Ride Away

by Smith, Cotton

  The man’s face blinked with relief and he spun and left. After saying good-bye, Hannah stood, reholstered his gun, and walked to the back room and slowly opened the door.

  Around the table sat five men. It was easy to tell which one was Agon Bordner. He looked like a huge bullfrog in expensive clothes. As far as Hannah could tell, the fat man wasn’t armed. Bordner was finishing a second meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes with a large glass of dark red wine. Already seated at the table with him was the henchman from a few minutes ago and two other hard-looking men, all armed. Another skinny man with greasy hair and a worn suit looked out of place. Their plates were empty and their glasses held whiskey, not wine.

  Only a handful of minutes before, Bordner had just learned that three of his men were dead after the ill-fated stage holdup. Only Curly Matthews got away. From the excited outlaw’s description, it was that one-armed cowboy—and James Hannah—doing the shooting. Bordner had told Curly to stay out of sight, ride for the Bar 3, and stay there until he was called.

  “Mr. Bordner, how are you?” Hannah said, easing into the room.

  “Fine, sir. Absolutely fine.” Bordner raised his hand in a warm gesture. “I understand you’ve been a little busy, getting rid of vermin on the road.”

  “News travels fast in El Paso. Yeah, we did have a little activity coming in. Four amateurs. One got away.”

  “Too bad. We need law and order around here. It wasn’t Holt Corrigan and his bunch, I take it.”

  “No. it wasn’t.”

  As if on cue, three of the four men rose and left, headed for the bar. The remaining gunman wore a bearskin coat like Hannah had never seen before. At his waist were two crossed gunbelts holding twin revolvers. One gun lay in his lap. Nothing in his eyes indicated he liked Hannah. Rhey Selmon was known for three things: being fast with a gun, being loyal to Bordner, and owning big horses. Currently he was riding a bay over sixteen hands high and weighing well over eleven hundred pounds. The animal was far and away the fastest horse in the region. Selmon had been in two cattle wars, served a prison term, and killed three men in standup fights before he met up with Bordner.

  “James Hannah, meet Rhey Selmon. You two will have a lot in common.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Blue Corrigan walked with Rebecca Tuttle to the hotel; his rifle was at his side. She wanted to talk about James Hannah, or rather ask questions about him. He was eager to be rid of her, but tried to hide his impatience.

  “Is James, uh, Mr. Hannah, married?” she asked, straightening her collar, and tried to act casual as they navigated the rutted street.

  “His wife died a few years ago,” Blue said, watching a freighter rumble past.

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” She couldn’t hide a smile. “Is he coming . . . to the hotel?”

  “Don’t know about that, Miss Tuttle,” he answered. “He was talking business, I believe.”

  A fancy carriage, pulled by two handsome bays, bounced in front of them. An older gentleman with curly white hair drove; a trim lady, wearing a tilted blue hat with matching feathers, sat at his side. She glanced at Blue and smiled. He nodded.

  Blue was glad Rebecca was silent as they completed crossing the street. Stepping onto the boardwalk, he opened the hotel door for her. She bobbed her head and entered. The lobby was lined with big leather chairs and a matching sofa. In the far corner, a large Regulator wall clock proudly told the time. Adjacent to it was an elk’s head with antlers. Musty-smelling, full-length curtains flanked the main window. A drummer sat in the corner, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. In an adjoining room, the hotel restaurant was quiet.

  Rebecca had checked in earlier and Blue wondered how she had intended to pay, but said nothing. She thanked him and asked if he would tell Hannah that she was in room 211. He reminded her that he wasn’t likely to see him. With barely a pause, she turned to the desk clerk and told him that a Mr. Hannah should be informed of her room number. The round-faced, bald man with wispy brown hair edging around large ears said he would do so and smiled slightly.

  Blue almost felt sorry for Hannah.

  As she hurried upstairs, Blue told the manager that he, too, wanted a room. The chubby clerk asked if he wanted one next to Miss Tuttle’s. The one-armed Corrigan brother grunted negatively.

  The manager turned toward the maze of cubbyholes for keys and mail behind him. “One-fourteen’s open.”

  “Fine.”

  “Two bits. In advance.”

