CHAPTER NINE
James Hannah and Blue Corrigan walked into the crowded Lone Star restaurant and looked for an empty table. Blue noticed that several men saw them and whispered something. He guessed they recognized the infamous gunman. It made him smile.
The smoky room was filled with tables of ranchers, copper-mine workers, and a few hungry cowboys. The walls themselves flickered with the presence of oil lamps attempting to drive away the grayness. Blue’s gaze didn’t latch on to any person he recognized, but he didn’t expect to see anyone. Hannah said he planned to meet Agon Bordner here. Someone like the fat businessman would be easy to spot anywhere, Blue thought. There was a back room. Maybe Agon Bordner was already there.
They found an empty table in the middle of the restaurant. After laying his valise on the floor next to his chair, Hannah drew his handgun as they sat and laid the weapon in his lap. An old habit. Blue laid his rifle on the floor under his feet. The table wobbled on an uneven leg. Frowning, Hannah took one of the forks on the table and pushed it under the short leg.
“There. That’s better,” he said and tried the table’s steadiness with both hands and was satisfied.
“Nice work. You remind me of Deed.”
“I take that as a high compliment.”
“It was so intended.”
A round-faced waiter with a patchy beard took their order and quickly retreated to the kitchen. A few minutes later, a well-made-up woman of uncertain age brought a tray holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Her fringed crimson dress swayed rhythmically as she approached their table, enjoying the attention she created.
She glanced at Blue and turned to Hannah. “Your steaks will be coming real soon. If there is anything else I can do for you, gentlemen. Anything at all. I’m Cheyenne.”
“Thank you, Cheyenne. Maybe later.” Hannah winked.
She smiled and the corners of her mouth crinkled. After pouring whiskey into both glasses, she flitted her eyelashes and looked again at Blue. “I’ve never taken care of a one-armed man before.” She curtsied and left, swishing her red dress as she left.
Hannah chuckled and reached for the drinks, handing one to Blue. “Must be nice to be liked.”
“She wanted some spiritual guidance.”
“Well, I’m sure she’d be happy to be on her knees. In front of you.”
“Bless her.” Blue smiled.
They toasted each other and downed the fiery liquid. Hannah poured both another drink. “Not to be nosey, Blue, but when are you headed back?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. Plan on a good night’s sleep at the hotel, then get a horse at the livery tomorrow morning and head out to Magnuson’s ranch. We’re buying one of his stallions for breeding. Then I’ll start back. Take both horses with me. Might buy a third for a packhorse.”
“Not taking the stage?”
“Had enough of those for a while.”
Hannah sipped his drink. “Yeah. Me too.”
Blue nursed his as well. He didn’t drink much. Never had. Not because of any religious dedication; Silka had warned them years ago of whiskey’s power to rob a man of the ability to react smartly. All three brothers had taken his advice to heart, even Holt. At least, he wasn’t drinking the last time Blue saw him.
Their conversation slid easily over a range of topics: Comanches and their ways; the holdup and whether the posse would be successful in finding any of the bandits; guns; El Paso; cattle; books; railroads; and women. Blue shared that his brother Holt was superstitious, but didn’t say anything about his belief in reincarnation. That led to a discussion about religion. Finally they talked of horses and Blue repeated about the Magnuson horses and how good they were, and that the Corrigan brothers planned to do some breeding with some strong mustangs they owned. Blue told him about his wife, Bina, and their daughter, Mary Jo. He mentioned a young boy was staying with them because of a recent tragedy to the boy’s family and indicated it was a Comanche raid.
Before Hannah could ask more, the waiter brought their steaks, sizzling and steaming on white plates, along with large helpings of chili beans, sliced beets, and warm tortillas. The one-armed cattleman asked for coffee and the waiter hurried to bring it; his responses had increased considerably since someone told him that he was serving the infamous gunman, James Hannah.
Hannah watched Blue bow his head and move his lips.
“You do that at every meal, Blue?” Hannah asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Forgive me.”
Hannah shook his head. “I think that’s what religion’s all about isn’t it? Forgiveness.”
