Ride Away

by Smith, Cotton

  Up and down both sides of the main street, people stopped to gaze and whisper. County Sheriff Matthew R. Lucas exited his small office next to what passed for a courthouse, an old warehouse converted for the town’s greater good. Lucas was a short, stocky man with a no-nonsense manner, not unlike that of a teacher. Not far behind the county lawman came Marshal Macy Shields and Dixie Murphy.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Corrigan, what have you here?” Shields asked.

  Deed glanced toward the senior Sanchez and let him speak first.

  “We bring the gunmen who try to kill us . . . like they kill our amigos at the Bar 3 this spring,” Felix Sanchez spoke slowly with his head held high.

  Sheriff Lucas smiled. “Glad you weren’t hurt, Señor Sanchez.” His graying hair told of a strong man who had served the county for twenty years.

  “They wound muy mal my youngest son, Paul,” the gray-haired rancher said. “If not for our Corrigan amigos, we will have not made it, I fear.”

  “Sounds like the same bunch that hit the Bar 3 last night. Mr. Murphy, the foreman of the Bar 3, reported his ranch was attacked last night and thirty horses were stolen,” Lucas reported, trying to look stern.

  Deed’s eyes shot toward the gray-haired county lawman. “What?”

  Calmly, the sheriff motioned toward Murphy, standing next to the city marshal on the corner of the boardwalk. “I said Mr. Murphy reported his ranch was attacked last night and thirty of his horses were stolen.”

  Blue reined up next to Deed, who told him about Dixie Murphy’s claim.

  “Convenient,” Blue declared loudly, staring at Murphy. “So what happened to the outlaws’ other horses, the ones they would’ve been riding?”

  Murphy shrugged.

  “Bet we can get a few of these boys to say different,” Deed said quietly to Blue.

  “Not our job, Deed. It’s the sheriff’s.” Blue turned toward the nervous lawman and expressed their concern that Murphy was lying.

  “It’s pretty obvious this is the same bunch that wiped out the Regan family,” Blue said.

  “Maybe,” came the tight-lipped reply from Lucas. “I’ll check into it, but the horse stealing sounds legit to me.” He motioned toward the arrested gunmen. “Mr. Murphy said they had put twenty-eight head in the corral. They were to be shod before roundup.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked over at Macy Shields who smiled.

  “Marshal, all right if I put this bunch in your jail?”

  The skinny town lawman folded his arms and smiled again. “Yeah. I’ll need to release Jimmy Wedge-berry first. He was in overnight for being drunk and raising cain.”

  Macy Shields was dressed in his customary white suspenders, or they had been white once, and a faded blue bib shirt. His eyes were tiny and too close together. As usual, he wore a bandana tied over his head like a pirate, instead of a hat. He had figured in several pointless killings in Texas and Kansas. Nothing was ever proved, however.

  Blue leaned forward in his saddle. “There are nine bodies in the wagon. We weren’t about to bury them on good Lazy S land. Figured they’re the county’s problem.” He straightened his back.

  Tugging on the brim of his hat, Deed growled, “Or we can dump them on Bar 3 land. That’s where they came from.”

  Sheriff Lucas frowned and stared at the wagon, unable to meet either brother’s gaze. “Oh, all right. Can you drive ’em to the city’s cemetery? I’ll get some boys to bury ’em.”

  “Yes, but you’d best get some boys there to dig real quick. Won’t be long before the smell’ll be something awful,” Blue answered. “If you want, I’ll say words over them.” He motioned toward the wounded gunmen in the wagon. “Better have Doc take a look at them, too.”

  “You’re leaving me with quite a mess.”

  “Maybe so, but they left the Sanchezes with loyal hands killed. One of their sons is shot up, and our good hand, Jake, wounded,” Deed said, nudging his horse forward to stop next to the sheriff. Deed’s eyes were hot as he glared at the uncomfortable lawman. “An’ I don’t buy that crap about stolen horses for one minute, Lucas. And if you do, you’re not the man I thought you were.”

  Blue reined his horse away. “Come on, Deed. Let’s get this done. We’ve got work to do.”

  Deed nodded, then spun his horse toward the boardwalk where Dixie Murphy and Marshal Shields stood. “Murphy, tell that fat-ass boss of yours that this is not over. The Regans were friends of ours. So are the Sanchezes. We don’t forget friends.”

