by Cotton Smith
It seemed like he had just shut his eyes when Tag began to growl, a teeth-tightened warning. Holt was awake in an instant and saw what was worrying his dog. In the distance were three riders, leading a fourth horse. Even without field glasses, he knew they were Indians by the way they sat their mounts. Field glasses yanked from his saddlebags told him precisely who was coming. Comanche. One was wearing Holt’s left-behind long duster. Another wore the head of a wolf, and the lower half of his face was painted red. Even at this distance, the war chief’s human tongue necklace was apparent. Most likely that was Achak himself. Holt recalled many outstanding warriors dressing distinctively so they wouldn’t be missed. Part of their ego. Obviously, the Comanche had been following his trail since the ambush. He touched the stone within his pocket and grabbed his Winchester.
“I got ’em, Tag. Thanks, boy.” Holt levered the carbine and squinted along its barrel, but a thought was pushing its way into his tired mind.
“Why are they leading a horse?” he asked himself. “Of course.”
Laying down the rifle, he drew his revolver as Tag’s growling resumed and the dog ran to the left side of the wallow. His white teeth became a snarl. The heavy cocking sound of the gun filled the quiet air and had barely disappeared when the fourth Comanche sprang at him from the left; the Indian’s body was covered with dirt and sand. A knife flashed in his fist. The warrior had been crawling toward him a long way.
Holt’s gun blasts tore at the man’s face and chest; the Comanche was dead before his lifeless body hit the ground beside him. Tag snarled and grabbed the warrior’s arm, shaking free the knife. Holt shoved the revolver into his waistband and grabbed his Winchester again. Two of the other three Comanche were galloping toward him, separating as they rode. The Comanche wearing the wolf’s head waited and watched.
The coat-wearing warrior, to his left, had slipped to the side of his pony, making him a difficult target as he positioned to fire a rifle from under the horse’s neck.
Holt had seen the maneuver many times before and had even used it himself. He stroked the cardinal feather in his hatband for luck and aimed. His first shot brought a scream from the Indian pony. It stumbled and fell, spilling the Comanche under him. The warrior’s rifle danced in the air and thudded into the sand. Holt fired three more times, making sure the horse didn’t suffer. The warrior under the horse was unmoving, dead.
Without waiting, Holt swung his attention to the remaining attacking warrior, now only fifty feet away and drawing an arrow back to shoot. The young lawman took careful aim and his shot took the Comanche from his horse. As soon as the Indian hit the ground, Holt fired two more times to make certain. Slamming new cartridges into the carbine, he returned his attention to the lone waiting Comanche, but he was already gone. So he turned his attention to the first warrior, the one wearing his coat, and fired into the lifeless body, then did the same to the second. There was no way he was going to worry about them trailing him again. Satisfied, he studied the dead Indian who had sneaked up on him; the warrior’s face was gone, only a red mask remained.
It was over. If that was Achak, he had left for the time being. Maybe to get other warriors. Maybe to find an easier target, Holt hoped.
Across the hot land were two horses, looking for something to eat; the third was dying. Holt was more tense than during the fight. This was a very special opportunity to get a horse. Could he get close without frightening the animals and making them bolt?
The grain in his saddlebags!
Quickly, he took the small sack of grain kept for his horse, and poured some into his hat. The bay horse he had selected was the one led by the two Comanche. He hoped it hadn’t been as agitated and would be easier to approach.
Holding his hat in one hand and his carbine in the other, the young lawman walked out of the wallow. The third horse was eating leaves from a scrawny bush. The mount was wearing a traditional Comanche saddle filled with buffalo hair and a bridle made of buffalo hair with a bone bit.
“Wait here, Tag. We need a new friend.”
The process went easier than he could have hoped. The pony was interested in him as he spoke quietly to the animal, advancing slowly. His body smelled of sweat, smoke, and desert, and not that of a white man. After a few steps, he would stop until he was certain the animal was comfortable before moving again.
The bay horse whinnied softly as he came within four feet. Everything in him wanted to reach out and grab for the dangling reins. He resisted the impulse and, instead, stood without moving, except to hold out the hatful of grain. The warrior’s horse shook its head and trotted toward the food. Holt gathered the reins as the horse ate.
