CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At midday, a grim Sheriff Lucas rode up to the LC ranch yard. With him were eight riders, all townsmen, all uneasy about their assignment as members of the sheriff’s posse.
From the corral, Deed and Blue met them as they rode into the yard. Silka and Chico came from the barn. It was obvious something was wrong.
“The attackers broke out last night. Coldcocked the deputy. Got a night’s lead on us,” Lucas stated with little emotion.
With his hands on his hips, Deed snarled, “Been to the Bar 3? There’s where they came from, Sheriff.”
From the back of the posse came a gruff reply from Dixie Murphy. “I told you they were my horses, Corrigan, but not my men. I intend to get them back. Whether you go or not.”
“They’re headed toward El Paso,” Sheriff Lucas declared without looking at either man.
“Kinda headed the wrong direction, aren’t you?” Deed said.
“Thought you’d want to ride with us,” Sheriff Lucas said. “Some of these boys need to . . . get home. We’ll go next to the Lazy S and see if they want to help.”
Deed was silent and glanced at Silka, who nodded.
“All right. Send the husbands home to their wives,” Deed finally said. He turned to Blue and suggested that he, Silka, and the others continue with roundup preparation. He asked Chico if he would go with him, but that he certainly didn’t have to do so. The Mexican readily agreed and Blue thought it made sense. Silka thought it would be better if he went along, instead, but Deed told him it was more important for him to stay at the ranch. The former samurai’s face was unreadable, but he didn’t say anything more.
Soon, Deed and Chico were riding away with Sheriff Lucas and the posse. After picking up the middle son, Thomas Sanchez, and two vaqueros from the Lazy S, five men from the original group left for town and the rest continued on. The outlaws’ trail was not hard to follow with so many horses involved. They were definitely more interested in gaining distance than in deceiving pursuit.
Thomas Sanchez took the point at Deed’s request and his trail-reading skills were quickly apparent. The day was overcast with the likelihood of an autumn rain coming . . . and soon. After pausing at a feisty creek to water their mounts, the posse continued with little talking among themselves. Deed even refrained from chewing on Dixie Murphy, who was now bringing up the rear. For the first time, Deed realized the crooked cowman had put on a bright red scarf around this neck. Deed was certain he wasn’t wearing it earlier, but said nothing.
The afternoon sun was easing toward the horizon and Deed suggested to Thomas Sanchez that they should look for a place to camp for the night. Sheriff Lucas insisted they keep going for another hour or so, that they were cutting into the outlaws’ lead. The logic was hard to argue with and Deed and Thomas agreed.
Ahead was a towering mesa with its twin positioned on the other side of the trail. The area was known as Oak Tree Canyon. Through it lay more open country with occasional bursts of scrub pine. On either side of the mesas were heavily forested areas, broken by rock and a sometimes creek. A perfect place for an ambush, Deed thought and drew his Spencer from its saddle scabbard. He leaned forward and patted his buckskin on the neck. Chico noticed Deed readying his rifle and did the same. Deed saw Sheriff Lucas was wearing his lawman’s badge; the metal star danced a little, even in the overcast afternoon.
“How come you’re wearing a star?” Deed asked. “Kinda gives us away, doesn’t it?”
The gray-haired lawman glanced at his shirt and shrugged his shoulders. “Thought it made sense for people to know we’re the law. You know, the law is coming.”
“Interesting,” Deed said. “Most lawmen I know don’t wear their badges on the trail. It gives them away. Where we’re riding could easily be an ambush.”
“It’ll be fine, Corrigan. You take care of yourself.”
“That’s what I am trying to do.” Shifting in his saddle, Deed studied the nearing mesas. He yelled to Thomas three horse lengths in front of him, “Thomas, I don’t like this. Ride careful.”
The young Mexican nodded his agreement and patted the rifle laying across his saddle in front of him.
Halfway up the hillside on the left, a flicker of light came and disappeared in an instant.
“Thomas, ambush!” Deed yelled and kicked his horse, firing in the direction of the brief flash and wheeling toward the trees to his right.
