Ralph Compton Whiskey River (23 page)

“No,” Mark said. “It's safer where it is. We're likely to need it.”

 

Briars ripped and tore at Stackler, for he couldn't see them in the dark. Beneath the trees, the ground was mottled with splashes of light, where the moonlight had managed to get through the foliage of the many trees. Behind him, Stackler could hear the voices of the outlaws who were looking for him.

“Damn it,” Wilder shouted, “spread out. We'll never find him riding single file.”

Stackler began using the little light there was to the best advantage, looking for a place that he might hide. If they passed him in the dark, they might conclude he'd made it on to Fort Smith and abandon the search. But in his heart, he knew better. As vindictive a man as Wolf Estrello was, he wouldn't settle for anything less than death for one he felt had betrayed him. Suddenly, a horse nickered, sounding much closer. Stackler got to his feet and hurried on. His boots had begun to dry, and he could feel the stiffening leather starting to blister his feet. He must find a thicket so dense his pursuers wouldn't consider the possibility he was hiding there. When he found such a thicket, he plunged as far into it as he could, and lying belly-down in fallen leaves, faced back the way he had come.

Wilder was the first to cross a small clearing where the moonlight identified him. After Wilder's command, the outlaws who accompanied him had spread out in a skirmish line, each man fifty yards from the next. To Stackler's relief, Wilder rode on past the concealing thicket. Eventually, they would be forced to abandon the search if they thought Stackler had reached Fort Smith. But Ed Stackler's luck had run out. Somewhere, perhaps from the town itself, came the baying of a dog. As the baying seemed to grow louder, it was apparent the animal was nearing Stackler's thicket. Stackler heard leaves rattling as the dog approached. It didn't bark again until it was but a few feet away.

“Dog,” said Stackler desperately, “stop that. I'm your
amigo,
your friend.”

But the troublesome dog believed otherwise, for he continued barking. The significance of it wasn't lost on the outlaws searching for Stackler.

“That dog's got somethin' or somebody treed,” Wilder said. “Maybe the gent we got to find. We must have passed him in the dark. Let's ride back.”

With the barking dog to guide them, the outlaws soon found the dense thicket where Stackler had hoped he'd be safe. They surrounded the thicket.

“Stackler,” Wilder shouted, “we know you're in there. Are you comin' out, or do we have to get you our way?”

“Have a go at it your way,” said Stackler.

The dog had stopped barking, and Stackler could hear the outlaws mumbling.

“Let's just riddle that thicket with lead,” DeWitt said. “Estrello didn't say nothin' about him bein' alive when we drag his carcass back.”

“No shooting until I give the order,” said Wilder. “We got a use for him and the rest, at least until we get to the Washita.”

Stackler heard the tag end of the conversation. He decided it was for his benefit, to throw him off guard. He remained where he was, then suddenly heard the slight rattle of the dry leaves that littered the ground. At first he thought the dog had returned, but there was a lengthy pause between the rattling of leaves. One of them was trying to get to him, taking one cautious step at a time.

“Come on, damn you,” Stackler gritted under his breath.

In a small patch of moonlight Stackler caught a glimpse of his pursuer. Drawing one of his Colts, he fired. He then rolled as far as he could from his original position. There was no answering fire.

“Damn you, Jackman,” snarled Wilder. “Why didn't you fire at the muzzle flash when you had the chance?”

“Because I was hit in my gun arm,” Jackman shouted. “I'm comin' out.”

There was the rustle of leaves, but Stackler didn't fire again. He believed he'd need all his ammunition and that in fact, he might not have enough.

 

At the river all eight wagonloads of whiskey had been removed from the steamboats, and the captains were ready, when the last wagon rumbled off onto the solid ground, to back away. Farther downstream the river would be wide enough for them to turn the steamboats around. Their immediate goal was to get as far from the Estrello gang as possible.

“I hear a dog barkin' his head off,” said Odell. “Could be barkin' at Stackler.”

“More than likely, he's barking at Wilder and the others who are looking
for
Stackler,” Estrello said.

Just as suddenly the dog ceased barking, and after a prolonged silence, there was the distant sound of a shot.

