by Cotton Smith
From the barely opened door of the marshal’s office came a curt response from Hannah. “Blue boy, if you do, you’ll never know what happened. This double-barreled shotgun’ll blow you to hell. And I’ll get the next five or six.”
Kneeling with his Winchester propped against a horse rack ten feet away, Silka yelled, “I have the second three. Say the word.”
Holt remained calm. “Lieutenant, I didn’t rob that pay wagon. Even if I did, that was considered an act of war. I was given a full amnesty a month ago.”
“An act of war? The war’s been over for years. What amnesty?”
Leaving the store, Judge Pence walked down the sidewalk, holding a piece of paper in one hand and his spit can in the other. He stopped a few feet away and declared, “Officer, I am Oscar Pence, judge of the federal circuit court.” He spat into the can. The handle of a shoulder-holstered gun was evident under his coat. “I gave Holt Corrigan full amnesty as is my authority to do so.”
“I-I don’t believe it.” The officer shouted back, barely able to contain himself. His body shook with rage.
Eagle Jones told the lieutenant to settle down and St. John glared at him.
Deed growled, “Sergeant, tell that fool next to you that if he moves any closer to his rifle, you both will die.”
The sergeant turned to the man beside him and snarled, “Don’t you move a muscle, you stupid sonuvabitch. Don’t you know who that is? That’s Deed Corrigan, for God’s sake.”
The soldier swallowed and put his hands against his chest.
Walking toward the lieutenant, Pence held out the paper. “Had me a feelin’ ya weren’t up to knowin’ . . . so I stopped in the telegraph office. This here’s from yur commandin’ officer, Major Foutant, a good friend o’ mine.”
The lieutenant grabbed the paper and read it.
TO JUDGE PENCE STOP LT ST JOHN KNOWS
OF AMNESTY STOP HIS ORDERS ARE TO
CAPTURE ACHAK AND HAKAN STOP
NOTHING ELSE STOP
MAJOR FOUTANT
He crushed the paper into his fist and ordered, “Sergeant, prepare the men to ride out.”
“Hold on, lieutenant,” Holt said. “Your boys have left quite a mess in our fine street. Better leave a patrol behind to clean it up.” He cocked his head and glanced at Deed, who turned away to hide his chuckling.
Lieutenant St. John stared at Holt as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“There’s a city ordnance against leaving excessive horse manure in the street,” Holt said. “Keeps cowboys from driving cattle through town. Your boys are going to need shovels and a tarp.” He pointed at the supply wagon. “You can drop it outside of town.”
Judge Pence held his hand over his mouth to cover his own tickled response. Eagle Jones smiled as he took the reins of his horse from the trooper with a huge chaw pushing out his cheek. Inside the marshal’s office, Hannah hooted and stomped his feet.
Mumbling orders to his sergeant, St. John took the reins of his horse and climbed into the saddle. The trooper followed, mounting his horse and leaning over to spit.
The young officer nudged his horse into a trot and yelled out, “Forward . . . at a trot.” He never looked back.
Four troopers pulled aside from the leaving column and went to the supply wagon. Each man grabbed a shovel, carried there for burial detail. A large tent was dragged out of the wagon to serve as the receptacle for the horse manure.
From down the street, a lone rider loped toward the marshal’s office. It was the mayor, Patterson Cooke. He was clearly excited and spitting German phrases as he approached. Holt told him what had happened and that the army had volunteered to clean the street of horse manure. Cooke stared at the men working in the street, then back to Holt, and smiled.
“Dos ist gut.”
“Yeah.”
Looking around, Cooke asked where Hannah was, and Holt told him that he was inside the marshal’s office working on some papers. The mayor seemed quite pleased. He excused himself and went into the office.
Deed slapped his brother on the back. “I’m going back to finish breakfast with a pretty lady. Then we’ll take Silka and head for our ranch. After he’s settled, I’ll probably ride with Atlee back to the station.”
“Of course you will,” Holt said. “I’ll be along in a day or two, need to let the rest of the county see their law in action.”
