Ralph Compton Whiskey River by RALPH COMPTON

them.”
    The Henry repeaters were brought, along with four tins of ammunition. Bill passed one of the weapons to Betsy, while Mark gave the second one to Amanda.
    â€œNow, ain’t that something?” said Dutch McCarty, grinning. “Couldn’t neither one of ’em hit the inside of a barn with the doors shut.”
    The roar of a Henry seemed unusually loud in the stillness. Dutch McCarty’s hat took a wild leap off his head, and Amanda stood ready to fire again if need be. But there was no need. Some of the outlaws laughed, while Estrello seemed not to believe his eyes. These damn women could and would shoot a man, if provoked. Mark nodded to Amanda, and she and Betsy retreated to what had been Jake’s wagon.
    â€œEstrello,” Bill said, “if you aim for us to haul wagon-loads of booze somewhere, then it’s time for us to know where and when.”
    â€œIt goes no farther than right here,” said Estrello. “You take the wagons off the boats at Fort Smith, and bring them here. Our . . . ah . . . clients come here for the product. The day after tomorrow, you’ll take the empty wagons to Fort Smith, where you’ll wait for their return by steamboat.”
    Snider Irvin laughed. “Folks is startin’ to call the old Arkansas ‘Whiskey River.’ ”
    Â 
    Mark and Bill spent the rest of the day near the wagon Jake had driven, cleaning their weapons and watching the outlaws. When suppertime was near, Amanda and Betsy prepared the meal.
    â€œEstrello hasn’t told us much of anything,” said Amanda while they ate. “He could be setting us up for an ambush at Fort Smith.”
    â€œHe could be,” Mark said, “and we’ll have to be ready. It’s a risk, but there’s no other way. Keithley and Stackler aren’t too fond of Estrello. Somehow, we must find a time and place to talk to them, without the rest of the gang knowing.”
    â€œWho were the teamsters from Fort Smith when Jake was killed?” Bill asked.
    â€œBesides Jake,” said Betsy, “there was Jules Hiram, Hugh Odell, Bert Hamby, Alfonso Suggs, Snider Irvin, Elgin Kendrick, and Burrel Hedgepith.”
    â€œEight wagons,” Bill said. “Always eight? Never more or less?”
    â€œAlways eight,” said Betsy, “and a dozen outriders. None of the outriders are allowed on the wagon boxes. It’s as though Estrello doesn’t trust them.”
    â€œEstrello aims to send the wagons back to Fort Smith the day after tomorrow,” Mark said. “What will he do with all this barreled rotgut loaded on these wagons?”
    â€œOh, you haven’t seen the worst of it,” said Amanda. “Tomorrow the Comanches and Kiowa come to trade for whiskey. They’ll trade stolen horses, pelts, gold, silver, and anything Estrello will accept.”
    â€œHow many Indians?” Bill asked.
    â€œFive hundred or more,” said Betsy. “Sometimes they’ll tap a few barrels of the stuff and get crazy drunk right here.”
    â€œThat’s a hell of a lot of Indians,” Mark said, “when there’s maybe forty-eight barrels of whiskey. Somebody will lose out”
    â€œNo,” said Amanda. “Estrello’s thought of that. He’s set his prices high enough that no single Indian can afford a large amount of the whiskey. They’re forced to combine whatever they have to trade and then share as much whiskey as Estrello will sell them. There’s a few of the Indians—Comanches, I think—who manage to trade for four or five barrels of whiskey. They load each barrel on a travois behind a horse and haul it back to their camp. Jake always said they would resell or trade the whiskey for ten times what it was worth.”
    â€œTarnation,” Bill said, “with thirty-six gallons of pure alcohol per barrel, these Indians could stay crazy drunk for God knows how long. If we’re leaving