CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Dizzy and weak, Deed Corrigan weaved in the saddle. Ahead was a cluster of cottonwoods. He remembered there should be water, especially after the rain. His horse needed to rest as well.
Over the hill behind him came three riders, whipping their horses in a fierce gallop. They had to be Bar 3 gunmen coming to finish the job. He spurred the buckskin into a run it couldn’t keep up long. Ahead was a small ridge. That would have to do. He was too far from the cottonwoods to make it. Nearing the ridge, he slowed his horse and untied the reins from his left hand. He pulled his carbine from its sleeve and tossed it on the ground. Trying to dismount while holding the gun could prove disastrous. The horse threw its head, wanting to run in spite of its weariness.
“Not now, boy. I need you to stop. Whoa.”
Angling across the hills, Holt Corrigan saw three horsemen chasing after a lone rider, who was wounded. Deed! It was his brother!
Dismounting, Holt drew his rifle and knelt. He raised the gun to his shoulder and began firing. The lead rider grabbed his chest and tumbled from his horse. Holt’s next shots missed, but the two remaining gunmen were now aware of his presence. From the ridge in front of them, Deed propped his rifle against a rock, laid his wounded arm across the barrel and shot one-handed. A second rider’s face turned red and he fell off the back of his horse. The third rider tried to turn his horse around, but the animal wouldn’t obey. Bullets from both Deed and Holt brought him down. The three empty horses ran past Deed as he slowly stood.
Who had helped him? Was it one of the Lazy S vaqueros? He wasn’t far from the Sanchez ranch. He watched as the figure remounted and rode toward him, waving.
Holt!
How in the world? Deed wondered but was very happy, whatever the reason. He was weak and went to his knees.
“Hey, Deed, what the hell you doing out here?” Holt asked as he rode up. “Wait a minute. You’re hurt. Really hurt.” He swung his horse around toward the attackers. “Hold on, Deed. I gotta check on these bastards first, so they won’t cause us more problems.”
Holt walked his horse next to the closest outlaw and jumped down, holding his rifle in his right hand. The dead gunman’s face was a red pumpkin. He yanked free the man’s pistols and a knife and threw them in Deed’s direction, then went to the second downed gunman. Stepping close, he kicked the prone man in the ribs. Hard. The grunt that followed was what Holt expected.
“When you turn over, peckerhead, you’d better have empty hands,” Holt growled. “I’d like an excuse to put a bullet in your head.”
“I-I’m hurt. R-Real bad.”
“Tell somebody who gives a damn,” Holt responded. “You bastards were trying to kill my little brother.” He pointed his rifle at the slowly moving man. “I oughta put a bullet in your head just for good measure.”
“P-Please . . . mister,” the long-faced outlaw said, holding his side. His shirt was mostly crimson.
“Shut up.”
“P-Please I was j-just followin’ orders.”
“Who sent you?”
“Uh, nobody.”
Holt fired and the outlaw screamed and grabbed his right knee. “That’s one knee gone. Want to try two?” Holt levered a new cartridge into his rifle.
“Oh God, no! No! Dixie Murphy and Rhey Selmon, they sent us.”
“That’s better. What’s going on here?”
The outlaw jabbered about what had happened, the attack and arrest at the Lazy S, the escape from jail, the ambush of the posse, the involvement of the county sheriff. Holt stripped the man of his weapons and tossed them toward his brother, then walked on to the third outlaw. The man was dead; Holt disarmed him, shoving his guns into his waistband and heading for his brother.
“Hey, are you Holt Corrigan?” the long-faced outlaw asked. “I heard you was dead.”
Holt smiled. “Heard that, too. I’m Sam Holton.”
“Sam H-Holton? Do I know you?”
“No. I don’t hang around with scum.” Holt hurried to his wounded brother.
“I’m all right. Nothing serious. They caught us in an ambush yesterday.”
“I heard.” Holt looked up. “Think any more of those bastards will be coming?”
“Don’t know. I doubt it. Getting too close to the Lazy S.”
“You’ve got blood in your hair, on your ear.”
“Yeah, they nicked my ear. Think a little piece is gone.”
Holt examined Deed’s ear. “Yeah. But no one will notice if you keep your hair long.”
“I guess I was lucky.”
“Are you carrying any lead?” Holt asked.
“No. Just been bleeding a lot.”
“Your ear looks like somebody bit it.”
“Yeah, a bullet.”
“Can you ride?” Holt asked, shoving his rifle into its sleeve and pulling his canteen from his saddle and handing to Deed.
