CHAPTER TWENTY

Dawn was an hour away, but Deed Corrigan was up and fully dressed, stoking the reluctant fire in the stone fireplace into rebirth. Silka was still sleeping in his room, which was part of the added wing of the ranch house. As far as Deed knew, so were Blue and his family. Their regular hands, Chico, Willy, Little Jake, and Harmon were in the bunkhouse. He figured Too Tall would be coming from there soon to start breakfast.

Coming back to the ranch three days ago held mixed emotions for him as his thoughts were rarely away from Atlee Forsyth. He missed her terribly. But he needed to be here and she didn’t have any feelings for him. He kept telling himself that.

He had shared his feelings about Atlee with Silka and the old samurai told him that she needed time and that he should work hard to keep from thinking about her too much. So far he hadn’t said anything to Blue; that would bring an uninvited warning from his older brother. Maybe he should talk with Bina; she was level-headed and compassionate. She would give him a woman’s perspective.

The fire was well banked, as usual, last night. Among the ashes were nuggets of embers waiting to be coaxed to life once more. He added larger chunks of wood as soon as the fire decided to respond. Today he planned on readying more horses for the roundup; he liked working the half-wild mustangs because it kept his mind off Atlee. Some would need reshodding as well. Warrior was developing into a fine horse, but one Deed only trusted himself to ride. Roundup was scheduled to start next week.

As was his custom, he said a silent prayer as he worked the fire and watched the golden sparks pop up to greet him. It was a prayer of thanks and a wish for a good day; it was a Japanese prayer Silka had taught him long ago.

Two days ago, he and Blue had met with Felix Sanchez, the patriarch of the Lazy S family, and his oldest son, Taol. It was the Sanchezes’ recommendation that Blue take over as wagon boss. They also reported that Dixie Murphy would be participating in the roundup and was looking forward to it. The news had pleased everyone, except Deed. He didn’t trust Murphy, or his boss, Agon Bordner, and had said so. Blue and the others were willing to give them a chance. He had no doubt that working with Dixie Murphy and the rest of the new Bar 3 riders would be awkward at best, but Blue insisted that they, at least, try to act civilly.

He cocked his head to try to catch the faint sound over the now crackling wood. It wasn’t a coyote or wind. No, someone was in pain. Great pain. He grabbed his Winchester cradled against the doorframe, strapped on his gunbelt, and shoved a second pistol into his belt. Opening the door carefully, he stepped out on the porch. The uneven gray light made it difficult to distinguish a tree from a rider. Then he saw a lone figure.

A man, barely in the saddle, was advancing toward the ranch house. A sombrero bounced on the man’s back, held by a stampede string at his neck. The horse was lathered and moving more out of fear than any direction being given. The rider yelped again, an agonizing cry for help, then slumped against the horse’s neck.

“Silka! Blue! Willy . . . Harmon! Chico! Little Jake! We’ve got trouble!” Deed yelled and hurried toward the horse and rider.

The horse stumbled, then came to stop. One rein dragged on the ground. White with sweat, the animal was heaving for breath that wouldn’t come fast enough. Even in the grayness, Deed recognized the rider as Paul Sanchez, the youngest Sanchez son.

As Deed approached, he could see Paul’s white shirt was soaked in blood. The young Mexican’s eyes fluttered open.

“S-Señor Deed . . . our ranch it’s . . . been a-ttacked.” He struggled to say more, but couldn’t.

In their long johns, Willy and Harmon were only a handful of steps behind Deed, both holding six-guns. Chico was fully dressed and so was Little Jake. Silka came dressed and carrying his long samurai sword in one hand and its sheath in the other. Blue came running from the main house, wearing only pants and boots. In his right hand was the Walch 12-shot navy revolver.

“Get him down,” Deed said, then told Harmon to go for water and rags.

As they stretched the badly wounded Mexican vaquero on the ground, Bina arrived, also fully dressed and holding a shotgun. Laying the gun beside her, she knelt beside Paul and began pulling part his blood-soaked shirt. Harmon brought a bucket of water with a dipper and towels from the bunkhouse. They were the only cloths he could find. The young Mexican rose on his elbows and drank gratefully from the filled dipper offered by Blue. Too Tall, the short, fat-bellied black cook, came, panting for breath. Quietly, he told Blue that coffee was on. Chico led the worn-out Sanchez horse away, walking it to cool it down before letting the animal have any water.

