Triumphant cheers exploded from the coach. The German woman said something to her husband that no one understood. Leaving his book in the coach, Hannah popped open the coach door and stepped out, holding his revolver. He told Rebecca it was safe to come out. She glanced at Deed as she left and hurried to the station. The gunman looked up at Deed.
“Looks like we got it done, Corrigan.”
“Yeah. How’s it inside?”
“Ah, the German took an arrow. In his shoulder. He’s hurt bad, I think.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
With that, Hannah began walking among the closest downed Comanches, shooting each one again. Deed swung down and saw the wounded farmer in his wife’s lap. He was conscious, but in considerable pain.
Opening the coach door, Deed said, “That arrow needs to come out. The sooner, the better.”
Olivia Beinrigt blinked and told him what had happened.
“Let me get the arrow out, then we can get him to the station. All right?”
“Ja, danke.”
Acrid gunsmoke laid heavily inside the coach as Deed entered and grabbed his sheathed throwing knife from behind his collar. He knelt beside the struggling farmer and cut off the arrowhead with his blade. A fly found the oozing wound and he swiped at it with his open hand.
“I’m going to pull this out now. It’s going to hurt. You ready?” he said to the white-faced Beinrigt.
“J-Ja.”
Putting his left hand against the man’s bloody shoulder, Deed Corrigan took hold of the arrow shaft with his right and pulled it free. The farmer grimaced and fainted. Removing his neckerchief, Deed wadded and pressed the cloth against the bleeding.
“We can clean that wound when we get to the station.” He looked up at the German woman. “You take care of your man till then. Keep this pressed tight. Let up in a few minutes, then do it again. Need to stop the bleeding. I’ll get Mr. Hannah to help carry him.”
Spiderwebs of crow’s feet jumped around Olivia’s pale blue eyes. Her plain gray dress was splattered with her husband’s blood.
“Danke,” she said and patted his arm. “Du are most brave.”
He smiled and buckled on his gunbelt and yelled to James Hannah.
The bespectacled gunman returned to the coach to help Deed carry the wounded farmer, leaving the dead top-hatted man in the coach. Olivia walked proudly beside them, holding her husband’s hand.
“How bad they get you?” Deed asked, glancing at the gunman’s bloody coat sleeve as they walked.
“It’s nothing. Just a scratch,” Hannah said. “How’s the German?”
Deed glanced at Olivia. “Going to be all right, I think. Lost a lot of blood. He’ll need some time.” He adjusted his hold on the wounded man’s shoulders. “He saved my life, you know. Cut down one of those bastards when I was in a bad spot getting on top.”
“Yeah, you’re a lucky man, Corrigan. I’ll have to remember that.” Hannah’s laugh was warm.
“You’d better.” Deed chuckled.
CHAPTER FOUR
At the relay station, young Benjamin Forsyth opened the door for the incoming passengers. Cooper barked for attention. Rebecca Tuttle was talking loudly to no one in particular.
“Thanks, son,” Deed Corrigan started to say something else, but saw the unmoving man stretched out on the planked floor.
The look in the boy’s eyes was the only answer he needed. At the fireplace, Benjamin’s younger sister continued to play with her doll, unaware of what had happened to her father or the violence that had occurred outside.
“I’m mighty sorry,” he said and looked at James Hannah. “Let’s put Mr. Beinrigt over there. On that bunk.” Bunks were set up in the back of the station for drivers and guards, but not for passengers. If necessary to stop overnight, passengers would have to sleep on the floor.
The boy turned away so no one could see him crying as the two gunfighters laid the wounded German on the bunk. Olivia Beinrigt asked for water to clean the wound and a tearstained Atlee Forsyth brought her a bucket filled from their inside water barrel. Cooper moved to be next to Benjamin and the boy scratched his floppy ears as unstoppable tears ran down his freckled face.
With her straw hat in her hand, the agitated Rebecca Tuttle hurried over to Deed and Hannah and asked, between sobs, “Are they gone? Will they come back?”
