Ride Away

by Smith, Cotton

  Both men laughed.

  “Are the boys outside?”

  “Yeah, except the men I sent to hold up the stage.”

  “Send’em in. I need to talk to Sear. Tell the waiter, we’re going to need more food. Lots of it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Although nervous at first, Rebecca Tuttle began to relax as the stagecoach rumbled across the Chihuahuan Desert. James Hannah had been nice enough, but he was inclined toward reading and sleeping and she was left to her thoughts most of the time. She found herself thinking about Deed Corrigan. She wished he had continued with them and felt a little jealous that he had stayed to help Atlee Forsyth.

  She told herself Deed had stayed because the new widow was frightened about being attacked again, but Rebecca wasn’t certain that was the reason. She tried to concentrate on the farmer waiting for her, the man she was going to marry. His face wouldn’t come to her mind. Only the face of Deed Corrigan. Her unstoppable conversation focused on Hannah, even though he wasn’t particularly responsive.

  At last the Franklin Mountains came into view, indicating the coach was nearing El Paso. Tade Balkins was visibly weary and Blue Corrigan was having trouble staying alert as well. The edgy driver had mentioned missing his regular guard at least six times and each time Blue had acknowledged how hard it must be. Tade had followed each statement with a concern about a one-armed man being tough enough if they had any more trouble. The rest of their conversation had been strained. Tade was upset about losing time in delivery of the mail and Blue’s words of comfort did little to help his stress. Nor did Blue tell him that he had been a sharpshooter for the Confederacy during the war.

  Ahead, the road took a jog to the left, disappearing behind a cluster of huge yellow and gray boulders that looked like God had placed them there for no other reason than that he could. As the tiring team of Morgans neared the large rocks, four masked horsemen swung into view, firing their revolvers in the air and demanding that the stage stop.

  “Halt! This is Holt Corrigan,” one masked holdup man yelled.

  “No. You’re not.” Blue’s reaction was an instant assault. Sliding forward to kneel in the driver’s box, he placed his Winchester against the front edge and fired the gun six times—as fast as he could aim, pull the trigger, and lever a new cartridge with his one hand. Two outlaws spun from their saddles and hit the ground, groaning. Their pistols spun by themselves, as if frozen in the moment, before thudding near the wounded men.

  “Keep ’em going, Tade!” Blue yelled.

  Smoking shells popped around Blue as he focused on the remaining two outlaws who were firing at them. The jerking coach made it difficult to aim, but Blue kept leveling the rifle to maintain a steady field of fire, now shooting with the gun against his hip for balance. One of the outlaw’s bullets clipped Blue’s hat; two others drove into the front of the driver’s box and sent a wood sliver into Blue’s right hand and the sudden pain forced him to stop firing for a moment, then he resumed as if nothing had happened. The coach thundered toward the outlaws with Tade yelling and snapping his whip to keep the horses in an outright run. The outlaws’ mounts became difficult to control. Stutter-stepping. Rearing. Shaking their heads wildly.

  An outlaw in a tan vest and dark blue shirt backed his horse off the road, far enough to settle the mount. He wrapped the reins around the saddle horn, drew a second handgun and began firing again with both weapons. The other outlaw, blond hair streaming from his hat, spurred his horse wide of the road and into a hard lope with the intention of getting Blue in a crossfire.

  “I’ve got this one, Blue!” Hannah yelled and fired three times from the coach’s window.

  The blond outlaw grunted and slumped against his horse’s neck. Hannah aimed his Smith & Wesson with both hands and fired again, popping a black hole in the man’s exposed check, in spite of the coach’s uneven movement. The gunfighter smoothly shoved new cartridges into his gun and told the once-again screaming Rebecca that it would soon be over.

  In front, the remaining outlaw held up his hands with his guns still in them.

  “Keep going, Tade. He’s had enough.”

  As the coach rumbled past the stunned stagecoach robber, Hannah fired three times and the remaining outlaw crumpled from his saddle.

  “Hey! He was finished,” Blue yelled back at the bespectacled gunman.

  “Any man holding two guns isn’t finished in my book,” Hannah answered. “But you’re welcome.” He reloaded his gun and shoved it back into his shoulder holster. “Miss Tuttle, it is over. There is nothing more to be afraid of.”

