by Cotton Smith
* * *
As if from the earth itself, brown bodies began to appear from their positions fifty yards away. One warrior was only twenty yards from their campfire. They seemed mesmerized, stunned by Holt’s unexpected performance. His drone was constant, dramatic, and having the hoped-for effect. Holding the skull with one hand, Holt swung his free hand across the flames as if caressing them to do his bidding. He dropped one of the gunpowder pouches into the fire as he moved.
A roar followed with a billow of smoke rising above the fire. Deed kept his attention on the warriors. All but one jumped when the powder went off. Achak stood alone and screamed at his men. None responded. Achak’s leadership was fragile; his seeming invincibility had been tarnished by “the walking white man.” Now his warriors were puzzled by this unexpected display.
Of courage, yes, but more than that. Of the spirit. This white walker was calling forth powers they did not understand.
None of the Comanche on the north side made any attempt to attack. But, from behind the buffalo wallow, six Comanche warriors rode into view as if on cue, whooping and waving their weapons. All were painted with their war medicine.
“Open up on them,” Deed yelled.
Gunfire from the wallow surprised the Comanche. Deed’s .52 caliber Spencer was accurate and deadly. Arrows and bullets flew from the back side, slamming into the saddles and landing in the wallow itself. Deed moved quickly from one side of the wallow to the other, shooting and returning. The Comanche in front remained confused. Three went down as the others sought hiding places. Deed pushed a new reload tube into place with practiced ease. He wondered what had happened to Achak. Where was the Comanche madman? He had disappeared.
As he stepped around the far edge of the flame, Holt jerked and began walking in a strange, halting manner. His chanting changed and became clusters of unusual sounds, none familiar to Deed. It was as if he were another person. He pointed at the pale moon and tossed the second pouch into the fire. Moments later a second burst of smoke and flame exploded. Across the way, the terrified Indians retreated. All but one. Achak was now clearly visible in the pale moonlight. He was shaking, not in terror, but in absolute anger.
“I-I don’t see any of them!” Rose stammered and fired into the morning.
“Just keep at it, Malcolm,” Deed assured. “Keep putting in new loads when you can.” He saw what looked like a leg exposed near some mesquite and fired. The resulting scream was testimony to the accuracy of his hunch. Levering his big gun, Deed studied the prairie for more opportunities. So far, the warriors hadn’t run; they just hadn’t dared. He fired again, but missed a darting figure. He heard Silka fire and curse.
“H-help! They’re coming in!” Rose yelled.
From behind him, Tag snarled and charged in Rose’s direction. The youngest Corrigan brother spun to see two Comanche diving between the saddles and attacking Rose. The dog grabbed the closest Comanche’s arm, keeping it from slamming a tomahawk against Rose. But the second Comanche hit the townsman along his right ear with his war club, then again. Rose whimpered and dropped his gun.
Deed fired, shooting his Spencer from his hip, missed, and fired again. The first Comanche’s face became crimson, just in time to keep the warrior from drawing his knife to gut Tag.
“Get back, Tag!” Deed yelled, firing at the second Comanche. The shot thudded against a saddle.
The second Comanche dove for Deed, swinging his war club. Deed’s rifle clicked on empty as the Indian slammed into him. Stumbling backward, Deed’s left hand stopped the downward swing of the warrior’s weapon. His open right hand slammed against the warrior’s neck like an axe. Deed’s left fist followed with a drive into the man’s nose. The Comanche’s eyes met Deed’s as he collapsed.
Shaking his head, Deed stood, reloaded his carbine, and fired into the bodies of the two downed warriors as Tag came to his side. The dog was bleeding along his back. The wound was slight, Deed hoped.
“Good job, Tag.” He patted the dog’s head and confirmed the wound was a long scratch.
