Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  “How much is left?”

  “Two sacks.”

  The brass circle at Deed’s neck glinted in the glow of the fire. As if on signal, the two gunfighters moved away from the fire.

  “Reckon I’d better get back,” Deed said. “See you in the morning. You’re in charge of breakfast.” He chuckled.

  “If that quail’s still around, we might have him.”

  Both men headed for the picketed horses and hobbled them as double protection. Deed took his two horses with him up the slope. They made the climb easily and immediately took to the clumps of grass. After settling the horses, Deed covered Silka with a blanket and managed to put another under him.

  Silka looked past him, holding the medicine stone in his right fist. “Horses?”

  Deed told him what they had done, and why. Feverish, Silka insisted that the animals be tied and hobbled both. He reminded Deed that Comanche were magicians when it came to stealing horses. The youngest Corrigan promised to do so, deciding not to tell him that they had already done the extra step.

  He soaked the folded shirtsleeve with a canteen and placed it on Silka’s feverish forehead. Deed tried to get the Oriental to drink some water and the now-cooled broth with a spoon. Silka accepted three swallows, two of water. He muttered a woman’s name and fell into a troubled sleep. Deed recognized Toshie as the name of his late wife.

  Waiting beside Silka for a few minutes, he decided the Oriental was going to stay asleep. Taking his Spencer, he sat with his back against an upright boulder. After an hour, he got up and inspected the two horses. Late afternoon was bringing a cooler temperature and a frisky wind. He wrapped his own blanket around his shoulders and considered building a small fire. If he put it against the boulder, a hatful of flame, it wouldn’t be seen far, or would it? He recalled seeing a campfire ten or fifteen miles away on a still night. No, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  His thoughts moved to the dead Indians. Were there more around? Likely. Achak would be a shrewd enemy.

  What if they moved in below, trying for their horses? Would Holt stay awake all night? He was as weary as Deed was. Maybe they should have tried to bring Silka below. Would they have been able to do so without hurting him more? Not likely.

  To his right, a quail called out.

  He was immediately alert. It wasn’t a quail.

  A second quail answered from somewhere on the other side of the boulder. The horses’ ears were up.

  Two Comanche!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Two Comanche crawled toward Deed, one on each side of the large boulder. The warrior to his right was headed for the two horses and they were agitated. More might be closing in below.

  Deed stood, pulling the blanket from him and holding a corner with his left fist. His Spencer was in his right. He spun to his right, around the boulder, and threw the blanket in the direction of the darker shadow where the horses were tied. The blanket surprised the Indian as it settled around him. Deed’s Spencer roared in the night, fired like a pistol with his right hand and the butt braced against his thigh. Pushing wildly at the blanket to get it away from him, the Comanche stiffened. His knife clattered on the rocks. Deed levered the big gun and fired again.

  Turning back to his left, the second warrior ran at him, knocking Deed’s carbine from his hands. He fell backward, kicking up as he fell, catching the warrior full in the groin and slamming his hand against the man’s wrist, driving the knife from the Comanche’s hand. The warrior groaned and staggered away. Deed drew his revolver and fired. The Comanche’s eyes were wide and fierce as Deed’s shots rammed into the warrior’s stomach. He folded to the ground.

  Standing with his revolver at his side, Deed jumped as a shot rang out and the first Comanche, wounded but not killed, took a step and fell forward. The shot had come from Silka’s rifle.

  Deed shook his head. His mentor had actually come to his rescue in spite of his serious condition.

  From below, Holt yelled out, “Deed, are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Watch yourself,” came his brother’s echoing reply.

  After assuring himself that both Comanche were dead, Deed walked over to Silka lying on his back as before. Only now he held a smoking rifle in his hands.

  “You saved my life, my friend,” Deed said.

  “Aiie, just as you saved mine.”

