Free Ralph Compton Whiskey River by RALPH COMPTON Page A

command?”
    â€œDrew Wilder’s next, after Estrello,” said Keithley. “After him comes the Spaniard. Alonzo Bideno.”
    â€œOne’s no better than the other, then,” Bill said.
    â€œNo,” said Keithley. “The two of you were allowed to keep your weapons after all that fancy shootin’ you done back yonder at the creek. If this bunch has a falling-out, anything can happen. If Estrello decides to rule with an iron hand, he’s a dead man. There’s thirty-five men in the outfit, and I can’t see more than ten of us throwing in with Estrello.”
    â€œI was hoping we might create a quarrel within the outfit and divide them,” Bill said.
    â€œThat’s been tried,” said Keithley. “Estrello killed two of his own men.”
    â€œI need a way to get outside, to find out how closely they’re watching us,” Bill said. “Will you help me, Betsy? If we’re caught, we’ll have to convince this bunch we got some fooling around on our minds. I won’t be able to do it without your help.”
    â€œI’ll do what I can,” said Betsy.
    â€œGood,” Bill said. “Those on watch are behind us, and I’ve loosened our wagon canvas on the left front side. If they’re watching close enough to catch you, don’t resist. Tell them you have to go to the bushes.”
    The rain had slackened, but the sky was still cloudy, and the dark dress Betsy wore was an advantage. But her foot slipped off a front wheel hub and she came down in the mud on her knees.
    â€œDon’t you take even one extra breath, woman,” said a cold voice. “You get back into that wagon, and do it now.”
    â€œBut I have business outside,” Betsy protested.
    â€œYou just think you do,” said the gunman. “Now get back in that wagon.”
    There was a roar, and a slug from a Colt struck an iron wagon tire just inches from Betsy’s hand. Without a word, she got to her feet and climbed back into the wagon.
    â€œDamn them,” said Bill.
    â€œIt’s cloudy and I couldn’t see much,” Betsy said, “but there’s at least three of them.”
    â€œFrom here on,’ said Mark, ”I think we’d better play some parts. There’s enough of these varmints to split the outfit and fight among themselves. If it rains long enough and hard enough, mud will bog down these wagons hub-deep. That may light the fuse to some short tempers. We still have those stampeded horses and mules to find, if we can.”
    Bill laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing. Listen to the sound of music on the wagon canvas. It’s raining again.”
    Thunder boomed three times in a row, shaking the earth. Horses and mules went wild.
    â€œDamn it,” Estrello shouted above the thunder, “you men get out there and hold them teams. I’m chargin’ every one of you for anything that happens to your teams or wagons.”
    Men slipped, slid, and cursed. Lightning struck somewhere close, and one of the mules stampeded, dragging a teamster belly-down behind him.
    â€œWell, that tells us something,” Keithley said. “Estrello didn’t call on anybody but his trusted men to calm the horses and mules.”
    â€œI think Estrello has some kind of deadline for picking up that rotgut in St. Louis,” said Mark, “and he can’t afford to lose any of the teams. Let one of us bust a wheel or an axle in the dark, and Estrello may be in big trouble.”
    â€œThat’s correct,” Keithley said, “but there’s bigger trouble than that. None of these men are satisfied with Estrello taking the lion’s share from whiskey sales. We’re building up to a split and a fight within this outfit, and with no more guns than he can muster, Estrello will be on the short end of it.”
    â€œI expect you’re right,” said Bill. “The only reason we’re