CHAPTER ELEVEN
As soon as he left his brother, Holt Corrigan rode to the most southern part of town, keeping mainly to the back streets, more out of habit than necessity. Few really knew what he looked like. He reined in outside a small cantina bursting with music. He’d been here several times before, but not lately. They knew he was Holt Corrigan and went by the name Sam Holton, but left him alone. Friendly, but not too friendly. He wrestled with his thoughts; Blue’s words wouldn’t leave him no matter how hard he tried to laugh them away.
Pulling his coat over his holstered guns, he pushed through the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The room was small and a fire in the fireplace brought warmth to the entire saloon. Holt noticed the fire was even, then saw flames dart up and disappear. That meant strangers were coming. That was logical, in a saloon. Darting shadows played with each other along the walls as gas lamps did their best to chase them away. In the far corner, an old Mexican was singing and playing the guitar. His voice was smooth and clear.
A bar dominated the room. Behind it was another Mexican named Emilio who owned the cantina. He wore a multicolored shirt, was broad-shouldered, and looked tough, but his smile was warm as he recognized Holt. The rest of the cantina was filled with tables and chairs. At the bar, four vaqueros glanced Holt’s way, nodded, and returned to their conversation. Holt moved to an empty table and sat down, making sure the doorway was in his direct sight.
He slid one of his revolvers from a shoulder holster onto his lap, along with the glove from his right hand. He wouldn’t drop it again. A young woman with long black hair came to the table. He wanted tequila.
With a toothy smile, she returned with a bottle and a glass. He thanked her, poured himself a drink from the bottle, and dipped the glass against his coat sleeve, letting some of the tequila spread onto the cloth. Only then did he savor the smoky taste of the liquor. Having a drink poured on someone was good luck. His mind was racing. Blue’s words stung even more. Was he kidding himself to think he was fighting the war? Blue had moved on and the ranch was prospering. Had he been fooling himself with his belief that he only robbed Yankee banks? Blue had jerked him hard with the news that the town bank was owned by former Confederates—one of them, a soldier he had been with at Sabine Pass.
He sipped the tequila slowly. Was Blue right? Could he give himself up and get a fair trial? What if he did and they whisked him away to some military tribunal? They’d hang him quickly, he knew.
Holt forced himself to look around the cantina. The music was lively now and smiling men at the table closest to the old man were clapping in rhythm. He started to pour himself another drink, but decided against it. What had the old samurai told him and his brothers? He chuckled to himself; Deed had listened well and learned much from Silka. More than he and Blue had.
Could he really become a rancher as Blue had said? Was his brother right about no Texas jury convicting him? He was aware that many robberies had been attributed to him, and many gunfights, when he had never been close. What if he gave himself up to the lawman in Wilkon? Blue and Deed would be close by to help him with his defense. He had never killed anyone robbing a Union bank, but had wounded Union soldiers who pursued him and had definitely robbed stages and banks that held Yankee money.
Who was he fooling? He was an outlaw, a wanted man. He missed his chance when the war was over. Why hadn’t he been smart enough to rejoin his brothers and the others when he could have done it. That answer he already knew; he couldn’t come to grips with the idea that the Confederacy had been beaten.
Beaten!
He had never been beaten before. Oh, he’d lost fist fights growing up, but not many, and not for long. If an older boy or boys had whipped him, he thought of nothing else until he could return the favor. He told himself, even then, that they were from a previous life and that he had been victorious over them in that earlier time. He recalled several campfires turning hollow before the news of Lee’s surrender to Grant. A fire turning hollow in its middle was a sure omen of death, death to the Confederacy.
He shook his head to clear it. The young girl who had waited on him was dancing beside the old man and every man in the cantina was clapping and yelling. Everyone was happy. His mind jumped to a happy time when he was walking with Allison Johnson, holding her hand.
Three men burst through the door and Holt’s hand dropped to the gun in his lap. The music continued, but the woman quit dancing. At a nod from the bartender, she hurried toward the bar. Holt knew the man in the bearskin coat. Rhey Selmon. A known gunman who worked for Agon Bordner. He guessed the other two were Bordner henchmen as well. They were looking for someone, that was obvious. The three gunmen sauntered toward the bar. The second gunman, a blond-haired man with strange eyes and a weak chin, shoved the waitress out of the way as they moved. She stumbled against the closest table and fell down. Selmon was talking quietly to the bartender.