“Good idea.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The brisk ride to the Rafter C ranch went happily as Deed and Atlee spent the time talking about her children, the stage line, ranching, and, coyly, about a life together. Deed insisted that Silka stretch out in the back of Atlee’s buckboard. The former samurai was asleep before they left town.
As he drifted off, Silka mumbled, “Raise legs. Curl them. Strike. Again. Be quicker. Always attack . . .”
Deed smiled. “I’ve heard that a few times. He was quite the teacher. After I drop him off at the ranch, I’d like to go by the Bar 3,” Deed said. “Check in and see how things are going. One of our men is running things there, Harmon Payne. Going to make him foreman there.”
“Oh, I’d like that very much.”
He explained that Harmon Payne was an interesting man who liked to spout phrases from Sir Walter Scott and Tennyson. The Corrigans knew he had been a teacher in Ohio before coming to Texas. Something had happened there, but no one asked. He was loyal to a fault and tougher than his polite manner would indicate.
The land was showing signs of a coming winter. Several meadows were flushed with a light frost that disappeared as the morning sun took control of the day. Overhead, vees of geese flew toward warmth. A fat stream ran along the trail. Cattle moved contentedly about open meadows, enjoying the fine grass, although most of it was now brown. The herd was the Rafter C’s and mostly Durham and Shorthorn with a few longhorn scattered around.
A hundred yards from the road was a large boulder, bigger than three men, that didn’t seem to belong there. The closest rocks were in the blue hills, shadowy in the distance. It made a man wonder and feel small and Deed said so.
As they rounded a slow curve, two calves bounced for joy in front of them. Deed reined to a stop and they watched the young animals cavorting across the land. After enjoying a laugh together at their playfulness, Deed explained where they had stored hay for the winter months. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a blizzard this year like there was four years ago. That extreme cold had hit all of the area ranchers hard.
The Corrigans had been fortunate. Three protected valleys were rich in grass and water. A healthy stream cut across two of their main grazing areas and the rest of the land was dotted with springs. Five thousand head of cattle and a string of mustangs, were spread throughout their acres. Acres that were owned by them, truly owned with all of the necessary ownership files. Their third valley had been bought from another ranch just after the war and it, along with the other two valleys, gave them a fine operation. The herds were shifted from one valley to another as needed. Blunt hills and long benches offered natural fencing to keep the animals from drifting.
The ranch itself lay in one of the valleys with a well-built two-story ranch house featuring a porch and a second-story balcony. Silka had directed the construction of this larger house after the war; most of it was built by Blue and Deed. The one-armed rancher surveyed the ranch and took satisfaction in its appearance; they had painted all the buildings a year ago.
Atlee looked over at him, studying his tanned face. “Deed, will there always be trouble with Comanche? With Indians?”
“Most likely. We grew up believing everyone thought like we did, but they don’t,” Deed said, snapping the reins to keep the horses at an easy trot. “Human nature isn’t what everyone believes. Just us. Indians grew up with different beliefs, different ways. Unfortunately, for them, their ways won’t last.” He shook his head. “Too many of us. They’re nomads and need a lot of land to survive. Land that’ll hold thousands of white folks.”
“But
can’t we talk to them? Find ways to get along?”
“If you only had to talk to the old men of the tribe, I’d say yes,” Deed continued, “but the young men won’t listen. They live for war, only for war. Their whole society is built around it. The young men want their turn, like their fathers and grandfathers had.”
“What a shame.”
“Yeah.”
They rode on, passing a tree that had been ripped apart by lightning years before. Four antelope darted away. In this stretch of the road, many dead trees lay about the land, as if God had decided he needed their energy elsewhere. A few minutes later, Deed Corrigan cleared the half-moon hill rimming the southern lip of the Rafter C ranch yard. He reined up the team to enjoy the scene below and explain the ranch layout to Atlee. The sight never grew tiring to him and he said so. Nearby cottonwoods whispered their welcome. Overhead, an October sun was easing toward noon.