  Murphy spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the street and snorted, “Go to hell, Corrigan.”

  “Deed, come on,” Blue yelled. “He isn’t worth it.”

  Deed glanced at his brother as Murphy’s hand dropped to his holstered gun. Deed looked back with his own Remington in his fist. No one saw him draw.

  “I’m not as nice as my brother,” Deed said between clenched teeth. “I don’t think everybody is good. Or honest.”

  Sheriff Lucas waved his arms. “That’s enough, Corrigan. Mr. Murphy is a law-abiding citizen in this county. You remember that.”

  “Sure, Sheriff. Sure. And I’m a buffalo.” Deed spun his revolver in his hand, holstered it, and loped away to catch up with Blue and the others. The wagon rolled toward the cemetery at the far end of town.

  Nightfall brought a sense of comfort to Wilkon after the day of excitement. The Corrigan brothers, Felix Sanchez, and their men rode out at dusk. Dixie Murphy decided to stay overnight, telling the livery operation to leave his horses outside and saddled in the corral. He would be taking them back to the ranch in the morning and would hire some men to help. The livery corral brimmed with milling horses, serving as the only visible reminder of the day’s activity.

  A hearing was scheduled for the morning in the justice of the peace’s office. Quietly, Murphy met with the two lawmen to make certain they understood what was to happen. The three men stood behind the jail, smoking and talking. After a few minutes, they split up with Murphy heading for the Longhorn saloon; Sheriff Lucas heading for his home on Third Street; and Marshal Shields entering the jail.

  Inside the jail, the Bar 3 gunmen were crowded into five small cells. Rhey Selman gripped the cell bars and said, “Macy, get us out of here. We’re not going quietly.”

  “Shut up, Selman, and listen.”

  Macy Shields explained what was going to happen . . . that a deputy would be in charge for the night and would be given a jug of whiskey. As he spoke, Shields handed keys and three revolvers to Selmon.

  “Keep ’em out of sight,” Shields ordered. “This needs to go quiet-like. Your horses are at the livery corral—still saddled. Murphy wants you to take all of them so he’s got an alibi. Go back to the Bar 3 but stay out of sight. Go to one of the outer shacks.”

  “All right. When do we do this?” Selmon asked, keeping one gun and passing on the other weapons.

  “My deputy’ll be here in an hour.” Shields grinned. “Be patient. When he’s snoring, you can open the cells.”

  “What about him?”

  “Coldcock him. Don’t shoot,” Shields said. “And don’t run to the corral. Walk. Ride out the same way, real easy-like. Two or three at a time. If you do it right, nobody will know you’re gone till morning, when I check in.”

  “What about the Corrigans?”

  “Leave that to Bordner.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  At midday, a grim Sheriff Lucas rode up to the LC ranch yard. With him were eight riders, all townsmen, all uneasy about their assignment as members of the sheriff’s posse.

  From the corral, Deed and Blue met them as they rode into the yard. Silka and Chico came from the barn. It was obvious something was wrong.

  “The attackers broke out last night. Coldcocked the deputy. Got a night’s lead on us,” Lucas stated with little emotion.

  With his hands on his hips, Deed snarled, “Been to the Bar 3? There’s where they came from, Sheriff.”

  From the back of the posse came a gruff reply from
Dixie Murphy. “I told you they were my horses, Corrigan, but not my men. I intend to get them back. Whether you go or not.”

  “They’re headed toward El Paso,” Sheriff Lucas declared without looking at either man.

  “Kinda headed the wrong direction, aren’t you?” Deed said.

  “Thought you’d want to ride with us,” Sheriff Lucas said. “Some of these boys need to . . . get home. We’ll go next to the Lazy S and see if they want to help.”

  Deed was silent and glanced at Silka, who nodded.

  “All right. Send the husbands home to their wives,” Deed finally said. He turned to Blue and suggested that he, Silka, and the others continue with roundup preparation. He asked Chico if he would go with him, but that he certainly didn’t have to do so. The Mexican readily agreed and Blue thought it made sense. Silka thought it would be better if he went along, instead, but Deed told him it was more important for him to stay at the ranch. The former samurai’s face was unreadable, but he didn’t say anything more.