Holt drew his second gun as he grabbed his first. “Help the little lady up. And apologize.”
The music stopped and the room was silent.
Turning toward Holt, the strange-eyed gunman said, “What did you say?”
“You heard me. You were rude to that woman. Help her up. Say you’re sorry.”
“Or what?”
Holt smiled. “Guess. It involves lead.”
The woman stood, brushed herself off, and said something in Spanish. The bartender said, “It is all right. She no hurt.” He started to add “Señor Corrigan,” but quickly changed it to “Holton.”
Selmon turned slowly toward Holt as did the other two gunmen. “There are three of us, mister. That doesn’t add up well for you.”
Holt held his right-hand gun on the strange-eyed gunman and his second on Selmon. “You don’t count real well, friend. Look around.”
Angry, Selmon and the others glanced around the room. Every Mexican in the cantina was holding a gun on them, even the old man with the guitar.
“There’ll be another time, Mr. Holton,” Selmon said.
“Any time you want to die.”
Selmon’s mouth was a snarl and he motioned for the others to follow him out. Holt watched them go, then kept his attention on the door in case they burst in again. The thought hit him that they could be looking for Blue. He decided to go after them. Grabbing the glove on his lap, he stood and tossed coins on the table. Before he could shove the chair out of the way, the bartender came over.
“Señor, they look for a James Hannah. I do not know him,” the bartender said. “Do you?”
Holt remembered Blue telling him about Hannah and the attempted stage robbery.
“No, can’t say that I do. Heard he’s good with a gun,” Holt said, returning his guns to his shoulder holsters. “But I know that fellow in the bearskin coat. Rhey Selmon. He’s one mean bastard. Works for that fat man, you know, Agon Bordner.”
“Sí. He is mucho bad hombre.”
“Yeah, he’s that. An’ more.”
Looking around to make sure no one was listening, the bartender said in a hoarse whisper, “My friend, Pedro . . . he tell me the fat one hires more guns.”
“Scary.”
“Sí.”
“Thanks, amigo, I’ll be back one of these days.” Holt took the tequila bottle in his left hand.
“Thank you for helping Regina. That was good. You are always welcome here, Señor Holton. Vaya con Dios.”
They shook hands and Holt left, carrying the bottle and his one glove. He didn’t see Selmon or his men anywhere. He slipped the bottle into his saddlebags and mounted. Riding back through town, he thought about stopping at the bank to see if Blue was right about Dave Copate being there. Just to say hi. Chuckling, he pulled up in front of the adobe building with the big BANK sign. A week ago, he was thinking about robbing it with some other ex-Confederates and returning to his apartment to hide. No one thought Samuel Holton was the notorious Holt Corrigan. He even gave some consideration to finding Blue and riding with him.
For the first time in years, Holt felt good, as if a huge weight had been lifted. Was this sensation related to a previous life? He believed that many such incidents had their birth in another time. He shook his head to eliminate the thought. What did it matter? He was here and this was now. He was a wanted man, but his face wasn’t well known. Somewhere he had read that the authorities in Missouri didn’t know what Jesse and Frank James looked like either.
He swung down, flipped the reins around the hitchrail, shoved the tequila bottle into his saddlebags, then removed both gloves and put them in as well. He pulled his coat to fully cover his guns. Maybe he should leave them with his horse. Finally, he decided to leave one gun in his saddlebags beside the bottle, but he hesitated about being unarmed. Sliding the second gun into his back waistband, Holt adjusted his hat, touched the cardinal feather for luck, and went into the bank.
The lobby was busy with lines in front of three tellers. A young man in a too-large business suit greeted him, asking how he could be helped. His manner was condescending and Holt figured it wasn’t personal, that he was so with all customers. Holt smiled and figured the arrogant young man would pee in his pants at the first sign of a holdup, or if he knew he was talking to Holt Corrigan.
“I’d like to see Mr. Copate, if he’s in.”
“I see. Do you have an appointment?”
Holt tried to keep smiling. “No. I’m just an old friend from the war. If he’s too busy, I’ll come back.”
