Tina Sanchez stopped behind him, admiring his broad shoulders, but used the excuse of steadying him to put her hands around his waist and hold him upright. Both girls were smitten by the Corrigan brothers.
“Eight,” Cliente said and grimaced. “They kill half our men before.”
“Well, let’s give them something to shoot at, first,” Deed said, holding onto the porch railing.
“Have you lost more blood than I thought, little brother?” Holt looked at Deed as if he were crazy.
Tina touched Deed’s arm; he looked at her, swiveled, and said, “Tina, I’m fine. Really. Muchas gracias.”
She flashed a wide smile, sought his eyes for an instant, and releasing him, stepped away.
Deed explained they could fix five or six dummies and put them in the yard as if they were talking. It would make the Bar 3 gunmen think they could get most of the Lazy S men in one quick attack. Likely, it would put the attackers in an exposed position, or at least bunched together.
“Think it’ll work?” Holt asked, laying his rifle against the wagon.
Cliente grinned. “I like it.”
“Well, the shadows will help,” Deed said. “Even if it doesn’t, it’ll confuse them.”
The Sanchez women, even Maria, eagerly joined the masquerade effort. Flour sacks were filled with straw and tied to become dummy heads. Wooden frames were nailed together to provide the body and hold shirts, pants, and the sacks. A sombrero topped each dummy and a serape was draped across what appeared to be a shoulder.
An hour later, six dummies were placed on the south side of the main ranch yard, grouped together as if they were talking. Even Holt was impressed. In the dusk, they looked almost real. Deed said people would see what they expected to see.
Satisfied, Cliente left with the burial wagon and three outriders, all were Sanchez women disguised as men. Cliente would ride for an hour, then stop and wait. He would turn back when he heard gunfire. In the dusk, sounds of gunfire would travel a long way. There was a risk that Bar 3 men would attack the wagon first, but they decided it wouldn’t be worth it to Bordner since the ranch would be forewarned.
Holt stationed all of the vaqueros on the flat roof of the ranchero. They were spread out, covering the complete ranch yard from above, and were to remain out of sight until he gave the signal to fire. Holt and Deed took positions inside the house, each watching a different direction. The oldest son, Taol, settled into watching the north. Felix refused to stay out of the fight and joined his son with his pistols and a band of cartridges over his shoulder.
Now they must wait, letting late afternoon shadows creep across the yard. It would be dark in two hours. For the Corrigan brothers, waiting was easy; Silka had taught both the importance of waiting. It wasn’t the opposite of attacking, just a matter of timing the attack. Although Holt was worried about Deed, his wounded brother assured him he was strong enough to help.
Outside, a light breeze whispered through a cluster of junipers near the front door and caught the sleeves of the dummies, making them dance in the fading twilight.
“Maybe it’ll look like they’re excited,” Holt whispered and motioned toward the dummies.
“Yeah. From a distance, it’ll probably help. Unless the sleeves really start whipping around,” Deed said.
“Wait, I hear something. Down by the fence,” Holt said and shifted his rifle into readiness. “Down there.” With his right hand, he reached up and touched the cardinal feather in his hatband.
“Yeah, I see them. Must be ten or so right there,” Deed said. He propped his Spencer carbine on the back of a second chair in front of him and aimed it out the opened window. The chair was turned away from him and the back made it easier to steady his gun. On the floor beside him was a box with reloading tubes. In his gunbelt, Deed had returned the two outlaw handguns taken earlier.
Felix had told them not to worry about shooting out window glass, but the Corrigan brothers knew the value of glass and thought it best to open the windows where they might be firing. Felix and his son were unseen, watching from another part of the house.
“Looks like they’re planning on getting closer. I see a few climbing the fence,” Deed said.
Holt looked over at him and grinned; turning a chair around was good luck. He wondered if his brother knew that. Then he saw Deed touch the small, Oriental brass circle hanging around his neck on a rawhide thong. Holt knew what Bushido meant and nodded.