Deed started toward the unconscious townsman, but was stopped by a rush of movement behind him. Expecting to face another Comanche, he turned and saw a warrior on top of the prone Silka. The samurai’s bloody sword protruded from the Comanche’s back. The Indian was dead, but Silka was too weak to push the body away. Deed stepped over, grabbed a fistful of the warrior’s hair, and yanked him from the old samurai. The dead warrior wore a sleeveless army jacket. His face was streaked with vertical lines of war paint. In his dead grip was a big Colt.
“I could not remove him,” Silka muttered weakly. “Help me, please. He smells.”
“Well, you did the important job,” Deed replied. “Are you all right?”
“I am samurai. I fear nothing.”
Deed laid his carbine against the wallow’s wall and helped Silka to his feet. “I know you don’t.” He noticed fresh blood on Silka’s shirt; it was coming from his reopened shoulder wound. He would treat it later.
He encouraged Tag to come to Silka’s side and started again to look at Rose, when he heard his brother yell, “Come on, you bastards!” and then a phrase Deed didn’t know. It sounded like something in Comanche, but he wasn’t sure.
Looking up, Deed saw Holt firing with a revolver in both hands; the skull lay at his feet. His target was Achak himself, charging on a black horse, screaming and firing his rifle. Beside him rode a menacing-looking warrior in black-and-white face paint, wearing a white woman’s dress. The rest of the Comanche hid in a shallow ravine forty yards north of the buffalo wallow, refusing to ride with him because his war medicine was broken.
“Stay, Tag.” Deed grabbed his Spencer and jumped out of the wallow. Quick strides put him alongside his brother.
“Leave Achak for me,” Holt yelled.
Calmly, Deed knelt on one knee, aimed, and fired at the dress-wearing Comanche. Almost at the same moment, both Comanche were jolted from their horses by Corrigan bullets.
Acting as wild as the Comanche war leader, Holt charged toward the downed Achak as his black horse thundered past. A few strides behind was the other warrior’s paint horse. Leaning over, Holt shoved a revolver into his waistband and yanked hard on the dead Comanche’s tongue necklace. It popped free. He held it high and screamed into the morning.
“Holt. They’ve gone,” Deed said. “But I think Malcolm’s dead.”
Holt stood as if not hearing. Deed repeated what had happened. Tag bolted from the wallow and went to Holt. Deed surveyed the area to make certain the Comanche had fled. None remained.
“Hey, little buddy, you’re bleeding,” Holt said as he knelt beside the happy dog. Deed studied his brother.
“I’ve looked at the scratch, Holt. It’s not deep,” Deed said. “Wait! Holt, you’re bleeding. You’ve been shot.”
“Damn. That crazy Indian was a better shot than I thought.”
“Lie down and let me take a look.” Deed put his hand on Holt’s shoulder.
“All right. All right. It’s just blood, you know.”
“I know. We need to know where.”
Pulling up Holt’s bloody shirt, Deed found the wound. A long, ugly crease along his side, above his hip. He was pleased to see it wasn’t serious, but it was bleeding hard. Tag stuck his nose close to the wound and seemed to be concerned. Holt patted the dog and held him away as Deed cut off a portion of the shirt to help stop the bleeding.
Taking out his throwing knife from down his back, Deed cut a large piece of Holt’s shirt and held it against the wound.
“Hey, that was a good shirt!” Holt growled.
“Yeah, and right now, it is good for stopping the blood. You’ve already lost a lot.”
Holt was quiet a moment. “I do feel a little dizzy.”
“Well, you’d be feeling a lot worse,” Deed said, pressing the folded shirt fragment against the bleeding, “if that bullet hole in your hat had been an inch or two lower.”
Holt reached for his hat and e
xamined it. “What? Again? That’s my second hole. Now that damn good hat is totally ruined.”
“You’ve got another hole in your coat.” Deed motioned with his free hand toward a hole in the lower flap of Holt’s coat.
“Good thing I got him when I did,” Holt mumbled and grinned at his reuse of “good.”
“Agreed. Hold this while I go get some bandages and some of Silka’s medicine.”
“Sure.”