A few minutes later, he led the horse toward the wallow. He stopped beside the dead Comanche wearing his long coat, then decided he didn’t want it back. Three new bullet holes were evident. Holding the reins tightly, he smashed the warrior’s rifle against close-by rocks and threw it as far as he could. Resuming his walk to the wallow, he called for Tag, who had gone to investigate the second dead Indian. The dog returned, limping slightly; one of the leather foot coverings was gone.
After laying his saddlebags across the horse, near its neck, Holt picked up his canteens and put them over his shoulder. He laid his Winchester on the edge of the wallow so it would be easier to reach from horseback. Then he turned to the tired dog lying near him. He knew his animal friend had taken great punishment in their trek.
“Stay real quiet, Tag. This may not go easy.”
He patted the horse, talking quietly, and picked up Tag and placed him sideways on the bags. The dog sat quietly as if understanding the need to do so. Holt didn’t know many Comanche words, but hoped the soft sound of his voice would be reassuring to the horse. It didn’t react. Good. So far. The lawman led the horse close to the wallow’s edge to make it easier for him to mount and swung onto its back. The horse grunted and Holt thought it was going to buck.
Instead, the pony whinnied softly and began to walk with the urging of his spurs. He leaned over and gathered his rifle as they passed. The other Comanche horse, a lighter bay, joined them twenty yards after they left the wallow, trotting beside Holt’s new horse, as if it were planned. A strange sensation came over him and left almost as quickly. He had ridden an Indian pony like this in another life. More than that, he had been an Indian. Tag licked his hand. Having the dog with him didn’t fit the fleeting image and he patted Tag to help him return to the moment.
That night they camped in a deserted ranch. Fire had long ago destroyed the buildings, leaving only a few crumbling stone walls. But there was a spring-fed well and it had water. Good water. He gave Tag a bath, sort of, using an old wooden bucket he found to pour water on the tired animal, then washed his own face and hands in the soothing wetness. The two horses were hobbled with leather strings from his saddlebags. Both were eager to be watered and to receive more of Holt’s grain. Before he went to sleep, he thanked the spirits, tossed some tobacco as a tribute, and held the stone in his fist. Most would say it was a silly superstition, he thought, but it seemed right. For him. His brother, Deed, would understand.
* * *
Two days later, Sheriff Holt Corrigan rode into Hammonds, a hardy settlement with a longer than usual main street. He had managed to alternate riding the two Comanche horses and that kept both healthy. He returned his badge to his vest. The business area featured three saloons, a sorry-looking bank, livery, a sorrier-looking hotel, a mining supply and assay office, barbershop and bathhouse, two churches, and an assortment of stores.
At the far end of the street was a marshal’s office and jail that had once been something else, probably a warehouse. Behind both sides of the main street were scattered houses, mostly of adobe. A few tents were pitched on the north end of town. He headed for the livery, not wanting to make himself a target by riding down the main street.
A farmer in a buckboard rode past the tired lawman and gave a friendly wave. Holt returned the greeting and rode on. An empty freight wag
on pulled out of the alley and onto the street, causing him to rein his horse hard to the right. Tag lost his balance, but Holt held him on the horse. The trailing paint horse jerked, but settled down quickly.
“Sorry ’bout that, Sheriff. Wasn’t watchin’.” The freighter yelled his apology.
“No problem,” Holt said. He patted his dog and studied the street.
If he was lucky, the outlaw would still be in town, maybe waiting on the other two outlaws. Whiskey, women, and good food would be tempting for sure.
“Some good food sounds real fine to me, too.” He chuckled and reined up at the livery.
A scrawny livery operator ambled out with a pitchfork in his hand. Taking off his ill-shaped, short-brimmed hat, he frowned and asked, “You musta had trouble, Sheriff. Or do ya jes’ like ridin’ Injun hosses?”
Holt explained the situation in a handful of sentences.
The liveryman’s wiry eyebrows jumped. “Ya went across . . . without no hoss? Didn’t ya know Achak’s out thar, a’killin’ ever’thang that’s white? Raided two farms a day ago or so.”
