Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  The animals were allowed to roll, rubbed down with saddle blankets, then picketed for the night. Water came again from their supply; their first canteens were empty and the second canteens were needed. Tag was moving stiffly, but his wound didn’t seem to bother him otherwise. Deed built a small fire against the cliff and a coffeepot was quickly boiling. Dinner was bacon, cans of beans, and warmed-up biscuits from the general store.

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Deed said. “Malcom, you can take over about eleven.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll take the watch from two,” Holt said, “’til four, then it’s yours, Silka.”

  Holt grinned and reached for the coffeepot. “Tomorrow night, we should be at that ranch . . . and some good water.”

  The camp settled into sleep quickly after a long, hard day in the saddle. Moonlight was dazzling and all of them slept with their hats over their eyes. Deed wandered away from the dying fire, taking his Spencer, and stood close to the horses. The Comanche horses were mustangs and should warn him if anyone tried to advance from outside the camp. Like his brother, he felt it was important to thank the spirits of the area and spread shredded tobacco around from the small pouch he carried. He thought his brother had done the same earlier.

  Night sounds were comforting. Somewhere a coyote talked a lonely story. His thoughts danced away to the stagecoach station that Atlee ran. He could see the separate adobe home where her family lived and a small cooling house, a barn, corral, blacksmith shed, the relay station building itself, and its accompanying outhouses. He wondered if she was ready to leave that behind and help him operate the massive Bar 3. That was the plan; he and Silka would take over the management of this ranch. But none of it made sense to him if she didn’t want to join him.

  “Atlee, I love you.” His whisper joined the other night sounds.

  He took a deep breath and moved to a darker shadow not far from Holt’s Comanche horses. “Going to count on you fellows to let us know if trouble is around.”

  The thought occurred to him that the horses might not react if it were Indians closing in. He grimaced and studied the surrounding land. At night, everything looked different, strange. Most Indians, Comanche and Apache, didn’t like fighting at night. They believed a dead warrior’s soul wouldn’t be able to find the proper resting place in the darkness. He wondered if such bright moonlight changed that thinking.

  He looked over at the sleeping men. He felt good that Malcolm Rose and Holt had gotten over their argument and was pleased to see the change in his brother. Holt was much more calm than he was as a younger man. Probably it was the amnesty, even with the burden of being a lawman. He smiled. A lot had happened in a short time, thanks to the judge.

  Deed hadn’t told anyone, but he figured that some townspeople would challenge the amnesty and claim that Holt had robbed their bank and should pay for it. He didn’t know if his brother had robbed any banks, or how many. The newspaper stories were, of course, all about Holt and his gang. Pence realized the stories had been generated by Agon Bordner and had not been crimes committed by Holt himself or any of his gang. Deed wondered if the judge had thought about the possibility. Legally, the amnesty cleared him of any such crime, but that didn’t mean someone wouldn’t try to change it. Maybe the army itself might challenge the judge. Deed shook his head to clear it.

  He moved over to the Comanche horses and talked quietly to them. The animals were content and healthy. He figured they could run all day and all night if needed. Actually, he was more worried about Comanche finding them. There was no doubt of their fighting skill, their ferocity. There wouldn’t be any safety until they reached Wilkon. Maybe they should consider traveling by night and avoid the obvious problems of day riding.

  The taller Comanche horse’s ears came up and it looked down at a fat mesquite brush twenty feet away. Something was definitely there. Deed cocked his Spencer and aimed it at the silent shape.

  Nothing moved.

  Deed stepped behind the horse to protect him from gunfire or an arrow. Yellow eyes appeared from the side of the mesquite and Deed breathed relief.

  “My friend, go away from here. Staying around will only get you killed,” Deed growled.

  A moment later, the eyes disappeared.

  “Thanks, boy,” Deed patted the horse’s neck. “Counting on you. Will you warn me if any Indians get close?”

  Uncocking his Spencer, Deed moved again. He thought it was important to keep changing positions and trying his best to stay in the shadows. There was no indication of Indians close by, but he was worried. The moonlight had lessened somewhat with clouds cutting in front.

