Ralph Compton Whiskey River (3 page)

BOOK: Ralph Compton Whiskey River
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The distance to Fort Worth was about seventy-five miles. Lieutenant Henry and his three companions picked up their prisoners and departed at exactly eight o'clock. Resting the horses, the journey could easily be made in a day. There was no talk. The soldiers were grim, so Mark and Bill kept their silence. Reaching Fort Worth, they were admitted, taken into the guardhouse, and their shackles removed.
“Well, pardner,” said Mark when they were alone, “we wrestled the devil and lost big time. What'll we do now, wait for 'em to load their guns?”
“Oh, there'll be some kind of a trial,” Bill said. “
Then
they load their guns.”
But nothing was said about a trial, and after three days, both men had begun to wonder what exactly would be their fate.
Fort Worth, Texas. July 5, 1866.
Two soldiers came for them, and they were taken to the office of the post commander, Captain Ferguson. When Ferguson answered the knock on his door, the corporals saluted.
“At ease, corporals,” said the officer. “You'll remain outside. Rogers, you and Harder will come in and be seated, he said, closing the door. ”I am Captain Ferguson.”
“I wish I could say I'm pleased to meet you, sir,” said Bill, “but not under these kind of circumstances.”
“Same feelings here,” Mark said.
“I have spoken to your former commanding officer,” said Ferguson, “and the two of you had distinguished careers with the Confederacy. Now you're both facing a murder charge. Why?”
“Because we come back to our proved up land and found it had been taken for taxes while we wasn't here,” Bill said angrily. “That wasn't fair.”
“I agree,” said Ferguson, “but violating the law didn't help your cause. As you have no doubt heard, the murder of President Lincoln by a Southern sympathizer has official Washington furious. Northern congressmen have retribution on their minds.”
“So they get back at us by stealing our land,” Mark said bitterly. “We wasn't near the president. All we wanted was to forget about war and come back to Texas.”
Captain Ferguson sighed. “The president wanted us
all
to forget about war, to allow the scars to heal. Now, God knows if they ever will.”
“Everything you've said is true, sir,” said Bill, “but it's of no help to us. What will become of Mark and me?”
“I
could
have you court-martialed for murder,” Ferguson said. “Conviction calls for a mandatory death sentence.”
“You speak as though there's some other choice,” said Mark.
“Maybe there is,” Ferguson said. “For some time, I've had a mission in mind that only a truly desperate man might consider. The two of you certainly qualify.”
“If it's anything less than the firing squad,” said Bill, “I'd be interested in hearin' it.”
“It may be every bit as dangerous as the firing squad,” Ferguson replied. “Have either of you ever heard of Wolf Estrello and his whiskey runners?”
Mark and Bill shook their heads, and Captain Ferguson continued.
“Rotgut whiskey is being brought by steamboat to Fort Smith,” said Ferguson, “and wagoned from there to Estrello's stronghold in Indian Territory. This poison is being sold to the Kiowas and the Comanches. During the war, when we lacked the manpower to strike back, Estrello built a formidable empire, creating a haven for deserters from both sides of the conflict. Now we're ready to infiltrate Estrello's outfit and finish him once and for all.”
“That's interesting,” said Bill, “but it means nothing to us.”
“Suppose there's a way the two of you can help destroy these whiskey runners, and in so doing, regain your freedom, your confiscated property, and full amnesty? Would it still mean nothing to you?”
“Great God almighty, what I wouldn't give for such a chance,” Mark said.
“Amen,” said Bill reverently.
“Then listen to me,” Captain Ferguson said. “I want the two of you to work your way into Estrello's confidence. He's getting the whiskey from an illegal distillery somewhere near St. Louis, and then steamboating the loaded wagons along the Mississippi and the Arkansas to Fort Smith. Your mission will be twofold. I want you to escort the wagons by boat from St. Louis, and then become teamsters from Fort Smith to the Estrello hideout. Am I getting through to you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bill. “You want us on the inside of Estrello's whiskey-runnin' outfit. You're wantin' it rode into the ground. Just how many men are we up against?”
