CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Blue Corrigan rode away from the stage station, happy he had convinced his younger brother to stay. It hadn’t been hard, but Deed needed a reason. A reason other than spending more time near Atlee Forsyth.
He swung the big bay past the line of cottonwoods, down a brush-guarded wash, past a whitened buffalo skull and headed toward their ranch. On a long lead-rope tied to his saddle horn, trotted the sorrel stallion and packhorse behind him. It would be good to get home to Bina and their children, five-year-old Mary Jo and three-year-old Matthew. He missed them sorely and wondered how Jeremy was adjusting.
Obviously, his brother had feelings for the young widow. And she for him. There was energy between them that they couldn’t express. It was too soon, way too soon. He just hoped Deed wouldn’t be hurt emotionally. Sometimes, though, that couldn’t be helped with things of the heart. Maybe he should have told Deed that she needed time. A lot of it. No, Deed would have just gotten angry at the idea that he cared about her. Blue eased his horses out of the wash, across a long grassy draw, and past an undercut bank that protected the remains of an old campfire. A startled antelope bounded away, disappearing over the rolling hill.
The sky was cloudless with the beginnings of fall’s crispness in the air. On patrol, an eagle flew crossing patterns high above. As Blue rode, his mind wandered to his small church and being glad to return to the pulpit. It felt right there. Not that he thought he was a gifted speaker, rather that he could offer words that would sometimes help and comfort. Words that came from God, he thought. He had been working on a return sermon based on the idea about how a person responds to receiving a few coins he or she didn’t expect, as was the case with Rebecca Tuttle. How this simple blessing could be seen in many other forms of living. His mother had talked often about the need for happiness in a person’s life and the ability to find it in everyday things. She thought the power of self-control was the way to true happiness. She believed that little miracles happened all the time but, for the most part, people didn’t see or appreciate them. Of course, she also saw good and bad luck omens in all manner of occurrences. Holt reminded him of their mother in that respect.
Turning sharply out of the draw, he picked up the trail that led to Wilkon and, after a half mile, turned to the right, across flat grasslands toward their ranch. Passing a gentle slope that ended in a shelf of rock, his thoughts also took in the attack on the Bar 3 ranch and the murders of the Merefords and Hansons after they left. People would be on edge, worried about Comanches attacking again. From the pulpit, he should speak reassuringly about being prepared, about praying, about working together and that this awfulness would also pass. Yes, he must do that. Maybe he should tell his parishioners about the attack on the stagecoach so they would understand that he knew what he was talking about. It might sound like bragging, but Deed—and James Hannah—had saved lives.
He wasn’t ready yet to pronounce that Agon Bordner was behind the tragedy. He struggled with that thought; Holt wasn’t one to overstate issues, but he was the brother who saw evil everywhere, especially Yankee evil.
Craggy sandstone hills lay ahead and to his right, a lonely caprock that had marked this trail for centuries, he guessed. The slopes didn’t look high enough to hide anything, but Blue knew they could keep an entire war party out of sight until they wanted to be seen. He eased his horses down a draw flanked by brush and mesquite on both sides. Not far was a muddy stream flanked by pecan, live oak, and cottonwood trees.
Blue’s mind drifted back to Agon Bordner and what he had done. It was still hard to believe the man had made the killings and takeovers occur. Both Holt and Deed were positive he had, but they were always inclined to question and challenge. Holt had been quite firm about what he heard from some of Bordner’s men. It didn’t sound like one of Holt’s pronouncements about Yankee maliciousness.
Riding out of the draw, he forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings. He had been riding for over two hours without actually being aware of where he was going. That was a good way to ride into serious trouble, especially with the possibility of Comanches around. Ahead, the muddy creek had gotten deeper and ran smoother, parallel to the trail. He pulled his horse toward the relief and the big sorrel and buckskin followed, balking initially at the tug of the lead-ropes. The stallion didn’t like being led; it wanted to lead. A small hollow had once been a buffalo wallow.
Swinging down, he led the horses to the trickling water and let the animals nuzzle its coolness. After tying the reins to a low-hanging branch and the lead-ropes to another, he squatted against a large rock to rest for a few minutes. The ride from El Paso had been long and hard.