  He looked up. “Wonder if we’ll get rain tomorrow? That would help.”

  Of the three Corrigan brothers, he was the one most comfortable in the wilds and the one who seemed to connect with wildlife. Somewhere a nighthawk called out and he listened closely. Yes, it was real. No echo or anything human attached to the sound.

  His mind slid from Atlee to the Comanche attacks. The war party would find them unless it was truly headed west. That seemed unlikely to him. Likely there was water in that direction known to only a few. It made more sense they would then turn back and head either south or east, where white settlements lay. Either way, the Indians would cut the posse’s trail.

  Most Comanche were in the reservation at Fort Cobb, but there were roaming bands causing problems at the edges of white civilization. Now Achak and his band of warriors had broken free. He didn’t think they would have picked up their trail yet, or had they?

  What could the four of them do if they did?

  They could try to hide their tracks, but that would only slow them down. Any Comanche could see through the subterfuge. Deed touched the brass circle at his neck. Maybe they should travel at night. Tonight. They could make the ranch by midday according to Holt and, likely, get there before the war party did.

  Yes.

  He went to Holt. His brother was not sleeping.

  “Holt, I think we should ride for that ranch tonight,” Deed said. “Got a feeling.”

  Without responding, Holt sat up and put on his shoulder holsters; his pants and boots were already on. “Had the same thought. Doesn’t make sense for them to keep heading west. I’m pretty sure there’s a small stream about a half day’s ride from where we saw their tracks. They’ll turn around after watering their horses.”

  “If they cut our trail, they’ll know where we’re headed.”

  “I’ll wake the others. Water the horses good.” Holt stood.

  Walking over to Silka, Holt touched the former samurai on the shoulder and he was instantly awake, holding his sword with both hands.

  “We’re going to ride on now,” Holt said. “Will you get the packhorse ready?”

  “I do so.” Silka was into the shadows in three bounds with no questions asked.

  Malcolm Rose struggled to wake up. “W-what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. But we’re going to ride out. Now,” Holt spoke almost gently. “Safer riding at night.”

  “Oh.”

  Rose grabbed his boots, shook them to assure no small creatures had taken up residence, and stood, stomping them into place. Leaving the store owner to get himself ready, Holt went to Deed, now saddling their horses.

  “Let’s tie down anything that makes noise,” the oldest Corrigan advised.

  “Yeah. I’ve already shed my spurs.”

  Silka brought up the packhorse carrying their reloaded supplies and the bank’s money. Tag was stretched out on top as usual. Holt noticed Silka wasn’t wearing spurs, either.

  Sitting on a rock, Holt removed his spurs and shoved them into his saddlebags, surrounded by an extra shirt. He avoided looking at Rose’s piebald horse altogether, focusing on his own bay. Malcolm Rose came to the saddling area, dragging his blanket. He stumbled against a rock and almost fell. His rifle clattered against the rocky ground.

  Deed looked at him and continued saddling.

  “D
amn, is this really necessary?” the thin townsman grumbled and leaned over to retrieve his gun.

  “May not be, but better to be safe,” Holt said in a low voice. “Take off your spurs.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In minutes, they were riding again. Deed had added wood to the fire so it would burn well through the night. Sounds of their travel were muted. Only hoofbeats against soft sand and the occasional grunt of saddle leather. Each man had wrapped his bridle chains to keep them from making more than a whisper.

  Holt led the way, heading straight for the abandoned ranch and good water. The night had darkened with clouds completely surrounding the once-dominant moon. They were thankful for the blackness. Soon the tensions of being awakened gave way to weariness. Several heads bobbed in rhythm to their walking horses.

  False dawn was ushering in a new day when they pulled up among a gathering of scrub oaks. Four rabbits popped from cover as they rode into the area.

  “We’ll give the horses some water,” Holt announced, “and switch ’em. Should be at the old ranch in three hours.”