  Holt Corrigan sat below, away from their small fire, and deep in a long dark finger of a shadow finding its way in the dusk. Every handful of minutes, he had been getting up and checking on the horses, then on to Rose. The activity kept him awake, along with cups of strong coffee. Comanche would attack until dark, he was certain. He had thought about having Tag stand guard among the horses, but that would only sacrifice the dog. The gunshots from above brought Holt to his feet, cocking the hammer of his already levered Winchester.

  Tag growled and attacked the shadows behind them. It was enough.

  Holt spun and saw a Comanche trying to push Tag off his forearm holding a tomahawk. The dog’s jaws were clamped tight; the rest of Tag’s body dangled in the air. The young sheriff was amazed at how close the Indian had come without him hearing his advance. He fired, holding the gun against his hip. Five quick became one long explosion and the bullets became a square in the warrior’s heart. The Comanche stiffened and fell face-first into the dirt.

  “You made the difference, boy. Thanks, Tag.” He moved beside the dead body and coaxed the dog into releasing his grip.

  Turning his attention to the horses, Holt told Tag to stay by the fire and hurried past the slowly arousing Malcolm Rose and toward the picketed animals. Three Comanche were moving among them. Three mounts stomped their hooves, whistled, and snorted.

  “Deed, I need help! At the horses.”

  To his right, he saw Deed coming down the hillside. Holt glanced toward him and held up three fingers. Deed took two more steps, knelt, aimed, and fired at the closest shadow who hopped onto one of Holt’s Comanche horses. Deed’s bullet drove into the small of his back and the warrior slumped against the horse’s neck. As the Corrigan brothers had guessed earlier, the two mounts were not disturbed by the appearance of the Indians.

  Holt fired an instant behind his brother and fired five more times as fast as he could lever the gun. All three Comanche were hit, but not downed. The other horses reared wildly, pulling on their restraints. Only the hobbles had been cut but the pickets were holding.

  Running closer, Deed stopped and fired, ripping lead again into the mounted Comanche and at the fleeing warriors. Holt ran beside the horses and levered shots at the two escaping warriors. His first shot caught the farthest Indian in the hip and spun him sideways, but he continued running. His second shot missed the remaining Comanche limping into the night. From the opposite side, Deed levered his big Spencer and fired. If he hit the Comanche, he couldn’t tell.

  Frustrated, he yelled a fierce samurai challenge.

  “What the hell was that?” Holt asked, firing once more at nothing.

  “Oh, that’s something Silka used to say. It was a toast. ‘Long live death, long live war, long live the cursed mercenary.’ I was mad and it just came out,” Deed explained.

  “Well, they got away,” Deed said, “but we stung ’em some.”

  “Yeah, don’t think it’s smart to trail them,” Holt declared.

  “Good way to run into an ambush.”

  Behind them, Malcolm Rose staggered to his feet, grasping his rifle. “W-where they are?”

  “It’s all right, Malcolm. Go back to sleep,” Holt yelled and began reloading his rifle.

  Tag barked and came running to Holt’s side.

  “They’re gone, Malcolm,” Deed said, shoving a new loading tube into his carbine.

  The two brothers dragged the dead Comanche from Holt’s horse and into a ravine and began retying hobbles.

  “We’re going to need some new hobbles. No way we’re going to save these.” Deed held up a cut hobble and headed for their supplies.

 
; “Damn, those devils came out of the earth,” Holt said and checked on the packhorse, who seemed especially agitated. “Tag saved my life back yonder. The bastard was close enough to shake hands. He had other ideas.”

  “Good for Tag,” Deed said and slapped the back of a long-legged bay.

  Deed returned with three sets of new hobbles and they reworked the animals where necessary. The horses seemed to like the attention and soon settled down. The Comanche horses were never bothered.

  “How far away do you think they left their horses?” Deed asked and replaced a hobble on a gray.

  “Farther than a white man, that’s for sure.” Holt stood, then rechecked a bay’s picket. “How many?”

  “I think that was it. Wouldn’t be traveling with a larger group,” Deed said. “I could be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Are we making a mistake splitting up?” Holt pulled on his hat brim and picked up his Winchester.

  Deed rubbed his nose. “No, it gives us a little advantage. Besides, I don’t want to move Silka until we have to.”