“Not my intention. Some Comanche were nice enough to loan me these fellas.” Holt said as he swung down, then helped Tag from his perch.
“Really?” The liveryman took the reins of the two horses.
“Well, sort of.” Holt didn’t mention Achak himself was one of the Comanche, the one who got away.
The livery operator volunteered that two men had ridden into town from the same direction two days ago; another man came from there yesterday. His statement was a question as he led the horses inside to two empty stalls.
He rubbed his unshaven chin and looked away. “Thought you an’ yur posse was a’lookin’ fer four men.”
“We were. I left one of them facedown about a week back. That’s when they killed my horse. I might have wounded another.” Holt followed him inside the sturdy livery, taking in the collected smells of horses, hay, manure, and leather. A loft was filled with fresh hay.
“Oh.”
Reassured about the numbers, the livery operator continued as he unsaddled the first horse. “One were hurt. Said his hoss throwed ’im. They went to see our doc ri’t away. Actually, Pete’s also the town’s dentist and barber.”
He removed the simple bit and halter, laid them on the top board of the stall. “Sure ain’t much fer a man to sit on, is thar?”
“Better than walking. Be sure to rub them down good and give them some extra oats. They earned it. I’ll pay for it.”
“Sure ’nuff.” The livery operator picked up a brush and a bucket of water. “Ya think these Injun ponies are gonna be a problem?”
“No. Just talk nice and quiet to them,” Holt replied as he untied his coat from his waist. “They’ll be fine.”
“Thar hosses is in hyar now. Real used up, they be. Fine animals though.” He licked his cracked lips and poured some water on the horse’s back. “They traded me for four o’ mine. Paid an extry fifty on top o’ that. Saddled ’em ri’t then an’ thar. Kept the bay fer their supplies, they said. Wanna see thar hosses? They’re in the front stalls. Thar.”
“No, that’s fine. Know where they might be now?”
“Not for sur. They’s in town. Prob’ly over to Aggie’s.” The liveryman pointed down the street. “She runs a cathouse. Three girls. Well, one’s a Mex. Not bad lookin’ though.” His grin cut his long face in two. “Come to think on it, this time o’ day, they’s more likely in the Prairie Dog. That seems to be their drinkin’ place o’ choice, ya know.
“You gonna want another hoss? Got a purty good bay I’d sell ya.” The livery operator looked over at the dog’s leather socks—two were missing—and continued brushing the horse. “What about your dog?
Looking down at Tag, Holt grinned as he shook out and put on his coat. His wolfish smile returned. “Oh, I think he’ll want to go with me. Figures he might get a steak outta the deal.”
“Pepper Henry’s, the best restaurant in town. Fact is, it’s the onliest. Henry’s a good cook, though. Bin up the cattle trails, ya know.”
“Sounds good.” Holt walked over to the stall and held out his hand. “Holt’s my name. Holt Corrigan.”
“Heard o’ you, Sheriff Corrigan. Not a man to mess with, I hear tell. Folks say a federal judge dun give ya amnesty if’n ya’d be the county law. That’s what I heard. Folks jes’ call me Pip.” The livery operator shook Holt’s hand enthusiastically and added almost sheepishly, “I dun fi’t fer the Union.”
“You probably made the difference.”
The liveryman smiled.
“How long you gonna be hyar, Sheriff?”
“Well, Pip, just long enough to arrest three bank robbers, and get a bath and a good meal.” Holt draped his canteens over the post of an empty stall. “I’ll leave these here for later.”
“Sur.” The liveryman took the reins of the two horses. “Billy Ramschook’s marshal hyar. He’ll he’p ya. Lot older’n ya be. Bin steady, I reckon. Not much better with a gun than me, though.” He smiled at the praise of himself.
Holt chuckled. “Heard of him. Billy’s a good man. Even if he is . . . older. I’ll let him know I’m in town. No need for him to get into this, though. It’s Wilkon’s problem. They shot Wilkon’s marshal, so it’s my problem.” He rubbed his chin. “Might want to borrow Billy’s jail while Tag and I get cleaned up and eat.”
“Jail’s only got three cells.”
“Only need three. Hell, I only need one.”
