by Cotton Smith
CHAPTER THREE
Minutes later, Jesse Littleson was untied and the Corrigans led the outlaws outside. The two killed outlaws were left where they lay. Wilkon was beginning to believe the shooting was over, and people were appearing all over the main street. Deed, Holt, and Silka directed the two outlaws toward the jail. The dog trotted beside them.
“Think you’re going to have to give that dog a name,” Deed teased.
“Yeah, maybe so. How about ‘Tag-along’? I’ll call him ‘Tag.’” Holt looked down at the animal. “Tag, what do you say, boy? Do you like Tag?”
The dog wagged its tail.
“There you go.” Holt chuckled and scratched the dog’s ears.
From down the street came a fat man with a rumpled shirt and wrinkled vest. It was Claude Gausage, the town’s undertaker, dentist, and furniture maker. Without slowing down, Holt yelled, “There’s two more in the livery, Claude. The county’ll pay.”
“Sure. Is it over?” Gausage asked, pausing.
“Let’s hope so,” Holt said.
The tall outlaw with the eye patch turned toward him as if to say something, then shook his head and kept walking.
As they crossed the street, two boys ran toward them. “Hi, are you Holt Corrigan . . . and Deed Corrigan?”
Holt smiled. “Guilty. What’s up?” He pointed to the dog. “And this is Tag.”
“Heard you were once an outlaw . . . an’ now you’re the sheriff,” said the boy with a string of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
“Yes, that’s true.” Holt glanced at Deed.
Deed pushed the outlaws along and said, “Boys, Holt Corrigan was a hero of the war. He brought in Rhey Selmon . . . alone, too.”
“Gosh! My pa says both of you are gunfighters,” the dark-haired boy said, shoving his hands into worn pockets.
Holt glanced around the street. “Not us, son. Your father’s thinking of someone else, I’m sure. Maybe the James brothers up north. Boys, we’ve got some work to do. These are bad men. They’re going to jail.” He smiled. “Say, how come you aren’t in school?”
After looking at each other, the taller boy said they were on the way to school when they heard the shooting and came to see what was happening. Deed suggested they should head to school now. The two boys agreed and ran off.
“Think they’re going to school?” Holt asked.
“Not a chance.”
Silka added something in Japanese. Both outlaws jumped at the sound of his voice.
Inside the jail, Rhey Selmon in his bearskin coat yelled out as they entered. Holt told the dog to wait outside.
“Looks like you Corrigans had your hands full.”
Forced laughter from the other outlaws filled the room. A curse punctuated the response.
Deed stepped next to the cell. “How about I let you out, Selmon? Let’s see how tough you really are. I’ll even give you the first punch.”
From the back of the cell, a badly bruised Sear Georgian warned, “Don’t try it, Rhey. He’ll tear you apart. I know. Don’t.”
Selmon backed away from the bars, waving his hands. “Hey, not me, Corrigan. I saw what you did to Georgian.”
“Then shut up. I won’t ask again.”
Selmon eyed him suspiciously. “What are you saying?”
“I’ll shoot you. Right where you stand. You bastards have caused too much trouble.”
The bear-coated outlaw turned away and sat down on a bunk.
Holt and Silka jammed the two newest outlaws into the cell with Pickles, locked it, and Holt shoved the key into his pocket. Both outlaws avoided looking at Silka.
“Let’s check out the town, Deed. I don’t see Blue or the judge.”
Holt leaned over to pet the stray dog that had followed him from the livery. Deed grinned. Usually it was he who befriended animals. Silka said the animal had become Holt’s friend. From down the street, Blue and Judge Pence came running toward them.
“The bastards robbed the bank!” Judge Pence yelled, almost dropping his spit can. He stopped, caught his breath, and spat a thick brown stream into the tin.
“When?” Holt asked, his eyes giving away the weariness of battle.
“While you boys was a’fightin’,” Pence growled. “Reckon they got a good head start on ya. Jes’ found out a few minutes ago.”
Calm as ever, Blue said, “They locked everyone in Lester’s office. The judge heard those folks yelling.”
The Corrigans knew “Lester” was Lester Shruggs, the new bank president installed by the new ownership. An honest man who had come to Wilkon as part of a railroad surveying team, he had stayed to marry a local farm girl.