Behind the main house they could see the bare limbs of the old oak tree that overlooked the graves of their father, mother, and sister. How long ago that seemed, almost like it was part of another life. None of their faces came distinctly to his mind anymore. Only blurred images. Silka had become a father—guiding, teaching, caring. He touched the brass circle at his neck. Atlee noticed and took his hand.
The ranch itself was quiet; the corrals, empty. Their horses had been unshod and allowed to roam, except for the handful kept for daily use. Next to the closest corral, two dogs rested from their labors. One looked up, then went back to sleep. Not far from the southern corral was the chuck wagon now closed up for the winter. Their few full-time cowhands were distributed about in line cabins or were over helping Harmon get things in order at the Bar 3. Deed felt guilty about not being at the Bar 3 before, but it couldn’t be helped. He, Silka, and Holt had saved the town’s money.
The only things moving around the ranch yard were some chickens pecking the ground on the south side of the main house. Atlee and Deed didn’t see Blue or Bina, but saw the children playing on the east side. It looked like a game of cowboys with imaginary cattle being rounded up.
He clucked the wagon horses forward and hailed the ranch. The buckboard creaked and groaned as it eased down the hill. Aroused from their naps, the dogs barked and headed toward Deed. The three children stopped playing, recognized their uncle, squealed, and came running and laughing toward the buckboard.
Behind them, Silka was muttering again. “Sun, moon, mountains, river. All divine. Skills and inspiration to develop self also divine. Remember this, Deed . . .”
As they neared the ranch, Blue and Bina came from the main house, waving cheerily. The children were soon beside the wagon, all talking at once—Matthew, Mary Jo, and the now-adopted Jeremy.
“Uncle Deed! Uncle Deed! What’s the matter with Uncle Silka?” Ten-year-old Matthew asked.
The Corrigans didn’t believe in keeping the harshness of life away from children, so Deed told him what had happened. The children’s eyes widened as the story was simply told.
“Pa told us you, Uncle Holt, and Uncle Silka are heroes. You caught bank robbers . . . an’, an’ fought off some bad Indians,” the boy blurted.
It always amused Deed that none of Blue’s children seemed to connect their mother to Indians. She didn’t hide her Apache heritage; it just didn’t connect. Of course, that meant they were half-breeds, but that didn’t register, either. Deed figured at some point Matthew would be teased about it and forced to fight. He reminded himself to teach Matthew good self-defense skills, as Silka had taught him.
“How many Injuns did you kill?” Matthew asked.
Blue stepped beside the boy and put his arm around his oldest son. “That’s enough, Matt. Indians have their ways and we have ours. Both are good under God’s eyes.” He also didn’t mention their mother was an Apache. Probably because it didn’t occur to him.
Satisfied, the children ran away to resume their game. Deed pulled the buckboard to the reining post at the main house and helped Atlee down. She and Bina began chatting and went inside, returning with a bowl of dried herbs to treat Silka’s wounds.
Blue and Deed helped Silka from the wagon and walked with him to the small house where the samurai and Deed lived. Along the way, Silka mush-mouthed, “Now, fall back. Hit the ground with your palms first. Keep chin tucked so you don’t hit your head. No raise legs. Curl them. Be quick. Quicker. Attack. As hard as you can. Drive through enemy . . .”
“I’m worried about him, Blue,” Deed said. “I think he’s hurt worse than he lets on.”
“Well, he’s home now and there’s nobody better than Bina to care for him.”
“I know.”
After getting the wounded Japanese warrior into bed, Bina and Atlee began cleaning his wounds. So far, none were infected, but the old man had lost much blood and was quite weak. As they tended to him, Silka alternately mumbled and chanted. None of it was in English.
Later, Deed and Atlee joined Blue’s family for a noon meal. Blue asked them to stay for dinner and the evening. Atlee could sleep in the spare bedroom in the main house. After all these years, Blue still couldn’t bring himself to call it their parents’ old room.
“No thanks, Blue,” Deed said. “We need to get back to the station. Maybe next time.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll take Warrior with us,” Deed continued. “Then I’ll ride on to the Bar 3. Lots to do, I’m sure.” He had told Atlee about the special Comanche warhorse that had shown up at the ranch along with a bunch of mustangs. With help from Bina, the animal had become an exceptional mount, but was ridden only by Deed.