After a few sips of water, Paul Sanchez sank back to the ground, muttering. In a halting mixture of English and Spanish, Paul explained that their riders had been shot from ambush. An ongoing gunfight had ensued, but he didn’t know if all the vaqueros were killed. He remembered seeing their foreman, Cliente, alive and fighting. At the same time, another force of gunmen struck the grand ranch house itself.

“Is it Comanches?” Deed leaned over.

“No, Señor. It is Americanos from the Bar 3. My father t-told me to ride for . . . y-you. T-That you would . . . help us.” Paul shut his eyes to absorb the pain enveloping his body.

“Of course, we will,” Deed said with clenched teeth and stood. “Willy, Little Jake, saddle our horses. Get everybody ready to ride.”

Paul Sanchez reopened his eyes and saw Bina. “T-Thank you, Señora. Y-You are most kind. My family—” He gave a long sigh and was unconscious.

Riding a black-tailed roan, Willy brought up two saddled horses, one was Deed’s buckskin. He belched and it filled the morning with thunder. Silka laughed. Chico rode up, leading a third mount. He had turned the Sanchez horse over to Too Tall, who didn’t like the idea but accepted the animal with the warning to continue to walk the horse and not to let it drink until it was completely cooled down.

Little Jake rode beside Chico, ready to join in the fight. Deed swung into the saddle, holding his Winchester. Silka took the reins of a stocky bay and mounted, returning his sword to its sheath and pulling his rifle free from its saddle scabbard.

“Bina, leave Paul here. There is nothing more we can do for him that rest and the good Lord can’t handle. We’ll move him to the house when we return. You need to get back inside, barricade the door and stay there. We don’t know if they will come for us, too.” He looked around at Blue climbing into the saddle. “No. Blue, stay with your family and make sure you are all safe. We must ride. Now. It might not be too late.”

Bina nodded and stood, grabbing up the shotgun. Blue glanced at her and told Deed that he was not staying behind, but was coming, too.

Too Tall was frightened, holding the Sanchez horse. “But, what if they come here?”

“I don’t think they will, but stay alert,” Blue said. “If they do, we’ll hear their shots and return.”

“I no worry. You go. Hurry. Sanchez family good people,” Bina declared.

Willy’s expression was sour. “But, but, Deed, it sounds like there’s thirty guns. You can’t—”

“Willy, I know what’s there. But we can’t leave the fight to our friends. Maybe we can drive them off before it’s too late. Or maybe we can end this thing,” Deed said and kicked his horse into a gallop. “Stay here if you want.”

Red streaks were cutting swaths across the dull sky as they rode for the Lazy S. Harmon wondered what they would do, or could do, against a horde of gunmen. But he knew his employers; Deed was brave, but not foolhardy, and so was his brother. He wasn’t sure of the former samurai; Silka might decide a glorious death would be to ride straight into the attackers. He shivered at the thought.

Harmon glanced at Silka who nodded and said something in Japanese. The cowboy admitted to himself that the Oriental was mysterious and hard to figure.

Blue looked over at Deed. “This would be a good time to have Holt with us, wouldn’t it?”

“Any time, big brother. Any time.”

Harmon was always fascinated by the way Blue rode one-handed, holding the reins and balancing his rifle against the saddle pommel. He made it look easy. Harmon had tried it once and the gun had slid away after only a few strides of his horse.

To avoid giving in to his doubts and fears, in a strong voice Harmon declared, “And this stern joy which warriors feel . . . in foemen worthy of their steel.’”

“I like that, Harmon. What’s it from?” Blue asked.

“Sir Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake, canto 5.”

Willy raised and lowered his shoulders and Silka declared, “If they still there, we surprise them. Catch in crossfire. Velly good.”

This time Harmon nodded. It sounded good to him.

All rode with their rifles readied over their saddles and waited for Deed’s commands. Blue had no problem with Deed taking control. They rode without further words, until sounds of gunfire broke through the early morning.

“Well, that’s a damn good sign. The Lazy S boys are still alive and fighting,” Deed observed. “Maybe we can catch these bastards in a crossfire.”

They reined up alongside a gathering of rocks and boulders. It looked like the stones had met long ago and never left. Deed studied the Sanchez ranch yard with his field glasses.

