Ralph Compton Whiskey River Read Online Free Page B

without a word swatted the mules with the reins. The wagons lurched into motion, five days from their camp south of the Washita River.

Indian Territory. Washita River. July 14, 1866.
    Amanda and Betsy Miles had been born within minutes of one another and were near a year past twenty-three. The blue of their eyes was dazzling, their hair corn silk yellow, and the only difference between them an obscure birthmark no man had ever seen. They had spent the better part of two days debating their precarious situation in the outlaw camp.
    â€œFive years since Ma died, and five years among outlaws,” said Amanda.
    â€œBut we’re alive,” Betsy replied, “and we owe old Jake for that. We knew consumption was taking Ma from us, and Jake saved us. He took us in and gave us his name. I think now we’ll have to trust him when he says he’ll free us from this hellhole.”
    â€œI do trust him,” said Amanda. “It’s the rest of the bunch I’m afraid of. Any one of them could shoot Jake in the back, and where would that leave us?”
    â€œOn the road to hell, I suppose,” Betsy replied. “Estrello will use both of us, without old Jake standing in his way.”
    â€œOh, please stop talking that way,” said Amanda. “You’re speaking of Jake as though he’s already dead, and we’re at Estrello’s mercy.”
    â€œPerhaps he is,” Betsy said. “Remember those terrible moods that Ma always had, just before somebody died? Well, I’ve been having them, too. The third one last night. If it’s not you or me, then it’s Jake. There’s nobody else.”
    â€œDear God,” said Amanda, “what are we going to do? If we wait to talk to Jake, the whole gang will be here.”
    â€œI think that’s why we have to take two horses and make a run for it tonight,” Betsy replied. “I’ve heard one of the men say we’re not more than fifteen miles north of the Red. After that, we’ll be in Texas.”

Indian Territory. North of the Red. July 14, 1866.
    â€œI think we’ve dawdled around too long at this end of the Territory,” Mark Rogers said, as they sipped their breakfast coffee.
    â€œI don’t,” said Bill Harder. “Like Captain Ferguson said, they kind of got to discover us. Give ’em the idea we’re here looking for them, and we’re dead meat. Maybe tonight we can ride a little more to the east. Long as they’ve been doing this, there’s bound to be some ruts from wagon wheels that’ll put us on their trail.”
    â€œBy the time Ferguson made his deal, I was ready to kiss his feet,” said Mark. “Now I’m not all that sure he’s done us any favors. This bunch, when we find ’em, is gonna be about as loyal as a pack of coyotes, and they’ll all have their eyes on us.”
    â€œWell, hell,” Bill said, “if we hire on as teamsters, all we got to do is drive a four- or six-horse hitch. You and me can do that with our eyes shut, can’t we?”
    â€œI reckon,” said Mark, “but something about all this bothers me. Reminds me of a time I drawed a full house and should have raked in about a thousand bucks. But the bastard on the other side of the table had a straight diamond flush.”
    Bill laughed. “I seem to recall it bein’ closer to fifty bucks. Ever’time you think back on it, there’s more money on the table. I think you’re gettin’ a case of the whim-whams. Hell, all we got to do is keep ourselves alive until we can bust up this gang of smugglers. How could that get any more complicated?”
    But that was before the intrepid Texans encountered the naked Amanda and Betsy Miles in their desperate bid for freedom.

Outlaw camp on the Washita. July 17, 1866.
    Wolf Estrello had left eight men in camp, and they had ignored the two women. By the time Amanda and Betsy Miles had