by Cotton Smith
“So will I,” Deputy Jorgenson added.
That quieted the prisoners.
“Blue, Deed, Silka, where the hell are you?” he mumbled.
As fast as it had come again, the rain decided to go elsewhere, leaving only a gray mist and equally gray day.
Sneaking toward Holt from his left was Pickle, the half-breed in a brand-new Stetson hat with a cocked Henry. He moved silently from alley to alley with the goal of getting close enough to kill Holt.
CHAPTER TWO
Across the street, Deed Corrigan, Holt’s younger brother, and Nakashima Silka, who was like a stepfather to all three brothers, were in the general store, buying supplies for the ranch. A former samurai who had emigrated from Japan, Silka had raised Deed, in particular, to fight effectively with any weapon as well as with his hands and feet in classic Japanese style, to understand the importance of timing and leverage. Deed’s reputation was at least as great as Holt’s.
Deed and Silka reacted in unison as soon as they realized the shots weren’t the sounds of a cowboy letting off steam.
“Where you heading?” the storekeeper asked. “What about your supplies? There’s a gunfight going on out there, you know.”
“We’ll be back,” Deed said.
He saw the fat outlaw, hiding behind the barrel next to the saloon, as soon as he left the store and headed for him. Two strides away, he yelled and the outlaw turned toward the sound. His eyes opened wide and he swung his rifle toward Deed. The youngest Corrigan flew into the air, cocked his legs, then straightened them, driving his boots into the man’s face and throat. The outlaw’s head snapped back, and he groaned and fell to the ground. His rifle rattled onto the sidewalk.
Landing on his feet, Deed spun, drew his .44 Remington, and leveled three quick shots at blond-haired Chetan Jenson, who was concentrating his firing at the wounded deputy. Deed’s first shot sent splinters from the stack of building materials where Jenson hid. He turned and Deed’s second and third shots caught him belly-high. Jenson half-stood, reacting to the impact, and Holt’s shot from across the street struck him again. The blond outlaw staggered and fell into the water tank.
From inside the store, hiding behind a shelf of canned goods, a bearded man with big ears and long hair took the corncob pipe from his mouth and growled to no one in particular, “Ain’t never seed nothin’ like that a’fer.” He turned around to a nodding farmer and his wife.
Silka was close behind Deed, drawing a classic samurai sword carried in a sheath across his back. The short, stocky Japanese man was many years older than the Corrigan boys; he had a graying mustache and hair pulled tight to a tail in back. His clothes were definitely those of a cowboy. Around his waist a wide belt held three sheathed throwing knives. His broad-brimmed hat flew from his head as he ran at the other outlaw concentrating on Holt across the street.
The gravel-faced outlaw heard the rush and turned to meet Silka’s charge.
“Aiiie!” Silka yelled, and drove his sword into the outlaw’s stomach. The outlaw fired his rifle into the sidewalk and dropped. Silka withdrew his bloody sword and wiped it clean on the dead man’s shirt, returned it to its sheath, and picked up the dead man’s rifle.
From the store, the grizzled man shook his head. “Damn. Sakes alive. It don’t pay to mess with those boys.”
Inside the hotel on the same side of the street as the jail, customers in the lobby had ducked under tables and behind chairs to wait out the fight; a few were brave enough to peek through the main window.
Striding from the adjoining restaurant was Blue Corrigan. Holt’s older brother by two years stepped into the lobby from a meeting in the restaurant. Blue’s coat and chaps showed signs of trail dust. The sleeve of his left arm was pinned against his coat. Yankee artillery fire had blown it off; he was lucky to have survived. His right pocket was jammed with extra cartridges but had room for the small Bible his mother had given him. He always carried it, even during the war, and credited the Scripture with saving his life.
At his hip was a holstered Walch Navy 12-shot revolver with two triggers and two hammers. Weighing two pounds, it was twelve inches long. It was a gun rarely seen in this part of Texas. Blue had taken it from a dead Union officer during the war and decided he liked it, especially since reloading a standard six-shooter wasn’t easy one-handed.
