Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  Both brothers recognized the Japanese saying, that luck exists in the leftovers. Its meaning was clear, there is luck in the last helping.

  “Let’s hope there is a last helping,” Deed said as they moved toward the street. “Malcom, you stay here.”

  “I didn’t ride all this way to hide in a livery. I’m coming with you.”

  “Got it. We’re glad you’re with us,” Deed said and slapped the store owner on his back. He smelled whiskey on Rose’s breath.

  Quickly, they crossed the street, darting around, passing occasional buckboards, freighters, and riders. Lennie Kinney sat on his horse, facing the bank; his left arm was in a sling. The packhorse was on a lead rope tied to his saddle horn. The reins of the other two horses were looped around the hitch rack for quick release.

  “Deed, take him out,” Holt whispered. “Silka, move their horses. Malcom and I will go to the alley.”

  “Got it.”

  “I shall.”

  Like a wolf closing in on a wounded deer, Deed ran at Kinney and leaped onto the back of his horse. The outlaw was startled by Deed’s arrival, but Deed grabbed his head with both hands around his neck before Kinney could move. A powerful snap and Kinney slid from his horse. Deed moved into the saddle, drawing his revolver to wait.

  Silka grabbed the reins of the waiting horses, walked them away to the next hitch rack, and tied the leather lines tightly.

  Holt and Rose slipped into the alley on the south side of the unpainted bank building to wait. It wasn’t long before Degory Black and Jethrum Pace slammed open the bank door, guns in hand. Black held a large sack. Both were laughing.

  Holt stepped from the alley, raised his Winchester, and levered it. “Drop your guns. You’re under arrest for murder and bank robbery.”

  Beside him, Tag growled, still wearing the two leather socks.

  Black stopped and motioned for his outlaw friend to spread out. “Well, well, if it isn’t Sheriff Corrigan. What rock did you crawl out from under? We didn’t figure on seeing you again.” Degory Black’s words came out like they didn’t taste good. “Lennie, you said he was a dead man. Lennie?”

  Black looked at the rider in front of the bank. “Hey, where’s Kinney?”

  “Right over here. He wasn’t good enough. Neither are you.” Deed cocked his revolver and pointed it at the outlaw.

  From the same alleyway, Malcom Rose appeared, brandishing his rifle. From the far hitch rack, Silka ran toward the bank robbers with his sword in both hands.

  “Looks like you Corrigans got us outnumbered this time,” Black snarled.

  “Last chance. Drop your guns,” Holt responded.

  Behind Black, the bank door swung open and a squatty man with a centered part in his thick black hair jumped outside yelling that the bank was being robbed. The outlaw dropped the money sack, grabbed the bank president by the arm, and swung the surprised man in front of him. At the same moment, Silka bounded onto the boardwalk and drove his sword through Jethrum Pace. The outlaw grunted and fell against the building.

  Without looking at his downed associate, Black yelled, “Back off or I’ll shoot this little bastard. Do it now.”

  “Please . . . no!” The bank president pleaded.

  Black shoved his gun barrel against the man’s head.

  Tag snarled and ran at Black before Holt could stop him. Surprised by the animal’s sudden charge, Black swung his gun in Tag’s direction. Deed, Holt, and Rose fired at once. Black’s gun jumped in his hand. Tag whimpered and dropped as Black’s bullet struck him.

  Black lurched backward from the three shots and collapsed against the building. Holt fired twice more. Black’s revolver popped from his hand and slid across the sidewalk. Silka pounced toward him, but there was no need. The outlaw was dead.

  All over the main street, people began to look out of doorways and from behind wagons to determine what had just happened, unsure if the shooting was over or why it had begun.

  Holt hurried to his wounded dog and knelt beside him.

  Deed swung down from McKinney’s horse. “How’s Tag?”

  “Looks like a nasty burn. Hurts, I’m sure.” Holt patted the dog.

  “We’ll take him to the doc,” Deed said and shoved a new cartridge into his handgun. “Where’s the doc?” he asked the sweating president.

  “Uh . . . uh, down the street. Where that barber sign is.” The president straightened his coat and walked over to the money bag. “Uh, I’m going to take this back inside. All right?”