A twinge came to the stub of Blue’s left arm, as if his limb was yet there and his arm was simply aching from overuse. His mind spun away to that awful day when his Confederate cavalry successfully attacked a larger, entrenched Union force. As he had swung his sweating horse toward retreating Federal troopers, a howitzer shell exploded near him, killing his horse and tearing up his arm.
He rarely allowed himself to think of that time. It served no purpose. Even in his shell-shocked memories, he recalled Holt coming to him and yelling for a medic. He recalled Holt cursing at himself for not picking up a black feather laying on the ground and sticking it upright. Not doing so was what had caused Blue’s injury. His outlaw brother had remained with him at a field hospital, returning to duty only after the threat of court-martial. A month later, General Robert E. Lee surrendered. Blue saw Holt only briefly, trying to get him to return to their ranch with him. Soon stories of Holt Corrigan were popping up in Texas, about bank and stagecoach robberies, even Union paymaster wagons.
He shuddered and returned to the present, but only momentarily as his thoughts spun to his younger brother. Silka had taught Deed how to deal with an enemy who puts a gun to his ribs, a different situation than when a gun is presented to one’s back. In one split-second motion, Deed learned to pivot to his left, wrapping the enemy’s right wrist with his left arm, and smashing his elbow into the man’s face. Keeping control of the man’s wrist, Deed would then grab the top of the gun barrel and push the gun away from his own body. Silka liked to end this movement with a grab of the man’s throat or by driving one’s fist into the attacker’s chest. So did Deed.
Silka’s teaching had been thorough. Deed could handle any kind of attack, from a headlock to an attempted hip throw, from a choke hold from behind to an overhead club attack. From a gun pointed at him to a bear hug. From a knife attack to a well-thrown haymaker. All moves and their responses were second nature to Deed. The former samurai’s fighting techniques were difficult to master, but Deed had been driven to be as good as his teacher and friend.
Possibly, it was because he was the youngest of three brothers. Possibly it was another reason. Regardless, Deed Corrigan was becoming as well-known as Holt, but for different reasons.
“Sun, moon, mountain, river. All divine,” he repeated one of Silka’s favorite sayings. “Skills . . . and inspiration . . . necessary to develop self, also divine.”
He drank from the stream and chewed on a piece of jerky. His thoughts wandered to James Hannah and his likely relationship with Agon Bordner. What would happen? Would Hannah accept Bordner’s offer, whatever it was? If Bordner was planning on taking over all of this part of Texas, what would he want Hannah to do? If Bordner was behind the attack on the Bar 3, then he obviously had a gang of men hidden somewhere. Where? Blue didn’t know. His thoughts went to his family and he shivered. Deed was an exceptional fighter whose natural instincts and skills had been honed by Silka’s teaching. He and Holt had learned much as well, but it was Deed who had become special.
He spoke the answer to what Hannah would be hired to do, as if delivering a sermon. “James Hannah will be hired to kill Deed. Bordner will figure his own men can handle the rest of us.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. How could this be? Was Agon Bordner such an evil man? He wished Holt was back with them again, but that wasn’t going to happen; Holt had made that clear. He had crossed the line from Confederate soldier to bitter guerrilla fighter to outlaw. He had decided it was best that he stay away. Wherever away was.
Bina’s gentle face came to his mind. Her image was always close. She had been his wife for five years and theirs was love at first sight. A Mescalero Apache educated by missionaries, she was a compassionate woman, as well as a spiritual teacher in her own way. Being with her made him whole. She loved to sit on their porch at dusk and watch the birds flit around the land. A bird feeder had been one of her earliest requests. It was the only request he could recall. In some ways, she reminded him of his late mother. When he was little, he thought his mother could actually talk to the birds and hoped that one day he would be able to do that.
What would Bina say about Agon Bordner? Or James Hannah? She would tell him to wait, but to be ready. Yes, that’s what she would say.
Blue shut his eyes and prayed.
His mother had believed in daily meditation, but never insisted that her sons do the same. She felt every person was his or her own master. No person should interfere with another person’s search for identity of purpose. Bina said much the same thing.