  Blue shoved coins across the desktop, wondered if Rebecca had been required to pay in advance, then took the key and left, heading for the stage station. Epson was sitting behind a desk and nodded as he entered. Blue tied his saddlebags and bedroll to the saddle, then shoved his rifle in its saddle sleeve. Putting everything together made it easier to handle it with his lone hand. He swung the saddle over his shoulder and headed for the livery. Epson muttered a half-hearted good-bye.

  As Blue Corrigan stepped off the boardwalk to cross the alley, a familiar voice called out, “Blue.”

  Even before he turned, he knew it was his brother Holt. Grinning, Blue turned into the shadowed alley. His pinned-up shirtsleeve fluttered as he spun.

  “How are you, Holt?”

  “Sixes and sevens. No fires turning hollow. Haven’t come across any knives on the ground either.”

  “Better than aces and eights.” Blue laid down his saddle and held out his hand. Holt took off his right-hand glove and grabbed Blue’s hand. They shook hands and then hugged each other. He knew Holt’s references to fires turning hollow and finding knives were superstitions that indicated bad things were coming.

  In a low-crowned black hat and full beard, Holt was two inches shorter than Blue. In his hatband was a red cardinal’s feather, something he considered especially lucky. Under his coat, he wore two shoulder-holstered Russian Smith & Wesson .44 revolvers. An ivory panther silhouette was inlaid in each black grip. He looked older, much older, than the last time Blue had seen him two years ago. His face was drawn and his eyes, dark and tired. Over the past several years, Holt Corrigan and other ex-Confederates were charged with plundering their way across the region, robbing banks, military payrolls, and stages.

  North of them, the James-Younger gang had discovered trains were easier to rob than banks. Sympathetic Southerners had taken to calling Holt Corrigan “el Jaguar.” Blue wondered if they had heard about Holt’s belief in having been the animal once, or if it was simply a tribute to his cunning and bravery.

  “Saw you in the Lone Star, having dinner with James Hannah,” Holt said, holding his one glove in his gloved left hand. “I was there. In the corner. Most folks don’t know me by sight. Just reputation.”

  Blue told him what had happened and asked why Holt hadn’t come over to join them. Holt smiled, but didn’t answer.

  “Deed in town, too?” Holt asked, taking a cigar from his coat pocket.

  “No, he’s helping at the Wilkon coach station.”

  “Doing what?”

  Blue explained the situation.

  “She pretty? This widow?” Holt cocked his head to the side and snapped a match into flame off his pants.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Never mind. Say, I heard a wild tale about him taking down some bank robbers. In Austin, I think it was. One had a gun on him and Deed took him with his bare hands. That right?”

  “Well, that’s what happened.”

  “Is he nuts?” Holt held the flame to the cigar.

  “No. Just good. Very good.”

  “Silka worked his magic I guess, while we were fightin’ Yankees.”

  Blue smiled. “Well, I heard you were in a gunfight in Amarillo . . . and were killed. Anything to that?”

  Holt chuckled. “Guess not. Don’t think I’m dead. Yet. An’ I haven’t been in Amarillo in a long time.” He turned his head slightly again and exhaled the smoke. A stray string of sunlight caught the long scar on his right cheek, a reminder of a cavalry battle. “You still pr
eachin’?”

  “I help with services in town from time to time. Me an’ another man fill in when the circuit rider can’t be there.”

  “Good for you. How’s Bina and the kids?”

  “Doing well. Thanks for asking.” Blue said, “Didn’t know you were in El Paso.”

  “Yeah, got an apartment not far from here. Nice an’ quiet.” Holt pulled on the cigar again.

  “Nobody looking for you?” Blue was aware that, at the mention of the apartment, his brother hadn’t invited him to stay, but also realized it was Holt’s way of keeping Blue from appearing to be involved if something should happen and his cover was blown.

  “Nobody’s looking for Samuel Holton.” Holt watched a circle of smoke wander away. “That’s what I go by in town.”

  “Oh, okay. Samuel Holton. I’ll have to remember that,” Blue said.

  A quick look at the alley entrance was followed by Holt changing the subject and telling Blue that the attempted stage holdup men were part of Agon Bordner’s gang. Blue was surprised and told him about the Bar 3 ranch now being in Bordner’s hands.