All were surprised that Holt’s next question was about the wounded woman. “How is . . . Miss Miller?”
Blue smiled. “Uh, Miss Miller is doing well, in spite of her traumatic day.” He glanced at Deed, then back to Holt. “She’s at the doc’s now, resting.”
After spitting for emphasis to reinforce his irritation at Holt changing the subject, Pence declared, “They coldcocked Lester jes’ to make sure nobody tried gettin’ out.”
“Is he going to make it?” Deed asked.
Pence rubbed his chin. “Reckon so. Doc says it’ll be a while though. Damn sorry, boys. None o’ us saw this a’comin’.”
Holt returned one of his guns to a shoulder holster. “How many?”
“Four. One stayed outside holding their horses. Rode south,” Pence reported.
“Looks like I’m going to have to earn my pay, Judge,” Holt said, and shoved his hand into his coat pocket and touched the panther claw there, something he had carried for years. His hand left his pocket and touched something in his right shirt pocket.
“I’ll be riding with you, big brother,” Deed replied.
“Counted on it.”
“There’s horses ready in the livery.”
“Let’s go.”
Waving his right arm, Pence declared, “Holt, I’ve got to insist on havin’ Blue . . . an’ Silka . . . stay hyar. They’ll be the actin’ law.”
“I’d sure like them with us,” Holt said.
“I know’d that. But we don’ know if thar’s more o’ Bordner’s gang out thar.” Pence waved his hands. “Jes’ a’waitin’ for you Corrigans to leave.” He spat into his can. “Deputy Jorgenson’s down. Restin’ in the doc’s office. I ain’t got no choice.”
“Sure.”
“Koketsu ni irazunba koji wo ezu,” Silka spat, hearing Pence’s declaration.
The Corrigans knew the samurai’s Japanese expression well. Literally, it meant if you don’t enter the tiger’s cave, you won’t catch its cub. Basically, it meant nothing can be achieved without risk.
“I don’t like it, either, Silka,” Blue said, “but it makes sense. We don’t know if there are more of Bordner’s men. I’d rather be riding with my brothers, but we can’t leave the town unprotected.”
Silka’s response was another Japanese curse.
“I’ll get the horses, Holt. Get some grub . . . and a coffeepot,” Deed said, and started down the sidewalk toward the livery.
“Make sure you bring Buck.” Holt referred to his favorite horse, a buckskin that could travel day and night without tiring. “And plenty of grain and canteens.” He turned to Pence. “Judge, better wire all the surrounding towns. We might get lucky. Anyway, we don’t want our neighbors surprised.”
“Consider ’er dun.”
Men came running from all parts of town as news of the bank robbery flew through Wilkon. Two businessmen told Holt that he had to get the money back, that it was all they had. He reminded them that the Corrigans, Judge Pence, and the Sanchezes owned the bank and that their money had been stolen as well.
“We’ll get our money back, all of it,” Holt snapped. “Anybody who wants to ride with us is welcome. But it’ll be hard. Plan on being gone several days. They’ve got a good lead on us.”
“You can take anybody else with ya that ya want,” Judge Pence declare
d, then spat a long stream of tobacco. “Gotta tell ya sumthin’ else. Achak is a-raidin’ through thar. He’s leadin’ a mean bunch o’ Comanche. Jes’ came over the wire from the army. They’re after him now.”
Achak, or Spirit, was a well-known and feared Comanche war chief. Fierce and mean, he was known for cutting out the tongues of the men he murdered and making a necklace of them. He had escaped from the reservation with a band of twenty-five or so warriors. The very mention of his name stopped most of the interest in joining the posse.
The judge spat into his can and declared that Saturday’s big day would be postponed until the posse returned with the bank money, giving the town something extra to celebrate. No one argued.
From the hotel came a familiar sight. James Hannah strode toward them, wobbling slightly. His shoulder was tightly bandaged and his Victorian black suit coat was draped over that shoulder. In his hand was his silver-plated revolver. His bowler hat was askew. He was pale and had lost weight, but there was a determination in his walk.
“How come you boys didn’t tell me there was a gunfight going on?” Hannah said.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, James,” Holt said.