“Guess nobody knows about Indians for sure,” Deed said. “But I reckon we’re safe. For now. They’ll head back to their camp. Take a vote on a new leader. That won’t come fast. Or they might just head south. Look for an easier target. We cut them up pretty bad. They aren’t used to that.”
She smiled and said, “Thank you. You were so brave. So were you, Mr. Hannah.”
“Just trying to stay alive, Miss Tuttle,” Hannah said, adjusting his glasses.
“Mr. Beinrigt did his part and more,” Deed added.
Atlee stepped beside them. “I’m Mrs. Forsyth. My husband and I run this station. I want to thank you for stopping the Comanches. That’s the worst it’s ever been.”
Her youngest, Elizabeth, wandered over and hugged her mother’s leg, receiving a warm pat on the head. Atlee glanced at her husband’s body. “T-They k-killed my Caleb.”
The younger woman frowned at Atlee’s interruption, slammed her hat back on her head, and walked away with its ribbons flopping in her face.
“I’m so sorry we couldn’t save your husband.” Deed took off his hat. “Ma’am? Would you like us to . . . carry Mr. Forsyth . . . somewhere? Till we can bury him proper?” His voice was gentle and his eyes met hers.
“Thank you, Mr.—”
“It’s Deed Corrigan, ma’am. Deed, if you please.”
“Thank you, Deed. Please call me Atlee.”
“Yes, ma . . . Atlee.”
“My son and I will be serving supper soon. I’m sure all of you would find some food and coffee refreshing, after this awful time.” Her face looked like it was going to crack.
“Atlee . . . let us take care of that. You and your son, why don’t you go to your home. Be by yourselves,” Deed said.
“No. This is our station. Our job. Caleb would want us here.”
Deed Corrigan shook his head, stepped away, and asked James Hannah to help him move the body. The bespectacled gunman nodded and the two of them left carrying the body. After whispering some instructions to Deed, Atlee Forsyth watched them leave, swallowed hard, and went to the station’s kitchen. Benjamin and Cooper followed.
Elizabeth studied the men carrying her father out of the house, turned toward her mother, and asked, “What’s the matter with Pa? Is he sick? He’s so quiet.”
Atlee swallowed. “Your father is with God. Please come and help me.”
Elizabeth’s next question went unheard.
As they carried the dead man to his house, Hannah observed, “Never liked looking at a dead man. Even one I killed. One minute, he’s full of life. The next, he’s dirt.”
“Yeah. Especially when he’s a good man.” Deed eased around a large clump of grass, holding Caleb Forsyth’s shoulders. “Watch that bunch of grass.”
“Got it. The man’s heavy, isn’t he? Think those red bastards’ll be back?”
“Don’t think so, but we’ll have to keep an eye out.”
Not far away was a small stream that also provided a spring-fed well, assisted by an energetic windmill. Just over the hill was the small town of Wilkon, named after the man who built the first general store to assist travelers. They passed a chicken coop surrounded by a fence, housing a dozen chickens and a rooster. Next to it was a well-tilled garden, yielding potatoes, carrots, onions, cabbage, and corn. Deed was certain the two far trees were apple trees. Ten feet from the house was the stone cooling shed.
“Looks like they’re pretty near self-sufficient here,” Hannah observed as he shifted the dead man’s weight in his arms.
“Yeah. Bet we’d find a milk cow in the barn,” Deed answered.
Deed bala
nced the body with one hand and opened the door to the house with the other. “We were lucky those Comanches didn’t get the horses earlier.”
“Yeah. Interesting way to live,” Hannah said, keeping the door open with his elbow as they stepped inside. “You know, all they do is fight.” He grinned. “The two of us would’ve fit right in.”
“Could be. Wouldn’t care much about slapping paint all over me though.”
Hannah chuckled.
“That’s quite a good-looking pistol you’re carrying, James,” Deed said, nodding in the direction of Hannah’s opened coat.
