by Cotton Smith
They rode with their rifles across their saddles, wary of some last-ditch attack by the Comanche. As they approached a thicket of juniper bordering a long wash, Taol ordered two of his younger men to ride into the thicket in case Indians were waiting. It was an honor to be chosen. Each had a bloody scalp tied to their saddles.
Spurring their horses, the two vaqueros raced for the junipers, carrying their rifles in one hand like pistols. Bandoleers of bullets bounced off their backs. Their yells snapped through the air as they disappeared into the thicket. The others reined up and waited with rifles ready.
Assured of safety, the group rode on. Gradually, the conversation turned to ranching. Deed was eager to see Atlee and could barely keep his mind on anything else.
“Harmon Payne is at the Bar 3,” Blue advised. “He’ll stay there until you’re ready to take over.”
Harmon Payne was a longtime hand, a well-built cowboy who liked to spout phrases from Sir Walter Scott and Tennyson.
The comment drew Deed back from his daydream. “You think any of the Bar 3 hands are around, the honest-to-goodness cowhands?”
Riding next to him, Silka smiled as if he knew what Deed was thinking about.
“Quite a few,” Blue answered. “You might want to hire some of them. Remember Luke Pennegrit? He’s around. Saw him in town yesterday. So’s Pete Williamson.”
“Good. Maybe he can help us round up some more. They were good men.”
Blue studied the land as they rode. The day was solemn and overcast. Rain was coming again.
“Harmon said the Bar 3 herds are in good shape. Plenty of calves. Branded. Going to need to take the older stuff to market.” Blue pursed his lips.
“That sounds better than I’d hoped. At least Dixie was a cowman,” Deed responded.
“The only problem he’s found so far is no preparation for winter,” Blue continued. “No hay cut and put up.”
“Damn. What was Dixie thinking?”
“My guess is he couldn’t get any of Bordner’s gunmen to do that kind of work.” Blue glanced at his younger brother and smiled.
“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right,” Deed said. “We’ll have to get on that fast.”
Blue nodded agreement. “Harmon’s already working on it. That far section is fat with hay-making grass.”
Deed looked over at Blue, rolling the reins in his fingers. “You think Harmon would make a good foreman? We’re definitely going to need one.”
“I was hoping you’d come to that idea.”
Silka added a Japanese affirmation.
Riding next to Taol, Holt called out, “Hold up a minute.”
All of the riders raised their rifles and reined their horses.
“What’s the matter?” Deed asked, turning in the saddle.
Pale but grinning, Holt waved his hand. “No problem, boys. I just spotted a button. In the dirt.”
“A what?” Deed frowned.
“A button.”
“A button?” Deed shook his head. “Is it one of ours?”
Holt swung stiffly from his horse. “Don’t think so. But picking up a button is good luck. We can always use that.”
Deed looked at Blue and bit his lower lip. How like their oldest brother. “Sounds good to me.” He patted Silka on the shoulder and the samurai tried to smile. Deed looked back again as Holt held his side as he retrieved the button. The wound was bleeding again, a little. Otherwise, the Apache leaves were doing their job. He wiped the pearl button on his shirt. He thought it might have come from a woman’s dress. Could the warrior in the dress have come this far before turning around? He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He shoved the button into his pocket, next to the medicine stone.
Remounting wasn’t easy. The strain on his wound triggered intense pain. He winced as he pulled himself into the saddle. Glancing up, he saw Deed watching him. Holt smiled, trying to mask the pain.
“You all right, big brother?” Deed asked.
“Good as gold.”
“Fool’s gold, maybe.”
Holt nodded. “Maybe so, but let’s ride. Luck is with us.”
“Sure enough. Maybe you should put your badge on, Holt,” Deed suggested. “A nice way to hit town.’
“Hadn’t thought about it,” Holt said, remounting. “But I like it.”
Hours later, the two posses rode into Wilkon and the celebration of their return was instantaneous. People lined the street, applauding and yelling their gratitude. Tag got excited and barked, but Holt told him to be quiet.