“Yeah, I don’t think the bastards in front of our dummies will try that. They’ll stay behind the fence,” Holt said and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Figure it’s too risky. Your idea is working.” He moved next to the window. “But I got a few coming over the fence on this side, too. They’re right next to that batch of sagebrush.”
“When do you want to welcome them?”
“Let’s wait. They closer they get, the bigger the surprise. For them,” Holt said.
“Agreed. But not too close. If they get next to the house, our roof shooters won’t be able to stop them.”
“That’s why we’re here, little brother.”
A long row of orange flame erupted in the semidarkness, all from the Bar 3 rifles along the stone fence in front of the dummies. The roar tore into the silence. Sombreros flew from the dummies and the filled sacks split open. The clothes whirled in different directions and two shirts fell from their wooden frames.
“Now,” Holt said and fired.
His first shot caught the closest raider crawling toward the house in the head. Levering his Winchester, he missed the second man but Holt’s next shots slammed into him and the man collapsed and didn’t move. Above, the roof was alive with vaquero rifle fire at the targets along the fence, well defined by the gray land behind them.
Deed fired at the lead attacker on his side of the ranch yard, balancing the gun barrel on the chair in front of him. The man was slammed backward by the heavy shot and crumbled to the ground. Deed laid his wounded left arm across the top of the gun and levered a new round. Bullets crashed into the window, but stopped as the vaqueros on the roof poured lead into the small groups.
Firing again, Deed saw the attacker spin halfway around. He gave up on the Spencer, yanked free his revolver and moved to the side of the window. The sudden movement made him dizzy for a moment and he leaned against the wall to right his head. His left arm was bleeding again. He wouldn’t have the range or impact, but he could shoot quicker with the handgun. Cocking and firing so fast it sounded like a long round of thunder, the young gunfighter dropped two attackers.
From somewhere, a cry went up to retreat, to run, and the attackers inside and outside the fence broke and ran. A gruff voice yelled at them to stand and fight, but the words were ignored.
Holt shoved new cartridges into his rifle and fired at the fleeing shadows. Two men stumbled and fell. From the roof came cries of victory.
Deed heard firing from the front part of the house, followed by Spanish yells of vengeance. His Remington empty, he drew a second handgun from his belt, cocked and fired as a would-be attacker reached the stone fence. Deed knew Blue would have let him go. The man grabbed his side. Bullets from the roof slammed him to the ground.
Almost as soon as it started, the battle was over. Racing across the land came Cliente with the buckboard and riders. They fired at the fleeing men as they grabbed their picketed horses. Holt was glad to see Cliente keep his riders moving toward the ranch, instead of following the escaping Bar 3 men. The attackers might be scared now, but they would soon realize their superior numbers. Holt and Deed watched as the attackers rode away into the night, and Cliente kept coming toward the ranch.
From the northern part of the house came Felix and Taol, both lighting cigarettes.
“Aiee, it was good,” Felix declared. “Let us follow and end this.”
“No.” Holt’s word was firm. “They still outnumber you. We could ride into an ambush ourselves.”
Felix shook his head. “Sí, you are right, Señor
Holt. It is that I want this over. I want this fat man and his devils stopped.”
“I know. We all do. But we’ve got to be smart. Bordner is.”
From the rooftop, the vaqueros were firing into the bodies strewn about the ranch yard.
Deed hobbled over to them. He was sweating heavily and his left sleeve had a circle of crimson.
“You all right, Deed?” Holt asked, watching his brother. “You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah. Just a little weak, that’s all.” He looked down at his sticky shirtsleeve. “Guess I popped it open. No big deal.”
“When Cliente gets here, we shall put the dead men in his wagon and dump them on Bar 3 land,” Taol said, watching Cliente bring the wagon into the yard.
Cheering went up from the roof and the women riders waved their rifles in triumph.
“Yeah. Take their guns and bullets, though. We may need them,” Deed said.
“What if Bordner tries to claim his men were attacked on their own land?” Holt asked, shoving new cartridges into his rifle.
“That would be hard to prove,” Deed responded.
“Sí, you are right, amigo,” Taol said. There was a sadness in his eyes and his shoulders rose and fell.