  “Oh thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  “A hug would be nice.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then leaned over and gave him a warm embrace.

  Above, Tade Balkins looked over at Blue reloading his rifle, shoving new cartridges into the gun with it laying on his lap. “Be all right if I ease ’em down a mite? They’ve been pushed hard. Too hard, maybe.”

  “You bet. Bring them to a walk. They did well.”

  Wiping his brow with his hand, Tade pulled on the horse team to bring them out of their run. “Well, I sure had you figured wrong. Never thought you’d come out shootin’ like that. Lordy!” He grinned. “That was somethin’ to see.”

  “I understand,” Blue said, laying the reloaded rifle on his lap. “The good Lord expects us to defend ourselves against evil, whether we’ve got one arm or two.” He smiled. “Besides, there wasn’t much time to turn the other cheek.”

  “Easy now, boys. Easy.” Tade pulled on the reins and watched the tired animals slowly slip into a trot and finally, a walk. “I can sure see how you and Deed are brothers. That’s for sure. No offense.”

  “None taken. We are alike in many ways. But Deed is a far better fighter.” Blue could hear Rebecca jabbering inside the couch. Hannah would have his hands full calming her down, he thought.

  “Man said he were Holt Corrigan. Any kin?” Tade asked.

  “Holt’s our brother and that wasn’t him. Haven’t seen him much since the war. He would’ve been involved in every bank and stage holdup in three states, if you believed everything you hear.”

  “Prob’ly best,” Tade said and decided to mention a story he’d recently heard about Holt Corrigan. “Speaking o’ that, heard your brother . . . Holt . . . was in a gunfight over near the border. Last year, it was. Said he died.”

  “Yeah, heard that, too. Like I said, I don’t put much stock in gossip.”

  Tade waited for more, but none was coming and he said, “Heard he was one of the heroes who stopped all those Yankees at Sabine Pass. Just forty-three Confederates with rifles and six small cannon stopped a Federal fleet of fifteen thousand men tryin’ to land.”

  “That’s true. Holt was there and part of that victory,” Blue said. “Lieutenant Richard Dowling led them. Sank a gunboat, captured a couple more, and turned away the rest of that whole fleet. Took four hundred prisoners. Best of all, they didn’t lose a man.”

  Tade nodded. “Yeah, that must’ve been something. Heard every one of them boys got a silver medal from Jeff Davis, only command that got that. Really something.”

  Tade wanted to ask why Holt was an outlaw, but decided he shouldn’t and the talking ended for a while. “Ya see that mountain? That’s Franklin. Got a red clay shape in it. Real odd-like. Indians think it’s a thunderbird.” Tade was actually smiling. “Supposed to be a holy place for ’em.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Blue said. “Doesn’t have to be a cathedral to talk to God. Or listen. My dear mother, bless her soul, used to say a man’s own church is within his heart.”

  Tade looked over at Blue. “Hey, you’re bleeding. They hit ya?”

  “Naw, just a piece of wood caught me.” Blue studied his bloody hand.

  “Better have a look at that,” Tade said, talking warmly now.

  “No. I’m all right. Just a nick. The bleeding will stop soon enough.”

  “Want me to stop an’ he’p ya?”
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  “No thanks. I’m all right, really.”

  Tade nodded and returned to studying the passing arid land.

  Blue had never been to El Paso before, or for that matter, seen the Rio Grande defining the border between El Paso and Mexico. The business with Magnuson’s horse had been done by telegraph. So he enjoyed the scenery and the driver’s change in attitude. Tade pointed out a volcanic peak to the west, rising from within the Rio Grande Rift and actually on the New Mexico side of the big river. He said there were a number of ancient volcanic craters a couple of days’ ride west. The town itself had responded well after the war and was a distinctive mixture of domed Spanish mansions, adobe tenements, and new structures of wood and brick, more northern in style and texture. Blue listened without comment, enjoying the driver’s sudden interest in talking.