“Your name, sir?” The young man licked his lips. “I’ll check with Mr. Copate. He is a very busy man, you know.”
“I’m sure he is. Tell him . . . Samuel Holton is here. We fought together at Sabine Pass.”
The young man’s eyes widened at hearing Sabine Pass and he spun and disappeared into an office just off the lobby.
Holt touched his hat brim as an older couple passed him on the way out. He was uneasy; he couldn’t recall being in a bank for any reason other than to rob it. He rubbed his chin. This was silly. Why would a successful businessman come out to see a man whose name he didn’t know?
He turned toward the door and a familiar voice called out, “Mr. Holton, how good to see you! It’s been too long.”
Spinning around, Holt saw a tall man in a tailored suit smiling. They shook hands and the banker’s voice dropped to a whisper, “I was sure it was you, Holt. Please don’t tell me you’re going to hold up my bank. I’ve heard all the stories.” Copate said, “Never believed them for a minute.”
Holt tried to smile. “You’re good to see me, Dave. Don’t have any reason to be here. Headed for my brothers’ ranch. Up near Wilkon.” He was amazed the words came out of his mouth. He glanced at a stocky businessman passing. “Going to start . . . over. Going to try anyway.” Now he was really surprising himself. “Yeah, the newspapers have me in every holdup in the Southwest. I must have some damn fast horses.”
Copate chuckled. “Glad to hear you’re headed for your ranch, Holt. Let me know if I can help,” he said, putting a hand on Holt’s shoulder. “You saved my life, you know.”
“You’d have done the same for me.”
Copate bit his lip. “I don’t know, man. You cut down six Yankees with your rifle and handguns and took out four more with the butt of your empty rifle.” He smiled. “Come into my office. We need to catch up. Got some good whiskey there.” He winked.
“Uh, sure. Never been in the office of a bank president before.”
Copate laughed.
A half hour later, Holt left the bank and rode north toward his apartment.
Across town, Agon Bordner was perplexed; he had expected James Hannah to accept the job to get rid of Deed Corrigan for three hundred dollars, another two hundred for eliminating the Japanese warrior, and two hundred more for the remaining Regan boy. A bonus of another two hundred would be paid when Bordner took actual control of their spread. That was an attractive offer. Anywhere.
The delay was especially puzzling since the gunman had made the trip all the way from Kansas just to talk with him about the job.
“Wonder if I should’ve offered more money?”
Only a few hours ago, Hannah told him that he would consider the offer and get back to him, then left the Lone Star. None of Bordner’s men had seen him around town since then. He wasn’t used to having a hired gun ask for more time to consider his offer. He decided that he would go as high as four hundred for Deed, three hundred for the Oriental—and leave the killing of the boy to Rhey Selmon.
Coatless with his vest unbuttoned, he stormed about his mansion’s second-story library, swearing and waving his massive arms. A cold cigar lay forgotten on the edge of the walnut desk. Next to it was an untouched cup of coffee and a plate of donuts. His coat and hat lay on the desk chair. He thought better with them off—and by himself.
“Maybe he’s afraid of Deed Corrigan,” Bordner said to himself. “Or maybe he’s made friends with his brother. Willard said that was Blue Corrigan with him . . . and a young woman.” He didn’t believe the statement, but it was always smart to state the worst possible scenario and work from there. It kept him from being surprised.
On a hunch, he had sent Rhey Selmon to check on the possibility of friendship between James Hannah and Blue Corrigan with the stage-line district agent; his top gunman had returned saying a friendship was likely, that it was Hannah and Blue who stopped the holdup—and it was Hannah and Deed Corrigan who earlier stopped a real Comanche attack on the coach. Unasked, the district agent had also told him proudly that the stage-line had paid them bonuses for their efforts. Rhey said he would look for Hannah around town.
With Rhey’s report whirling through his mind, the fat businessman walked over to the elongated window overlooking the street. He glanced back at the crumpled telegram on his desk from Willard Hixon, president of the Wilkon Bank and one of his New Mexico gang. The message informed him that two Texas Rangers were in town to investigate the Regan murders and the Bar 3 takeover. Hixon would handle the situation without any problem, Bordner was convinced of that. Neither the county sheriff nor the Wilkon marshal would be a factor. After all, the only witness was a six-year-old boy. But it reminded him that he needed to meet with the county sheriff and see if an understanding could be struck. His thoughts wandered to the idea of Macy Shields taking over as the town’s marshal. Sear Georgian would assist him, but not wear a badge. That would be too great a stretch. He chuckled at the thought.