  Canteen water in their hats became welcome containers for the horses. Silka made certain the packhorses were particularly well watered. He helped Tag down and the dog began sniffing where the rabbits had been.

  From his saddlebags, Rose produced a flask and took a long drink, then another. He offered the whiskey to Holt and Deed, who both declined. There was no attempt to ask Silka if he wanted any. The others began chewing on jerky and biscuits as they swung back into their saddles on fresh horses. Before mounting, Holt patted his hip for Tag and helped him onto the packhorse, then gave him a broken-up piece of jerky.

  Holt studied their back trail but it was too dark to see beyond the outer trees. As he stepped into the saddle, a small toad hopped from a rock across his path and vanished into other rocks. He smiled. A sign of good luck. They would need it.

  “When it gets lighter, I’ll swing back and see if anything’s coming,” Deed said.

  Holt nodded and saw Rose take another swig.

  Dawn slipped into sight with rose and purple streaks announcing its advance. The men rode more alert than before, largely because of being able to see. Before them was an acrid land, laced with mesquite, cactus, and boulders. Before long, they took off their long coats and tied them behind their saddles with their blankets. Holt smoked a cigar and so did Rose, occasionally sipping on his flask.

  “I’d go easy on that, Malcolm,” Deed said. “We may be fighting Comanche before long.”

  “Oh, hell. You Corrigan boys see redskins behind every piece of mesquite,” Rose blurted; the effects of his drinking once more beginning to show. “The only thing we have to worry about is water.” He wiped his mouth and took another drink. “And coffee. Hot coffee would taste mighty good.”

  “Yeah, it would. We’ll make some when we stop.”

  Deed loped up to Holt. “Take my backup pony, will you? I’ll take a look-see at our back side.”

  “Sure.” Holt held out his hand for the lead rope of Deed’s second horse. His other hand held his own reins and his half-smoked cigar.

  Swinging his horse around, Deed rode past Silka, smiled, and said, “Hisashiburi.”

  Basically, it meant, “long time no see.”

  Silka nodded and repeated the teasing greeting.

  Deed kicked his horse into a hard lope and disappeared over the uneven ridge behind them. Minutes passed without any sign of him and even Holt was beginning to worry.

  “If he isn’t back soon, we’ll head back and see if he’s all right,” Holt declared.

  “He all right,” Silka said. “He see something.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

  Rose took another swig. “C-Comanche?”

  “It ain’t picnickers.”

  The words were barely out of Holt’s mouth when the silhouette of a lone rider appeared behind them. Deed was riding hard. He reined up alongside the threesome.

  “Dust behind us,” he reported. “Has to be Achak and his bunch. They’ve picked up our trail.”

  “Can we make the ranch?” Holt asked.

  “Yeah,” Deed replied, “unless you’re wrong about the distance.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Didn’t figure you were,” Deed responded. “They’ll know where we’re headed, but I don’t see any shortcuts they could take.”

  Rose’s face was stiff and his Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly. “H-how many, you think?”

  “Unless they picked up some warriors at their watering hole, I’d say about twenty,” Deed answered. “Enough.”

  “Yeah, enough for sure,” Holt handed back the lead rope of Deed’s second horse. “Let’s ride, boys.”

  They rode hard to the burned-out ranch yard and decided to leave their mounts saddled in case they needed to make a run. Silka pointed at the tumbled walls of the adobe ranch house and declared they should make a stand there, bringing the horses with them. Silka and Holt began fortifying the broken walls with rock slabs while Deed and Rose watered the horses from the nearby well. Holt let the dog down and Tag ran around, happy to be moving again.

  “Get all our canteens full. The water bag, too,” Holt yelled. “I’ll get the extra bullets from the pack.”

  After the horses were watered and grained, they were led into what once was a bedroom and tied to scraggly brush. A little grass had sprung up from the earthen floor, enough to keep the animals satisfied for a few hours. The abandoned ranch yard itself was nearly surrounded by tall buffalo grass and brush.

