CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nightfall found Atlee Forsyth alone in her bedroom. Everything was readied for the stage tomorrow morning. Having Olivia was proving a special advantage. Every bone in the young woman’s body ached from the hard days of work, labor that never seemed to end, only to begin again the next morning.
She whimpered and then chastised herself for feeling sorry for herself, but this was actually the hardest part of the day. Being alone at night. Alone with her memories. She and Caleb had planned to eventually start a hotel of their own, probably in Wilkon. Now that was gone, along with his warmth and love.
Beside her bed was a narrow walnut table Caleb had made. An opened Bible lay across its top. Next to the good book was a flickering gas lamp and a pad of paper and pencil. Every day since his death she had made a list of the things that needed to be done the next day. Tomorrow. That was what had kept her going. Tomorrow. She could hear her children sleeping in the other room. Just barely, but she could hear them. Benjamin was struggling with the loss of his father; Elizabeth, however, seemed content, especially when Deed was around her. After the Rangers left, she asked Deed what he had said to Elizabeth to stop her crying and he said he told the little girl that her mother needed her to be strong and not cry. Atlee smiled. Elizabeth would miss Deed greatly when he returned to his ranch. At her questioning, he had also told her about the Bar 3 massacre, the curious ownership that followed, the purchase of two other small ranches, and the killing of the two families involved. She hadn’t asked any follow-up questions and he hadn’t elaborated.
Raindrops popped along the roof, the vanguard of the expected rain. Good, she thought, that will help knock down the dust. Atlee stared into the darkness toward her dresser and imagined a film of dust on its top, just as there was dust seemingly everywhere no matter how hard, and often, she and Olivia cleaned.
She needed to go into Wilkon for supplies and to hire a man to replace Deed. What would she have done without him? Her mind raced, thinking about his steadfastness, his courage—and his caring. His warm smile came to her mind and she shook her head to rid its appearance. She had heard the stories of his fighting skill. In the West, such tales traveled fast. There were stories about the third Corrigan brother, Holt, but they were darker and it didn’t seem, to her, like the man could be related to Deed at all. Seeing him, hearing him, being around him had made her feel secure. She didn’t want to admit that, even to herself.
“Forgive me, Caleb. I am so lonely. So lonely,” she muttered and a single tear dribbled down her cheek.
Billy had told her about Deed—and James Hannah—fighting and destroying the will of the war party attacking the stage, as well as killing several warriors while she was also fighting and watching her husband die. That awful day was a dull ache to her. Billy said both were quick with a gun—dangerous men. He smiled when he said it.
Atlee and Caleb had come here from eastern Texas after two years of drought had forced them from their farm. Just as drought had brought the Beinrigts to the stage station. She had been mulling over the idea of asking them to stay; Hermann might be a good fit to work with Billy. Then she wouldn’t need to hire someone she didn’t know. Olivia had become an excellent help in the kitchen and with serving the passengers. It wouldn’t be long before Hermann would be up and around. She decided to talk with them about it tomorrow. They could build a room onto the cottage or section off the station for them to live in.
Tomorrow.
There was no choice but to make the station the best on the route, to make it impossible to replace her. Elizabeth and Benjamin depended on her success, even though they didn’t realize it.
“Caleb, I miss you so much.” Her eyes crinkled and more tears came. She was powerless to stop them. For minutes, the sobbing consumed her, taking all of her energy, all of her will.
Finally, with a cough, she stopped crying. It was time to plan, not to feel sorry for herself. Her father had always told her that thinking was what separated man from animals. The ability to evaluate situations before acting. To look for the best option before one chose. She gathered her small pad of paper and pencil. Her list of needed supplies took only a few minutes to prepare. When in town, she would also explore a possible replacement for Deed. Surely there were good men looking for steady work, if her idea about the Beinrigts didn’t pan out.
Deed Corrigan. What a mysterious man. In Western parlance, he would be considered a “bad man” she was certain. Not an outlaw, rather a bad man to mess with. But he had his own concerns; the Corrigan ranch needed him as much as she did. His face came again into her mind. Smiling. Always smiling. She shook her head to make the image leave. She had no business thinking of him in that way. Her husband was barely cold in the ground. She shook her head even more strongly and took a deep breath.
In thinking about the other killings, it was clear he didn’t think Comanches were to blame for the ranch being attacked or the families wiped out. From his way of talking, it seemed he believed a rich man in El Paso was behind the atrocities. She shuddered at the thought. Surely Deed had to be wrong. How could anyone be so cold to want wealth that way?
Rain was coming harder now, bringing thunder and lightning. She heard footsteps and knew the noise had awakened her children and Cooper. Benjamin wouldn’t want to admit it, but he would like to sleep in her bed as much as Elizabeth.
Slipping from the covers, she grabbed the gas lamp and met them in the doorway. “What do you say we all sleep together tonight? It’s a good rainy night for that,” she offered warmly.
Cooper barked joyfully and both children laughed.
Across the open yard, Deed listened to the pounding rain in the comfort of his blankets in the tack room. Billy Sanchez was asleep in the tiny room built for him at the south end of the barn. All of the horses were in the barn and safe. His mind wandered from the horses, to the Corrigan ranch, to Atlee. He had no business thinking of her; she was a grieving widow. Yet he couldn’t get her face out of his thoughts. At least, not for long. Thoughts of her would sneak into his consciousness when he least expected it. Foolish, he told himself. And wrong.