Three steps behind Blue came Judge Oscar Pence, the circuit judge for this federal district.
The two were meeting and going over final details of how Bordner’s ill-gained ranch holdings and town business would be distributed or sold. In his hand was his usual can for holding tobacco juice. Judge Pence stepped in after the death of Bordner and put up his ill-gained ranch holdings and businesses for return to their proper owners or auction. Taol Sanchez, the oldest son of the patriarch of the Lazy S Ranch, bought two of the smaller ranches Bordner had absconded with. Bordner’s largest illegal gain, the Bar 3, was divided between the Corrigan brothers and Jeremy Regan, since it was the boy’s family who had owned it originally and been murdered by Bordner’s gang. Jeremy was now an adopted member of Blue Corrigan’s family. The three Corrigan brothers would run the Bar 3, as well as their own Rafter C spread, until Jeremy was old enough to officially become a co-owner.
The bank, taken by Bordner, was purchased by a combination of the Sanchezes, Corrigans, and Judge Pence. The general store, his other grab, was bought by a family well known in Wilkon. Bordner’s mansion in El Paso was put up for auction and a local businessman had bought it.
“What’s going on?” Blue asked no one in particular.
A baldheaded businessman with scrawny sideburns, watching from the corner of the window, turned away and said, “Gunfight. A bunch of gunmen are trying to break out those fellas in jail. They’ve got the sheriff pinned down. Looks like they killed the marshal.” It was as if he were describing a town baseball game.
Blue’s move to the window was so swift the businessman didn’t have time to get out of his way. The baldheaded man stumbled and fell.
“Anybody gonna help your lawman?” Blue barked.
“Not my town. He was an outlaw before anyway.”
Blue spun and pushed back past the same man.
“Sir! I demand an apology,” the red-faced man said, slamming his fist against the floor.
Blue stopped and looked puzzled, “For what? Calling you a coward?”
“No, you didn’t call me a coward, you . . .”
“Guess I just thought it.” Blue hurried toward the main door, drawing his massive handgun.
“I hope he makes it,” a thin-faced man with sad-dog eyes behind thick glasses uttered as he stared at the street through the lobby window. Wearing an ink-stained coat and shirt, he held a pad of paper in his hand.
“I’m doing a story on him, for the Wilkon Epitaph,” Leroy Gillespie announced proudly. The Epitaph was the name of the town’s new newspaper. Gillespie had come to town two weeks ago with a printing press and was aggressively trying to build interest in his paper.
The newspaper owner and editor glanced at Blue. “The president of the Amarillo Bank said Holt Corrigan wasn’t a bank robber. Isn’t that something? I read that in the Amarillo Post.”
As he left, the man huddled under the next table leaned forward and whispered to the baldheaded businessman. “Don’t you know that was Blue Corrigan? He’s the sheriff’s brother. That fellow across the street, the one who just hammered a man with a flying kick and shot another, that’s Deed Corrigan, his other brother. That Oriental with the sword, he’s their partner.”
“Is that the Deed Corrigan who stopped three bank robbers? With only his hands? In Austin it was. A few years ago?” The reporter asked.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
The businessman looked like he was going to be sick. Gillespie, the editor, wrote a quick note on his pad, then resumed watching through the window.
Outside, Blue studied the street. The jail was down the way. A rider in a wet slicker rode past, but he was in
terested only in getting out of the way. Blue’s gaze took in the half-breed sneaking toward Holt.
Blue’s first shot slammed against the sidewalk in front of the creeping outlaw. It was like him to shoot to stop the action, not kill. Pickles froze, uncertain of where the shot had come from.
Running toward him, Blue growled, “Drop your gun and raise your hands. Or the next bullet hurts. Bad.”
The half-breed dropped his rifle as if it were hot, raised his hands, and turned toward Blue.
“I go to help sheriff,” Pickles blurted. “He need help.”
“Not your kind.”
From the bank doorway, Degory Black watched the destruction of most of their plan. German Hedrick, already mounted, held Black’s horse for him as the Kinney twins jumped on their horses holding the bank’s money. The four men eased around the back of the bank, out of town, smiling. They looked at the sky and hoped it foretold of a downpour coming soon and wiping out their tracks.