“Good point.”
Hannah asked if he needed help with cutting the steak. Blue declined, saying that he had learned to cut meat with one hand. Without more talking, both men began to eat with gusto. After they were finished, Blue enjoyed a second cup of coffee and Hannah savored another whiskey.
“Do you like to read, Blue?”
“Yes, I do. Our sweet mother got me hooked,” Blue said. “Other than the Bible, I favor Tennyson. Anything Tennyson.”
“‘My strength is as the strength of ten.’”
“‘Because my heart is pure.’”
Hannah grinned. “And you thought I was going to say ‘All in the valley of death rode the six hundred.’”
It was Blue’s turn to smile. “Read anything besides Tennyson?”
“Well, not the Bible. But I’ve got a book in my gear that’s about a clergyman who’s accused of stealing, The Last Chronicle of Barset,” Hannah said. “It’s the second part of The Small House of Allington.”
“A preacher accused of stealing, huh? The Last Chronicle of Barset. I’ll have to check that out.”
“You’d like it.”
Hannah rolled his head to relieve some stiffness and asked about Silka. Blue told him that Silka had come riding up a few months after the loss of their family. All three boys were exhausted and depressed; cash money was nonexistent. The Oriental became sort of a second father to the boys, guiding their development of the ranch itself.
Blue smiled. “The first time we met him, he said, ‘I am Nakashima Silka. I am Samurai.’ Put his right fist against his heart and added, ‘Warrior. In Japan. I lived Bushido . . . way of the warrior. None dare to challenge me. Silka always win. Kill all enemy.’” Blue took a sip of the hot coffee, lost in yesterday.
Looking away for a moment, he continued the story. Silka had brought his wife and two children to California to protect them from the revolution that was tearing at his homeland, but they had died.
“Silka kept telling us ‘Soon, samurai will be no more.’ The old man is a fascinating fellow. Told us stories that were wild and hard to believe, but I’m sure to this day they were all true.” He cocked his head to the side and grinned.
“Seems like he spoke pretty good American. How’d that happen?” Hannah twirled his forefinger in his drink.
Blue explained Silka had learned English while traveling across the country, worked hard at it, and was proud of the way he now talked. His accent was only visible on certain words, usually ones with an r. Or an occasional Japanese phrase when he was excited.
“He didn’t want to work on the railroad like so many from his land. So he rode to Texas . . . found us. Glad he did. Don’t think we would’ve made it without him.” Blue took another sip of coffee and studied the room again as he did.
He said Deed, in particular, followed the old man’s instructions eagerly. Most of the training was in the evenings after chores were finished for the day. Each night turned into a lesson on fighting strategy, or defending oneself with “empty hands”—without weapons—and handling a sword and a knife.
“I can see his training in both of you,” Hannah said and told about Deed’s take-charge actions during the Comanche attack.
“Sounds like Deed. Over and over, Silka would say, you must train your muscles to do what you want. Without thinking about it. You cannot expect any move to be right, if you do not practice it.”
“Makes good sense. Wish I’d had somebody to teach me like that.”
Blue nodded. “He’s one special man, that’s for sure. Always positive. Always stressed the importance of quick moves. ‘When you are attacked, time is vital. Practice each move a hundred times. A thousand times. Until you are comfortable with a move. Every move. Speed comes with such practice. The trick is to unbalance the opponent. You must be calm. Confident,’ he would say and, if we did it right, ‘Ah so . . . good.’”
Blue continued, “Right after the war, Deed, Silka, and I kept Northern carpetbaggers from taking over our ranch. The Union-controlled government left us alone as well. We had no back taxes or bank debt, thanks to Silka’s careful management during the war.”
Both men smiled. Hannah finished his drink and poured himself another; Blue declined any more whiskey, but waved at the waiter for more coffee. The waiter hurried over to fill Blue’s cup and paused to ask Hannah if he needed anything. The gunman waved him away.
“What did you do in the war?” Hannah asked without looking up.
“Sharpshooter. Part of Ewell’s outfit. Holt was with Dowling at Sabine Pass. Lucky we both made it.”