James Hannah met them in the center of the street, along with Judge Pence. Both were carrying shotguns. Silka was feeble and in considerable pain, but remained upright as they walked their horses down the main street.
Mayor Patterson Cooke hurried to Holt’s side and asked, “Do you still haff de bank’s money?” Cooke was the German owner of the lumber mill at the edge of town, a man with a constant forced smile and ever-sweaty hands, but a man who loved Wilkon. Currently, he was trying to raise funds to paint all of the town’s commercial buildings and had started the drive with five hundred dollars of his own money.
“Every damn cent of it, mayor.”
“Danke, Herr Corrigan. Ja, ’tis sehr gut,” Patterson said. “Now we can plan our town celebration . . . for der gut.”
“We lost two good men, Patterson,” Holt said, studying the busy street. “Malcolm Rose and Ira McDugal.”
“Ja, das ist schlecht . . . uh, bad. Too bad. Such things do happen. Ja.” Cooke patted Holt’s leg and turned away.
“Thanks for asking,” Holt snarled. “And Mason Mereford turned out to be one of Bordner’s men. He killed Ira McDugal.”
Cooke smiled and waved.
Holt looked over at Deed and Blue and shook his head.
Their arrival was halted when Flavian Rose screamed in horror. She ran toward the travois where Malcolm’s covered body lay and threw herself on it. The frame cracked under the added weight and both the grieving widow and her late husband’s body thudded to the ground.
Blue swung from his horse and went to the distressed woman. “Mrs. Rose, we’re so sorry. Malcolm was a brave man. He died fighting for Wilkon. For all of us.”
She looked up, through tear-glazed eyes, said something unintelligible, and returned her head to the covered body.
“Men . . . I’m going to need help. We need to take Malcolm to Claude’s.”
Three men came from the crowd; a fourth hesitated and then hurried to catch up. A fifth joined them as they carried the body to Claude Gausage’s store. Flavian walked beside them with her hand on the body as Blue and Judge Pence held her up. Deed and Holt stayed with Silka, who was lying against his horse’s neck.
James Hannah strolled over to the Corrigans. “What do you say we get the money back into the bank?”
Deed shook his hand, then Holt greeted the gunman.
“You two do it,” Deed said. “I’ll stay with Silka. We need to get him to the doctor.”
Holt tugged on his hat brim, dismounted, and walked with Hannah to their packhorse. They carried the saddlebags filled with gold and certificates into the bank and the waiting hands of the tellers and the new bank president, Simpson Wade.
Ira McDugal was a bachelor, so no one waited for him except three quiet friends. They asked Holt about him and he explained his death. The friends left for the saloon.
After leaving the body at the undertaker’s, Blue and Judge Pence walked back with Blue filling the magistrate in on what had happened on the trail, based on Deed’s report.
Taol told his men to take the old posse’s horses to the livery and see that they were cared for. While that was being done, Deed and Taol helped Silka limp toward the doctor’s office. A townsman with a thick mustache, big belly, and derby hat walked past the threesome. Behind him walked a prune-faced woman wearing a big brown hat with a fake yellow bird perched on its front. Her manner was that of someone who felt few were her equal, socially or financially.
The townsm
an stopped, yanked the cigar from his mouth. “You’re not taking that yellow-eyed heathen to our doctor, I presume. Or that filthy Mex, either.”
Deed’s face tightened. “Excuse me a minute, Taol. You go on ahead.”
Without waiting for his reply, he spun and walked after the now strolling man. Deed grabbed the well-dressed townsman’s shoulder and he stopped, turning toward the pressure. His eyes widened as he realized who was behind him.
“W-what’s the matter?” he asked, shoving the cigar into the corner of his mouth.
“You’re the matter,” Deed growled. “Silka risked his life for you, your town, and your money, you fat sonuvabitch. And Taol is one of my best friends, a far better man than you’ll ever be. Get away from me. I’m too tired to mess with something like you.”
“Unhand me, sir, or I’ve have you arrested for assault,” the townsman blurted.
“Assault?” Deed snarled. “You mean like this?” He backhanded the man savagely across his face, smashing the cigar against his teeth.