Unsure of what had happened, Holt took a deep breath, held it, and looked for an outlaw. He saw none. Only his brothers and Silka. Slowly he stood, holding his revolver at his side. Grinning, he yelled, “Wondered when you boys might join in. Is that the end of it?”
From across the street, Deed yelled back, “Think it is. Are you hurt?”
“No, just wet.” Holt ignored the burning crease along his lower leg and wiped his forehead.
Of medium height and build, all three brothers looked much alike, resembling their late mother and father, even down to their once-broken noses, courtesy of each other. Deed was eight years younger than Blue, an inch taller, fifteen pounds heavier, and definitely wilder; he and Holt resembled each other the most in looks and temperament.
Distinctly, the three brothers had elements of their mother’s approach to life within them. Deed cared about all things of nature, from snakes to birds to deer, much like that of an Indian. Holt had picked up their mother’s fascination with superstition and reincarnation. His first experience in believing he had lived before had occurred during the war. Blue’s beliefs were more traditional. In fact, he served the Wilkon church as a part-time minister, along with a townsman, whenever the circuit rider wasn’t available.
“Wait! If they were trying to bust out their friends, somebody’s probably at the livery, getting extra horses,” Blue yelled back.
“You’re right, Blue. Watch these bastards, and Silka and I will check it out,” Deed hollered, and ran toward the end of town, not waiting for a response.
“What’s to watch? Nobody’s moving but this fellow,” Blue said, pointing to the Indian.
“Put him in the empty cell,” Holt said. “Keys are probably in the marshal’s pocket. He’s dead. Jorgenson’s hit. This nice lady was shot, too.”
From the doorway, the deputy stammered, “I-I’m gonna be all right. I-I got the keys.”
“Miss Miller, are you all right?” Holt went over to Miss Miller and knelt beside her. It didn’t look like her wound was serious, but she had lost some blood and had fainted.
She looked up at Holt and stammered, “W-what happened?”
“You were shot, ma’am. Lie still. You’ve lost some blood.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound on her upper left shoulder. He guessed it was more of a crease than any penetration. There was no way to know without unbuttoning her dress. He wasn’t about to do that and said to a townsman venturing from a store, “Get the doctor. There’s a lady down.”
The townsman frowned and hurried away.
Blue returned from the jail after shoving Pickles into the lone empty cell. “Catch up with Deed and Silka. I’ll stay with this woman until Doc comes.”
The reporter emerged from the hotel and bounced along the sidewalk, poised beside Holt, and unleashed a barrage of questions, “Mr. Corrigan, were you scared? Was this like the war? Do you know these men? Why do they want to kill you and the town marshal?”
“I’m guessing it’s some of Agon Bordner’s men.” Holt stared at the man, then looked at Blue. “Thanks, little brother.” He started after them, limping slightly from the earlier crease on his leg.
Frowning, the reporter started after him. “How does it feel to be a lawman instead of an outlaw?”
Without pausing, Holt snapped, “If I were you, I’d get back inside. Bullets don’t care what they hit. This isn’t over.”
The Epitaph editor stopped, pursed his lips, and adjusted his glasses, then walked quickly back inside the hotel.
Holt caught up with Deed and Silka at the building next to the livery with guns readied. They were waiting to see who emerged.
Deed watched him approach. “You’re limping. Thought you said you weren’t hurt.”
“Just a scratch. It’s nothing,” Holt said, and changed the subject. “Livery door’s closed. Jesse would have it wide open by now.”
“Looks like we guessed right.”
Holt spat on the barrel of his handgun. “For luck.”
Deed checked the loads in his Remington .44 revolver. “How many of Bordner’s men will be waiting for us?”
“I’d say no more than four,” Holt replied. “It could be eight or more, I suppose, but I think if that were the case they would’ve sent more at the marshal and me.” He motioned toward Deed’s gun. “Better spit on it, for luck.”
The youngest Corrigan hesitated, then spat on the long barrel of his handgun. “Sure. Why not?”
