Ralph Compton Whiskey River Read Online Free Page A

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.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œWhoa 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.
    â€œJake,” said Estrello, “I’ve waited long enough. When we reach camp, I’m takin’ them two girls of yours to wife.”
    â€œBoth of ’em? ” an outrider asked.
    â€œBoth 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.
    â€œSomebody 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.
    â€œDamn it,” said Estrello, “every man of you seen him draw. I shot in self-defense.”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œThis ain’t the time or place for a fight,” Estrello growled. “Let’s move out. I’ll take the lead wagon.”
    â€œNobody’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.
    â€œThen 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