  Ahead of the coach, on the outskirts of town stood a three-story, Victorian-styled home, surrounded by a white picket fence. Elaborately trimmed in shades of brown and light blue paint, the wooden building featured a wraparound porch with a matching deck on the second floor. It would have been a distinctive house in any Eastern city, but in El Paso it was absolutely dominant.

  “That’s Agon Bordner’s place. He’s kinda new to town,” Tade drawled and motioned with his head. “Bought the Bar 3 north o’ here, you know. An’ a couple o’ small places, too.” He waved his hand toward the house.

  “Heard that. Bought the Wilkon Bank, too.”

  Tade continued talking as if Blue hadn’t spoken. He said Bordner had come from New Mexico and liked to live elegantly.

  “Yeah, there’s all kinds of stories about his one-man banquets,” Tade laughed and massaged the sets of reins in his right hand. “Biggest man I ever seed.”

  “Interesting he lives here and hasn’t moved to his new ranch,” Blue said, studying the advancing signs of town.

  “Hear tell he leaves all that to a hard-assed cowman name of Murphy. Dixie Murphy. Got a finger missing from his left hand,” Tade held up his left hand. “Roping problem.” He shook his head. “Also heard he’s got a reputation for having some cows with an awful lot of calves. Too many calves.”

  “I don’t put much stock in gossip.”

  As they passed the big Victorian mansion, Blue couldn’t help wondering what kind of man this Agon Bordner was.

  “Over there’s the ol’ Peterson place,” Tade interrupted Blue’s thoughts, pointing toward the gray skeleton of a house. “Nobody knows what happened to him. One day he was gone. Just gone. Nobody lives there now.”

  They passed a small adobe cottage where a middle-aged woman was outside, separating cream from milk, pouring the white liquid through a hand-crank separator. Six chickens clucked across the sandy earth in front of her. Tade waved and she waved back.

  At Blue’s suggestion, Tade didn’t make his tired horses run again to have a showy entrance at the stage station and reined them easily to a stop. A major point in the route, from here the stagecoach headed toward Santa Fe with a new driver as well as a new team of horses.

  Commercial activity in town was strong with four-story hotels, general stores, saloons, grocery stores offering East Coast delicacies, and theaters crowded against distinctive Roman Catholic cathedrals and old missions. Newcomers included businessmen, priests, prostitutes, and gunfighters. After the Civil War’s conclusion, the town’s population began to grow and talk of the railroad coming to El Paso fueled even more interest in the town.

  Everywhere Blue looked, there seemed to be aristocratic ranchers and rich merchants mixed with cotton farmers and copper-mine workers. In the distance, he saw a church and two Catholic cathedrals. The town was full and loud. He felt very tired and glad to have arrived. His mind darted to his wife, Bina. He missed her and their son and daughter very much. He always did when away. And now there was Jeremy. He couldn’t wait to get home.

  A tall man in a rumpled suit and an ill-fitting bowler bolted from the station. His long-jawed face was red and his right hand kept making and unmaking fists at his side. In his left hand was a heavy bag of new mail and express.

  “Balkins, you’re late!” Willard Epson, the stage-line district agent, snapped.

  “Well, you oughta be damn glad we made it at all. Had serious Comanche trouble outside of Forsyth’s station,” Tade blurted, waving his arms. “An’ four masked owlhoots tried to hold us up just outside of town. Blue, here, cut ’em down hard. He an’ Mr. Hannah, one of my passengers.”

  “What? Comanches? Holdup men?” Epson stopped and put his hand over his mouth in surprise. He was all set to give his driver a dressing-down for being late and realized they had been lucky to get through at all.

  “Was the gold—?”

  “Safe as a baby’s behind.” Tade Balkins swung down and explained what had happened, complimenting Deed and Hannah—and Blue—for their help in getting the mail and gold through safely.

  Tade took the mail bag from Epson and handed him the El Paso–bound mail bag. Meanwhile, Blue grabbed his saddlebags and bedroll from the rear boot and threw them down. He would wait to get his saddle until the driver unloaded the boot itself. Cradling his Winchester between what remained of his left arm and his good right arm, he climbed down, grasping the coach rails with his lone hand. He made a fist to drive away the lingering pain from the slight wound.