Holt added that he planned to head back to get his saddle and bury his friend and his dead horse’s bones. He figured the outlaws could do the digging. The livery operator decided not to mention that the bones would likely be scattered all over by now. It was a strange priority, but the young lawman in front of him was a strange man. Maybe that’s what it took to cross land like that on foot.
“Almost forgot. Did an Oriental fellow ride in a day or two ago? Scary-looking. Carries a big sword,” Holt asked. “Maybe another fellow with him, looks a little like me.” He smiled. “Only not as handsome.” He straightened his coat, making certain his revolvers were covered.
“No, sir, nobody like that. Leastwise, I didn’t see them,” Pip answered, rubbing his unshaved chin. “They some o’ them outlaws, too?”
“No. The Oriental’s my best friend. The other’s my youngest brother. They’ll be riding with another fellow. Nice-looking. Thin. Stern.”
“Oh.” Pip’s eyebrows turned into a worry brow. “Ya ain’t plannin’ on takin’ on three hombres by yur lonesome, are ya?”
“Don’t have any choice, Pip. Unless the rest of the posse shows up real quick.” Holt untied his saddlebags from the Comanche saddle. “Besides, Tag’ll help me.”
“Ya reckon they’ll rob our bank, too?” Pip walked over to the water pump to refill his bucket.
“Yeah.”
“Damn.” Pip dropped the bucket.
“Yeah.”
“How about I get my shotgun an’ go wi’ ya?” Pip picked up the bucket and began cranking the pump.
“That’s a mighty nice offer, but I’ll be fine. You stay here.”
The livery operator looked relieved.
“Let’s get going, Tag. We’ve got work to do,” Holt said, looking down at the dog. “Thanks, Pip.”
Pip waved the brush.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cradling his Winchester in his arms and throwing his saddlebags over his shoulder, Holt walked away. Tag trotted at his side, the two remaining leather socks flopping loosely.
As he stepped outside, a familiar voice teased him. “What’s this about you being more handsome than me?”
Holt spun toward his youngest brother. Behind him stood Silka. “Deed . . . Silka! Man, I was getting worried.”
After hugging each of them, Holt explained what had happened to him and his half of the posse.
“Real sorry about Ira. He was a good man. Had a bad feeling about Mason. Should’ve told you,” Deed said, leaning against t
he livery wall. “Damn, you were lucky against Achak. I hear he’s one bad hombre.”
“Yeah, lucky.”
“We just saw one of those boys come in from your direction. Only one. He was wounded,” Deed said. “Figured you’d been in a scrape.”
“Guess you could call it that.”
Deed knelt to pet Tag and continued, “I see your buddy made it all right. We tracked the other two here. They just kept running. Didn’t try to ambush us. We’ve been keeping out of sight. Hoping you’d show up.” He took hold of one of the dog’s leather socks. “What are these, Holt?”
Holt smiled. “Well, there used to be four. It was to help his feet when he walked with me.”
“Should I take them off?”
“If you want.”
Tag growled when Deed began to untie one of the leather pieces.
“Oops. Don’t think he wants them off.” Deed looked up, grinning.
“Yeah, Tag kinda likes them. Better leave them be.”
Standing, Deed’s eyes narrowed. “So you were going to face those bastards by yourself?”
“Aiie, that is not good,” Silka added.
“Didn’t see that I had any choice. Didn’t know if you boys had run into trouble or what had happened. And I figured they wouldn’t stay in town long. Probably rob the bank and ride out.”
“Malcom Rose is across the street right now, keeping an eye on them,” Deed said, shaking his head. “We didn’t think they’d recognize him. Right now they’re in the saloon. Prairie Dog.”
Heavy footsteps made them alert. A hard-breathing Malcolm Rose came around the corner.
“Two of them just went into the bank,” the dry goods and clothing store owner reported. “The other one is on his horse waiting. Looks like their packhorse is carrying our bank money. Not sure though.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” Holt said, levering his Winchester.
“Looks that way, big brother,” Deed said and drew his Remington revolver.
“Nokorimono ni wa fuku ga aru,” Silka said and touched the brass circle at his neck. Deed did the same.