  A pulsing vein dancing down his forehead, Holt said, “That fat sonuvabitch wants to own everything around there. Those were his men that hit the Bar 3, you know. And killed the folks who owned the H-5 and Roof-M, after they sold out. Got Bordner’s money back that way.”

  “I didn’t know. You sure of that?”

  “Yeah. He’ll be coming after you boys soon. That boy’s got plans as big as he is.”

  “Well, there’s only the Lazy S and us left.”

  A couple passed along the alley entrance, talking loudly. Holt retreated into the shadows until they were gone.

  Blue started to say his brother was too jumpy, but decided against it. Instead, he put his hand on Holt’s shoulder. “Come home, Holt. We’ve got a place for you. We need you. The ranch is growing. War’s been over a long time.”

  “That’s all you need,” Holt said, removing Blue’s hand from his shoulder. “There’d be lawmen all over your place. It’d give that fat bastard just the opportunity he wants. Believe me, Blue, he’s going to come after the ranch hard, like a raccoon after bread crumbs.”

  Blue rubbed his unshaved chin. “Holt, you’re our brother, pure and simple. We stand together. Always have. Always will.” He paused and said, “Give yourself up. All of us got amnesty. No Texas jury is going to convict you. You can start over with us. We could sure use the help and your bedroom is waiting for you.”

  Smiling, the third Corrigan brother shifted his weight from his right to his left side. “That’s mighty nice talk, Blue. Like something from one of your pretty sermons. But the time is long past for that . . . and you know it as well as I do. Every bank robbery and stagecoach holdup in Texas is supposed to have been done by me.”

  Blue glanced back at the alley opening, but no one was crossing. He looked again at his brother. Holt had changed, no longer the cocky kid who loved to fight and loved to win even more. More than the war had changed him though. Holt’s longtime sweetheart had married another man while Holt and Blue were at war. That heartbreak had sent Holt riding, looking for a war that was no more, except in the minds of some bitter Southerners. He had never returned.

  “Did you know Allison Johnson’s a widow?” Blue said, mentioning Holt’s former sweetheart. “Her husband died of pneumonia last year.”

  “Who?”

  “Come on, Holt.”

  Taking a long pull of his cigar, Holt exhaled and watched the smoke ring dance in front of his face again. “Deed needs to be careful,” he finally said. “Going to be some crazy young guns wanting to try him. Get a reputation quick.” The statement was an indication Holt didn’t want to hear any more about coming home or his former sweetheart.

  “He knows. You didn’t answer my question about how you knew it was Bordner’s men who attacked the Bar 3.”

  Holt frowned. “I wasn’t with them, if that’s what you’re wondering. A couple of Bordner’s men told me. They were drinking heavy and happy to be moving to the Bar 3. Their hideout was none too comfortable, I reckon. You know Bordner’s got that no-good Rhey Selmon with him.”

  “Rhey Selmon? Heard of him. Thought he was in New Mexico.”

  “He was. They all were. Rhey is Bordner’s right-hand man. Likes to kill.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah. Sear Georgian’s with him, too. A nasty bull of a man. Huge. Likes beating up men and women, I hear. Awful good with a gun though,” Holt said, “Macy Shields, too. He rode with Bloody Bill Anderson. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  They talked a few more minutes about cattle and horses before Holt asked him if the family had any money in the El Paso Bank. Blue said they didn’t and asked why.

  “Well, it’s a Yankee bank. Figured we might relieve it of some those Yankee dollars.”

  “No, Holt, it isn’t a Yankee bank,” Blue said. “That bank is owned by three ex-Confederates. One of them is Dave Copate. You rode with him, remember? At Sabine Pass.” He licked his lips. “I ran into Dave at the stage station. He asked about you and said to greet you. Said he didn’t believe the stories he’d heard . . . about you robbing banks.”

  Holt looked surprised, then caught himself and drew the revolver from his left shoulder holster with his right hand, opened the loading clip, half-cocked the gun, and spun its cylinder to check the loads. His right-hand glove remained in his left hand. “We’ll see. You know my spirit demands that I fight. That’s what I am, what I’ve always been.”

