may be held against you.”
Mark and Bill said nothing. They sat down on their bunks, seeking to appear as calm as they could. They well knew that a murder conviction meant the firing squad. As they had expected, Sheriff Rufe Elkins looked for some sign of weakness in them, but he looked in vain.
“Sheriff,” said Lieutenant Henry, “you will have the prisoners prepared to depart in the morning at 0800 hours. See that they are fed and that they're supplied with horses and saddles. The mounts and saddles will be returned.”
“Yes, sir,” Rufe Elkins said. “Will I be goin' along?”
“No,” said Lieutenant Henry, “your services are not required.”
Mark and Bill grinned in delight as Elkins tried vainly to play upon an importance he didn't possess. Ignoring him, Lieutenant Henry left immediately.
Bill laughed. “You'd better stick to stealing cows, Elkins. You just ain't impressive as a sheriff. Or a human being, for that matter.”
“You mouthy bastards,” said Elkins, “I'll ride all the way to Fort Worth, just to see the pair of you backed up against a wall and gunned down.”
“It hasn't happened yet,” Mark said, “but for the sake of your slimy hide, you better hope it does.”
Elkins laughed. “Oh, I do hope it does. You gents have had a hell of a natural increase on what used to be your spreads, and I'm anxious to get my rope on the rest of them new mavericks.”
Mark and Bill sat on their bunks, grinding their teeth in silence.
Waco, Texas. June 30, 1866.
BOOK: Ralph Compton Whiskey River
10.46Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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