  “Agree.”

  As they walked back to the fire, Holt noticed it had a dark hole in its middle, a sure sign of death. He nodded to himself and dragged a branch over the coals. The deaths were Comanche deaths, he assured himself. Looking down at Tag, he brushed the dog’s head with his fingers and the animal responded with a wag of his tail.

  Rose stood, watching them. “Did you get them all?”

  “No. Two got away,” Deed said without glancing up. “We put some lead in them though.”

  “W-will they come back?”

  “They might, Malcolm, but we’ll keep watch,” Holt growled, “and ride out come morning.”

  “Is there any coffee?” Rose asked, swallowing his fear.

  “Just put a new pot on, before all the noise. Bring your cup.” Holt motioned for him to advance.

  Holt poured coffee for the three of them.

  With a cup in his hand and rifle in other, Rose said, “I can stand guard for a while . . . if you trust me.”

  Holt sipped the hot coffee and grinned. “That would be great, Malcolm. We could use some sleep.”

  “Thanks, Malcolm. That would help a lot,” Deed added.

  After drinking a little from his cup, he asked Rose if there was any whiskey left. Surprised, the townsman told him that he didn’t know, that he hadn’t touched the flask since Holt brought it back.

  “I want to add a little in this coffee for Silka,” Deed explained. “And some sugar. He loves sugar.” He grinned.

  Rose went over to his blankets, retrieved the flask, shaking it as he returned.

  “Here, Deed. There’s some in there. Please take it. I’ve got a full bottle in my gear.”

  “Thanks.’

  Deed poured a little whiskey into the coffee and resealed the flask.

  “There’s sugar with the supplies.” Holt motioned with his rifle.

  “Good. I’ll see you boys in the morning.”

  Above, Deed went over to Silka and checked his forehead. The former samurai stirred and gazed at him.

  “There were more.” Silka said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. Four.”

  “You and your brother got them.”

  “No, just two,” Deed said.

  “Have you reloaded your gun?”

  “I have.”

  “Have you reloaded mine?”

  “I did earlier. How about drinking some of this coffee? Holt just made it. Got lots of sugar in it.”

  “I will do so. It sounds good.” Silka accepted the cup with his left hand.

  * * *

  Back at the Comanche camp, the two warriors reported their failure to Achak. His eyes flashed a hatred that went beyond sanity. Five of their fellow tribesmen had been killed by these white devils. And now these two came back wounded. The two warriors weren’t sure what Achak would do next. More words might bring death from their leader. One held his wounded arm and shivered. The taller warrior, next to him, shook his head for silence.

  From their tied ponies came the large-shouldered warrior wearing the sleeveless army jacket. Hakan’s face was streaked with vertical lines of war paint. In his belt was a big Colt.

  “Achak, is your medicine broken?” Hakan declared. “Many warriors have died under your leadership. Warriors whose names will no longer be spoken. Before long, the blue-eyes will find us and then we will all die. Without glory. Without honor. What are we going to do?”

  He took two more steps toward Achak. “It is time for the old Achak to return to us. It is time for you to lead . . . and win.” He placed his hand on the handle of his revolver for emphasis.

  Slowly, Achak got to his feet. He looked at each warrior watching him from around the fire, then he smiled. It was an ugly, vicious smile.

  “Your words ring with truth, Hakan. You are truly my blood brother,” the Comanche war chief snarled. “I, for one, realize the white devils we are fighting are too important to let live. I, for one, want to see the white walker beg for mercy in front of us, The People. If you will ride with me, this will happen.” He crossed his arms and walked away.

  Hakan studied him for a moment, then came to him and embraced him in a warrior’s salute.

  Achak returned to the fire. “Now, my brothers, let me share with you what the spirits have told me and how we will achieve the honor of all honors. How we will destroy the white walker and his followers. It will be grand.” He made a special motion toward the white woman. “Go now and have your way with the white woman, then kill her.”