No answer came from his prayer, except they must be prepared for this unthinkable action. Maybe that was the answer. Deed had told him about the Rangers coming to Wilkon, but it was unrealistic to think they would be able to stop a massive takeover . . . at least, until it was too late. A stray thought entered his mind: have a meeting with the Sanchezes, the family that owned the Lazy S.
Yes, that made good sense. Together, they could plan how to survive any further advance by Bordner.
Overhead, a hawk surveyed the land, moving across bundles of white clouds and dipping toward something unseen. Blue took another swig from the stream and thought again about Bina. Her English was quite good and he knew some Apache. Bina’s faith was fascinating, believing that man was connected to all animals, all insects, all plants, all rocks and minerals. A oneness with the world. A giant circle of the spirit. That had been his mother’s belief as well. Occasionally, he wondered if she had been an Indian or had such a bloodline. None of the brothers knew anything about their grandparents, only that they had lived in Ohio and died there.
His wife had actually taught him much about the power of the Great Spirit and the directing of its great force, the energy of the universe, to heal and guide. That every being had an identity and a purpose. To live up to this purpose required the power of self-control, which brought true happiness. He had used some of her beliefs in sermons, like “One cannot be taught until one tries to learn” or “Nothing is free; everything has a cost.” And the thought he liked best was “Enjoy the world. Do not let the world enjoy you.”
She had told him that often more than one spirit occupied a body, and when that happened, the person was torn between doing good and bad and would then be different personalities at different times. Only a special ceremony could drive out the bad spirit. It reminded him of the Bible stories about Jesus forcing demons out of a person.
Of course, Bina also believed if someone stepped on a black bug, it would rain. He chuckled at the thought. It was more like something Holt would say. But it was part of the Apache belief that humans were connected to the circle of all life, all animals, all plants, the sky, the earth, the winds. Not above it or in its center, just another part of the great circle.
Her name meant “musical instrument” in Apache and Blue thought it was a most appropriate name. She told Blue that he should answer to only one authority, the Great Spirit. To Blue, it seemed like Bina had come from some faraway place, and yet most of her thoughts were very practical. Their love was deep, in spite of the difference in race—and the anger it caused among some of both races. They had met on the reservation, a planned Christian gathering, and that had begun a serious courtship.
Most of his friends were aghast at the idea of his being with an Indian; some townspeople couldn’t believe he would possibly think of taking a savage into his home. He didn’t care; he wanted to be with her—forever. Even now, there were people in Wilkon who looked at her, at them, with disgust. He managed to forgive their ignorance most of the time. Interestingly enough, the Sanchezes had greeted her warmly. Maybe it was because they, too, felt the sting of racial prejudice.
There was one woman who came up to him after a church service and told him that he was going to hell for living with an Apache woman. Bina had laughed when he related the incident to her and told him that they both should pray for the woman.
“I miss you, Bina,” he whispered.
The sorrel snorted and Blue immediately became alert. This was not country in which to assume one was safe. He stood and walked to the horses, lifting his Winchester from its saddle scabbard and cocking it one-handed into readiness by pushing the stock against his upper leg for leverage. Nothing troubling was in sight and the horses were grazing again. Gradually, his thoughts returned to Deed. Dedrick William Corrigan was his full name but everyone called him Deed, except their mother. Holt’s birth name was Holton Jefferson Corrigan, their mother’s father’s name. His own birth name was Bluemont Wade Corrigan, a combination of their father’s and their paternal grandfather’s names. Bluemont had brought more than his share of fistfights in school, but his brothers had always been eager to step in and turn things around.
Uncocking the rifle, he returned it to the scabbard and lifted himself into his saddle. Grabbing the lead-ropes of the sorrel and the packhorse, he eased into a lope. Soon he was into broken country that became rolling plains. Cattle country. If Agon Bordner thought it would be easy taking control of the LC ranch by killing Deed, he was seriously underestimating Silka. And himself. And Bina.
Ahead were six grazing cattle. LC steers. He reined toward the animals and got them moving. This wasn’t LC land; it was pasture filed on by the Lazy S and recognized as theirs. Certainly there was no need to cause problems with Felix Sanchez and his family. The Sanchezes had owned the ranch for three generations. Next to the Bar 3, it was the biggest ranch in the region.
