Ralph Compton Whiskey River Read online

  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.

  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 dang
erous 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 l
ong 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.”