“What the hell?” said Estrello.

“Maybe Stackler shot the dog,” Renato said.

 

Back at the thicket where Stackler was hiding, there was talk among the outlaws as one of them tied a bandanna around Jackman's wounded arm.

“Wilder,” said Tilden, “there's plenty of dead leaves and grass. Why don't we just set the brush afire?”

“Because Fort Smith's within hollerin' distance of here,” Wilder said. “You want the whole damn town down on us? A nice big fire would bring somebody on the run.”

“So will a lot of gunfire,” said Haddock. “Whatever law there is in Fort Smith will be almighty interested in what's goin' on.”

“So what'n hell are we gonna do about Stackler?” Tilden demanded. “You aim for us to surround this thicket until he gets hungry?”

“I'm damn tired of some varmint questioning everything I do,” said Wilder. “Take hold of this and go any way that suits you. Just be sure you tell Estrello that it was your idea and not mine.”

“I've already been shot,” said Jackman, “and we ain't so much as laid eyes on the varmint that done it. I'm for ridin' back and tellin' Wolf we're up against something we can't handle.”

“I've never shot an
hombre
in the back in my life, Jackman,” Wilder said, “but if you ride back to tell Estrello
anything
such as that, you're a dead man.”

Wilder had raised his voice in anger, and suddenly there were two shots from within the thicket. One of them struck Wilder's left arm just above the elbow, while the second tore a gash along his left side, under his arm. Lightning quick, Wilder drew his Colt and emptied it into the thicket. But Stackler had changed positions, and the lead wasn't even close.

“Well,” said Haddock, “if somebody in Fort Smith didn't hear that—”

“Haddock, just shut the hell up!” Wilder said.

Jackman laughed. “It didn't bother you when the bastard shot
me
, Wilder, but now
you
got a taste of his lead, how do you like it?”

Wilder said nothing. He had removed his shirt, and even in the moonlight the outlaws could see blood dripping from a terrible gash along his left side. The lead had gone on through the flesh of his left arm, and it also bled profusely.

“Wilder,” said Tilden, “you'd better ride back to camp and have that tended to. You're losing an almighty lot of blood.”

“I'll ride back when we take Stackler with us,” Wilder snarled. “If I want advice from you or anybody else, I'll ask for it.”

He wrapped his shirt about the bloody wound in his side, tying the sleeves in front to hold it in place. The wound in his upper left arm he ignored. He then reloaded his Colt and spoke to Stackler.

“There's enough of us to take you, Stackler. It's just a matter of time, and I don't care if you go back dead or alive, but by God, you're goin'. Now you can come out of there and make it easy on yourself, or you can force us to get mean. What's it gonna be?”

But Stackler was no longer in the thicket. While much attention had been devoted to the wounded Wilder, Stackler had quietly slipped out the other side of the thicket while it was momentarily unwatched.

“Damn what Fort Smith thinks,” said Wilder. “All of you get your Winchesters. We're goin' to fill that thicket with lead. Fan your shots out in a half circle, firing low and then high. We won't give the varmint anywhere to hide.”

The seven outlaws fired their Winchesters—seventeen shots per weapon—until they were empty. When the thundering roar died away, there wasn't a sound.

“We got him, by God,” said Wilder.

“You can't be sure of that without goin' in there,” Tilden said.

“Hell,” snarled Wilder, “you think I don't know that? But it's not just me. All of us are going in. He can't gun down all of us in the dark.”

“I wouldn't be too sure of that,” Shadley said. “He's fired three times just at the sound of our voices, and two of us have been hit.”

Wilder seemed not to have heard. “Fan out,” he said. “We're all goin' in there at a different place. If he's alive and fires, pour the lead to the left and right of the muzzle flash. He'll change positions.”

Fearing Wilder's wrath, the unwilling outlaws entered the thicket, growing bolder when they they weren't greeted with lead as they had half expected. They emerged on the other side of the thicket, having found nothing. Wilder was cursing bitterly.

“Well,” said Patton, “we lost him, but we've told all of Fort Smith we're here.”

“We ain't lost him,” Wilder snarled. “We can still catch him before he gets to town. Mount up and let's ride.”