“Or this?” His follow-up backhand against the man’s face covered his teeth with blood and the man yelped.
“Or how about this?” Deed’s right fist slammed into the man’s belly. He bent over, retching onto the boardwalk.
Deed stepped back and growled loudly, “Don’t ever call that fine woman a name like that again.” He motioned toward the prune-faced woman who had stopped behind the fat man.
Her face reddening, she demanded, “What did he say? I wasn’t listening. I-I thought it was a fight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t repeat it, ma’am,” Deed bowed. “Wouldn’t be proper, you know. It was my pleasure to defend your honor.”
“Oh, thank you, sir. You are indeed a gentleman.”
She walked over to the retching businessman and clobbered him with her heavy purse. “You should be arrested for doing that in public.” She looked up at Deed, straightened her hat, and smiled.
Repressing a chuckle, Deed Corrigan touched the brim of his hat, returned the smile, and went to catch up with Taol and Silka. His made-up story would keep the businessman from making an official complaint, he thought.
Smiling, the bronzed rancher thanked him for his reaction to the townsman’s words.
“You are the true amigo. It is my honor to know you,” Taol said as Deed rejoined them.
“No problem, Taol. I don’t have a long fuse when I hear fools talk.”
“So I saw.” The Mexican rancher laughed.
Silka glanced at both. “He is samurai.”
At the judge’s insistence, Holt had joined them to be seen by the doctor. Deed told him what had happened with the fat businessman. Holt’s eyes flashed hot.
“When we get through here, I’ll go arrest the bastard.”
“For what?” Deed asked.
“Being fat . . . and foul language.”
Deed grinned. “Let’s go see the doc.”
Dr. Wright was impressed to see Silka’s wounds healing so well. He was equally surprised to see Holt’s wound laced with leaves.
“Well, gentlemen, whoever treated you did well,” Dr. Wright concluded after cleaning and re-bandaging the wounds. “There are no signs of infection. The wounds are healing well. You both just need rest. Lots of rest.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After leaving the doctor’s office, Holt and Deed bought new clothes at the general store, while Silka stayed at the doctor’s and napped. They bought new clothes for him as well. Tag trotted between them, proud of his association and the opportunity to show it off in town.
“Guess there’s nothing I can do about my hat,” Holt said, wiggling his finger through the hole in the crown. “Don’t think a sheriff should go around wearing a hat with a hole in it. Might invite other folks to try.”
Deed agreed and waited for his brother to select a new one. The selected bowler was almost identical to his other hat, especially after Holt moved his lucky cardinal feather from the old to the new. Then they dropped off Holt’s suit coat at the tailor’s to mend the bullet hole. At the doctor’s office, Silka was awake and showing the doctor his samurai sword. Deed and Holt thought he was trying hard to show he wasn’t seriously hurt when he was.
The trio—Deed, Holt, and Silka—left for the barbershop to get shaves and baths. Holt took Tag with him and washed the dog down. A young Chinese woman assisted Silka with his bath. If he was aware of her attention, it didn’t show.
Dressed in new clothes and feeling clean again, Holt and Deed helped Silka to the hotel. Tag spotted a dog and ran ahead to greet the black-and-white animal. In the lobby, a salesman sat reading a newspaper. He didn’t look up. Sitting next to him was the thin-faced reporter from the Wilkon Epitaph. He jumped up from a sofa as the threesome entered.
“Holt Corrigan! Deed Corrigan! How great to see you made it back,” the reporter gurgled, reaching for paper in his pocket.
“Sit down, sir. We’re on official business,” Holt barked.
The salesman continued to read.
“Oh, I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Everybody wants to know if you killed Achak.”
“Did you see him riding with us?” Holt turned to the hotel clerk, looking stunned behind the check-in desk. “We need rooms for tonight. Two for sure, maybe more.” He turned to Deed. “I’ll sleep in the sheriff’s quarters. You think Blue will want a room? Or Taol?”
“I’m guessing they’ll ride out after eating.”
“Uh . . . uh, we don’t allow . . . foreigners to stay in our place,” the clerk blurted.
Silka frowned at him. “I not foreigner. I samurai.”