“I got here, didn’t I?”
Deed took the canteen and drank deeply, holding it with his right hand. His left hand was at his side. He tried to put weight on his left leg but it wouldn’t hold him and he fell.
“Careful, little brother. Go slow.”
“Yeah, maybe so. Can you get my horse? The buckskin might let you. He’s a good one,” Deed said.
“Sure. Can you hold mine?”
“Got it.”
After slipping the canteen sling over his saddle horn, Holt walked to Deed’s grazing horse. The buckskin raised his head and his ears went up as Holt approached.
“Easy, buck. Easy now. I’m Deed’s brother. Nothing to get excited about. Right?” Holt held out his opened palm for the horse to sniff, then slid it along the animal’s face to take hold of his halter, then the reins. “See, buck. Nothing to it. Going to be fine, you and me. Let’s go over here where Deed is.”
He led the horse back to Deed. The buckskin shook its head and snorted, smelling Deed’s blood.
“You’re all right, Buck. It’s old blood,” Holt helped Deed into the saddle, holding the reins of both horses, then retrieved Deed’s Spencer and returned it to the saddle scabbard.
“Tie my hands . . . and my boots,” Deed said. “There’s piggin’ strings in my saddlebags.”
Holt looked over at the wounded outlaw, who was laying down, holding his bloody knee. Two of the outlaw horses were grazing nearby; the third was nowhere in sight.
After Holt had laced his brother into place, he jammed the collected outlaw guns, barrel first, into the muddy ground.
“Deed, think I’d better get rid of those rifles on their horses before we go. Don’t want to give ol’ one knee any ideas,” Holt said.
“They might not let you get close.”
“We’ll see. If they don’t, I’ll send ’em running.”
Mounting, Holt swung his horse toward the quiet horses. The closest bay tensed as he rode up, but didn’t move. He eased alongside the animal and yanked the rifle clear and laid it across his saddle in front of him. The second rifle was lifted as easily and Holt pulled away, balancing both guns in front of him.
The wounded outlaw watched him and called out, “You better keep ridin’, Corrigan. Bordner’s gonna git all of you. You, too, Holton.”
Holt’s eyes were hot. For an instant, his fingers found the trigger of the top rifle, then he relaxed. “Tell that fat bastard we’ll be coming after him. Tell him to get his fat ass out of here.”
The outlaw muttered something the Corrigan brothers didn’t understand as they rode away with Holt leading Deed’s horse. After a few minutes, Holt threw the two outlaw rifles into the brush.
“Holt, I’m mighty glad to see you,” Deed said through clenched teeth. “Blue said he talked with you in El Paso.”
“Yeah, he told me to quit fighting a dead war and come home. So, here I am.”
Deed smiled. “Blue makes a lot of sense sometimes. Kinda like Ma used to.”
“Right.”
“You didn’t rob the El Paso bank?”
“No. Blue said it was owned by Confederates. So I went to see for myself. Ended up talking with Dave Copate. We fought together at Sabine Pass. Good man,” Holt said. “He told me a lot of what Blue said.”
“We got word at the Forsyth station that the bank had been robbed.”
“Really. Well, it wasn’t me.”
Deed shook his head. “Yeah, the stage driver said that the bank president claimed it wasn’t you. Was real strong about it.”
Holt was silent, then changed the subject. “How far to the next . . . friendly ranch?”
“The Lazy S is about three hours from here. Due north.”
They rode on, each with his own thoughts, into a wide and broken land. Ahead of them grazing cattle were mere dots on a light brown canvas. Overhead, the sky was a mass of jagged gray clouds, as if a long heavenly fire had turned ashen.
Holt was worried about more Bar 3 riders following them or coming up on them from some unseen draw. They were crossing Bar 3 land; he knew that. Deed was mumbling to himself, barely conscious.
They passed a cluster of stunted cedar, enclosing what had once been a buffalo wallow. Ahead he saw a large open tank holding water. As they approached, Deed woke up, shook his head, and told him to head toward a patch of brittle bush far to the left and to a gathering of trees just beyond. He grimaced that the tank was filled with scum and gestured that good water lay within the trees. Holt nodded and wheeled his horse in that direction, still leading Deed’s horse. They passed a snow-white steer skeleton, cleared a fat ridge, entered a shallow wash, and rode into a magnificent meadow, unseen from just a handful of yards away. In front of them was a sparkling pond, fed by two occasional streams and offering solace to a small gathering of cottonwood, pecan, and oak trees. A half-dozen steers drank from its wetness.
