RAVES FOR THE WESTERNS OF COTTON SMITH
Dark Trail to Dodge
“An entertaining, believable, and fast-paced tale.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Cotton Smith tells the tale of a perilous cattle drive from Texas to Kansas. Diverse characters coming together to work on a cattle drive weave a story of struggle and adventure.”
—Kansas City Star
“An action-filled story of a farm boy’s rough initiation into the cowboy world during an eventful trail drive from Texas to Dodge City. Interesting characters, fast-moving narrative.”
—Elmer Kelton
“Hard-eyed characters and six-gun action. Smith knows cattle drives and cowboy lore.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A cast of colorful characters! Fictional but historically accurate.”
—The Independent
“Deep in the Wild West of the 1800s! A story of accuracy, excitement, and unforgettable characters.”
—Overland Park Sun
“Winning accolades for its compelling storyline and accurate look at the Old West.”
—Lawrence Journal-World
“An enjoyable read with a strong sense of place.”
—Roundup Magazine
Pray for Texas
“Cotton Smith’s stories are centered around the wonders of the human spirit in overcoming life’s obstacles.”
—True West
“Pray for Texas has plenty of pulsating action for fans of the traditional western, not to mention plot twists and a wonderful collection of characters. Cotton Smith secures his place as a promising new voice of the American frontier.”
—Roundup Magazine
“Happy trails for fans of western novels. It’s called Pray for Texas.”
—Kansas City Star
Behold a Red Horse
“Cotton has pushed the envelope. Those plot twists and turns are what make Cotton Smith’s books engaging . . . great storytelling.”
—True West
“Readers praise his memorable characters, unexpected plot twists, and how he captures the look and feel of the real West.”
—The Independent
“A fine read for a cold winter’s evening with characters that stand out from the ordinary.”
—Roundup Magazine
Westward
“Solid writing and superb storytelling.”
—American Cowboy magazine
“Westward is a treasure for all western enthusiasts.”
—True West
“Fans of history in any form will find Westward especially delightful.”
—El Paso Times
“A marvelous collection that can only help make reading westerns respectable once again.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Commendable . . . Enthusiasts of the Old West should enjoy the variety and the new twists given familiar tales.”
—Denver Post
“Cotton Smith tells the story of Leander H. McNelly, a compelling and tragic hero who served in the famed Texas Rangers.”
—Wichita Eagle
“The modern western writer has a keener fidelity to history than any of his predecessors.”
—Dallas Morning News
RIDE AWAY
A CORRIGAN BROTHERS WESTERN
COTTON SMITH
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
RAVES FOR THE WESTERNS OF COTTON SMITH
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright Page
To Katie, Bobby, Gus, Maggie, and Jesse
CHAPTER ONE
The Texas midmorning sky looked like God hadn’t decided what to make of the day as Tade Balkins drove the stagecoach toward the Wilkon relay station. No driver got more out of his horses, taking great pride in always being on time. He was well respected on the Southern Overland Mail line that ran from Hays City to El Paso, then on to Santa Fe, Tucson, San Diego, and finally Los Angeles. Even with railroad construction heating up again after the war, it was still an important route.
As far as the eye could see was empty desert plain, marked with rock, catclaw, dry brush, mesquite, and a creek bed with only the memory of water. To the north were dark crests promising better land and water. Tade was holding the six-horse team to a steady trot, talking to them as usual. He would bring them into a controlled run when the stage got closer to the station. A full gallop was really for appearance. It looked impressive to pull the charging horses to a hard stop in front of a destination. Sitting beside him, Hank Johnson rode shotgun and was having difficulty staying awake. Last night had been a drunken one.
“Doin’ good, boys. Doin’ good. Ah, that’s just a tumbleweed. Nothin’ to worry about,” Tade assured the horses, then glanced over at the dozing guard and nudged him awake. “Better stay alert, Hank. Bad country along here.”
“Yeah, I know. Jes’ got a nasty headache.”
“Atlee Forsyth, she’ll have some good hot coffee. That’ll help.”
“Wish she had some whiskey.”
Tade frowned and returned to talking to his horses.
Inside the coach, seven passengers were dulled by the never-ending bouncing and the ever-swirling dust.
“Is your ranch near here, Mr. Corrigan?”
The question to Deed Corrigan came from Rebecca Tuttle, the younger of the two women sitting across from him. Clearly she wanted to talk and had been doing so almost nonstop since the stage rolled out in the morning.
Dressed like a woman ready to stroll down the main street of El Paso, her green dress shimmered with its overskirts caught up and accented with black ribbons. Her flat-crowned straw hat held one large bow in the center of her forehead, matching the smaller ones on her dress. A jacket bodice, with a neckline close to her neck and black cuffs, completed the outfit. Brown ringlets framed her round face; light rouge highlighted her ample cheeks. To those in the coach, she looked like a woman of high social standing. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Her last cent had been spent on this stagecoach ticket.
