CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was dark when Deed Corrigan awoke. The rain had stopped and the night was cold. He woke up shivering. At first, he didn’t know where he was, but gradually his mind returned him to the situation. His left arm was stiff, so was his left thigh. His ear burned with pain. Gradually, he determined that neither his leg nor his arm wound held any lead. He was hungry and thirsty. The second desire should be easily handled. Outside the cave were puddles of rainwater collected in the rock shelf’s pockets. He forced himself to make certain his Spencer and handgun were dry and ready. It took twice as long as it should.

Cradling his Spencer in his right arm, he half-crawled, half-dragged himself to the first rain puddle and drank it dry. He edged himself along the shelf to the second water and did his best to clean his wounds, even putting his ear into the cool water. He was weak, but he was alive. More than he could say for the rest of the posse, he feared.

Obviously, Sheriff Lucas was involved with Agon Bordner’s grand scheme. Probably on the take. How sad, Deed thought. At one time, Matthew R. Lucas had been a good man.

Using his right hand against the rock wall for balance, he stood and tried to put weight on his wounded left leg, but couldn’t and almost fell down. The rock shelf itself was wet as he worked slowly toward the lower land. Halfway across, he slipped and fell. The pain in his left leg made him bite his lip to keep from crying out. Slowly, he stood and started again. He figured the outlaws would search the area for him and he wasn’t going far without a horse.

There was a definite possibility that his buckskin would be near, unless they had taken it. After the initial fear, the animal would seek him out. Horses liked the comfort of being around people, and the buckskin was a favorite. Likely the animal would return to the trail to graze and wait. The repulsion of blood and dead bodies might change that, however. But Deed had to try and return to the trail. Some of the other posse horses might there as well. And, he reminded himself, so might be a bunch of outlaws.

But it was early. Dawn was least an hour away. Not too many outlaws liked getting up early, especially on a cold, wet morning. Still, he had to be wary of guards left behind to watch for him and any other posse member that made it.

Backtracking through the woods was slow. He couldn’t put any weight on his wounded leg and it was bleeding again. A long, crooked branch was serving as a crutch. Deed couldn’t remember feeling so weary. He even considered leaving his Spencer, but knew that wouldn’t be wise. From the cover of brush, he studied the awful reminders of the ambush. White corpses lay in various poses of death, apparently untouched since the fighting. As expected, three horses were grazing nearby; one with its saddle upside-down. His buckskin was among them.

The smell of woodsmoke reached him before he saw its reason. Two men were crowded around a small, balky fire trying to keep warm. A blackened coffeepot sat on top of a half-burned log. A skillet of bacon slices was sizzling. Both bacon and coffee smelled delicious. On the ground nearby were tin cups and plates. Obviously, the guards were there to watch for Deed’s return. Neither were paying attention as he worked his way along the edge of the trail to a position where he could cover both easily.

Dizziness tried to grab him, but he shook his head. Not now. Not now. He saw that his hat still lay within the trees near where he had fallen. Crawling, he managed to get to it and put it on, ignoring the hole through the crown and the fact that the edge rested on his injured ear.

Then, leaning on his crutch, he took a few steps forward.

“Mornin’, boys,” he said, aiming his carbine at them.

Both men jumped and reached for rifles lying beside them.

“Don’t. Unless you want to start the morning . . . dead,” Deed growled.

“You must be Deed Corrigan,” the long-faced outlaw said. “Looks like our boys cut you up pretty bad.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Deed said, shifting his weight to his bad leg, then shifting it back. “You can tell Murphy and Lucas I’ll be coming for them.”

The taller outlaw with a long chin that held a long-ago scar straightened his back. “Tell them yourself, Corrigan. They’ll be along. All of ’em. Real soon.”

“You’d better hope not. The two of you won’t see them arrive.”

“I gotta move that bacon. It’s gonna burn.” Leaning over in front of the fire, the taller outlaw took hold of the skillet as if to shift it away from the flames.

Dropping his crutch, Deed realized the significance of the man using his left hand to control the skillet and stepped back and to the right as the outlaw flung the hot grease and bacon at him while reaching for his holstered gun.

Two quick shots from Deed hit the outlaw heart high as two pieces of bacon reached his waist and the grease splattered around his boots. The movement sent a dull ache through his left arm.

“Your turn.” Deed swung his recocked Spencer in the direction of the second outlaw. The man took a half step forward, froze, and raised his hands.

After directing him to unbuckle his sidearm and drop a backup gun, Deed told him to take the two rifles and his pistols over to the wooded area and throw them into the forest. While that was being done, Deed picked up a slice of bacon, ate it, then retrieved the dead outlaw’s revolver, shoving it into his belt. His gaze rarely left the submissive outlaw; then Deed ordered the man to lay down across the fire from him with his head pointed away and his arms and legs outstretched.

Satisfied the man couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything quickly, Deed ate another piece of bacon while he searched the dead outlaw for any hidden weapons and found a short-barreled Smith & Wesson Bulldog revolver. He shoved the gun into his back waistband, ate another piece of bacon from the ground, and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was hot and strong, but tasted good. He was weak and couldn’t move quickly, and the rest of the gang would not likely be far away. The gunshots might have alerted them, but he couldn’t worry about it.

Drawing the outlaw’s main gun, he began hobbling toward his buckskin, leaving the crutch where he had discarded it. As he walked past the terrified outlaw, Deed slugged his head with the butt of his Spencer. It didn’t make sense to gamble on the man staying in place for long and Deed needed time.

The buckskin’s head came up and its ears pricked as Deed neared. Would the animal shy away from him? Deed’s strength was draining fast; he wouldn’t be able to trail after the horse if it moved away. But the buckskin nickered and rubbed its nose against Deed’s chest as he came close.

“Yeah, it’s me, boy. We’re going to ride out of here, but you have to help me.”

Deed took the downed reins, shoved the carbine into its sleeve and led the horse to some boulders that looked like God had been playing dice with them before leaving. There was no way he would be able to mount the horse with his wounded leg. He would get on from the wrong side, and do so from an elevated position. Finding the right rock, he led the horse alongside, then eased his good leg into the stirrup and tried to slide his left leg across the saddle.

The buckskin wanted to move out, but Deed held the reins tightly with his right hand and forced himself to complete mounting. His left leg screamed in pain. At least he was in place and he eased the reins. The buckskin took off with a familiar canter, then into a smooth lope. Deed hoped he would be able to stay conscious long enough to reach their ranch. He had to, to do otherwise was to die.

“Not today. Not going to die today.”

The buckskin’s ears twisted to catch the words.

“It’s all right, boy, I’m just a little weak right now.” He forced his left arm toward the pommel and wrapped the reins around his wrist and the pommel to help keep him upright if he passed out.