Blue headed toward the known gunman who had befriended them during the battle with Agon Bordner and his men and been seriously wounded.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” Hannah snapped, shoving his gun into his waistband and pushing his glasses back on his nose.
“Please, James, you’ve done plenty.” Blue took Hannah by his good arm. “Where’s Rebecca?”
“She’s asleep. I heard the shooting and figured you might need another gun.”
Hannah looked around at the small gathering. Not far away was Silka, obviously sulking. “Where’s Deed? What’s with Silka?”
Blue told him.
“Look. Let Silka ride with Deed and Holt. I’ll stay with you,” Hannah said. “I can’t ride yet . . . but I can sure shoot. How about it, me for Silka?”
Turning to the judge, who was spitting into his can, Blue shrugged his shoulders. “Hannah gives us another gun. A damn good one, even if he is hurt. What do you think?”
“Wal, yah. Sure.” Pence spat for emphasis.
Silka was already hurrying for the livery. The judge chuckled. Hannah headed for the jail, not wanting to let anyone know how weak he was.
From the general store, the grizzled old-timer who had commented on the brothers’ shooting earlier came up and insisted on going. He said he was Mason Mereford and the brother of Alexander Mereford, dead owner of the small M-5 ranch, another of Bordner’s victims. He lived in El Paso so no one knew him in Wilkon.
“When I did come to town, I stayed out at the ranch with my brother. Didn’t see anybody. Didn’t need to,” Mason said. “I just come to town now to see justice done. I wanna go with you all.”
The Wilkon Epitaph editor asked to ride with them, but when he was told where the ride would go and that Achak was killing in the area, he decided to wait for a report.
Two other townsmen volunteered to go along, in spite of the warning about the Comanche war chief. Judge Pence advised Jesse that the livery would be compensated for their rental or loss. Wearing a belt gun over his coat, Malcolm Rose owned the dry goods and clothing store and had served with the Union during the war. No one saw him pack two whiskey bottles into his saddlebags and slip a full flask inside his coat.
The other townsman, Ira McDugal, was a clerk at the general store and had a tendency to sneeze when he was outside for any length of time. He was stocky with a pronounced belly. His fat jowls jiggled when he was in the saddle and he hated the whole idea of this pursuit, but he felt it was his duty. The buttons on his vest looked like they could give up their task at any time, especially when he sneezed, which was often. Across his saddle was a Colt revolving shotgun, a nasty weapon at close range but inclined to jam.
Each man carried a sack of food for a week and two canteens; in addition, the posse would take two packhorses. The two townsmen were given the responsibility of leading the packhorses. Deed Corrigan’s buckboard was driven to the livery and left for their return. The dog Holt had befriended came up to him as he was preparing to leave and Holt gave him a piece of jerky from his food sack.
As they were moving out, Blue came over to his brothers. “Grant me this favor, my brothers. Bow your heads a moment as we, together, ask God to watch over you and bring you back safely.”
“Amen,” Holt and Deed said together, and Holt added, “And with the money.”
After Blue’s benediction, they shook hands, Holt told the dog to stay with Blue, and the posse galloped out of town. The trail of the bank robbers was clear. They were definitely more interested in distance than misdirection. Overhead, the sky was bubbling with ominous clouds that threatened more rain. A heavy downpour would wipe out their trail, and Holt wondered if the outlaws were counting on it.
The land lay wide and open before them. They rode without talking, rifles across their saddles. Trees began to thin out as the ground turned to mostly sand, and the birds in them chattered angrily at the interruption. Shallow inclines looked empty until they rode close. A band of outlaws, or a war party of Comanche or Apache, could hide in any one of them. All of the men rode tensely after that, looking for something that moved.
They rode alongside an uneven, but determined, creek that curved around bunched hills and kept a small grassy meadow from stretching too far. Three steers grazed; one raised its head to the riders as they passed. The only sounds were the occasional rattle of a spur, the crack of a saddle, or a sneeze. The outlaw horses had skirted the stream and kept moving fast. Deed looked at Holt somewhat surprised; Holt shrugged his shoulders.
Puffing on his pipe, the grizzled man, who answered to Mason, looked up at the sky and said, “I reckon that rain’s gonna slide ri’t over us. Probably hit north o’ hyar.”