  “Sure,” Deed said. “Anybody else inside?”

  “Uh, the Wilsons . . . and the Courtneys. My teller’s in there, too.”

  “Tell them it’s safe to come out.”

  “I will. I will,” the short man swallowed. “Uh, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Deed responded.

  From his office, a bespectacled Marshal Billy Ramschook came running with a double-barreled shotgun in his fists. When the gray-haired marshal saw it was Holt, he slowed down and adjusted his eyeglasses. Color began to return to his wrinkled face and the hint of a smile to his thin mouth.

  “Sheriff Corrigan, what’s going on?” Billy yelled as he advanced. “This is a quiet town, you know.”

  “Sorry, Billy,” Holt replied, still beside the wounded dog. “That’s Lennie Kinney . . . Jethrum Pace . . . and Degory Black. They robbed the bank in Wilkon. Killed the marshal there. We’ve been after them since. They didn’t give us a chance to arrest them.”

  “Got papers on all of them. Bad ones. Looks like you saved us a bad time and a lot of money,” Billy Ramschook said. “Got the wire from Wilkon a few days ago. Didn’t figure they’d head this way though.”

  “Glad to oblige.”

  “That your dog?” Marshal Ramschook pointed at Tag, who was up and inspecting the dead outlaws, making certain they were dead by sniffing them, still growling.

  “Yeah, that’s Tag.”

  “He’s bleeding. Hurt bad?”

  “No, thank goodness. Just a bad burn,” Holt said with reddened eyes. “I’ll have the doc look at him.”

  Billy approached the bloody bodies of the outlaws, assured himself that they were dead, and looked again at the young sheriff. “The town thanks you, Sheriff. You and your friends.” He turned to Holt. “Our town doctor is right down the street. He’s also the barber . . . and the dentist. Tell him I said for you to come and the cost is on me.”

  “Thanks, Billy.”

  Holt introduced Deed, Malcolm Rose, and Silka, and the Hammonds lawman was appreciative of their help. Deed suggested they look in the outlaws’ packhorse to see if the Wilkon bank money was there. Billy Ramschook waved at two men to come and drag away the outlaw bodies.

  “It’s here, Holt,” Deed yelled and held up a large sack.

  Even Silka smiled.

  Two hours later, a bathed and shaved Holt Corrigan, wearing his one clean shirt with the pinned-on sheriff badge, walked into Pepper Henry’s restaurant after telling Tag to wait. The dog was as clean as its master, enjoying the bath as much as Holt had. He was wearing a long bandage put there by the doctor. Holt had removed the remaining leather socks and put them in his saddlebags. This time Tag hadn’t objected.

  He paused inside the restaurant to study the situation. Deed, Malcolm Rose, and Silka were already seated. Only two other people were eating; a farmer and his wife, from the looks of their clothing. Holt was relieved to see that Silka had been allowed to come in. The group had had enough problems for one day.

  A fat man with a greasy white apron around an ample waist greeted him as he entered. “Good day to you, Sheriff. Your friends are already here. You’re a ways from home. How about a big steak—and some fried potatoes. Biscuits just came out of the oven.”

  “Sounds mighty good. Make it rare. Throw in some hot coffee.”

  “You got it.”

  Holt started for an open table, then stopped. “Say, would it be all right if I brought my dog in? He’s been with me on a hard tri
p. Got wounded in the bank robbery today.”

  The fat man licked his lips. “Well, sure. Figure he deserves nice treatment, too. He’ll be quiet, won’t he?”

  “If he isn’t, we’ll both leave.”

  Smiling, the restaurant owner declared, “Supper’s on us, the town. I’m the mayor, so I’ve decided you men deserve more than just a few nice words.”

  From the doorway, Holt paused and said, “That’s real neighborly of you.”

  He started again and the owner asked, “Pardon my asking, Sheriff, but aren’t you the Confederate outlaw the army was chasing a while back?”

  Touching the cardinal feather in his hatband, Holt nodded. “I am. Judge Pence decided I deserved amnesty.” He cocked his head. “But he made me handle the county law duties as part of it.”

  “Sounds like the county got the best of that deal.”