Rifle fire from a dozen spots exploded from both mesas. Thomas Sanchez went down, then his two vaqueros under the heavy fire. Five bullets sought Deed at once and drove him from his frightened horse. One bullet creased his horse’s chest. Another drilled a hole in his hat and one cut across the top of his left ear, barely missing his head. A fourth sliced across his upper left arm, ripping through his shirtsleeve. And a fifth clipped his left thigh. The buckskin ran on. The young gunfighter hit the ground. His carbine went flying into the woods. So did his hat. For a minute, he wasn’t cognizant of what was going on. Around him, bullets tore into the posse, except for Sheriff Lucas and Dixie Murphy who were riding safely toward the mesas.
Deed saw Chico get hit in the face and crumble to the ground. One of the two townsmen with the posse flopped next to Deed. He stared at the young gunfighter through frightened eyes, tried to speak, and died.
Blinking away the shock, Deed reached up and touched his left ear; its top was bleeding and hurting. He had come close to being killed. Crawling on his hands and knees, he found his carbine, grabbed it, and moved on reaching a shallow ravine that once had been a creek. Sounds of gunfire gradually lessened as he forced himself to keep moving. He knew the outlaws would soon leave the mesas to see if any posse men remained alive.
He had to find a hiding place before he passed out. He must. His left arm was throbbing and his shirtsleeve was crimson. He was certain he’d also been hit near his left thigh. He didn’t think any of the wounds were serious, but he was losing a considerable amount of blood and was growing weak from the shock.
Splatters of a cold rain drummed against the land.
At the end of the ravine sat a fat pool of water—stagnant water. To his right was a long rock shelf, running twenty yards. He forced himself up onto the shelf and crawled along its uneven frame, dragging his carbine with him. Maybe he could lay there and rest. Maybe. Fifteen yards along the way, he came to a crevice that looked like a possible hideaway. He stood, became dizzy, and dropped again to his knees. Patience was the key, Silka would remind him if he were here. Do not panic. Think.
Rain was coming hard now and that would wash away any signs of his movements. Standing slowly again, he saw the crevice opened into a cave that was at least twenty feet long and almost man-high. He slipped inside and slid to the ground. If they found him here, he would die, but he couldn’t go any farther. He cocked the Spencer using both hands.
Crawling across the rocky floor was a black spider. Deed watched the tiny creature as it moved up onto his boot.
“Evening, little buddy,” he said. “Got some Indian friends that think you’re a pretty powerful fellow. Sorry to bother you, but I had to get out of the rain.”
The spider crawled up across his boot, down, and wandered toward the back of the cave. Shortly afterward, he fell asleep.
On the trail, outlaws squished across the soaked land, swearing at being wet and making certain none of the downed posse lived, with additional shots to their heads. Wearing a yellow slicker over his bear-fur coat, Rhey Selmon looked up at the sheriff and Dixie Murphy.
“Ya did good, lawman. Agon will be pleased. Probably a bonus in it for ya,” Selmon praised and wiped rain from his face.
Sheriff Lucas looked nauseous and said nothing.
“I don’t see Corrigan’s body, do you?” Murphy said, shifting in his saddle.
“No. Haven’t found it yet. Washita said he hit him in the head. Knocked him off his horse,” Selmon said. “I hit him, too. Arm or shoulder. Could’ve been hit four or five times. Ike was shooting at him, too.”
Watching the rain soak the land, Murphy said, “Well, I want to see his body. I want to put a bullet between his eyes, for good measure. The bastard almost ruined things for us.” He swung his horse toward the mesa. “Keep looking.”
Less than two miles away, Holt Corrigan heard the gunshots before the rain came. He had seen the clouds, quickly gathered wood for a fire, and taken refuge under a cliff before the sky opened up. He knew he wasn’t far from the largest ranch in the area, the Bar 3, but still a long way from his brothers’ ranch. The intensity of gunfire told him that it wasn’t a hunt; it was a gun battle. All that gunfire meant someone was surely dead. As soon as the word dead came to his mind, he tried to unthink it. He didn’t want to pull death to him by thinking of it. Besides, there was nothing he could do about it, one way or the other. Probably a disagreement over cattle ownership, so he began assembling his gathered wood for a fire and soon got it started. He was surprised to see the fire turn hollow, and he jammed short branches into its middle to eliminate the bad sign. There wasn’t anything he could do at the moment, except make certain his guns were cleaned and ready.