“Told ya,” Deed muttered.
“Lucky guess,” Holt growled. “Want down?”
“No thanks. Better not. Might have trouble getting back on.” Deed’s face was white with shock.
“All right.” Holt dismounted and led both horses to the pond. Several steers moved away as they advanced. All wore Bar 3 brands.
While the animals drank, Holt Corrigan studied their surroundings. It was fine cattle country. Far to their left was a long arroyo that appeared to be filled with cattle. To their right was a patch of sandstone bursting with heavy rock. The sandstone was still heavy with last night’s rain. In all directions, the land was empty of riders. At least it would be difficult to surprise them in this flat country. Somewhere a quail whispered an inquiring song. Holt wondered if it was a sign and what kind. He decided it must be a good sign; how could a bird singing be an indication of bad things coming?
After the horses had watered well, they took off again. Holt knew the land, but not like Deed and Blue did. It had been long years since his departure. Deed was asleep in the saddle and Holt let him rest.
A late afternoon sun laid slanting rays across the two Corrigan brothers as they rode closer to the Lazy S. Ahead of them, two antelope were surprised from their grazing and began to run. Deed was apparently asleep, bobbing in the saddle. Holt watched four riders appear in the horizon and advance from a ridge to the northwest.
He knew at once it was Comanches.
Taking a knife from his belt, Holt turned to Deed. “Little brother, wake up. Got four Indians coming. Wake up.” He leaned over and cut free Deed’s hands with his knife.
Deed blinked his eyes, trying to regain his senses, then began rubbing his stiff hands.
“Got an idea, Deed. Make like you’re crazy in the head. You know, yelling crazy stuff. Wave your arms,” Holt told him as the watched the warriors advance.
“You think it’s worth it. I can shoot.”
“We’ll try that next.”
Deed began to holler a mixture of Japanese phrases and biblical verses, anything he could recall. “Nakitsura ni hachi! Ame futte ji katamaru! There is a lion in the way; a lion is in the streets. Tonari no shibafu wa noi! The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. Fuku sui bon ni kaerazu!” He waved his right arm wildly, looking up to the sky.
As they rode closer to the Indians, Holt said the Comanche words for medicine man while he made the signs. He put his fist at his forehead, extended two fingers skyward, then spiraled his fist upward. That was followed with holding up one finger. His left hand held his rifle in front of his saddle.
The Indians made signs of understanding and moved out of their way. After clearing a short ridge, Holt said, “Come on, let’s ride before they change their minds.”
They galloped hard across the broken plain and gradually brought their horses back to a trot, then a walk.
“Damn, that was wild,” Holt said, shaking his head.
“Sure was. I was out of stuff to yell,” Deed said and chuckled. “Never can tell about Indians.”
“Yeah. Never. You sure must be feeling better to yell like that.”
“Didn’t have much choice.”
They rode silently for another hour when three riders became visible from the northwest. They were largely silhouettes. As they came closer, Deed could make out their sombreros and a stray ray of sun found one of their large-roweled spurs.
“They’re friends, Holt. Lazy S vaqueros. Wave at them.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
The Corrigan brothers rode easily forward as the three vaqueros slipped beside them, eager to hear what had happened. Deed’s bloody shirt and pants told part of the story. Four brown and lean men with unrelenting dark eyes flashed ready smiles. Each was armed with a rifle and gunbelt; each had an extra cartridge belt across his shoulders. Large-roweled spurs seemed a part of their bodies.
The lead vaquero with steel-gray hair and piercing eyes groaned when told the news about Sanchez’s son and the vaqueros with the posse. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
“Are you the one they call El Punta?” he asked.
“No, I’m Sam Holton,” Holt held out his hand.
Taking it firmly, the man said, “I am Cliente, foreman of the Lazy S.”
“Good to know you,” Holt said. “I take it you’ve met my little brother.” He smiled. “Guess that gave it away. Sorry. Too many folks trying to catch up with Holt Corrigan these days.”
Straightening his back, Cliente said, “I understand. Señor Deed Corrigan is a most honored man in our ranchero. He save us. He and his brother, Blue. And Silka, the one with the long knives. You are most welcome . . . Sam Holton.”
“Thanks. Agon Bordner behind all this?”
“Sí, the fat man and his guns. Many guns. They outnumber us two times. Maybe more,” Cliente tossed his dead cigarette. “We are cowmen, not gunmen.”
“All of us will have to get smarter and tougher,” Holt drawled.