  “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A coyote jumped up as the four riders cleared a low hill and darted away from the tiny pool of rainwater. The Corrigan brothers, Silka, and Malcolm Rose were headed north, to Wilkon. They had wired Judge Pence and Blue that the bank’s money had been recovered and they were returning. Nothing was said about Ira McDugal’s death.

  After buying supplies, grain for their horses, a shovel, and pickets, including a new long coat and replacement canteen for Holt, they had ridden out with two packhorses and an extra horse for each man. Rose had managed to buy another bottle of whiskey as well.

  As the days passed into October, a bright morning sun warmed the rough, broken land as they rode through. To their left was a cluster of arroyos, mixed with small canyons and a long finger of cliffs that barely cleared the horizon. They rode through two dry streambeds, bands of prickly pear, and huddled mesquite. No one was interested in talking, not even the store owner.

  Holt rode and led the two Comanche horses. The others rode the outlaws’ new horses and led their own tired mounts. The outlaws’ packhorse had been turned into a packhorse for them. Tag was stretched out on top of the pack. The Wilkon bank’s money was there, as well as food supplies, a large water bag, and two shovels. Holt had insisted on finding and burying Ira McDugal and his own horse, Buck. No one objected; Deed had quietly told him that the bodies would likely be torn apart by buzzards and coyotes. Holt didn’t disagree, but felt it was important to give them as proper a burial as they could.

  By midday, they were resting beside the only known water in this part of the region, a rock-rimmed pool that had once been the beginning of a stream. The water was low, but clear. Their meal was light, except for coffee. Their fire was a small one, made with dry wood that didn’t smoke. This was Comanche country, especially so with Achak and his warriors ripping through it, and no one had to tell them of the need to be vigilant. They switched saddles to fresher horses before settling in to eat. It was safer that way, in case they had to run.

  “How soon do you think we’ll hit that abandoned ranch you went through?” Deed asked Holt as he sipped his coffee.

  “It was two days out from Hammonds. We should reach it tomorrow at the pace we’re going. It’s a good place to camp.” Holt lit a cigar he’d bought at the Hammonds general store and watched Tag dart after a panting lizard.

  Malcom Rose stood and brushed dust from his pants with his hat, felt the flask against his chest, but decided not to get it out. “You think we’ll have Indian problems?”

  Deed shifted his feet and stood. “Never can tell about Indians. If we’re lucky, no. If not, yes. Holt dropped three of ’em. They just might’ve set up business elsewhere.”

  Rose shivered, went to his horse, and yanked free his rifle. He looked down, leaned over, and held up a dust-covered horseshoe. “Look here. Somebody lost a shoe. Been a while ago, I suppose.”

  “Put it in your saddlebags,” Holt responded. “That’s good luck. You’ll always have money as long as you have it. At least, that’s what an old Gypsy told me.”

  “What about Comanche? Will it help keep us safe?” the thin-faced townsman asked.

  “He didn’t say anything about that.”

  Silka and Deed kicked out their fire and poured the remains of the coffeepot over the smoking embers. They were riding in minutes with Holt leading the way.

  Deed’s mind was wandering toward Atlee Forsyth, in spite of the need to stay alert. He missed her terribly, but this had been a necessary trip. As soon as they got back to Wilkon, he intended to head to the Forsyth stage station and see her. She ran the station after her husband had been killed by Comanche. He could see her children in his mind. He could feel her kiss and her hands touching his face.

  “Over there.” Silka’s command broke Deed from his daydreaming.

  A group of unshod horses had passed and the signs were fresh. The tracks were headed in the general direction of their own riding.

  “Damn, they’re headed the same way we’re going,” Deed said.

  “I count twenty,” Holt said. “Could be a few more.”

  “Maybe it’s just a bunch of wild horses,” Rose said and, this time, took a drink from his flask.

  Deed cocked his head. “No. If it were just horses, their dung would be together. It’s not. It’s scattered around. The Comanche were keeping them moving.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Holt reined up. “Not much we can do about it, except ride alert.” He pulled his Winchester from its saddle boot, as did Deed and Silka.

  Rose’s face was tight. “Maybe we should turn back and wait.”

  “You’re welcome to do that. We’re going on,” Holt said, then looked at Malcolm’s horse with a pattern of large white and black spots. “But a piebald horse is supposed to be lucky.” He grinned. “As long as you don’t look at its tail.”