Deed put his hand on the younger Mexican’s shoulder. “In the morning, you and I will ride to town. We’ll wire the Rangers and tell them what happened. That should put an end to it. At least for now.”
“I’ll go with Cliente to bring back . . . the bodies,” Holt said, “then, when you come back from town, we can ride to our ranch. Together.”
“Sounds good to me,” Deed said. “It’s been cool. Chico’s body should be all right, I guess.”
“Unless the coyotes have torn it up.” Holt glanced at the Sanchezes talking quietly. “Maybe one of the Sanchez women could ride to the ranch and tell them you’re all right. They’ll be worried about the posse. Especially that old samurai.”
“Makes good sense. I’m sure they’d be glad to,” Deed answered. “I’ve been thinking to suggest they start stationing a few men on the roof. All the time, night and day.”
“Good idea, little brother.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wilkon was well into its morning routine when Deed Corrigan rode in with Taol Sanchez. The night’s rest had strengthened the young gunfighter, but his left arm remained weak and numb and he carried it at his side. His leg was stiff, but definitely healing. He was wearing the same borrowed shirt, having refused the offer of another. If there was time, he would see the doctor; he had promised Holt.
The ride into town had been a quiet one with the two men lost in their thoughts. Deed liked Taol and felt sorry for the tragedies Agon Bordner had brought on his family. He knew, too, that Bordner wouldn’t stop with the Lazy S, he would want the Corrigan spread as well.
What they found in town was a surprise. After wiring the Rangers at the telegraph office located within the lumberyard office, they went to the marshal to report what had happened, more of a courtesy than a necessity. The marshal was responsible for town matters only; the county sheriff was in charge of enforcing the law in the county, but Deed now knew Sheriff Lucas was crooked.
Macy Shields greeted them with a sneer and told them that Dixie Murphy had already reported on the posse’s fate and he had sent a deputy with a burial team to the ambush site. As usual, he was wearing a bandana tied over his head instead of a hat, as well as once-white suspenders. Murphy, too, had been wounded in the ambush, he said.
“So the bunch that got away swung back and hit you Mexes again. Is that it?” Shields said without standing. He was seated behind the marshal’s desk. A cup of coffee rested on the scratched desktop, along with stacks of paper.
Deed bristled. “Yeah, your boss tried again, Shields. But you boys still aren’t good enough.” He cocked his head. “I’d like it if you referred to my friend as Mister Sanchez.”
“I don’t give a damn what you’d like, Corrigan. I’m the acting county sheriff now, too. Lucas got it in the ambush.” Shields reached for his coffee with his left hand as his right dropped to his lap. “Town council just voted. Smart of ’em.”
“Let’s see . . . Bordner owns the bank . . . and the local law. Anything else?”
Taol stared at Shields through slitted eyes. “We will have justice. It will come.”
“Maybe so, Mex. Maybe so,” Shields said. “If I was you, I’d see what Agon Bordner wants to give you for your place . . . and ride on while you still can.”
“Come on, Taol,” Deed said. “We’ll deal with real lawmen when they get here.”
Shields’s right hand moved toward the holstered gun at his waist.
“I wouldn’t try that, Shields,” Deed said, his gun already in his hand.
The crooked lawman took a deep breath and moved both hands to the desktop. Deed holstered his gun and they turned to leave.
Shields found his courage. “Oh, by the way, I wouldn’t try buying anything in the general store, Mex. Lazy S’s credit’s no good there. Neither’s your money. The town only wants Americans around here.” He chuckled. “For that matter, neither is yours, Corrigan. We don’t like your brother’s Injun wife.” His eyes widened to match the sneer of his mouth. “Maybe Bordner’ll be good enough to pay you for that piece of land you’re sitting on, too.”
Taol Sanchez’s teeth clenched and his hand dropped to his handgun.
Deed took a step in front of him to stop his draw.
“Come on, Taol. Nothing good’s going to come from staying here.”