Without waiting for Deed to answer, Rebecca explained that she was on the way to El Paso to meet her intended, a farmer she had met two years before in Ohio. Indeed, it was her only hope. That wasn’t expressed—just a sweet smile when she stated her intention.
Politely, Deed Corrigan touched the brim of his ill-shaped hat and explained that his ranch was about three hours’ ride from the station and he was returning home from a cattle
drive to Kansas. It was more than he had said on the trip so far. His face, accented by a thick mustache, was deeply tanned from countless days on horseback. Long brown hair brushed against his shoulders. The bullet belt around Deed’s waist held a heavy Remington .44 revolver with its long barrel extending past the holster’s open end. Tan leather cuffs covered the frayed ends of his faded red shirt. A once-blue neckerchief hung loosely around his neck. Spurs were Mexican in styling and his worn Levi’s were shoved into knee-high boots.
Around Deed’s neck hung a small, Oriental-looking brass circle on a rawhide thong. Engraved on the circle was the Japanese word, Bushido. No one asked what it meant. Hanging unseen down the back of his shirt was a sheathed throwing knife, attached to the thong.
Next to him sat a fat drummer, Persam Torce, representing several companies making fine linens and other cloth goods. He had declared often of their quality, whether anyone asked or not. Stuffed into a store-bought suit that didn’t fit, he said he, too, was headed to El Paso and wondered if it was much farther, or if a railroad went there.
“It’s a ways, mister. No railroad yet either,” Deed said, grinning. “Better get used to this.”
Frowning, Persam Torce looked at Deed. “Is it really necessary to be armed as you are, sir?”
“Only if you want to stay alive . . . sir.” Deed’s answer carried an edge.
Torce pulled on his collar. “Surely, there are law officers with the responsibility to protect us.”
On the far side of the same bench, sitting next to the drummer, a well-dressed passenger with long sideburns, thick spectacles, and black bowler leaned forward, laughed, and said, “Tell that to the next bunch of highwaymen, or war party, we see.”
Returning to his reading, the gentleman’s Victorian black suitcoat flared open to reveal the butt of a silver-plated revolver in a shoulder holster. He also carried a sleeve gun, probably a derringer, Deed figured by the way he favored his right wrist. On the man’s lap was an opened book of Tennyson he had been enjoying since the coach left Hays. This was the first time he had said anything to anyone, except to introduce himself earlier to Deed as James Hannah. A name known to many in the region; the name of a man of the gun—a gun for hire. The singular introduction was an indication Hannah was aware of Deed Corrigan’s reputation as a fighting man as well.
In the middle bench sat another drummer who sold Swedish furniture and held tightly to one of the straps hanging from the coach roof for use by middle-bench passengers to balance themselves. Wearing a dust-covered top hat, he acted as if he hadn’t heard the conversation or cared about it. He hadn’t said where he was headed.
The far bench seat held Rebecca Tuttle and a German couple. Neither Hermann Beinrigt, a skinny farmer in worn overalls, nor his wife, Olivia, had talked to anyone so far, only whispered to each other in German. Tade Balkins told Deed earlier the couple hoped to lease land for farming near El Paso, where relatives lived. Their farm in Kansas had been lost to drought and grasshoppers.
As the coach rattled and banged across the uneven prairie, Rebecca glanced at James Hannah, eager for a new target for her thoughts, and asked, “Are you going on to El Paso?” Her smile was warm, very warm.
Hannah looked up from his book.
But the question went unanswered as Torce glanced out the window and yelled, “Oh my God, it’s Indians!”
Rebecca turned to the window and screamed.
Eighteen painted Comanches on horseback had appeared over a shallow ridge and were swarming toward the coach, like bees near a disturbed nest. All carried painted war shields. Half were waving rifles or revolvers and the rest, bows and arrows or short lances. Without a word, Deed and Hannah yanked free their revolvers and turned to their respective windows.
“Giddyap, boys! Earn your pay. Come on!” Tade yelled and snapped his nine-foot bullwhip over the horses’ heads to get their full attention. They were running full out in five strides and surprised the war party with their sudden swiftness.
CHAPTER TWO
Quickly, the menacing war party reacted to the now-racing coach. Riding as if they were part of their horses, the warriors had long black hair decorated with feathers, glass beads, silver conchos, and pieces of fur. A streak of color lined the central part of each warrior’s head, from forehead back along the crown. Eagle feathers were attached to their side locks. A beaver-fur-wrapped braid on each side of their heads was highlighted with bright cloth, and a special braided scalp lock, accented with a smaller feather, bounced on top of their heads.