“Oh, yeah. Really like this gun. Smith & Wesson made them for the Russian army. Most accurate handgun I’ve ever found,” Hannah said. “Got this one, well, let’s just say I found it.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
The Forsyth’s adobe-and-timber home was clean, tidy, and felt of a woman’s presence. Following Atlee’s directions, they laid Caleb Forsyth on the bed in the front bedroom; Hannah straightened his coat, now smeared with dried blood. Deed covered the dead man’s still face and body with a blanket that had been folded in the corner of the room. A second bedroom, built on for Benjamin and Elizabeth, stuck out from the core of the house.
A stone fireplace with an open hearth held a gray bank of coals in need of stirring to keep them producing warmth. In the main room, a large brown sofa was pushed against the south wall. A torn spot on the side of the sofa had been sewn together. A large table with four unmatched wooden chairs held a small vase of prairie flowers, now days past their prime. In another corner of the main room was an ornate desk, accented with Spanish-style carving. Above the desk was a framed photograph of Caleb and Atlee on their wedding day. A small kitchen held a cast-iron stove and a row of cabinets.
“That’s one tough lady,” Hannah said as they walked back to the front door. “Didn’t fall apart when her man went down.”
“Got a feeling she will . . . when everybody’s gone,” Deed said.
“Going to be rough on these folks. Wonder what she and the kids’ll do?”
Deed didn’t want to think of their options and merely shook his head.
Hannah studied him a moment and said, “Holt Corrigan is your brother, I take it.”
“Yeah. Haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“Heard he was in a gunfight in Amarillo. Got himself killed.”
“Heard that, too. Possible, but I doubt it. Not Holt.”
Hannah grinned. “Me too. No offense, but there’s another story. About you. Two years ago in Austin the way I heard it. Three fellas were leaving the bank after robbing it and ran into you.” He cocked his head and pushed back his glasses. “You took down the first gunman with only your hands—while he was pointing a six-gun at your belly. In a split second, you grabbed the gun, killed the second outlaw, and wounded the third. Heard that story all over Texas.” He paused and added, “Thought it was crazy talk . . . until I saw you in action today. Now I’ve got a hunch it was true.”
“Didn’t have much choice.”
“Sure. It’s good to be lucky, too.”
As they left the small house, two shadowed figures rode up to the far edge of the station area, beside the cottonwoods, leading a third saddled horse. The closest rider swung his Winchester to his shoulder from its position across his saddle and studied the now-quiet attack scene. The second rider, an older Japanese man, carried a long, curved sword on a sheath across his back and a long knife was belted at his waist. From the station, Cooper barked but made no attempt to leave the safety of the station.
Shielding his eyes with his hand, Hannah declared, “Two men are out there. Just rode up. Don’t think I know them. One’s an Oriental. The other’s white. I think he’s only got one arm.”
Deed smiled. “Sounds like my brother. And my best friend, Silka.”
“What?”
“My brother. Blue Corrigan. Lost his left arm in the war. I’m the youngest of the three of us.” Deed shook his long hair, brushing against his shoulders. “We planned to meet here. I’m on the way back from our cattle drive to Abilene. Looks like they’ve got a horse for me.
“And that’s Silka with Blue. Silka’s our partner. Nakashima Silka is his full name. Silka’s easier to say and he doesn’t mind. He used to be a samurai warrior back in Japan. Kinda think of him as our uncle. Long story.” Deed smiled “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
“You go on. I’ll head back to the station and see how things are going there,” Hannah said, waving his hand in dismissal. “I’ll meet ’em later.”
“Sure.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Blue Corrigan watched the bespectacled man head for the station while his younger brother strode across the open yard.
Without warning, a wounded warrior Hannah had overlooked, jumped up and ran at Deed waving a tomahawk and yelling. In one smooth motion, Deed pivoted to his left, grabbed the Indian’s right wrist with his left hand, and smashed his right elbow into the charging Comanche’s face. Deed yanked away the tomahawk, then drove his fist into the attacker’s chest. The Comanche gasped and fell.
A shot from one of the riders ended any further attempt. Smoke trailed from the barrel of Blue’s rifle. He had fired it like a pistol, one-handed, pushing the stock against his leg. Licking his lower lip, he returned it to his saddle scabbard and swung down. The Oriental nodded and dismounted, too.