“Sí, but just one time, I—”
“Anytime you want to die, Mex. Anytime,” Shields said and stared at Deed. “Hear you took some lead when the posse went down. I can see your ear’s bandaged. That’s a real shame, Corrigan.”
“How would you know that?” Deed’s eyes were cold as he turned back to Shields.
“Murphy said you and he were the only two that made it out.”
“Interesting, since he wasn’t around when the shooting started. Neither was Lucas. I’d like to have a chat with him about that,” Deed growled.
“He done left for the Bar 3.”
“Convenient.”
They left and Taol suggested they check at the general store. If Shields was right, they would need to make arrangements in another town, probably Amarillo, and that was a two-day trip one way. Taol yanked free the reins and mounted.
“Yes, we should,” Deed said as he swung into the saddle, “but likely it’s as Shields said. Bordner is trying to tighten the noose around us.”
Taol’s face tightened. “I think we ride to the Bar 3 and end this.”
“It’s not going to be that easy,” Deed said. “Matter of fact, Bordner would like us to try that.”
“Sí, but it feels bueno to think of it.”
As they rode down the street, a store owner in shirtsleeves ran from his drugstore toward them, waving.
“Mr. Corrigan . . . do you know what happened to the posse? My brother is with them,” the bald man said, his eyes asking the rest of his question.
Reining up, Deed shook his head. “Taol’s brother, two of his men, and I were with the posse. We were ambushed two days out of town. South of here, near Oak Tree Canyon. Evidently Dixie Murphy and I were the only ones to make it.” He made no mention of his belief that both Murphy and Lucas were involved in the setting of the ambush. This wasn’t the time or the man to share it with.
The man’s face wilted.
“I think the marshal is putting together a burial committee to ride out there. The Sanchezes are headed there as well.”
“How’d you and Mr. Murphy make it safe?” the businessman blurted.
“With me, it was God’s plan. I was only wounded,” Deed said. “With Murphy, it was Agon Bordner’s plan.” He leaned forward and patted the distraught man on his shoulder.
“I-I don’t understand,” the man said.
Deed clicked his buckskin into a walk. “You’d better . . . or Bordner will own
you, too.”
He glanced over at Taol and said, “Let’s check out the store.”
Nodding to the man, they rode on, reined up at the store with the big sign reading WILKON GENERAL MERCHANDISE, swung down, and went inside.
At the marshal’s office, a huge man came from the cell area, holding a broom. Sear Georgian glared at Shields. “Well, so Deed Corrigan is hurt. Maybe I hurt him some more.”
“Good idea, Sear, but don’t wear a gun,” Shields said. “You don’t want to give him an excuse to use his.”
“I won’t need it. I’ll break his back. Tear him apart.” He placed the broom against the wall and left.
Shields felt a shiver run down his back. Sear Georgian was a monster. He didn’t know why Bordner kept him around. It had to be for moments like this. Georgian would beat Deed Corrigan senseless, especially with him being wounded.
Inside the general store, a man neither knew stepped from behind the counter. He was tall with combed-back, curly hair, a nose that looked like a turnip, and a mustache that needed trimming. He wore a crumpled suitcoat and wrinkled tie.
When he spoke, his voice was nasal and thin. “Mr. Sanchez . . . Mr. Corrigan, I believe. Correct? I am Jephrum Virdin, owner of this establishment. It is my duty, my responsibility, to inform both of you that your business is not welcome here.” He glanced away at several customers. “I would ask you to leave.”
Taol’s face turned dark red and he mumbled a curse in Spanish.
“Virdin, this madness will end soon,” Deed snarled. “And your fat boss won’t make it. When that happens, you’d better not be in Wilkon when I ride in.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Corrigan?”
Deed’s smile was hateful. “I don’t make threats, Virdin. Just a helpful projection of what life holds for you.”
A fury was growing within Deed, a fury that could be reckless and unstoppable, a fury he tried hard to contain most times, a fury that had gotten him into trouble before.
Taol spat that they should leave and Deed suggested he go out to the horses, that he wanted to buy something for the Sanchez women. Taol took a deep breath to release his own anger and left.
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