CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Dixie! We got ambushed!” The scared rider reined up his lathered horse at the Bar 3 ranch yard, jumped down, and ran inside.
Dixie Murphy was talking about cattle with Agon Bordner at a round table. The fat man was devouring a stack of hotcakes, smothered in butter and hot maple syrup, along with six fried eggs. A plate piled with bacon and slices of ham was to his left. They were awaiting word on the successful attack on the Lazy S. The necessary Lazy S loan papers lay on the table between them.
Dixie turned toward the shouting. His hand dropped to the holstered handgun at his waist.
“What the hell’s goin’ on, Wyman?” the crooked cowman yelled.
“It’s the Corrigans. They hit us. Had us surrounded. We never saw them comin’.” The scared cowboy swallowed and fought to gain control of his emotions.
“What? That can’t be.” Dixie looked at Bordner, wiping syrup from his chin. “There couldn’t be more than seven or eight of those bastards to begin with.” Dixie stood and slammed his fist on the table. The impact turned over the syrup pitcher. Bordner reached over and resettled it, ignoring the spilled stickiness. It was his first reaction to anything so far.
Wyman explained what had happened at the Sanchez ranch, then added, “I thought you said James Hannah was going to take care of Deed Corrigan.” He swallowed to find courage. “They were all there, including that Oriental with the big sword.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Wyman continued, “Rhey had us spread all around the Sanchez ranch house. Behind that old stone fence of theirs. We picked off all their riders first. Had ’em where we wanted, holed up.” He shook his head again. “Then, all of a sudden . . . the Corrigans were around us, tearing us apart.”
“How’d you get away?” Dixie growled, crossing his arms.
“Almost didn’t. They got Pete. Me an’ him were holdin’ all our hosses.”
“I didn’t tell you when Hannah was going to kill Corrigan, dammit, did I!” Dixie yelled and waved his arms.
Looking up, Bordner put a fried egg into his mouth and let the yolk drip down his chin as he spoke. “I assume the objective of eliminating the Sanchezes was not achieved.”
Wyman glanced at the furious Dixie, then at Bordner, then away. “I . . . uh, I don’t know.”
“Did they get Rhey?”
“Don’t know. Guess so.”
“Did you leave the sacks of Indian weapons behind?” Bordner asked and shoved another egg into his mouth.
“Ah, they was on two of our hosses we was . . . watchin’.”
“So, the attack was not only a failure, evidence of it being a staged Comanche attack is now in Deed Corrigan’s hands.” Bordner gulped coffee and waved at the cook to bring more.
“Ah, guess so.”
A gunshot blistered the room and the cook dropped the coffeepot. Wyman stared wide-eyed at his reddening shirt around his shirt pocket. A second bullet hit him just below the nose and the cowboy crashed to the ground. A third went into the top of his head. His leg twitched and then was still.
Stunned, Dixie looked over at Bordner. A smoking revolver was in the big man’s hand. A long-barreled, silver-plated Smith & Wesson, it looked almost like a derringer in his huge fist.
“Now, Dixie,” Bordner said calmly, “Take this piece of garbage, put it on his horse, and ride for town. Halfway there, shoot the horse and leave both.” He paused to drink the rest of his coffee and looked around, irritated that the cook had disappeared into the kitchen. “It’ll look like he and his horse were wounded leaving the ambush and made it that far.”
Dixie nodded without speaking, staring at the missing forefinger on his left hand.
“Ride hard for town. You need to be there before they do. Find Sheriff Lucas and tell him the Bar 3 was attacked and outlaws stole thirty head of horses,” Bordner said, cutting into the remaining pancakes. “Tell him that the horses had been brought up to the big corral for shoeing for the roundup and they were all unshod.”
Dixie nodded again and managed to ask what if the Corrigans came to town with some of his men.
“I would expect that. They may even come here first. That’s another reason for you to be gone.”
“Stay in town after you tell the sheriff. Tell Macy, ah, the new marshal, too,” Bordner said and began buttering the sliced pancakes, then decided they were cold and yelled, “Simpson, bring in some fresh hotcakes. These aren’t worth eating.” He looked up at Murphy. “Tell Macy that I expect our men to . . . escape.”
Late afternoon lay on their shoulders as Deed Corrigan, Felix Sanchez, and Chico rode into Wilkon with nine tied Bar 3 gunmen on their horses. One was Rhey Selmon. A buckboard, driven by Taol, the oldest Sanchez son, held the bodies of the dead gunmen. One was the body of Wyman, found on the way. Another five wounded attackers also rode their horses, flanked by three Sanchez vaqueros. Blue, Willy, Harmon, and Silka, carrying rifles across their saddles, rode alongside.
Up and down both sides of the main street, people stopped to gaze and whisper. County Sheriff Matthew R. Lucas exited his small office next to what passed for a courthouse, an old warehouse converted for the town’s greater good. Lucas was a short, stocky man with a no-nonsense manner, not unlike that of a teacher. Not far behind the county lawman came Marshal Macy Shields and Dixie Murphy.
“Afternoon, Mr. Corrigan, what have you here?” Shields asked.
Deed glanced toward the senior Sanchez and let him speak first.
“We bring the gunmen who try to kill us . . . like they kill our amigos at the Bar 3 this spring,” Felix Sanchez spoke slowly with his head held high.
Sheriff Lucas smiled. “Glad you weren’t hurt, Señor Sanchez.” His graying hair told of a strong man who had served the county for twenty years.
“They wound muy mal my youngest son, Paul,” the gray-haired rancher said. “If not for our Corrigan amigos, we will have not made it, I fear.”
“Sounds like the same bunch that hit the Bar 3 last night. Mr. Murphy, the foreman of the Bar 3, reported his ranch was attacked last night and thirty horses were stolen,” Lucas reported, trying to look stern.