“Sí. Let us ride for our ranchero, amigos,” Cliente said. “Your brother need rest. We will send out a wagon to bring home the bodies of Thomas Sanchez and our friends who rode with the posse.”
Deed bit his lower lip and asked if they would also bring Chico’s body back for burying at their ranch. Cliente readily agreed, then said something in Spanish to two of his men. They wheeled their horses and galloped back. Deed guessed Cliente was being careful and didn’t want to take a chance on Bar 3 riders coming up on them. A look at Holt told him that his brother was thinking the same thing.
Motioning for the Corrigan brothers to follow, Cliente rolled another cigarette and said, “So now we fight the law as well as the fat man.” He snapped a match to flame on his pants, inhaled, and added, “Roundup will be a buen’ ocasión to attack us, I fear. We will be spread out and worried about our beeves.”
Deed nodded, too tired to respond. His wounds were bleeding again, bringing fresh pain. Sleep would be welcomed. Forcing himself to speak, he said, “Not having the roundup would play right into their hands. They’d brand everything that moved.”
“Sí. It is a tough thing we are in.”
“Well, it’s a cinch they won’t be joining us this year,” Holt said, searching his coat pocket for a cigar.
Deed smiled at the use of us. It was good to have Holt back. They rode for a few minutes; then Holt turned to his brother, leaned towards him, and just above a whisper, said, “Earlier I told those boys I was Sam Holton. You should know that I am going by that name for now. At least to outsiders. I’ll deal with the other later.”
“Sure . . . Sam.”
As soon as they reached the Lazy S hacienda, Cliente jumped down and went inside; he found Felix Sanchez and told him about Deed and Sam following. Felix met them at the hitchrail in front; reddened eyes told them that the news of his son’s death had already reached the family. Cliente was beside him.
“Amigos. It is bueno that you make it, Señor Deed,” Felix said in a voice thick with sadness.
“Felix, I’m so sorry about Thomas. We rode right into it,” Deed said.
“Sheriff Lucas shall die by my hand,” the big Mexican rancher said.
Holt leaned forward in his saddle. “You know something? Don’t be surprised if Sheriff what’s his name is already dead. With Deed getting away, his value to Bordner isn’t much.”
Deed looked at him with a question in his eyes. “What about Murphy?”
“Naw. He’s too good a cattleman.”
Felix Sanchez waved his arms. “Por favor, where are my manners? Come in and eat. Señor Deed, you must rest. You come as well, Señor Holton.” The Sanchez family swarmed around Deed, insisting that he be treated for his wounds even as Deed insisted he was fine.
“Señor Deed, you have been bleeding muy mal,” the gray-haired Maria Sanchez, Felix’s wife, declared. “Come now and let us clean your wounds. Find some new clothes.”
Sanchez’s daughters, Tina and Lea, laughed and took him by the arm. Both were in their late teens and striking young women. Felix nodded agreement and his oldest son, Taol, shouted his support. Holt laughed and patted his brother on the back.
Maria turned to Holt. “You must eat too, Señor Holton. You have saved our Deed.” It was obvious they realized he was Deed’s older brother, but honored Holt’s wish to be called Sam Holton.
“Sounds great.”
Felix Sanchez told them that his youngest son, Paul, had been moved back home and was resting well and Felix’s thanks for saving Paul and all at the ranch came again. Deed was so tired he wasn’t sure he could stand. They entered the great house, taking in its quiet majesty. Adobe walls held the temperatures well and everywhere the Corrigans looked were paintings, Mexican artifacts, Indian pottery, and handwoven rugs. A large gun rack held a dozen rifles and three shotguns.
Heavy chairs, hand engraved, awaited them around the massive wooden table. Felix and Cliente were already seated and talking. Holt sat down, after washing his face and hands outside. A few minutes later, Deed joined them wearing a new shirt and pants, flared at the bottom. He looked pale, but acted like he was fine. His ear was bandaged and it smelled like his arm and thigh had been dressed as well. He was wearing his gunbelt, but had discarded the outlaw revolvers picked up at their camp.
“You look ready for church services, even Blue would be pleased,” Holt said and added, “I’m going to ride with Cliente and his riders back to the ambush. Felix wants the bodies back here as soon as possible. You’ll stay here, all right?”
“Uh, sure. Sure.”
Felix’s daughters brought in steaming plates of tortillas, beef, and beans, with plenty of fresh, hot coffee. After finishing, Deed asked if it would be all right for him to lie down for a few minutes. The two daughters led him to one of the extra bedrooms and he was asleep in minutes.