Deed grabbed a clean shirt from his saddlebags, then the jar of Silka’s salve and a long bandage roll from their nearly empty pack. Spotting a cluster of long-leafed plants near the horses, he tore off six leaves and continued back to Holt. His brother lay with his eyes closed; Tag was curled up next to him.
Deed said, “Brought you a new shirt. It’s mine. Was, now it’s yours. Might not fit real well, but it’s in better shape than yours.”
“Hey, good enough. It’s stopped bleeding.” Tearing the bloody shirt away, Deed said, “I’m going to put some of Silka’s magic stuff on it, along with these leaves.”
“What’s with the leaves?” Holt asked.
“I’ve seen Apaches use it that way.”
“Probably will turn me into a vegetable.” Holt watched his brother apply the salve and the leaves and began wrapping the wound.
“More likely a weed.” Deed finished wrapping his brother’s stomach. “When you’re ready, I’ll help you put on that shirt.”
Holt put his hand on his brother’s arm. “Thanks, little brother.”
“You bet,” Deed said. “You know, there was a time there when you went into some sort of trance and began yelling out some real strange stuff. Words I’d never heard before. You even moved different.”
Holt looked at his brother without speaking, as if trying to bring back the situation. He felt for the medicine stone in his pocket. It was there and felt warm.
“I’m not sure I really remember that,” he finally said, “but I sort of recall doing something . . . like it was a different lifetime. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not,” Deed said. “The last time you said something like that . . . and I laughed . . . you broke my nose.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Holt chuckled.
After helping Holt change shirts, Deed said, “I’m going to check on the horses and Silka. If you’re up to it, we’ll start for town after that.”
“Got anything to eat?”
“Don’t think so. An old biscuit or two, maybe. We can have some coffee though. How’s that?” Deed smiled.
“Better than nothing.”
Deed added the last of their dry wood to the fire and put the coffeepot at the edge of the reborn flames.
“Holt, look!” Deed pointed toward the horizon where six riders were advancing.
“More Comanche?” Holt asked. He picked up one of his revolvers and tried to thumb cartridges into the empty gun.
“No. It’s . . . it’s Blue! And Taol Sanchez with some of his men.”
In the morning light, the Lazy S riders were distinctive with sombreros, bandoliers, and leather hoods over their stirrups.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Holt knelt beside the dog. He looked over at his brother. “Better get some coffee on.”
“Already done.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Blue Corrigan slid from his horse and hurried toward his brothers. His smile took over his face and he hugged Deed with great enthusiasm and went to the prone Holt to determine how badly he’d been wounded. Behind him, the Lazy S vaqueros were combing the brush for any remaining hostiles.
“You missed all the fun,” Deed said, stepping back from Blue. “You would’ve loved seeing Holt perform.” He told Blue what had happened, then about the deaths of Ira McDugal and Malcolm Rose, and that “Mason Mereford” was actually one of Bordner’s gunmen.
After Blue was satisfied that Holt’s wound was not serious, he helped Holt stand up, at Holt’s insistence. The second Corrigan was wobbly from the loss of blood, but was determined to stay on his feet. He insisted that Deed treat Tag’s wound and the youngest Corrigan did so with care. With the dog beside them, the three brothers walked together to examine the dead Achak; his necklace of human tongues lay next to his bloody chest where Holt had dropped it. He shot it full of holes.
“Do we need to take that damn thing along to prove he’s dead?” Dead asked, pointing at the necklace. His gaze took in the empty prairie and the vaqueros riding through it, like some river taking over the parched land.
It was Holt who answered, “I don’t need to prove anything. Leave it . . . and him . . . for the vultures and coyotes. Any Indians that might come along will see that his medicine was not strong.”
Deed did most of the talking about their difficult ride as they walked back to the wallow. Holt thought he would sit down at the edge of the deep incline and did so with Tag next to him. Deed jumped into the wallow and Blue followed. They went first to Silka. The proud Japanese warrior was leaning against the side of the wallow, his head resting against the bare earth.