Stackler hadn't expected to hit anything with his two shots. They had been intended to give pause to the outlaws, while Stackler tried to slip away. The ploy had worked better than Stackler expected, and he had escaped the thicket well before the outlaws had cut down with their Winchesters. Stackler stopped to catch his wind and to listen. He drew his Colt, for there was the rustling of leaves somewhere behind him. Finally, he laughed, for in the moonlight a tan-and-white hound stood there looking at him.

“Pardner,” said Stackler, “under different circumstances, I'd enjoy your company, but you've already give me away once. Wherever you belong, be on your way. Vamoose.”

But the dog didn't move until Stackler did, and the animal continued trotting along behind him.

“Damn it, dog,” Stackler said, “you'll be the death of me.”

The seven riders in pursuit found it tough going, for there were briars that had crept up trees, leaving thorny branches sweeping down from low-hanging limbs. Wilder, having used his shirt to bind the wound in his side, had his back and shoulders raked repeatedly. Finally, a thorn-ridden branch swept off his hat.

 

The massive amount of lead poured into the thicket had been heard by Estrello and the rest of his outfit, back near the river.

“Damn them,” Estrello roared. “How much lead does it take to cut down one man?”

The ominous significance of the shooting had not been lost on Stackler's friends, either.

“Dear God,” cried Betsy, “they must have him trapped somewhere.”

“Maybe not,” Todd said. “This bunch is likely shooting at their shadows. I'd say the first three shots we heard might have been fired by Ed. But it had to be Wilder and his bunch that cut loose with what we just heard.”

“Ed knew there would be nothing any of us could do to help him,” said Mark. “If anybody can make it, I believe Ed can. If we had all made a run for it, some of us wouldn't have made it. Anybody who was caught probably wouldn't have lived until help arrived.”

“That means they won't be bringing Ed back alive, then,” Amanda said.

“Best not to expect it,” said Bill. “Wilder's not a compassionate man.”

“I'm wishing we had all been able to run for it together, before they took our guns,” Vernon said. “They're goin' to make an example of Ed for the benefit of the rest of us.”

“I'm expecting Estrello to keep us alive until we get these wagons back to the Washita, at least,” said Bill. “When you think about it, there's not a professional teamster in all that Estrello outfit. They aim for us to handle those wagons just as we have right up to now. That'll keep us alive a few more days.”

“That won't help Ed,” said Nick. “Ed, Vernon, and me have been pards since before the war.”

“I don't know how or when it will happen,” Nick said, “but the bastards that kill Ed Stackler are goin' to die. As long as I'm alive they're livin' on borrowed time.”

“Some of us haven't known Ed as long as you gents have,” said Mark, “but we feel the same way about him.”

 

Stackler fought his way through brush, unable to see. Clouds had swept in from the west, hiding the moon and stars. The tan-and-white hound was at his heels, and Stackler made no further effort to rid himself of the dog. Shards of rocks thrust up out of the soil, and Stackler stumbled over them. He couldn't see the stone ledge with a drop-off of a dozen feet, and he went over the edge, headfirst. He slammed into the hard ground on his shoulders and the back of his head, and there he remained, unconscious, until Wilder and the other riders found him.

“Get up, Stackler,” said Wilder.

Stackler had already been disarmed, and there was nothing he could do except obey. He stood up, leaning against the stone drop-off to steady himself. One of the outlaws bound his hands behind him, and he was forced to walk to where the horses had been left. But the outlaws had no intention of allowing him to ride. Wilder shoved Stackler, who, because of his bound hands, couldn't regain his balance. Wilder had a lariat, and when Stackler fell, Wilder looped one end of the lariat around Stackler's ankles. The outlaws mounted their horses, Wilder's mount dragging Stackler across the rocky soil, through brush and all manner of brambles. Stackler vowed not to cry out or plead with them. He closed his eyes to protect them, gritting his teeth against the constant pain of being dragged. It seemed they would never reach the river and the Estrello camp, but finally they did. The moon had broken through the clouds in time for Estrello's outlaws to see their comrades coming, dragging the unfortunate Stackler.