  * * *

  Night passed slowly and dawn finally came with both Corrigans tired, but pleased to see the welcoming sun. The sky was yellow and streaked with gray. Deed checked on Silka, getting him to drink some water, and told him they planned to move. Silka understood and asked for some coffee. With sugar. The samurai was pale, but trying to appear in better shape than he was.

  Deed brought him the coffee, laced with whiskey and sugar, and a plate of cooked food. The wounded samurai picked at it, but managed to eat some. The coffee was savored. As he ate, Deed returned with a pot of hot water and new bandages, strips from a towel, to clean and change Silka’s bandages. The wounds were red and angry, but, so far, not infected.

  “Thank you, my son.” Silka handed back the emptied cup.

  “You rest,” Deed said, completing his task. “I’m going to grab some breakfast at the fire. I’ll be back.”

  “Do not hurry. I have your brother’s medicine stone.” He held up the small stone in his left hand.

  Deed led his two horses downhill and saddled the gray. After a breakfast, they started work cutting poles for the travois. The poles were placed through the stirrups on the saddled dun. They decided it was the sturdiest horse for carrying the travois. Two blankets were tied to the poles. While they worked, Rose packed their supplies.

  The wounded townsman brought the readied packhorse and asked if there was anything else he could do. Both Corrigans were surprised and pleased at his help.

  “Tell you what,” Holt said. “I’d appreciate it if you made sure our fire was out and all of our canteens are full. Water bag, too. All right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Deed and I will be bringing Silka down and putting him on the rig.” Holt pointed toward the quiet horse with the prepared travois.

  Deed walked over to Rose, who was pouring handfuls of dirt on their small fire. “Malcolm, do you want us to tie you on your saddle, like before?”

  “No. Thank you. I can ride.” Rose looked up. “I’m sorry to have such a drag. I had no idea what this would be.” His manner had turned timid again as if the whiskey had worked its way through him.

  “Don’t apologize, Malcolm,” Deed said. “You’ve been an important part of this posse. We’re proud to have you riding with us.”

  “I appreciate that, Deed. A lot.” Rose picked up a canteen and sprinkled water on the dead fire. “How soon before we get home?�
� He tried not to show his weariness or react to the pain in his shoulder.

  “Well, we’ll hole up at Turkey Wing for the rest of the day,” Deed explained, adjusting his gun belt. “Then, if Silka’s doing all right, we’ll head out from there. Probably at night again.” He rubbed his unshaved chin. “If everything goes right, we should be home in two days.” He smiled. “You’ll be in your missus’ arms in no time.”

  “Reckon the town’ll be glad to get the money back.”

  “You bet. You’ll be a hero.”

  Rose grinned and headed toward the spring to refill the canteens.

  With a pat on the back as he walked past, Deed rejoined Holt and they headed uphill with Tag jumping around them as they walked. Silka was sleeping. The coffee cup was empty, but only a few bites of the breakfast were gone.

  “He didn’t eat much,” Deed said, lifting the rag on Silka’s forehead. “His fever’s down. A little.”

  “He’s a tough man,” Holt replied. “Why don’t you eat that, we’ll just have to throw it out.”

  Picking up the plate, Deed tossed the food in several directions. “I’ll leave it as a thank-you. To the canyon spirits.”

  Holt chuckled. “That’s what I would’ve done, little brother.”

  “Think we can carry him down?”

  “Sure. Put that plate and cup on the blanket, along with his sword and rifle,” Holt said. “We’ll put them in the pack after we get him settled.”

  Deed put Silka’s sheathed sword on his shoulder and laid the rifle beside the sleeping man. The two men lifted Silka by the shoulders and upper legs, and started down the slope. The plate started to slide. They stopped.

  “Can you reach it?” Holt asked.

  “Yeah, I think so. Let me cradle him on my knee.”

  Silka stirred and muttered something in Japanese that neither understood.

  “What was that? Some kind of secret samurai code?” Holt asked.

  “Wasn’t that. I know all of those.” Deed stretched out his hand, resettled the plate, then retook Silka’s shoulders. “Ready.”