CHAPTER ONE
The Texas midmorning sky looked like God hadn’t decided what to make of the day as Tade Balkins drove the stagecoach toward the Wilkon relay station. No driver got more out of his horses, taking great pride in always being on time. He was well respected on the Southern Overland Mail line that ran from Hays City to El Paso, then on to Santa Fe, Tucson, San Diego, and finally Los Angeles. Even with railroad construction heating up again after the war, it was still an important route.
As far as the eye could see was empty desert plain, marked with rock, catclaw, dry brush, mesquite, and a creek bed with only the memory of water. To the north were dark crests promising better land and water. Tade was holding the six-horse team to a steady trot, talking to them as usual. He would bring them into a controlled run when the stage got closer to the station. A full gallop was really for appearance. It looked impressive to pull the charging horses to a hard stop in front of a destination. Sitting beside him, Hank Johnson rode shotgun and was having difficulty staying awake. Last night had been a drunken one.
“Doin’ good, boys. Doin’ good. Ah, that’s just a tumbleweed. Nothin’ to worry about,” Tade assured the horses, then glanced over at the dozing guard and nudged him awake. “Better stay alert, Hank. Bad country along here.”
“Yeah, I know. Jes’ got a nasty headache.”
“Atlee Forsyth, she’ll have some good hot coffee. That’ll help.”
“Wish she had some whiskey.”
Tade frowned and returned to talking to his horses.
Inside the coach, seven passengers were dulled by the never-ending bouncing and the ever-swirling dust.
“Is your ranch near here, Mr. Corrigan?”
The question to Deed Corrigan came from Rebecca Tuttle, the younger of the two women sitting across from him. Clearly she wanted to talk and had been doing so almost nonstop since the stage rolled out in the morning.
Dressed like a woman ready to stroll down the main street of El Paso, her green dress shimmered with its overskirts caught up and accented with black ribbons. Her flat-crowned straw hat held one large bow in the center of her forehead, matching the smaller ones on her dress. A jacket bodice, with a neckline close to her neck and black cuffs, completed the outfit. Brown ringlets framed her round face; light rouge highlighted her ample cheeks. To those in the coach, she looked like a woman of high social standing. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Her last cent had been spent on this stagecoach ticket.
Without waiting for Deed to answer, Rebecca explained that she was on the way to El Paso to meet her intended, a farmer she had met two years before in Ohio. Indeed, it was her only hope. That wasn’t expressed—just a sweet smile when she stated her intention.
Politely, Deed Corrigan touched the brim of his ill-shaped hat and explained that his ranch was about three hours’ ride from the station and he was returning home from a cattle drive to Kansas. It was more than he had said on the trip so far. His face, accented by a thick mustache, was deeply tanned from countless days on horseback. Long brown hair brushed against his shoulders. The bullet belt around Deed’s waist held a heavy Remington .44 revolver with its long barrel extending past the holster’s open end. Tan leather cuffs covered the frayed ends of his faded red shirt. A once-blue neckerchief hung loosely around his neck. Spurs were Mexican in styling and his worn Levi’s were shoved into knee-high boots.
Around Deed’s neck hung a small, Oriental-looking brass circle on a rawhide thong. Engraved on the circle was the Japanese word, Bushido. No one asked what it meant. Hanging unseen down the back of his shirt was a sheathed throwing knife, attached to the thong.
Next to him sat a fat drummer, Persam Torce, representing several companies making fine linens and other cloth goods. He had declared often of their quality, whether anyone asked or not. Stuffed into a store-bought suit that didn’t fit, he said he, too, was headed to El Paso and wondered if it was much farther, or if a railroad went there.
“It’s a ways, mister. No railroad yet either,” Deed said, grinning. “Better get used to this.”
Frowning, Persam Torce looked at Deed. “Is it really necessary to be armed as you are, sir?”
“Only if you want to stay alive . . . sir.” Deed’s answer carried an edge.
Torce pulled on his collar. “Surely, there are law officers with the responsibility to protect us.”
On the far side of the same bench, sitting next to the drummer, a well-dressed passenger with long sideburns, thick spectacles, and black bowler leaned forward, laughed, and said, “Tell that to the next bunch of highwaymen, or war party, we see.”
Returning to his reading, the gentleman’s Victorian black suitcoat flared open to reveal the butt of a silver-plated revolver in a shoulder holster. He also carried a sleeve gun, probably a derringer, Deed figured by the way he favored his right wrist. On the man’s lap was an opened book of Tennyson he had been enjoying since the coach left Hays. This was the first time he had said anything to anyone, except to introduce himself earlier to Deed as James Hannah. A name known to many in the region; the name of a man of the gun—a gun for hire. The singular introduction was an indication Hannah was aware of Deed Corrigan’s reputation as a fighting man as well.
In the middle bench sat another drummer who sold Swedish furniture and held tightly to one of the straps hanging from the coach roof for use by middle-bench passengers to balance themselves. Wearing a dust-covered top hat, he acted as if he hadn’t heard the conversation or cared about it. He hadn’t said where he was headed.
The far bench seat held Rebecca Tuttle and a German couple. Neither Hermann Beinrigt, a skinny farmer in worn overalls, nor his wife, Olivia, had talked to anyone so far, only whispered to each other in German. Tade Balkins told Deed earlier the couple hoped to lease land for farming near El Paso, where relatives lived. Their farm in Kansas had been lost to drought and grasshoppers.
As the coach rattled and banged across the uneven prairie, Rebecca glanced at James Hannah, eager for a new target for her thoughts, and asked, “Are you going on to El Paso?” Her smile was warm, very warm.
Hannah looked up from his book.
But the question went unanswered as Torce glanced out the window and yelled, “Oh my God, it’s Indians!”
Rebecca turned to the window and screamed.
Eighteen painted Comanches on horseback had appeared over a shallow ridge and were swarming toward the coach, like bees near a disturbed nest. All carried painted war shields. Half were waving rifles or revolvers and the rest, bows and arrows or short lances. Without a word, Deed and Hannah yanked free their revolvers and turned to their respective windows.
“Giddyap, boys! Earn your pay. Come on!” Tade yelled and snapped his nine-foot bullwhip over the horses’ heads to get their full attention. They were running full out in five strides and surprised the war party with their sudden swiftness.