“Perhaps as many as fifty,” Ferguson replied, “but we're prepared to grant amnesty to all who are willing to desert. Except for Estrello himself, of course. We want him dead.”
“I'm beginning to understand what you have in mind,” said Mark. “You aim for us to free all these varmints that's willing to give up whiskey running, and kill the others.”
“Putting it bluntly, yes,” Captain Ferguson said. “It was the president's dream to heal the nation, to forgive those deserving of it, and to eliminate the hard-core criminals who are beyond redemption. I believe you two can be rehabilitated, while helping to make the president's dream a reality. Needless to say, you are sworn to silence, and until such a time as you've successfully completed your mission, you'll be outlawed, with prices on your heads.”
“What kind of prices?” Bill asked.
“Ten thousand dollars on the heads of each of you,” said Captain Ferguson. “That's the same bounty on the heads of all the Estrello gang. I might add that those who aren't interested in amnesty and must be eliminated are subject to having their bounties paid to you, if you earn them. That's in addition to amnesty for yourselves and the return of your spreads near Waco, free and clear of all taxes.”
“We're not concerned with bounty,” said Bill. “We only want our spreads back and the freedom to live there.”
“Nevertheless, there'll be some bounty,” Captain Ferguson said. “Some of Estrello's bunch is hardened criminals. When it comes to a showdown, they'll shoot or be shot. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mark. “At which end of this ‘Whiskey River' showdown do we buy in? At the start of it, where the wagons are loaded on the steamboats in St. Louis, or where the teamstering begins at Forth Smith?”
“If you value your lives,” Ferguson said, “you'll find the Estrello stronghold in Indian Territory and hire on as teamsters if you can. Estrello will have you shot dead if you seem to know too much. I presume the two of you
are
qualified teamsters.”
“Don't insult us, Captain,” said Bill Harder. “We're Texan to the bone. We can saddle and ride anything with hooves and hair and hostle anything up to a six-horse or mule hitch, includin' a stagecoach.”
“No insult intended,” Ferguson said. “I just wanted to be sure I'm not sending you to your deaths. Are you prepared to break out tonight?”
“The sooner the better,” said Mark. “How will we be armed?”
“Colts, seventeen-shot Winchesters, and a hundred and forty-four rounds for each of them,” Captain Ferguson said.
“No Bowies, then,” said Bill.
“No,” Captain Ferguson said. “Remember, you're breaking out. You can't appear too well armed, or Estrello will get wise to you. Obviously, you'll be taking military mounts, and there'll be nothing in the saddlebags but military issue and some jerked beef. You'll have to make contact with Estrello and gain his confidence.”
“Captain,” said Bill, “you're a gambling man. You've just given us a chance to ride out of here for parts unknown, not knowing if our word is worth a damn or if our intentions are any better. How do you know we won't just ride out and keep going?”
“Let's just say I've become a good judge of men,” Captain Ferguson said. “All my military commands have been in Texas, and I've never yet had a Texan betray my trust. Even if it cost him dearly. I've never asked or expected more than a handshake.”
Without a word, Bill Harder and Mark Rogers got to their feet, and each man extended his right hand across Captain Ferguson's desk. Ferguson shook their hands, a slight smile on his rugged face.
“One thing more,” said Captain Ferguson. “When you ride out, each of you will have a wanted dodger in your saddlebag. There'll be an artist-drawn likeness of you, with a price on your heads of ten thousand dollars each. The charge will be murder. If things go sour, it could well be the death of you, but there's no help for it. You'll need it to sell Estrello that you're on the dodge.”
“One more question,” said Mark. “How are we to convince any of Estrello's outfit that the offer of amnesty is for real if they run for it?”
“With these,” Ferguson said, presenting each of them with a paper-thin oilskin packet. “In this is a copy of my agreement with you men, along with amnesty to as many of the Estrello men as you can convince. Hide these beneath the insoles of your boots, and don't remove them until you absolutely must. If Estrello even suspects, you're both dead.”
“Bueno,
” said Mark. “We're ready when you are.”