As if nothing had happened, Deed strolled over to the two riders. Of medium height and build, the two brothers looked a lot alike, resembling their late father, even down to their once-broken noses, courtesy of their brother, Holt. Deed was eight years younger than Blue, an inch taller, fifteen pounds heavier, and definitely wilder. Blue was as intense as Deed, but directed it toward building a great ranch.
Deed’s reputation for fighting grew as well; Holt’s reputation was more like that of a ghost. Neither Blue nor Deed had seen him since the war ended. Two years younger than Blue, Holt had been riding the outlaw trail, still fighting the war that had ended so long ago. Distinctly, the three brothers had elements of their mother’s approach to life within them. Deed cared about all things of nature, from snakes to birds to deer, much like that of an Indian; his fighting instincts, however, came from their father.
Holt had picked up their mother’s fascination with superstition and reincarnation, believing he had once been a Roman soldier, a knight in King Arthur’s Round Table, even a jaguar in South America, in different lifetimes. He carried a panther’s claw in his pocket and had since he was twelve. His first experience in believing he had lived before had occurred during the war. An enlightening experience, he said. His superstitious ways increased then as well. No one laughed when he told the stories, not even Deed. Like his younger brother, Holt’s fierce fighting abilities had come from their father.
Blue’s beliefs, however, were more traditional. In fact, he served the Wilkon church as a part-time minister, along with a townsman, whenever the circuit rider wasn’t available. Their mother had loved reading, especially the Bible, and so did Blue; their father believed in the need for righteous behavior, but also in never backing down.
Blue’s coat and chaps showed signs of trail dust. The sleeve of his left arm was pinned against his coat. Yankee artillery fire had blown it off; he was lucky to have survived. One of his pockets was jammed with extra cartridges. In the other was a small Bible his mother had given him. He always carried it, even during the war, and credited the scripture with saving his life. At his hip was a holstered Walch Navy 12-shot revolver with two triggers and two hammers. Weighing two pounds, it was twelve inches long. Rarely seen in this part of Texas, Blue had taken the gun from a dead Union officer during the war and decided he liked it, especially since reloading a standard six-shooter wasn’t easy one-handed.
“Glad you could make it.” Deed gave his brother a warm hug, then turned to Silka and hugged him, saying, “Nana korobi, ya oki.”
The old samurai smiled, recognizing the Japanese s
aying: fall down seven times, get up eight. “Velly good. A warrior must do so.”
The short, stocky Japanese man was many years older than the Corrigan brothers, had a graying mustache, and wore his hair pulled back tight to a tail in back. Carried in a sheath across his back was a classic samurai sword. Nakashima Silka’s clothes were nondescript, but definitely those of a cowboy; a broad-brimmed hat was weathered and flopping. Around his neck was a small engraved brass circle just like Deed wore. It, too, carried a hidden knife behind the Oriental’s back.
He had left Japan when the samurai were forced out and made his way to Texas, learning English as he traveled. In many ways, he was like a stepfather to all three Corrigan brothers and had taught Deed, in particular, how to fight—and fight well—with any weapon and with one’s hands and feet. Silka taught the classic samurai way of the warrior, Bushido, the importance of inner strength and determination, with moments of concentrated energy. At its core were honor and freedom from the fear of death. His swords were the only physical remains of his previous way of life. Under his careful training, Deed had become a fierce warrior even though he didn’t want the reputation.
Deed, Holt, and Blue, with Silka’s considerable help, had built up their family’s ranch southeast of the stage station and a few miles outside of Wilkon. Theirs was one of five ranches doing well in the region; two were quite large, the Bar 3 and the Lazy S. Their mother and sister had died of pneumonia when Blue was eighteen; Holt, sixteen; and Deed, ten. Their father had died six months before their mother from a broken neck after a horse threw him. Three years later, Blue and Holt left to fight for the Confederacy while the much-younger brother, Deed, stayed with Silka to keep the ranch afloat. While the older brothers were gone, Silka had honed Deed’s fighting skills.
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