Blue told him of Harmon’s progress at the big ranch, including cutting hay and checking on the line cabins. Taol Sanchez had sent over three hands to assist. The herd was in good shape and all the calves were branded. There was plenty of food in the ranch house kitchen, a tribute to Agon Bordner’s appetite.
Soon, Deed and Atlee were on their way again, with his saddled paint horse trotting behind the wagon.
“I thought you said we were going to the Bar 3,” Atlee asked when they were out of earshot.
“We were, but your eyes told me we needed to get you back,” Deed answered.
“Was it that obvious?”
“Only to me. I miss your kids, too.”
He kept the wagon on a main road, rather than cutting through wilder country. The buckboard would have had a difficult time going through places where a horseman could easily pass. It was longer this way, but it made sense.
He found himself telling her about Silka and how the former samurai had taught him to defend himself with any weapon, including his hands and feet. How the older man had instilled a spiritual sense within him.
“He’s been a father to me,” Deed said, “to my brothers, too.”
She asked about Holt, saying all she had ever heard about him was that he was an outlaw. Bristling at first, Deed settled into an explanation of how his older brother couldn’t deal with the South losing, and that he and other former Confederates tried to fight on, long after the war was over. Judge Pence had saved Holt from himself, and the Corrigans would always be grateful.
Atlee was silent, looking down at her hands. Finally, she said, “Deed, I love you. I think I have since I first saw you.” She paused and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “I-I loved Caleb, too. I shouldn’t feel this way . . . about you. My husband has been dead only . . . a short while.” She wiped her eyes. “What kind of person am I?”
“You are the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known, that’s what,” Deed said in a soft, even voice. “I didn’t know Caleb, but he was obviously a fine man . . . or you wouldn’t have loved him.” He tugged on his hat brim. “And I think you should go on loving him. Who says we can only love one person? You love two children.”
“B-but that’s different.”
“Not, it’s not. Love is love.” He smiled. “And if you ask my brother Blue, he’ll deliver a mighty fine sermon on the matter. As in God is love.”
Atlee looked up at him, tears sliding down her cheeks.
He smiled. “And I love you.”
They rode on again without talking. The land was changing, easing from meadows of grass into broken spaces of rock, stunted cedar, chickweed, and prickly pear cactus. Two unmarked graves beside the road were indications of much earlier pioneers whose names were now lost. At the farthest point of Rafter C grazing land, a lone longhorn steer stood as a sentinel, watching them pass. A jackrabbit bounced in front of the buckboard and scurried out of sight.
To their left, a winding trail appeared from among a cluster of trees. Blue and Deed had used this trail when coming and going from the station. It kept a rider out of sight most of the way. Ahead of them, tracks of a recent stagecoach swerved from the south, cutting over earlier marks along the established path. Familiar cottonwoods signaled the advent of the stage station yard.
“Pull up here, please, Deed,” Atlee said and moved close to him. “I may not have a chance to do this for a while.”
As he halted the horses, she put her hands to his face and her mouth sought his.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Deed and Atlee finally pulled into the station yard, both red-faced and warm. A dust devil danced across the open ground as the station door swung open and Atlee’s two children came running toward them. From the barn came the eye-patched Mexican horse wrangler Billy Lee Montez, and the German farmer Hermann Beinrigt.
Billy reached the buckboard first. “Es bueno to see you, Señor Deed.” He waved his hands. “One of the passengers say you and your brother are los heroes muy grandes. Catch bank robbers. Kill Achak and his Comanche. Bueno!”
“We didn’t have much choice, Billy. They came at us. We were lucky.”
Behind him came Hermann. The wrinkle-faced German hurried to the back of the buckboard and examined the supplies. “Ist gut du bringst supplies. Ve vere getting low. Ach, ja, ve need . . . everyting.”
Deed smiled. How like the German to focus on what was needed, never mind greetings or conversation.