  Rose was assigned to make a fire. He was uneasy in his walking, but determined to handle the task. He hurried around, grabbing what sticks he could find and a few larger branches. A small fire was going quickly and a coffeepot was soon boiling. The smell danced across the crumpled walls. At Holt’s request, he went over to the supplies. Holt handed him a box of cartridges. Deed took a box of loading tubes for his Spencer from the pack.

  “How soon will they come?” Rose asked, staring at the horizon, a little unsteady.

  “Shouldn’t be long now. Their dust is heavy.”

  “Silka, they know this place. Why don’t you take a spot over there . . . in case they try to sneak behind us,” Holt said, pointing to the far east side of the ranch yard.

  “Aiie, that is good.”

  The youngest Corrigan was pleased to see that Rose was working his way through the impact of the whiskey. Malcolm Rose was a good man, Deed thought. This just wasn’t anything the townsman was used to.

  Rose shoved more sticks into the fire. “If I don’t get back, I reckon the missus can run the store almost as good as we did together. She’s a fine woman, you know.”

  “You’ll be giving her a big kiss in a few days,” Deed said.

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Keep the fire going,” Holt said, “and put a pot of water on. Might need it if anybody takes an arrow or a bullet.”

  “Sure. Sure. Hadn’t thought of that,” Rose muttered. He stood and retrieved a pot from their supplies and filled it from the well. After adding a few more sticks, and a fat branch, he placed the pot into the flames.

  “Someone’ll have to keep an eye on it or it’ll boil away,” he said.

  No one answered.

  “Coffee ready yet?” Holt asked, instead.

  “Think so. I’ve got the cups from the pack.”

  “Good. I’ll be over.”

  Holt walked over and poured coffee into a tin cup. The brew was scalding hot and strong.

  “Why do you think it’s Achak?” Rose asked, pouring a cup for himself.

  “Hadn’t thought about it. Probably. But it could be Kiowa. Or Apache. Hell, it might be Cherokee,” Holt said. “Guess it’s easier to say Achak ’til we know for sure.”

  “Guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “Nope.”

  Holt walked back to his firing position, holding the cup and blowing on it. After he was in place, he yelled, “They’re coming har
d. Heavy dust.”

  In spite of the yell, Deed walked over and poured two cups of coffee and walked over to Silka. He leaned over and handed him a cup.

  “It’s mighty hot. Any thoughts, old man?” he asked between sips of the strong brew.

  Silka took a drink and said one word. “Blankets.”

  “What do you mean blankets? You want one? I’ll get it.”

  Silka took another sip and explained that he thought the Comanche would be split up, with the main group dragging blankets behind their ponies to create a bigger dust cloud. That way the defenders wouldn’t notice several warriors had slipped away. He thought they might already be in the tall grass.

  Deed patted Silka’s shoulder. “I’ll tell Holt.”

  “They will come at our edges.”

  “Got it.”

  As Deed turned to walk away, the former samurai motioned for him to touch the brass circle at his neck for luck. Deed nodded and did, walked past the fire, and paused, looking at Rose. “Don’t drink any more ’til this is over. We need you sharp,” he advised, holding his cup in one hand and his Spencer in the other. “Count on one or two of them crawling your way.”

  Malcolm patted the flask in his coat pocket. “I’ll be all right.”

  Continuing over to Holt, Deed watched the war party advance and told him what Silka expected. They were still out of rifle range and knew it.

  “Here, touch this,” Holt said, holding out his hand. The small medicine rock lay in his opened palm. “Came from an Indian fight I was in. Five of us. We handled eighteen Kiowa. None of us were injured.”

  “Thanks.” Deed touched the rock and patted his brother on the shoulder. “Silka had me touch the circle. Maybe you should, too.”

  Holt reached up and put his forefinger on the circle on Deed’s neck. “Keep your head down.”

  “You, too.”

  The youngest Corrigan brother climbed through the crumbled walls to a place that was farthest south of the others. He settled down among the broken adobe; his reloading tubes were already there. He decided his coffee wasn’t hot enough anymore and tossed the remains to the side.