As soon as Blue returned from El Paso, they would leave for their ranch. He wasn’t worried about Agon Bordner coming for their land—not yet anyway—even with its fine valleys and excellent water. But it was wise to plan for that attempt. Acquiring the region’s biggest ranch would take time to fully control. And another ranch attacked right now would draw serious attention from the Rangers. They were already suspicious. Besides, their ranch was small compared to either the Bar 3 or the Lazy S, although much bigger than the two small ranches Bordner had also acquired.
Caleb Forsyth, or someone, had built the relay station and the barn well; there were a few leaks here and there in the barn but they were tiny. The tack room held all of the harnesses on wooden pegs, better than nails because they didn’t rust. Each horse’s stall had a manger for feed and a rack built underneath for hay. The rack was built low to keep dust out of the horse’s eyes. Smart, he thought.
As he settled into sleep again, a different sound caught his ears. Slight. Muffled. Then a soft whinny. It was probably nothing. Just one of the horse’s acting up.
No. His mind locked on to the issue.
Someone was trying to steal the horses!
He spun from his bed with his revolver in hand, ignoring his boots. Barefooted, he eased from the tack room with his cartridge belt slung over his shoulder and shoved the second Remington usually holstered there into his waistband. His eyes adapted quickly to the darkness and he saw definite movement at the stables. Four Comanches had returned to steal the stagecoach horses. It would be the ultimate show of bravery and daring to prove the strength of their war medicine by coming back to the station where so many of their war party had died. A rainy night was perfect they had decided; no white people would be awake or listening.
Like tanned ghosts, the warriors moved silently to open the stalls and lead out the horses. Capturing such fine animals would, indeed, bring worthy praise from their fellow tribesmen. A big bay was agitated by the Indians and reared.
Shooting now was too risky. Deed couldn’t be certain where a horse’s head ended and a Comanche began. He must get closer. One warrior swung bareback onto a big sorrel and directed the animal toward the opened barn door. Heavy rain glistened from the opening. If Deed waited any longer, the warrior would vanish into the wet night with the treasured horse. He guessed the remaining warriors intended to make the horses run from the barn and that this mounted warrior was the leader of the horse-stealing party.
In one motion, he cocked the Remington and fired. Three times. The continuous roar was a bomb in the barn. The warrior tumbled from the horse and the animal reared, but someone slid in front of the frightened animal, blocking the door, then slamming it shut again. Deed heard whispered Spanish and the horse settled where it stood, stomping its hooves and snorting. From that silhouette came the unforgiving boom-boom of a shotgun and a second warrior collapsed as he ran toward the barn door. In the brief flash, Deed saw what he already knew; Billy was there, blocking the way.
From the closest stall, a painted warrior hurled himself at Deed, swinging his tomahawk. Deed fired and missed. The war club slammed against the top of his hand and drove the gun from him. Deed’s right hand was numbed and bleeding from the glancing blow. Instead of reaching for the second revolver in his waistband, Deed jammed his open hand against the warrior’s chin. A follow-up left-leg power kick drove into the Comanche’s stomach and a third blow, again with his left hand, was a vicious open-handed chop against the Comanche’s neck that stopped the warrior completely. Deed shook his right hand, trying to regain feeling.
Leaving the horse he was leading from a middle stall, a fourth warrior came at Deed, screaming a fierce war cry that filled the barn. Deed blocked the downward thrust of his tomahawk with his left hand raised against the warrior’s arm. In one fluid motion, Deed delivered an open-handed smack into the Indian’s throat with his injured right hand. As the warrior gasped for breath, Deed drew his second revolver from his waistband with his left hand. He rammed his gun into the warrior’s stomach and fired.
In minutes, it was over.
Deed was drenched in nervous sweat and his right hand had no feeling and a cut along the back of his hand brought fingers of blood across it.
“Billy? You all right? That’s the last of them, I think, but we’d better check.”
“Sí. And you, amigo?”
“Yeah. Let’s check the stalls and get these horses settled down. We were lucky.”
“Sí. That is so.”
Lights were on in the Forsyth cottage and the station itself. From the doorway of the cottage, Atlee peered into the rain and yelled, “Deed . . . Billy? Are you all right? What’s happening?”
Olivia was at the doorway of the station, holding a lamp in her left hand and a pistol in the other. In a handful of yelled sentences, Deed explained the attempted raid and that all was well. Olivia invited everyone to come to the station while she put on coffee and warmed up some biscuits. Even in the rain, it sounded good to all of them.
“Put your hand in de water. Leave it there, amigo,” Billy said. “I will get the hosses back into their places.”
“Thanks. Good idea.” Deed went to a water bucket near the tack room and put his right hand into the cooling liquid. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the numbness remained.
Soon a celebration of sorts took over the night, although nearly everyone was soaked. Deed and Billy, Atlee and her two children and Cooper gathered around the reenergized fireplace. Hermann was up and had stoked the fire into compliance. Atlee was shocked to see Deed was wounded as Billy recounted with some awe in his voice how the young gunfighter had bested three of the attackers. Olivia put on a pan of water to boil for cleaning the wound.
Deed insisted that the wound was not serious, but neither woman paid any attention to his protestations.