“After midnight, during the sentry change,” Captain Ferguson said. “Your horses will be hidden in the darkness just south of the front gate, rifles in the saddleboots, with your Colts and ammunition in the saddlebags. We must make this look like an authentic break, so I'll have to sound the alarm. You'll have five minutes start. Head for Indian Territory. You'll get there well before daylight, and you won't be tracked after you've crossed the Red. Good luck, and
vaya con Dios.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mark and Bill in a single voice.
They were fed especially well in the guardhouse, then took advantage of the remaining few hours to sleep. Shortly after midnight the door to their cell clicked open. They saw nobody, even as they crept across the compound to the front gate. It stood open just far enough for them to slip through. The saddled horses were waiting, and the two fugitives only took the time to remove their gun rigs from the saddlebags and belt them on. Then came the sound of an ominous bugle call, awakening the camp to a possible escape.
“That's us,” said Bill. “Let's ride.”
They swung into their saddles and circled wide of the post, galloping their horses along a deadly trail that might well be their last.
Chapter 1
Indian Territory. July 8, 1866
.
There were eight whiskey-laden wagons. A dozen salty outriders rode shotgun. Wolf Estrello, leader of the smugglers and lead rider, reined up.
“Whoa up,” Estrello shouted. “Time to rest the mules.”
The mounted men and the teamsters got down to stretch their legs. Jake Miles, oldest of the teamsters, had been on the outs with Wolf Estrello for weeks. Estrello wasted no time in threatening Jake with what the old man most feared.
“Jake,” said Estrello, “I've waited long enough. When we reach camp, I'm takin' them two girls of yours to wife.”
“Both of 'em?
” an outrider asked.
“Both of them,” said Estrello. “You think I ain't man enough?”
The expected trouble came from the expected quarter. Jake Miles was squeezing the trigger of his Colt when Wolf Estrello—heller with a pistol—drew and shot him twice. Jake, dying, stumbled back against the mules, and the animals reared in panic.
“Somebody steady them damn mules,” Estrello bawled.
Carl Long and Lee Sullivan caught the bridles of the leaders, and all the men gathered around, looking at the bloody body of Jake Miles. While nobody spoke, the silence became all the more accusing.
“Damn it,” said Estrello, “every man of you seen him draw. I shot in self-defense.”
“It didn't come as no surprise,” said Todd Keithley, a tall young man wearing an old used-up black Stetson and two guns. “You been houndin' the old man about them two gals for nigh a month now.”
“My right, and none of your damn business, unless you'd like to take up the fight where old Jake left off,” snarled Estrello.
Keithley's right hand was near the butt of his Colt, while the weapon on his left hip was turned butt forward, for a cross-hand draw. He eyed Estrello without fear, and it was the outlaw chieftain who backed down.
“This ain't the time or place for a fight,” Estrello growled. “Let's move out. I'll take the lead wagon.”
“Nobody's goin' anywhere until we've buried Jake proper,” said Keithley.
Some of the men looked at Wolf Estrello with thinly veiled hate in their eyes, for there wasn't a man among them that Jake Miles hadn't befriended in some way. They were just a heartbeat away from open rebellion, and Wolf Estrello knew it.
“Then git a couple of shovels from the wagons and bury him,” Estrello said. “The mules can use the extra rest.”
Estrello had given in with poor grace, and they all knew it. He was leader of the band for two reasons. First, he would slit his own mother's throat if necessary, and second, he had been a major in the Union Army, stationed near St. Louis. He knew where and how to buy the illegal whiskey, and who to pay off. Nobody liked or trusted Estrello, and that had made him all the more bitter and hard to tolerate. He had been caught bottom-dealing, and none of the outfit would play poker if he sat in. The man stayed alive because of his chain-lightning speed with a Colt and his willingness to use it. Lee Sullivan had joined Todd Keithley in digging a grave for Jake Miles. The unpleasant chore finished, they dropped their shovels into one of the wagons. Wolf Estrello sat on the box of the lead wagon and without a word swatted the mules with the reins. The wagons lurched into motion, five days from their camp south of the Washita River.
BOOK: Ralph Compton Whiskey River
11.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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