Deed stepped next to the desk. “There you go, pardner. Two keys. Now.”
“B-but . . .”
Deed took a deep breath. “Look. We’ve been fighting Comanche for a week to get Wilkon’s money back. Our friend was hurt bad in that. So we’re in no mood to be messed with.” His eyes narrowed. “If we have to go to the owner of this place, you’re going to be fired. Your choice. Make it now.”
“Uh, would you like the two rooms in a row, sir?”
“Sure.”
Grabbing the offered keys for 215 and 216, Deed started upstairs with his right arm around Silka. Holt was on the other side.
The reporter hurried beside them. “So you’re saying you killed Achak, right?”
Holt glanced at Deed. “He’s dead. Now leave us alone.”
“Sure. Sure. Uh, which one of you did it?”
Deed stepped in front of the man. “It’s been a long day, mister. You’re pushing when you should be backing up. Go away.”
“Sure. Sure. What a story! What a story!”
At the first room, 215, they unlocked the door and went in. The room was simple, with two chairs, one straight-backed and the other upholstered, a lone French-styled dresser with its bottom drawer nailed shut, a narrow bed, and a pitcher and basin for washing. The window, overlooking the street, was flanked by yellowed curtains rippling with a late afternoon breeze. They helped Silka to the bed and left him stretched out on it. He was asleep before they left.
“Buy you a steak,” Holt said.
“All right. Let’s get the others.” Deed paused at the check-in desk and told the nervous clerk that Silka was expecting a visit from a relative and to give her his room number. He winked at Holt.
It didn’t take long to gather at the Silver Spur restaurant. The Corrigans liked the place because the owner had no problem serving Mexicans. The group sat around a long table in the restaurant, laughing and talking. In addition to the Corrigan brothers, Judge Pence, James Hannah, Taol Sanchez, and his vaqueros enjoyed their meals. The three Corrigans sipped hot coffee while Hannah, Taol, Judge Pence, and the Lazy S riders savored tequila. Taol and his men planned to ride for their ranch at dusk. Blue was eager to return to the Rafter C and had decided to ride out after eating. Deed said he would bring Silka to the ranch in the morning. Holt planned to sleep in the sheriff’s quarters as he had been.
Three men, supported by earlier whiskey, sauntered into the restaurant and headed toward their table. The tallest of the three, a dog-faced man with ears like opened doors, spoke for them.
“We’d like to know why yah all made it back . . . an’ our friend Malcolm didn’t. How come?” He looked at the other two for support.
Glancing at Deed, Holt stood and proceeded to tell the three what had happened in great detail, making it clear that Rose had not been able to do his share of the fighting, put the others at risk, and finally failed to keep watch as he was expected to do. Only quick action by Deed and Silka kept them from also being killed.
The man with the ears winced as Holt outlined the running fight across the open prairie. The shortest man looked like he was going to vomit. The third, with a heavy dark beard, looked at his dirty boots, unable to meet Holt’s eyes.
Finishing his recital, Holt folded his arms. “Any questions?”
“Uh, no . . . no, sir,” the eared man said. “We thank yah fer yur time. Yas, suh, we do.”
“Good. You’re dismissed,” Holt growled.
The three men walked away in silence. A few minutes later, two older couples entered the restaurant. With a nudge from his gray-haired wife, the stocky man took a step toward the table, removed his misshapen hat, and proclaimed, “We are sorry to bother your supper, but we wanted to thank you for what you did for Wilkon.” He motioned toward his wife and the couple with them.
“We’re the Graveses . . . an’ this is the Seldons. We, uh, just wanted to thank you. That’s all.” He glanced at his wife to see if he had forgotten anything. She smiled.
Standing, Deed held out his hand. “That’s mighty kind of you folks. Wilkon means a lot to us, too. Would you care to join us?”
Without looking at his wife, Huston Graves declined, as did Jake Seldon. Holt rose and joined Deed in shaking hands. As the two couples nervously started to leave, Mrs. Grave smiled and said, “And we’re very happy to have Holt Corrigan as our county sheriff. He did the Confederacy proud.”