“Can’t see how many for sure. Looks like they’ve got the ranch surrounded,” Deed advised, lowering the glasses. “They’re spread out around that old stone fence. You know, the one that goes all around the ranch yard.”

“Well, we’ve still got time then,” Blue responded.

“Not much. The Sanchezes won’t be able to stop a full-out charge.”

As they rode closer, he outlined what they were going to do. Blue, Willy, and Chico would head for a ridge west of the ranch house. It was a long hiccup of land, crowded with brush and timber, a good position from which to direct fire at the attackers on that side. Silka would ride with a reluctant Harmon to the north side. Their destination was a group of cottonwoods, twenty yards from the stone fence. Deed and Little Jake would swing to the east side and positions there. After neutralizing the other parts, the south side would then be in a crossfire.

“Start shooting when you get into position,” Deed advised and patted the rifle lying across his saddle. “Maybe they’ll get smart and give up.”

“If they don’t?” Harmon asked, shifting the rifle ahead of him.

“Then we’re in for a long morning,” Deed responded.

“Ame futte ji katamaru,” Silka said.

“What’s that mean?”

Deed smiled. “It’s a Japanese expression. Means rained-on ground hardens. Uh, adversity builds character.”

“Oh sure.”

“We gonna shoot ’em in the back?” Willy asked, wide-eyed.

“No. We’ll give them a chance to surrender. Our first shot will be over their heads,” Deed said. “Our second won’t. Remember these bastards killed our friends at the Bar 3 and they’re trying to do that at the Lazy S.” He wasn’t at all certain that Silka would give any Bar 3 men such a chance, but kept the thought to himself.

Blue started to say something about killing, but changed his mind and only said, “Keep us safe, Lord.”

Nodding, Deed touched the small circle at his neck. Silka did the same and they split into three groups and rode toward the ranch.

A few minutes later, Blue and the others dismounted quietly on the back side of a long ridge west of the Sanchez ranch house. They tied their horses away from where they intended to fire. Spreading out, they crawled into positions behind rocks and earthen mounds. Twenty yards in front of them, silhouettes were shooting at the dark ranch house from behind the stone fence. In places, the rocks had crumbled into heaps. Scattered gunfire occasionally answered from the house. Here and there were dead raiders and a few bodies of vaqueros.

Gunfire opened on the north side.

“That’ll be Silka,” Blue said. “Guess it’s time.”

He laid his rife against a boulder and drew his Walch handgun. Ahead of them, Bar 3 gunmen turned toward the sounds of the increased gunfire, uncertain of its meaning. His first shot clipped the dirt to the right of a gunman with a long scar along his right cheek. He squinted toward the north and yelled, “What the hell? Nobody’s supposed to charge till we get the order from Selmon.”

Willy belched so loud it made all of the Bar 3 gunmen jump, even the scar-faced leader. Chico and Willy opened fire with their rifles, spitting lead in the direction of the spread-out attackers, completely surprised by the counterattack.

On the far side of the ranch, Deed turned to Little Jake. “We’re late. There’s no time to hide.”

He tied the reins together, looped the connected leathers through his left arm, and pulled both pistols from his belt. Glancing at Jake, he kicked his horse into a run toward the eight Bar 3 gunmen strung out along the east barricade. The tough, short cowhand followed, levering his Winchester into action, and holding his reins with his left hand, wrapped around the rifle.

The east side Bar 3 attackers were concentrating on the surprise firing across the ranch yard. Galloping toward them, Deed’s two pistols dropped the first Bar 3 gunman as he spun toward him. Deed’s horse slammed into the second man as the young gunfighter fired at the remaining line of attackers.

One wounded gunman, whose hat flew off revealing a bald head, gulped, “Damn! That’s Deed Corrigan!”

The taller gunman next to him stared at the two horsemen thundering toward them. “Deed Corrigan? Hell!” He dropped his rifle and raised his hands. Nodding, the bald man lowered his rifle. Deed rode past, shooting at the other Bar 3 gunmen with both hands.

Less than a minute behind Deed and Jake came Silka, swinging his long sword from horseback. Harmon bit his lower lip and followed, his worst fear realized. The samurai had already dispatched the four Bar 3 gunmen on the north and hopped back on his horse to help Deed. The bald gunman raised his rifle to shoot at Deed’s back. Silka’s sword nearly decapitated the gunman. His rifle fired into the morning sky as he fell dead against the short wall.