  “Where’d you hear such a stupid thing?” the store owner asked, more sternly than he should have.

  Deed glanced at his oldest brother. Family could tease him about being superstitious. Not outsiders.

  Holt’s response was milder than Deed expected. “Every man picks his own way, Malcolm. I’ve picked mine.” He kicked his horse into a lope.

  Malcolm frowned, but didn’t respond.

  They rode on in silence with Holt in the lead. Each man watched the land in his own way. Deed’s thoughts kept returning to Atlee, in spite of his knowing of the need to be alert. Silka rode up beside him and touched his shoulder.

  “You think of her, the stagecoach lady.”

  Deed turned toward his mentor. “Yes, I think of her always, Silka. I want to be with her.”

  “So it will be.” Silka smiled. “I see my wife and children each day. They smile at me. One day I will join them.”

  Deed looked over at his old friend. “Yes, my friend. Someday. But we need you here with us now.”

  Silka said something in Japanese that Deed didn’t understand. Deed saw his friend’s eyes fill and kicked his horse into a faster gait to leave Silka alone for the moment.

  The four men cleared a slight rise that allowed them a view of miles of dry prairie. It was a risk because the Comanche could see them as well. They reined up to give their horses a rest. Nothing moved that they could distinguish. Fresh tracks of the war party continued to intrigue them, appearing to be riding ahead of them by no more than a day. But no signs of dust indicated riders were near. Holt took out his field glasses and studied the country more carefully.

  Holt handed the field glasses to Deed. “Take a look. I don’t see anything.”

  Deed’s review of the land yielded nothing as well. “Let’s spread out so we don’t stir up as much dust.”

  Patting the rifle across his saddle, Malcolm said, “Let ’em come. We’ll be ready.”

  “Ever been in an Indian fight?” Deed asked as he handed the field glasses back to Holt.

  “Uh, no, but I was in the war. Took out a bunch of Rebels.” Holt smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t wish a Comanche attack on my worst enemy. Or Apache, for that matter. And yes, I shot a l
ot of blue bellies, too.”

  Resting both hands on his saddle horn, Rose asked, “And they say you robbed a bunch of banks. Union banks. That true?” The whiskey was beginning to affect his judgment.

  Smiling again, Holt said, “You sound like a man pushing for a fight. That true?”

  “Damn it, that’s enough,” Deed snapped and eased his horse between them.

  He glared at Rose. “You’re a most fortunate man, Malcolm. If I were you, I’d just start riding again and keep my mouth shut.”

  The store owner glared at him, then spurred his horse into a trot. The others spread out behind him as Deed had suggested. A few minutes later, Holt and Rose were riding side by side talking. And smiling. The tension of the moment had passed.

  Clearing a low hill, they startled three antelope and the lithe animals scampered away. Ahead was a long wash empty of anything growing except mesquite and brush. Holt swung his horse in that direction and the three men followed, strung out. The afternoon sun had found its strength and the day was hot. Signs of the Comanche appeared again in the soft sand: it looked like they were now riding west.

  “Looks like that war party is headed west,” Holt said and pointed.

  “Good.” Deed responded. “I like that. Think it’s Achak?”

  “Probably.”

  Malcolm Rose took a deep breath. “I like that thought, too.”

  “We’ll stop by those rocks and give our horses some of our water.” Holt pointed to a strange collection of large rocks at the end of the wash.

  Reaching the stopping point, Holt asked Silka to keep watch. They swung down and each man poured water into his hat for his horses. The animals licked up the moisture gratefully. After watering his horse and taking a swig himself, Deed replaced Silka while the former samurai watered his own horses. Holt lifted Tag from the packhorse, allowed him to drink, and returned the dog to its riding position.

  The afternoon was long and fierce. By sundown, they were more than halfway to the abandoned ranch where Holt had camped coming into Hammonds. It was a dry camp and on an elevated plain. They could see in three directions with their camp settled against a low cliff of red clay. Anyone trying to advance from the cliff would not see them or be able to shoot down at them effectively. Just south of their camp was a cluster of buffalo grass that would provide grazing for the horses.