  Soon, Deed and Chico were riding away with Sheriff Lucas and the posse. After picking up the middle son, Thomas Sanchez, and two vaqueros from the Lazy S, five men from the original group left for town and the rest continued on. The outlaws’ trail was not hard to follow with so many horses involved. They were definitely more interested in gaining distance than in deceiving pursuit.

  Thomas Sanchez took the point at Deed’s request and his trail-reading skills were quickly apparent. The day was overcast with the likelihood of an autumn rain coming . . . and soon. After pausing at a feisty creek to water their mounts, the posse continued with little talking among themselves. Deed even refrained from chewing on Dixie Murphy, who was now bringing up the rear. For the first time, Deed realized the crooked cowman had put on a bright red scarf around this neck. Deed was certain he wasn’t wearing it earlier, but said nothing.

  The afternoon sun was easing toward the horizon and Deed suggested to Thomas Sanchez that they should look for a place to camp for the night. Sheriff Lucas insisted they keep going for another hour or so, that they were cutting into the outlaws’ lead. The logic was hard to argue with and Deed and Thomas agreed.

  Ahead was a towering mesa with its twin positioned on the other side of the trail. The area was known as Oak Tree Canyon. Through it lay more open country with occasional bursts of scrub pine. On either side of the mesas were heavily forested areas, broken by rock and a sometimes creek. A perfect place for an ambush, Deed thought and drew his Spencer from its saddle scabbard. He leaned forward and patted his buckskin on the neck. Chico noticed Deed readying his rifle and did the same. Deed saw Sheriff Lucas was wearing his lawman’s badge; the metal star danced a little, even in the overcast afternoon.

  “How come you’re wearing a star?” Deed asked. “Kinda gives us away, doesn’t it?”

  The gray-haired lawman glanced at his shirt and shrugged his shoulders. “Thought it made sense for people to know we’re the law. You know, the law is coming.”

  “Interesting,” Deed said. “Most lawmen I know don’t wear their badges on the trail. It gives them away. Where we’re riding could easily be an ambush.”

  “It’ll be fine, Corrigan. You take care of yourself.”

  “That’s what I am trying to do.” Shifting in his saddle, Deed studied the nearing mesas. He yelled to Thomas three horse lengths in front of him, “Thomas, I don’t like this. Ride careful.”

  The young Mexican nodded his agreement and patted the rifle laying across his saddle in front of him.

  Halfway up the hillside on the left, a flicker of light came and disappeared in an instant.

  “Thomas, ambush!” Deed yelled and kicked his horse, firing in the direction of the brief flash and wheeling toward the trees to his right.

  Rifle fire from a dozen spots exploded from both mesas. Thomas Sanchez went down, then his two vaqueros under the heavy fire. Five bullets sought Deed at once and drove him from his frightened horse. One bullet creased his horse’s chest. Another drilled a hole in his hat and one cut across the top of his left ear, barely missing his head. A fourth sliced across his upper left arm, ripping through his shirtsleeve. And a fifth clipped his left thigh. The buckskin ran on. The young gunfighter hit the ground. His carbine went flying into the woods. So did his hat. For a minute, he wasn’t cognizant of what was going on. Around him, bullets tore into the posse, except for Sheriff Lucas and Dixie Murphy who were riding safely toward the mesas.

  Deed saw Chico get hit in the face and crumble to the ground. One of the two townsmen with the posse flopped next to Deed. He stared at the young gunfighter through frightened eyes, tried to speak, and died.

  Blinking away the shock, Deed reached up and touched his left ear; its top was bleeding and hurting. He had come close to being killed. Crawling on his hands and knees, he found his carbine, grabbed it, and moved on reaching a shallow ravine that once had been a creek. Sounds of gunfire gradually lessened as he forced himself to keep moving. He knew the outlaws would soon leave the mesas to see if any posse men remained alive.

  He had to find a hiding place before he passed out. He must. His left arm was throbbing and his shirtsleeve was crimson. He was certain he’d also been hit near his left thigh. He didn’t think any of the wounds were serious, but he was losing a considerable amount of blood and was growing weak from the shock.

  Splatters of a cold rain drummed against the land.