Silka nodded and did the same on the recovered Winchester.
“How many horses would Jesse keep saddled during the day?” Deed asked.
“Oh, no more than four, plus mine and Micah’s. They’re always saddled and ready.”
“They’ll need only four,” Deed said, “so they’re ready and probably waiting for a signal to come out. Let’s go in instead.”
Pointing with his right-hand gun, Holt said, “Makes sense to me. I’ll go around and come in the back door. Give me a minute to get there, if you can.”
A brown-and-gray dog with large, floppy ears bounded around the corner, preparing to bark. Holt leaned over and held out his hand for the animal to inspect, then scratched its ears. Deed was surprised at his brother’s attention to the animal, but it made sense to keep from warning those inside. Likely, no one paid attention to the dog and it was pleased and surprised to be given that consideration.
“You know that dog?” Deed said in a low voice.
“Seen him around. A stray. Kinda like me, I guess.”
“Good boy, be quiet now and stay out of the way,” Holt said, and headed for the back of the livery. The dog followed, wagging its tail.
Deed watched his brother and the stray dog, then eased beside the closed livery door, listening for noise inside. Muffled conversation was indistinguishable. He turned to Silka. “Shall we let them know it isn’t going to work?”
“Aiie, let us do so.”
Silka touched a small, Oriental-looking brass circle on a rawhide thong worn around his neck. The Japanese word Bushido was engraved on the disk. Deed wore the same disk, only his was connected to a sheathed throwing knife carried under his shirt and down his back. It was a gift from Silka years before.
Leaving Japan when the samurai were forced out, Silka had traveled to Texas, learning English as he went. It was the classic samurai “way of the warrior,” Bushido, built on honor, inner strength, determination, freedom from the fear of death, and directed action. Now his blades were the only physical remains of his previous way of life.
“Touch Bushido . . . for better luck,” Silka said. Under his careful training, Deed had become a fierce warrior.
Deed touched the brass circle at his neck, then grabbed the handle of the livery door and yanked one side wide open. After leaving the rifle propped against the building, Silka slipped inside, stepped to the right, and drew his sword. A stray beam of light glanced off the sharp steel. Deed followed, moving to the left. The enclosed building smelled of horses, manure, and hay. There were four o
utlaws in the livery, each mounted and holding the reins of another readied horse. All of the horses held rifles in scabbards and two canteens.
“That you, Jethrum? Thought you was supposed to holler at us when it was done,” a tall outlaw responded, looking into the opened doorway and squinting. “We could’ve . . .” The closest outlaw half-raised his rifle in response to the sudden door opening.
Silka took a quick step beside the mounted man, slammed the sword down on the man’s forearms, then drove the blade into his stomach, ending the outlaw’s scream as his arms spurted blood. He collapsed, sliding from the saddle into a strange bloody heap.
“Change of plans, boys. Your friends weren’t good enough,” Deed snarled. “Unbuckle your iron and climb down.”
The redheaded outlaw began to swing down, drawing his holstered gun as he moved. Deed fired twice and the redhead groaned and stumbled onto the livery floor. A lanky outlaw with a narrow, tight face and an eye patch over his left eye reached for the rifle across his saddle.
Holt stopped him with a second challenge. “Want to make it three?”
Beside him, the dog growled.
The man shivered and raised his hands. “Jes’ keep that crazy Oriental away from me.”
Silka swung his sword above his head and Holt growled, “He’s a former samurai. Be careful what you say around him.”
“Yes, suh.”
“Your turn, boys. How do you want this to go down?” Deed pointed his gun at the lanky outlaw and the other man, a short, fat-bellied man wearing two belted guns.
The two men unbuckled their gun belts and let them slide from their waists to the ground; their rifles followed.
“Who are you?” the outlaw with the eye patch asked.
“We’re the ones you came to kill.”
Holt looked around. “Where’s Jesse? The livery operator.”
“Uh, he’s in there. Tied up. We didn’t hurt him. Honest.” He pointed toward the closed tack room.
“We’ll be the judge of that.”
The dog rejoined Holt, seeking more attention, which he got.