Several wore antelope skins as breech clouts or war shirts, a sign they were of the Antelope band, the fiercest of Comanches and the terror of the entire region. Deed, Hannah, and the stagecoach guard began firing at them, but without success. The bouncing of the heavy vehicle made accuracy nearly impossible.
Hurdling across the land, the stage slammed across a shallow creek that fed into the bigger stream near the station, spraying water and launching its passengers against each other, then cut through a crusted band of dried alkali, sending up a snow of white powder.
Four warriors outraced the rest of the war party and closed in on the hard-running stage. Two went on one side of the coach; two, on the other. The guard fired at the closest warrior and managed to kill his horse, sending its rider stumbling onto the prairie. Hank Johnson scrambled to find the sack of shotgun slugs at his feet. Hannah leveled his Smith & Wesson. 44 Russian revolver, holding it with both hands, and fired at the second warrior, whose face, chest, and leggings were striped in black. Hannah’s bullets cut across the Comanche’s stomach and slammed into his right arm. Yelping in pain, the Indian swung away from the coach.
On the left side of the coach, the other two warriors were spread out; one was nearing the hard-running team and the other, just out of Deed’s line of sight, was near the back of the coach. The front warrior, with his lower face painted red, drew an arrow from the handful he held next to his bow. Stretching out behind Tade Balkins to shoot, the guard fired too quickly and missed, barely catching the Comanche with a few stray buckshot. Deed leaned out of the coach window and fired, missing twice. His third and fourth shots slammed into the warrior’s back just as he unleashed an arrow. The shaft struck the front edge of the driver’s box. Deed emptied his Remington into the Indian’s flailing body. Tade yelled his thanks as Deed ducked back inside.
The fourth warrior swooped near the same window. He swung low on his pony to thrust his lance inside, but Deed saw him coming. As the Comanche shoved it through the opened coach window, Deed Corrigan dropped his empty gun, grabbed and yanked hard on the spear. He pulled the surprised warrior, still holding the lance, from his horse and slammed him against the coach. For an instant, the warrior’s face was pinned against the coach window. Deed’s open left hand drove into the Comanche’s exposed Adam’s apple as if his hand were an axe.
The blow was so swift and fierce that only James Hannah and the farming couple realized what had happened.
A soft gurgle followed the Indian as his limp body slid down the outside of the coach. Deed Corrigan let go of the lance and retrieved his Remington revolver, pushed his hat brim against its crown, and began reloading. The lance bounced off the top-hatted drummer’s knees and fell harmlessly on the coach floor.
“Will they go away now?” Rebecca blurted.
Deed finished reloading and looked up. “Doubt it.”
The coach banged over a small ridge and slammed through a cluster of stunted cedar trees. Their stout branches scraped along the coach and forced Deed to duck back inside, but the trees gave the stagecoach a moment of reprieve from the war party as they were forced to ride around the trees or slow down to ride through them.
Leaning out the window, Deed yelled at the driver to hand down a rifle, then fired his revolver twice at the rest of the Indians racing to catch them and missed both times.
“Ain’t got one, mister,” Tade Balkins yelled back. “Unless you can get yurn in your gear. In the back boot.” He licke
d his lips and added, “Pull down them leather curtains. It’ll keep some of them arrows out.” He cracked his whip again and yelled at the horses. “Won’t do much about them bullets though.”
Hannah looked over at Deed and said, “Don’t even think about going up there to get your rifle, Corrigan. You’d be a pincushion in seconds.”
“If I could get to my Spencer, it’d make them think twice.”
“Yeah, well, the only word that counts there is if,” Hannah growled and fired again. “We’re doing all right. Could use another shooter though.”
“I’ve got to go now. Once they get around the coach, we won’t be able to handle them.” Deed said, “An old Japanese warrior friend says to always find a way to attack.”
“Wonder if he ever fought red devils like these?”
“Count on it.”
Both men pulled down the leather curtains at the same time. Quickly, Deed replaced the two spent cartridges in his handgun and unbuckled his heavy gunbelt. Beside him, Persam Torce was whimpering and praying loudly.
In the middle bench, the top-hatted drummer looked like he couldn’t believe what was happening as he heard the war party’s yells become louder again. He held a handkerchief close to his mouth to avoid any unexpected vomiting. His eyes went from Deed Corrigan to James Hannah to the lance at his feet.
Rebecca Tuttle sobbed and slid to the floor, as if it would keep her safe. She held her hands over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. An arrow burst through the closed curtains and slammed into where she had been. She glanced at it and shrieked.
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