“What could that boy say?” Bordner rubbed his double chin. “The worst, that it was white men. Not Comanches. So what? That could describe Comancheros.” He licked his rubbery lips. “There’s absolutely nothing tied to me. I’m just a businessman who happened to be in position to profit from someone else’s misfortune. Happens all the time.” He chuckled, remembered his cigar, and returned to it, relighting the black cheroot with a match from his vest pocket.
Clenching his fists, he stepped away from the desk, puffing vigorously on the cigar, and acknowledged that he was worried that he hadn’t heard from Hannah. A fleeting thought passed through his mind: what if Hannah had decided to go to work for the Corrigans?
“Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be. They don’t have that kind of money in the first place.” His heavy jowls jiggled as he paced. Sweat gathered on his shirt in places where it touched his skin. The only reason they were eating together was the coincidence of their traveling together. That’s all. His mind wandered to the other Corrigan brother, the outlaw. Was there some way he was involved and Hannah didn’t want to deal with him as well? The boys said Holt Corrigan was an outcast from the others and didn’t have anything to do with them or the ranch. Still—
A knock on the closed library door brought a hard response from Bordner.
“Whaddya want?”
“I’s be . . . sorry, suh,” a gray-haired black butler stammered, bowing slightly. “Mistah Hannah, he be hyar. He say ya tolt him to come. Yessuh, that’s what he say.”
Bordner’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, he looked like an attacking wolverine; then his face lightened. “Uh, sure. Sure, Adam. Send him in”—he looked over at the desk—“bring some fresh coffee. For both of us.” He waved his arms. “No. Bring whiskey. My best. And two glasses.”
“Yessuh.”
Buttoning his vest, Bordner refocused his mind.
After leaving his buckskin horse at the livery, Holt walked to his apartment, unsure of what he should do next. His statement about returning to his brothers’ ranch had come without any conscious decision. It sounded good at the time. But now it seemed like a silly idea. He was an outlaw.
His simple room seemed even smaller and lonelier than before. A bed and a scratched dresser with a washbasin and pitcher were the only items in the room, except for a tiny closest where he kept his extra clothes, ammunition, and several guns. In one pair of pants was a handkerchief that had belonged to their mother. And in another pocket was a piece of a Confederate flag. Usually he carried them. Probably the reason he saw Blue was the fact he hadn’t been carrying either.
Holding the bottle of tequila in both hands, he stood in the center of the room and shook his head. What a crummy way to live. He knew most outlaws spent their lives in similar or worse conditions. Always running. Always hiding. After taking a long drink from the bottle, he sat down on the edge of the bed and began his daily exercise of cleaning his two handguns and the rifle from his saddle sleeve. The ritual was precise, ending with him touching each gun with the cardinal feather from his hat. The tequila bottle sat on the floor near his boots. His conversation with David Copate bubbled in his mind; Copate was enthusiastic and positive. Why couldn’t he be that way? Holt returned the feather to his hat, reached down, retrieved the bottle, and drank.
Thoughts of all kinds spun through his head as he oiled the weapons. Images of the war . . . earlier times with his brothers and Silka. Sweet moments with Allison Johnson, once when they peeled an apple and threw the peelings over her head. The peelings were to land in the shape of the first letter of the name of their first child. It was sort of an S. The awful moment when he got her letter of good-bye and the madness afterward when he tried to get killed by rushing an entrenched Yankee patrol and ended up killing them all. The rush of reality afterward that he had lived before, perhaps many times. Then the completeness of defeat and the recollection of spiritual signs he had missed that the Confederacy was doomed. The one-man attacks he made on Union camps. How could anyone accept the fact that the South had lost? He drank some more and laid down on the bed with his clothes on. He rarely slept any other way, and he rarely slept well. To sleep well was to die.
Sleep came slowly and brought fierce nightmares of pumas, Roman gladiators and knights, fires and apple peelings . . . and Allison.