“Heard about Sabine Pass. Holt’s a hero in a lot of Texans’ eyes.” Straightening his tie, Hannah volunteered, “I was a sharpshooter, too. Only, for the boys in blue. With Sherman when he cut Georgia apart.”
“Terrible time, that war.”
“Yeah. Terrible.”
After another drink, Hannah said he grew up in Indiana; his father was a minister, but his mother was the churchy one. He was the middle of three sons; the oldest died in the Civil War. The youngest was a farmer in Ohio. Early on, Hannah had taught school. He came home early one day and found his wife in bed with their neighbor, killed both, and rode away. The only thing he was good at was killing people and he found out there was money in it. He didn’t say more and Blue nodded his head.
Sipping his coffee, Blue asked if he expected Agon Bordner to come to the restaurant. Smiling, Hannah said he was certain the man was in the back room already. Blue started to ask if he was going to take the job when a distraught Rebecca Tuttle burst into the restaurant and stood in the doorway, looking around the room.
“Something must be wrong with Rebecca . . . ah, Miss Tuttle,” Hannah said and stood.
Blue turned in his seat to watch her advance and got out of his chair to greet her. He was annoyed that her sudden presence had kept him from asking about Hannah taking a job with Bordner.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” Hannah said warmly. “Would you care to join us?”
“Yes, we’d be honored,” Blue added.
“Oh, James, I don’t know what to do,” she desperately wanted to hug the gunman but didn’t. “Elmer Risner isn’t in town . . . and no one seems to have even heard of him.”
Hannah stepped close to her. “There, there. Sit down. Tell us about it.”
The distraught young woman almost fell into the offered chair. Hannah waved at the waiter.
“Have you eaten, Miss Tuttle?”
She tried to say no, but couldn’t and began to cry. Hannah poured whiskey into Blue’s empty glass and handed it to her.
“Sip on this. It’ll make you feel better.”
After tasting the offered drink, wincing, and eventually swallowing the hot liquid, Rebecca explained her situation. She had used all her money to pay for the trip to El Paso and didn’t know what she was going to do. Both Hannah and Blue listened silently. Finally, she stopped talking and a lone tear dribbled down her right cheek.
Hannah leaned forward, laying his arms on the table. “Life deals bad hands. To all of us.” He paused and motioned toward Blue. “Blue, here, lost both his parents when he was a kid. His arm in the war.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I lost my wife, the only woman I ever loved.”
He straightened and a cold appearance returned to his face. “So, you can wait to see if this Elmer Risner fellow shows up—or make new plans.”
Rebecca put her hand over her mouth to curb her rising emotions. Hannah reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a small sack of gold coins and laid it on the table in front of her.
“Here,” he said. “This’ll take care of you for a while. Till you figure out what’s next.”
Her eyes took in the sack in disbelief, then she gushed, “Oh! Oh! Thank you. Thank you. How can I repay you?” She looked at Blue, then back at the amused gunman. “You can have me any time you want, I promise.”
“That’s not necessary, my dear. We all need a little help from time to time.” Hannah glanced at Blue and grinned.
Her hands rose to cup her breasts to demonstrate her sincerity when Willard Epson made a surprise appearance and with a dramatic presentation gave both men an envelope, then another one for Blue to give to Deed. Blue thanked him; Hannah began checking the contents of his envelope. Epson said he needed to get back to the station and left.
“How about that, Blue. I thought we’d have to go over there and scare him to get this,” Hannah said and chuckled. “Mine’s right. How about yours . . . and Deed’s?”
“Haven’t looked.”
As Blue reviewed the gold certificates in the envelope, a stocky man in a bowler hat and an ill-fitting suit strolled over to the table. His sneer looked permanent and thick eyebrows mingled in the middle of his forehead.
“You James Hannah?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?” Hannah said, looking at Rebecca.
“I do.”
The response came with a slight jerk at the corner of his sneer. The man wore a Mexican-tooled cartridge belt holding a holstered Colt. Blue noticed a slight bulge under his coat, indicating a second gun in a shoulder holster.