  At the end of the ravine sat a fat pool of water—stagnant water. To his right was a long rock shelf, running twenty yards. He forced himself up onto the shelf and crawled along its uneven frame, dragging his carbine with him. Maybe he could lay there and rest. Maybe. Fifteen yards along the way, he came to a crevice that looked like a possible hideaway. He stood, became dizzy, and dropped again to his knees. Patience was the key, Silka would remind him if he were here. Do not panic. Think.

  Rain was coming hard now and that would wash away any signs of his movements. Standing slowly again, he saw the crevice opened into a cave that was at least twenty feet long and almost man-high. He slipped inside and slid to the ground. If they found him here, he would die, but he couldn’t go any farther. He cocked the Spencer using both hands.

  Crawling across the rocky floor was a black spider. Deed watched the tiny creature as it moved up onto his boot.

  “Evening, little buddy,” he said. “Got some Indian friends that think you’re a pretty powerful fellow. Sorry to bother you, but I had to get out of the rain.”

  The spider crawled up across his boot, down, and wandered toward the back of the cave. Shortly afterward, he fell asleep.

  On the trail, outlaws squished across the soaked land, swearing at being wet and making certain none of the downed posse lived, with additional shots to their heads. Wearing a yellow slicker over his bear-fur coat, Rhey Selmon looked up at the sheriff and Dixie Murphy.

  “Ya did good, lawman. Agon will be pleased. Probably a bonus in it for ya,” Selmon praised and wiped rain from his face.

  Sheriff Lucas looked nauseous and said nothing.

  “I don’t see Corrigan’s body, do you?” Murphy said, shifting in his saddle.

  “No. Haven’t found it yet. Washita said he hit him in the head. Knocked him off his horse,” Selmon said. “I hit him, too. Arm or shoulder. Could’ve been hit four or five times. Ike was shooting at him, too.”

  Watching the rain soak the land, Murphy said, “Well, I want to see his body. I want to put a bullet between his eyes, for good measure. The bastard almost ruined things for us.” He swung his horse toward the mesa. “Keep looking.”

  Less than two miles away, Holt Corrigan heard the gunshots before the rain came. He had seen the clouds, quickly gathered wood for a fire, and taken refuge under a cliff before the sky opened up. He knew he wasn’t far from the largest ranch in the area, the Bar 3, but still a long way from his brothers’ ranch. The intensity of gunfire told him that it wasn’t a hunt; it was a gun battle. All that gunfire meant someone was surely dead. As
soon as the word dead came to his mind, he tried to unthink it. He didn’t want to pull death to him by thinking of it. Besides, there was nothing he could do about it, one way or the other. Probably a disagreement over cattle ownership, so he began assembling his gathered wood for a fire and soon got it started. He was surprised to see the fire turn hollow, and he jammed short branches into its middle to eliminate the bad sign. There wasn’t anything he could do at the moment, except make certain his guns were cleaned and ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was dark when Deed Corrigan awoke. The rain had stopped and the night was cold. He woke up shivering. At first, he didn’t know where he was, but gradually his mind returned him to the situation. His left arm was stiff, so was his left thigh. His ear burned with pain. Gradually, he determined that neither his leg nor his arm wound held any lead. He was hungry and thirsty. The second desire should be easily handled. Outside the cave were puddles of rainwater collected in the rock shelf’s pockets. He forced himself to make certain his Spencer and handgun were dry and ready. It took twice as long as it should.

  Cradling his Spencer in his right arm, he half-crawled, half-dragged himself to the first rain puddle and drank it dry. He edged himself along the shelf to the second water and did his best to clean his wounds, even putting his ear into the cool water. He was weak, but he was alive. More than he could say for the rest of the posse, he feared.

  Obviously, Sheriff Lucas was involved with Agon Bordner’s grand scheme. Probably on the take. How sad, Deed thought. At one time, Matthew R. Lucas had been a good man.

  Using his right hand against the rock wall for balance, he stood and tried to put weight on his wounded left leg, but couldn’t and almost fell down. The rock shelf itself was wet as he worked slowly toward the lower land. Halfway across, he slipped and fell. The pain in his left leg made him bite his lip to keep from crying out. Slowly, he stood and started again. He figured the outlaws would search the area for him and he wasn’t going far without a horse.