From the west side, Blue’s clear voice rang out. “Bar 3, you’re surrounded. Throw down your guns and put up your hands. Or die behind that stone wall. Your choice. Make it now.” So far, he had only wounded two men and hoped that would be the end of it. Chico and Willy had already moved to a new location where they could fire directly into the remaining Bar 3 raiders on the south.

All along the south barricade, some of the Bar 3 men dropped their guns and stood.

Swinging around the crumbling corner of the rock fence, Deed emptied both of his guns into a lanky gunman, standing three feet from the corner on the south side. Beside him, a fat-bellied outlaw hurried a rifle shot at the charging gunfighter. Deed’s sweating horse jumped sideways as the bullet burned its neck.

As the fat gunman recocked his Henry, Deed threw both empty guns at him, which he was able to duck, and the man brought his rifle up to fire again. An instant behind the tossed guns, Deed’s throwing knife followed. The razor-sharp blade, carried behind his neck, drove into the man’s throat. His rifle exploded, its bullet singing into the air. The gunfighter leaped from his horse toward the staggering man, who was pulling at the embedded blade with both hands. Deed picked up the dropped rifle and slammed the butt into the gunman’s stomach. As the gunman groaned in pain, Deed slammed his open hand into the man’s throat. Then Deed’s left hand came thundering against the man’s neck and he collapsed.

Behind him, Jake caught a bullet and slumped against his horse.

Around the ranch yard, all was quiet. The shooting was over.

Silka thundered up, brandishing his bloody sword.

“Deed, you ’right?” Silka asked.

“Yeah, but Jake’s been hit.” He pulled the knife from the dead gunman’s throat, wiped it on the man’s shirt, and returned the blade to its scabbard behind his back.

They turned to the wounded cowhand, leaving Harmon to handle the remaining gunmen still standing. Jake gritted his teeth and mumbled something while Silka worked at cleaning the wound. Blue and Willy eased across the yard, directing the surrendered Bar 3 attackers. From the house came a brown-and-white dog, trotting among them. From the tree line, Chico appeared, leading six saddled horses. Deed picked up his revolvers and began reloading one.

“Sí, is Bar 3 hosses. More in de trees. All without shoes,” he declared. In his other hand was a large sack filled with Indian weapons and feathers. He held up the sack. “Here is their leave-behinds to make it look like Comanche. Sí.”

“Unshod horses and feathers. That figures,” Blue responded, studying the wall for any stragglers. “Makes them appear to be Indians. Willy, go with Chico and bring up the rest of their horses.”

“Will do, boss.”

On the west side, a disgruntled Rhey Selmon, in his bearskin coat, stood quietly, his guns laying at his feet. He told the man next to him to surrender, that Agon Bordner would take care of them, and ordered the scar-faced man to do the same.

From the long adobe house came Felix Sanchez with a pistol in each hand. His shoulder was bloodied; his silver hair was matted with sweat. A sombrero bounced on his back, attached by a rawhide string.

“Gracias, amigos. Gracias,” Felix shouted. “How is my Paul?”

Behind him came two small children, his grandchildren. His oldest son, Taol, stepped into the yard from another door, brandishing a rifle and looking for someone to shoot.

“He’s hurt bad,” Blue said, “but he’s tough. My Bina is with him.”

“God is with us.”

“Let’s hang these bastards by those trees,” Deed growled.

Blue looked at him. “No, we’re taking them to town. They’ll stand trial . . . and then hang.”

“What about Dixie Murphy? And what’s his name, the fat man?” Deed growled, reloading his second handgun. “They’re behind all this.”

“I know. But we’re going to need some of his men to testify to that. The sheriff can be the eyewitness, then he’ll arrest them.” Blue’s manner indicated he didn’t intend to argue about the matter.

“All right, but I want to be there when he does.”

“Sure.”

The closest Bar 3 gunman, holding his bleeding arm, looked at Deed. “A-Are you Deed Corrigan?”

“I am. Want to make something of it?” Deed’s face was dark.

“Hell no. Dixie told us you were dead. Said that gunslick James Hannah did you in.”

Snorting, Deed said, “James Hannah’s a friend of mine.”

“Should’ve known Dixie was full of it.”