Ralph Compton Whiskey River by RALPH COMPTON Page B

vanished into the shadows. The lantern was at the very rear of the wagon box. First Mark helped Amanda into the wagon, and following her, drew the rear pucker, and tied it as securely as he could. He then tightened and tied the front pucker. Then he lit the lantern, keeping it on the floor of the wagon box, well beneath the overhead canvas. Kneeling near the lantern, the paper against the rough boards of the wagon box, he began to write. It took but a few minutes for the lantern to draw attention.
    â€œAll right, damn it,” Wilder said, “Who’s usin’ that lantern, and why? That you, Keithley?”
    â€œIt’s me—Amanda,” came the reply. “I’m sick and Keithley has a medicine chest. I’m looking for some laudanum.”
    â€œThen find it, and put out that lantern,” Wilder growled.
    â€œBless you, Amanda,” said Mark softly.
    Mark wrote rapidly, of necessity keeping the handwriting small, so that he might get as much into the message as possible. When he was finished, he quickly blew out the lantern.
    â€œI want you to go on back to the wagon,” Mark whispered. “I still have to get this on its way, if I can.”
    â€œBut how—?”
    â€œLater,” said Mark. “Now get going.”
    Mark waited in the shadow of Keithley’s wagon until he believed Amanda had returned to their own wagon. He then walked down near the river, where the horses and mules were grazing. Suddenly, there was the snick of a Colt being cocked, followed by the rough voice of Snider Irvin.
    â€œStand where you are and identify yourself. What’n hell are you doin’ among the stock in the middle of the night?”
    â€œMark Rogers,” said Mark, “and I have as much business here as you. I’m part of the second watch.”
    â€œThen mind what you do after dark,” Irvin growled. “Cat-footin’ up on a man when he can’t see you is a damn good way of gettin’ your hide ventilated.”
    â€œThanks,” said Mark. “I’ll try to remember that.”
    Mark walked on toward the river, seeking the roan horse he had ridden to the outlaw camp from Fort Worth. The difficult portion of his task still lay ahead. When at last he could see the roan, he quickly found his saddle. From the boot he removed the Winchester. In one of the saddlebags he placed the written plea for help. Very slowly, he led the horse so that it might appear the animal was grazing, should anybody notice. Holding his breath, expecting a challenge at any time, he went on. He led the saddled horse for more than a mile westward. There he tied the reins securely to the saddle horn and slapped the roan on the flank. The horse trotted a few yards and looked back, clearly undecided as to what was expected. Again Mark swatted the roan on the flank, and this time the animal neither paused nor turned back.
    â€œOld son,” said Mark softly, “I hope you still think of Captain Ferguson’s post as home. If you show up in the morning here in Estrello’s camp, I’ve ridden my last trail.”

Chapter 5
    Keithley and Bill stood in the shadow of one of the wagons. Quickly, Mark explained the desperate move he had just made.
    When he had finished, Bill spoke. “It ain’t often I disagree with you, amigo, but I’m goin’ to this time. I just wish you’d taken the time to talk about this. We’re at least three hundred miles from Fort Worth. A drifting, riderless horse could take a month getting there.”
    â€œOne other thing you should have considered,” Keithley said. “Give a horse two weeks on a particular range, and he considers it home. The critter might return to our old camp on the Washita.”
    â€œI reckon I’ll have to agree with both of you, as much as I hate to,” said Mark. “Come daylight, if that saddled roan is grazing along the river. I’ll have to come up with answers to