Deed agreed. “Maybe it’ll get to our place. We could use it.”
“Yeah, the sky’s clearing. See?” The square-jawed and rail-thin Malcolm Rose pointed. His large Adam’s apple bobbed with the declaration.
“Yeah. That’s good for us. Bad for those boys ahead of us,” Deed said without looking at Rose.
“Yeah. Makes sense,” Rose responded. “How far ahead do you think they are?”
“Hard to say. These tracks are fresh. They couldn’t be more than an hour before us.”
“You think we’ll be home by tomorrow?” McDugal asked, trying to act nonchalant about his question. He stifled a sneeze by pinching his nose.
“No, unless they turn back to try to ambush us,” Holt replied, and shifted in his saddle. His leg wound was bothering him, but he refused to acknowledge the pain.
“By the looks o’ them tracks, they’s more interested in gettin’ away. May not ketch ’em,” Mason growled. He hit his pipe against his leg, refilled, and lit it again.
McDugal sneezed and Rose blessed him.
CHAPTER FOUR
At Holt’s insistence, the posse kept to low ground as much as possible. No one expected the outlaws to stop, but assumption could get them killed.
A jackrabbit popped out of a thin brush and all six men grabbed their rifles.
Deed smiled. “We’d have nailed that boy.”
“Or scared the hell out of him.” Holt touched the cardinal feather in his hatband. “I think Achak’s a bit bigger than that.” He chuckled, but no one else did.
A long hour passed, riding through clumps of yucca, mesquite, ocotillo, and prickly pear, among sparse clumps of grass. It was land no one wanted or lived on, except Comanche or Apache. They passed a thicket of juniper bordering a long wash, alert for a possible ambush.
“Let’s water our horses up ahead. This creek runs out somewhere along here. Swells into a pond, sort of,” Deed said, motioning to the south.
“Good idea,” Holt said.
Silka answered in Japanese and smiled a lopsided sort of smile. “Neko ni katsuobushi.”
Both
Corrigan brothers knew the expression meant a cat can’t resist stealing your fish, but the bigger meaning was that this was a situation where one cannot let his guard down.
“Agreed, Silka. We’ll take turns watering,” Holt said.
“That is most good.”
“Sounds good to me, too,” Mason said. “Whar do you boys think they’re headed?”
Holt frowned. “Been thinking about that. They could cut east for the fort. Or head south to Amarillo. Or they could even head for Hammonds, I guess.”
“They might spin west and head for New Mexico,” Deed added. “That’s where Bordner and most of his men came from.”
“So, bottom line, we don’t know. We’ll know when their trail tells us,” Holt said.
McDugal sneezed and wiped his nose.
Conversation died as each man contemplated the robbers’ options. The end of the creek would provide a solid place to rest their horses. It appeared the outlaws had stopped there earlier.
Deed turned in his saddle. “There’s something trailing us. Been following us since town, I think.” He laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s Tag. It’s your dog from the livery, Holt.” He took off his hat and held it over his forehead to block out the sun. “Looks like he’s adopted you.”
“That’s crazy,” Holt said. “There’s no way he can make it out here.”
“Coyotes do pretty well.” Deed was smiling. “It’s all right, Holt. You can figure it’s good luck.”
“Let’s kept riding,” Holt said. “Maybe he’ll turn back.”
“Your decision, Holt. But I think he’s planning on joining you.”
The dog caught up with them at the creek’s bend, his tail wagging and his tongue hanging out. The pond was definitely the end of the creek, at least above ground. A few scraggly cottonwood, ash, willow, and buckthorn were doing their best to surround the water. A Joshua tree stood alone on the south side. An overhanging rock was tilted just enough to let gravel slide into the otherwise clear pool. It wasn’t deep.
“What am I going to do with you, Tag?” Holt said, and went over to the panting animal.
Happily, the dog greeted Holt and he sat beside the small animal, ignoring the men. He rubbed the dog’s back and checked its paws for problems. Behind the two, the horses were led to the stream, two at a time. Silka and Deed took turns watching the empty prairie around them. After the horses drank, the six men and the dog also took turns and drank the pool almost dry. McDugal wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and sneezed several times. Rose blessed him each time, then took a long drink from his flask and quickly put it away inside his coat.