  Epson listened intently as Tade began unloading the luggage that belonged to Rebecca and Hannah. He told his boss about the two passengers being killed and wondered what to do about their luggage, about losing Hank Johnson, his guard, about the German couple staying at the Forsyth station, and finally, that Caleb Forsyth had been killed. For the first time, Epson noticed Blue only had one arm. His eyes asked the question.

  “Lost it in the war, Mr. Epson,” Blue responded to the unstated concern. “Been shooting one-handed since then. Pretty good at it. The Lord decided I needed to show others that two hands aren’t necessary to be successful.”

  “Guess so.”

  Forcing himself into a state of control, Epson thanked Hannah and Blue, and asked Rebecca if she needed assistance to the hotel. She glanced at Hannah and said that she did not. From across the street came a strutting bank president puffing on a large cigar and eager to retrieve the gold box.

  Blue studied the oncoming man for a moment, a tall man in a tailored suit with a trim mustache and receding hairline. Two men carrying shotguns and wearing sidearms were a few steps behind him.

  “Say, aren’t you Dave Copate? Fought with my brother at Sabine Pass?” Blue asked.

  “Well, howdy, Blue. You bet I am. It’s good to see you again,” Copate held out his hand and Blue laid down his rifle and shook it. “What brings you to our fair town?”

  Blue told him and Copate asked, “How’s Holt doing? Really doing, I mean. I hear all these awful stories and I don’t believe them. He saved my life, you know.”

  “Wish I knew. Haven’t seen Holt for years, I’m sorry to say. I don’t believe the stories either, but I’m his brother.”

  “Well, when you do, tell him Dave Copate asked about him and sent good wishes.”

  “Sure will.”

  “Excuse me, Blue, but I’d better get this to the bank,” Copate said.

  “Of course. Need some help?”

  “No. That’s what these two are for.” He chuckled, waved, and motioned to the two armed men. Shifting their shotguns to their left hands, each man took one of the straps on the heavy box and followed him away.

  Epson paled and started to shake. “Holt Corrigan your brother?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “N-No reason, I guess. Just—”

  “You were wondering if I was going to rob your stage, is that it, Mr. Epson?” Blue growled. “I’m here to buy a stallion from Mr. Magnuson for our ranch. My brother Deed and I own a spread near Wilkon.” He cocked his head. “Haven’t seen Holt in years. Not since the war. You’d know more about him than I would.” He paused and added, “If I were you, I wouldn’t believe every story t
hat came along about my brother. As far as I know, he hasn’t broken any laws. He didn’t like losing the war, but a lot other men felt the same way. He also didn’t think he had to beg for amnesty. I’m proud of him for that.”

  “Oh, of course. Of course. Well, welcome to El Paso,” Epson smiled. “If I can do anything to make your stay better, please ask.”

  With his saddlebags and bedroll draped over his shoulder and his Winchester in his right hand, Blue explained that he had ridden the coach to assure the red-faced district agent that the station was in good hands. Tade added his support, saying Mrs. Forsyth had already hired Deed Corrigan to help her; the driver glanced at Blue, who shook his head, and Tade said nothing more. Behind them four new passengers waited for their luggage to be taken and to board.

  “Deed Corrigan? Didn’t you just say he was your brother?” Epson asked.

  “Yes. I met up with him at Forsyth’s station,” Blue said, leaning his Winchester against his leg. “He was returning from a trail drive to Abilene.” He called it the Forsyth’s station deliberately.

  Folding his arms, Epson said, “He’s mighty good with a gun and his fists, I hear.”

  Blue’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s a very good man—and this coach wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him and Mr. Hannah.”

  Epson rubbed his mouth and looked away. “Yes. Yes. But I still have to replace Mrs. Forsyth. We can’t have a woman running our relay station. Surely you understand.”

  Blue put his lone hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I surely don’t, Mr. Epson. And if I were you, I’d rethink that idea. From what I hear, that’s one of your best stations. And it isn’t because the horses are harnessed correctly or your barn is always clean. Or hadn’t you noticed the way your passengers talk about Mrs. Forsyth’s food.” He took his hand away and picked up his rifle. “Now I’m going to get something to eat, a little sleep, and go buy a horse tomorrow. All right if I put my gear in your station until then?”