“Funny name. I do,” Hannah growled without looking at the man.
Blue smiled. “Wonder if he has a brother named I don’t.”
Hannah laughed and pushed his eyeglasses into place with his left hand. His right dropped to his lap and curled around his gun. Unaware of the growing tension, the waiter stepped around the standing gunman and placed a filled plate in front of Rebecca. Blue was fascinated to see her begin eating as if she hadn’t had food in days. How quickly a few coins changes one’s perspective on life, he thought.
The stocky man’s eyes darted from Hannah to Blue to Rebecca and back again to Hannah. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Mr. Bordner wants to see you. In the back room.”
“He knows where I am . . . Mr. I-do.”
The man moved both hands to his gunbelt and locked his thumbs into place. It was a slow, deliberate move, so he wouldn’t be mistaken, but still an attempt to threaten. Blue’s hand eased off the table toward his own holstered Walch revolver and flipped off the thong holding its hammers. This wasn’t his fight, but he had no intention of staying out of it. Hannah downed the rest of his whiskey, holding the glass in his left hand. He put it down on the table and winked at Blue.
Cocking his head toward the waiting Bordner henchman, he growled, “You still here? You’re starting to bother me. Go away.”
“I’m supposed to bring you to his room. In back. Now. Those are my orders,” the henchman said. “Oh, Mr. Bordner said this meal was on him. All of it.”
“Nice to have a generous boss,” Hannah growled.
Blue thought there was a softening in the man’s voice as if wishing someone else had been given this task.
Blue spoke first, “James, I need to check out the livery. I’ll see that Miss Tuttle gets to the hotel. You go ahead and visit with Bordner. From what I hear, he’s a fine Christian gentleman. No reason to get this poor fella into trouble.”
“Will I see you later?” Hannah asked, ignoring the waiting henchman, whose face showed signs of relief.
“Probably not. I’ll be headed out early.”
Hannah turned toward the flushed henchman. “Tell your boss I’ll be over in a few minutes. Wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”
The man’s face blinked with relief and he spun and left. After saying good-bye, Hannah stood, reholstered his gun, and walked to the back room and slowly opened the door.
Around the table sat five men. It was easy to tell which one was Agon Bordner. He looked like a huge bullfrog in expensive clothes. As far as Hannah could tell, the fat man wasn’t armed. Bordner was finishing a second meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes with a large glass of dark red wine. Already seated at the table with him was the henchman from a few minutes ago and two other hard-looking men, all armed. Another skinny man with greasy hair and a worn suit looked out of place. Their plates were empty and their glasses held whiskey, not wine.
Only a handful of minutes before, Bordner had just learned that three of his men were dead after the ill-fated stage holdup. Only Curly Matthews got away. From the excited outlaw’s description, it was that one-armed cowboy—and James Hannah—doing the shooting. Bordner had told Curly to stay out of sight, ride for the Bar 3, and stay there until he was called.
“Mr. Bordner, how are you?” Hannah said, easing into the room.
“Fine, sir. Absolutely fine.” Bordner raised his hand in a warm gesture. “I understand you’ve been a little busy, getting rid of vermin on the road.”
“News travels fast in El Paso. Yeah, we did have a little activity coming in. Four amateurs. One got away.”
“Too bad. We need law and order around here. It wasn’t Holt Corrigan and his bunch, I take it.”
“No. it wasn’t.”
As if on cue, three of the four men rose and left, headed for the bar. The remaining gunman wore a bearskin coat like Hannah had never seen before. At his waist were two crossed gunbelts holding twin revolvers. One gun lay in his lap. Nothing in his eyes indicated he liked Hannah. Rhey Selmon was known for three things: being fast with a gun, being loyal to Bordner, and owning big horses. Currently he was riding a bay over sixteen hands high and weighing well over eleven hundred pounds. The animal was far and away the fastest horse in the region. Selmon had been in two cattle wars, served a prison term, and killed three men in standup fights before he met up with Bordner.
“James Hannah, meet Rhey Selmon. You two will have a lot in common.”