The six steers trotted in front of him, eager to get away from his presence. Finally, they curled off into a wide spoon of land that was the beginning of LC pasture and he let them go. The sorrel snorted as if wanting to chase them.
“It’s all right, Captain. They’re home. So are you,” he said.
Blue Corrigan rode into the LC ranch yard, happy to return. A number of sturdy buildings comprised the ranch. Two large barns held their best horses and three milk cows, as well as serving as the storage area for feed. The ranch yard also featured two corrals, a bunkhouse, and a small cooling house for meat and butter. Farther to the south was a well that provided water all year round and an empty bunkhouse. Outside the barns was a small toolshed. The main house had a separate wing built so that Silka and Deed could live separately from Blue and his family, giving them all their privacy. Another bedroom had been kept for Holt; Deed had insisted on it. The additions gave the house a strange, bulging appearance, but no one seemed to mind.
The ranch was a good one, thanks in large part to their parents’ careful selection of the land. Three protected valleys were rich in grass and water. Springs dotted the area, coupled with a healthy stream that cut across two of their main grazing areas. Five thousand head of cattle and a string of mustangs were spread throughout their acres—acres that were owned by them, truly owned with all of the necessary ownership files. Their third valley had been bought from another ranch just after the war and it, along with the other two valleys, gave them a fine operation. The herds were shifted from one valley to another as needed. Blunt hills and long benches offered natural fencing to keep the animals from drifting.
The ranch itself lay in one of the valleys with a well-built two-story ranch house featuring a porch and a second-story balcony. Silka had directed the construction of this large house after the war; most of it was built by Blue and Deed. The one-armed rancher surveyed the ranch and took satisfaction in its appearance; they had painted all the buildings a year ago.
Three ranch dogs barked an alert and the stallion pawed the ground and flattened its ears. An Oriental man came to the door of the main house. His hand shielded the sun from his face. In his other hand was a rifle.
“Afternoon, Silka,” Blue yelled as he walked his horses toward the house.
Silka’s face lit up in recognition and he waved back. A smile cut across his flat face and he shouted, “Konnichiwa!”
Returning the Japanese greeting with gusto, Blue swung down and flipped the reins over the hitchrail in front of the wood-planked porch, then tied the lead-ropes to the rack. He left the pack alone except to retrieve a wrapped package.
“Where Deed?” Silka eased onto the porch.
“Stayed at the stage station. Be there another week or so. Needs to stay until they can get someone to replace him,” Blue reported. “Got any coffee on?”
“Sure, that we have. You go ahead. Bina be most glad to see you,” Silka said. “I want closer look at stallion first.”
“Well, he’s a handsome one,” Blue said, stepping inside and laying his package on the table near the door.
Hurrying from the kitchen, Bina welcomed him with a long embrace. Kissing wasn’t something Apaches did, but she took to it enthusiastically on occasion. She was a bright part of the Corrigan family, with an inviting smile and warm eyes. Their house matched her personality. Warm and definitely accented in blue, her favorite color. Even the sofa was blue. A wall cabinet held a collection of small items, also mainly blue. He liked to think her emphasis on blue was because his name was the same as the color.
Over coffee, he shared what had happened at the station and in El Paso. Bina offered no comment about Holt, or James Hannah, or Agon Bordner, but said Jeremy Regan was asleep, as were their two children, Matthew and Mary Jo. All three had spent the morning riding with Silka.
“How is Jeremy doing?” Blue asked, sipping the strong coffee.
“Well, as good as one could expect, I think. He misses his mom and dad something fierce,” she said. “But he never grumbles. I think he really likes being with Matthew—and Matthew likes him around. So does Mary Jo.”
“That’s good. It’ll take time.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I’ve been thinking we should adopt him. If he’s willing. Make him a part of . . . us.”
“That sounds wonderful, Bina. Knew you would think of somehow helping the boy, so I got you a present in El Paso. Hope you like it.” He got up and handed the wrapped brown-paper package to her.
Smiling, she opened the gift and withdrew a straw hat decorated with fake wildflowers and blue ribbons to tie under her chin to hold it place.
She stood and put it on. “Oh, Blue it’s beautiful. I love it, Blue. I love you.” Her kiss was an invitation.