In a handful of sentences, Deed told his brothers how Silka had insisted on helping and had killed a brave who managed to get into their defense. The dead Indian lay a few feet away with Silka’s bloody sword extending from both sides of the warrior’s stomach. Deed put his hand on the older man’s shoulder and Silka looked up, his eyes glazed.
“Are they stopped?” Silka asked.
“Yes. We did it,” Deed replied and motioned toward Blue. “Blue and Taol Sanchez and some of his men are here, too.”
Silka smiled. “I smell coffee. I would have some. With much sugar.”
That brought laughter from all three brothers and a happy bark from Tag.
“And so it will be,” Holt volunteered, feeling light-headed, but trying not to show it. “Maybe you should rest until it’s ready.”
With a twinkle in his eyes, Silka responded, “Is this the command of the great white medicine man?”
They laughed again, Holt the loudest, holding his hand against his side.
“Well, sure. I’ll bring down the powers of Shakespeare, if you don’t.”
That brought more laughter. The discovery that Malcolm Rose was indeed dead returned their solemnity.
Deed and Blue helped Silka back to his travois bed. Before he lay down, Silka turned toward them and said, “I will ride my horse to town. You can place Malcolm’s body there.” He punctuated the statement with a Japanese oath.
“We’ll need to tend to your wounds again,” Deed said and described how the old samurai had been wounded.
“There is no need. I am healing.”
Deciding not to argue with the great warrior, they moved to Malcolm Rose’s body. Blue suggested covering him with a saddle blanket and Deed got one from what remained of their gear. They would take the body to town for a proper burial. Blue said Malcolm’s wife had been very worried about her husband. They would report that he died a hero, fighting well.
As they cleared the wallow, Taol Sanchez and his riders rode up, rifles in their hands.
“They is gone,” Taol said and warmly greeted Holt and Deed. “It is good you are well, amigo,” he said, his white teeth setting off his hard brown face. “Mis sisters were worried about Señor Holt.”
Everyone laughed. Gathering around the fire, they enjoyed the hot brew. Taol produced a bottle of tequila and passed it around. None of the Corrigan brothers drank much, but it seemed appropriate to celebrate their survival with a hearty toast.
They were surprised as Silka, bloody shirt and all, walked toward them. He raised his right hand in a salute and shuffled toward the fire. Deed and Taol were the first to him.
“You shouldn’t be up, Silka,” Deed said sternly.
“I am samurai. I want to join victory celebration.”
“Sure. Let me put my coat around you. You need to stay warm.”
“Get sugar first.”
They helped him to the gathering
and eased him into a sitting position between Blue and Holt.
From the new posse’s packhorse, food was pulled and soon the good smells of frying bacon joined that of the boiling coffee. The men ate heartily of fried bacon, beans, and biscuits from town, washed down by the hot coffee. They ate in silence as was the custom of western men. After finishing their meal, two of the vaqueros talked of taking scalps from the dead Comanche; another mentioned taking Achak’s tongue necklace.
None of the Corrigan brothers responded. But Holt decided to take along the buffalo skull and placed it in their pack. Getting ready to leave took longer than usual, as they lifted Malcolm Rose’s body onto the travois and attached the frame to the packhorse. Deed helped Silka mount his horse, trying to do so casually so the older man wouldn’t object to the assistance. Light-headed, Holt managed to get on his horse without help. Deed brought Tag over to him so the dog could ride home with his master. Both were pleased.
Holt reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a few tobacco shreds from its pouch. He tossed them into the air and said his thanks to the spirits. Before mounting, Deed did the same. Blue saw the tributes and offered a silent prayer. Only Holt noticed a chickadee calling out a sweet morning song as they rode out. Definitely a sign of good luck.
The solemn group rode past the bodies of several Comanche, including Achak’s and the warrior in the dress. Both had been scalped and the tongue necklace had disappeared. From among the riders came a triumphant yell that was embraced by the others. Deed and Holt joined in. Silka blurted a samurai victory cry. Only Blue was quiet.