Deed’s eyes shot toward the gray-haired county lawman. “What?”
Calmly, the sheriff motioned toward Murphy, standing next to the city marshal on the corner of the boardwalk. “I said Mr. Murphy reported his ranch was attacked last night and thirty of his horses were stolen.”
Blue reined up next to Deed, who told him about Dixie Murphy’s claim.
“Convenient,” Blue declared loudly, staring at Murphy. “So what happened to the outlaws’ other horses, the ones they would’ve been riding?”
Murphy shrugged.
“Bet we can get a few of these boys to say different,” Deed said quietly to Blue.
“Not our job, Deed. It’s the sheriff’s.” Blue turned toward the nervous lawman and expressed their concern that Murphy was lying.
“It’s pretty obvious this is the same bunch that wiped out the Regan family,” Blue said.
“Maybe,” came the tight-lipped reply from Lucas. “I’ll check into it, but the horse stealing sounds legit to me.” He motioned toward the arrested gunmen. “Mr. Murphy said they had put twenty-eight head in the corral. They were to be shod before roundup.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked over at Macy Shields who smiled.
“Marshal, all right if I put this bunch in your jail?”
The skinny town lawman folded his arms and smiled again. “Yeah. I’ll need to release Jimmy Wedge-berry first. He was in overnight for being drunk and raising cain.”
Macy Shields was dressed in his customary white suspenders, or they had been white once, and a faded blue bib shirt. His eyes were tiny and too close together. As usual, he wore a bandana tied over his head like a pirate, instead of a hat. He had figured in several pointless killings in Texas and Kansas. Nothing was ever proved, however.
Blue leaned forward in his saddle. “There are nine bodies in the wagon. We weren’t about to bury them on good Lazy S land. Figured they’re the county’s problem.” He straightened his back.
Tugging on the brim of his hat, Deed growled, “Or we can dump them on Bar 3 land. That’s where they came from.”
Sheriff Lucas frowned and stared at the wagon, unable to meet either brother’s gaze. “Oh, all right. Can you drive ’em to the city’s cemetery? I’ll get some boys to bury ’em.”
“Yes, but you’d best get some boys there to dig real quick. Won’t be long before the smell’ll be something awful,” Blue answered. “If you want, I’ll say words over them.” He motioned toward the wounded gunmen in the wagon. “Better have Doc take a look at them, too.”
“You’re leaving me with quite a mess.”
“Maybe so, but they left the Sanchezes with loyal hands killed. One of their sons is shot up, and our good hand, Jake, wounded,” Deed said, nudging his horse forward to stop next to the sheriff. Deed’s eyes were hot as he glared at the uncomfortable lawman. “An’ I don’t buy that crap about stolen horses for one minute, Lucas. And if you do, you’re not the man I thought you were.”
Blue reined his horse away. “Come on, Deed. Let’s get this done. We’ve got work to do.”
Deed nodded, then spun his horse toward the boardwalk where Dixie Murphy and Marshal Shields stood. “Murphy, tell that fat-ass boss of yours that this is not over. The Regans were friends of ours. So are the Sanchezes. We don’t forget friends.”
Murphy spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the street and snorted, “Go to hell, Corrigan.”
“Deed, come on,” Blue yelled. “He isn’t worth it.”
Deed glanced at his brother as Murphy’s hand dropped to his holstered gun. Deed looked back with his own Remington in his fist. No one saw him draw.
“I’m not as nice as my brother,” Deed said between clenched teeth. “I don’t think everybody is good. Or honest.”
Sheriff Lucas waved his arms. “That’s enough, Corrigan. Mr. Murphy is a law-abiding citizen in this county. You remember that.”
“Sure, Sheriff. Sure. And I’m a buffalo.” Deed spun his revolver in his hand, holstered it, and loped away to catch up with Blue and the others. The wagon rolled toward the cemetery at the far end of town.
Nightfall brought a sense of comfort to Wilkon after the day of excitement. The Corrigan brothers, Felix Sanchez, and their men rode out at dusk. Dixie Murphy decided to stay overnight, telling the livery operation to leave his horses outside and saddled in the corral. He would be taking them back to the ranch in the morning and would hire some men to help. The livery corral brimmed with milling horses, serving as the only visible reminder of the day’s activity.
A hearing was scheduled for the morning in the justice of the peace’s office. Quietly, Murphy met with the two lawmen to make certain they understood what was to happen. The three men stood behind the jail, smoking and talking. After a few minutes, they split up with Murphy heading for the Longhorn saloon; Sheriff Lucas heading for his home on Third Street; and Marshal Shields entering the jail.
Inside the jail, the Bar 3 gunmen were crowded into five small cells. Rhey Selman gripped the cell bars and said, “Macy, get us out of here. We’re not going quietly.”
“Shut up, Selman, and listen.”
Macy Shields explained what was going to happen . . . that a deputy would be in charge for the night and would be given a jug of whiskey. As he spoke, Shields handed keys and three revolvers to Selmon.
“Keep ’em out of sight,” Shields ordered. “This needs to go quiet-like. Your horses are at the livery corral—still saddled. Murphy wants you to take all of them so he’s got an alibi. Go back to the Bar 3 but stay out of sight. Go to one of the outer shacks.”
“All right. When do we do this?” Selmon asked, keeping one gun and passing on the other weapons.
“My deputy’ll be here in an hour.” Shields grinned. “Be patient. When he’s snoring, you can open the cells.”
“What about him?”
“Coldcock him. Don’t shoot,” Shields said. “And don’t run to the corral. Walk. Ride out the same way, real easy-like. Two or three at a time. If you do it right, nobody will know you’re gone till morning, when I check in.”
“What about the Corrigans?”
“Leave that to Bordner.”