  Blue shook his head negatively. “Building a ranch is a fight. A tough one. So’s raising a family or helping a town grow. Lots of ways to fight. Lots of ways better than robbing banks. Or pretending to fight a war that was lost a long time ago.”

  Holt’s only response was to toss the cigar on the ground and crush it with his boot. He named the four former Rebels riding with him. Blue knew two of them; they had been childhood friends. They were camped north of El Paso in an old cabin while Holt stayed at the apartment as Samuel Holton.

  Behind them came the swish of a dress, then a sweet call to Blue. He turned to see Rebecca Tuttle standing between the two boardwalks. Her hat was slanted a bit sideways but her smile was warm. Holt stepped back quickly; his right-hand glove dropped to the ground.

  “I thought that was you, Mr. Corrigan. Are you talking to Mr. Hannah? It’s hard to see in that alley,” Rebecca proclaimed.

  Blue stepped in front of Holt and heard his revolver cock. “No, Miss Tuttle, I’m not. Just met an old friend from the war.”

  “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “No, ma’am, not since you and I left the Lone Star.”

  She tossed her long curls and they danced along her shoulders. “Oh. Of course. I think I’ll walk over there and see if he’s still there.”

  “Sure. You do that. Be careful crossing the street.”

  She turned with a flirty bounce and was gone.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Holt said, easing the hammer down on the weapon and returning it to his shoulder holster.

  Blue chuckled. “She was on the stage with us. Supposed to be meeting some Ohio farmer to get married. Only he hasn’t showed.” He motioned in the direction of the restaurant. “Afraid that means Hannah was elected. Only he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Poor bastard.”

  “I can introduce you. She’s real pretty.”

  Holt laughed, then looked down at his dropped glove. “No thanks, but would you mind picking that up for me, big brother?”

  “Sure, Holt.” Blue bent over and retrieved the glove. He recalled Holt saying it was bad luck for a man to pick up his dropped glove, or any dropped glove. He smiled and handed the glove to his brother. “Does this mean I’ll have bad luck?”

  “Oh no, Blue. Returning a glove brings good luck. I’m sure of it.”

  “Good.”

  They shook hands again and Holt went out the back of the alley,
reminding his brother that Agon Bordner would be coming with a lot of gunmen and every intention of taking control of Wilkon and everything around it. Blue stood, watching him disappear, wishing he could do something to bring his brother home—wondering if he should go after him and try again. Maybe Holt was right; maybe it was too late. He retrieved his saddle and headed for the livery. A prayer for Holt’s safety came from his lips.

  The livery smelled of grain, manure, hay, and leather as Blue walked through the opened doors. A bear of a man with crossed eyes and an old derby perched on his head approached from a back stall, holding a pitchfork.

  “Good day to ya. Stranger in town, I reckon,” he said, leaning on the fork handle.

  “Yeah. The name’s Blue Corrigan. From up around Wilkon.”

  The livery operator glanced at Blue’s pinned-up sleeve and said, “Reckon ya bin in the war, mister. That ri’t?”

  “Yes. I fought for the Confederacy. We lost.”

  “Yeah, I know’d. Fought fer the Stars ’n Bars myself. Rode with Pickett till we got all cut up at Gettysburg.” The man’s face saddened.

  “I was with Ewell.”

  The liveryman started to hold out his hand to shake Blue’s, realized his mistake, and hurriedly put his hand to his side. Blue grinned, swung the saddle to the ground, and held out his own. The man shook Blue’s hand warmly. The man’s name was Abe Jennings and he had worked at the livery for two years.

  “Always glad to meet a fella Rebel,” Jennings said, pulling on the straps of his overalls.

  “Me too,” Blue said. “I came to buy a horse. If you’ve got a good one for sale. Riding back to Wilkon. A gelding.”

  “You betcha. Got a couple ya’d like. That buckskin ri’t back thar. Fourth stall. You kin have ’im fer . . . say twenty.” He pointed toward the stall. “Or I’ve got this bay. Ov’r hyar. I let ya have ’im fer the same price. I’ll throw in the head leather. Unless ya got some else-whar. Got a few more out in the corral out back. These are my bestest though.”

  “Got a bridle. I’ll take a sackful of oats instead.”

  “Sure nuff. Say, ya ain’t related to that outlaw fella, Holt Corrigan, are ya?”