Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  One Comanche was down and unmoving; the other was hit in the shoulder, but still shooting arrows. A third arrow struck Silka in his injured arm. Silka fired again and missed. A fourth arrow sang past his head.

  From below came fierce yells. Deed bounded up the incline, appeared at the top of the hill, and fired his Spencer at the remaining warrior. His shot slammed into the Indian’s stomach and drove him backward. A second shot from Deed toppled the warrior, headfirst.

  “My God, Silka!”

  Deed hurried to his friend and held him. Silka tried to smile.

  “They surprise me. I am getting old.”

  “Lie down, my friend,” Deed said and helped Silka to the ground. Half of the Oriental’s shirt was wet crimson. Deed knew the first thing he must do was stop the bleeding in Silka’s arm. Using the throwing knife carried on a leather strand down his back, Deed tore away part of his own shirtsleeve and tied it tight around Silka’s upper arm, releasing and tightening.

  “Silka, I’ve got to stop this bleeding.”

  “I-I am in good hands. Yours . . . and God’s.”

  After deciding the wound was coagulating, he took off the restraint.

  “I’m going to make sure those bastards are dead, then we’ll get those arrows out.”

  “I-I understand, son. Do not hurry.” Silka mumbled something in Japanese that Deed didn’t quite get, but thought it was that a warrior should die like this, fighting.

  Holt appeared at the top of the hill with a revolver in both hands. Tag was at his side.

  “There might be more of them,” Deed declared. “Better go back to the horses. Uh, put a pot of water on the fire. I’m going to need something for bandages. Your medicine too.”

  “All right.” Holt looked at Silka and grimaced. He wanted to ask his brother how bad the injuries were, but didn’t dare, not in front of Silka. He returned his guns to his shoulder holsters and climbed down, talking to Tag.

  Deed walked around the uneven hilltop, firing his Spencer into the heads of the downed Comanche. The anger in him was barely controlled. They had hurt, and hurt badly, his best friend, his mentor, his substitute father. After assuring himself there was no imminent danger, he returned to Silka, who was obviously suffering.

  Deed removed Silka’s sword from his back to make him more comfortable and ripped open Silka’s shirt to examine the arrow in his chest. The arrow had entered his chest just under his shoulder blade. The wound was deep; the arrow had nearly gone all the way through his body. He felt along Silka’s upper back and could feel the arrowhead just under the skin.

  “I’ve got to push the arrow through,” Deed said. “Then I can cut it off and pull out the shaft. It’s going to hurt, Silka.”

  “I am ready.”

  “Wait, I’m going to get Rose’s flask. Some whiskey will dull the pain,” Deed said, putting his hand across Silka’s forehead.

  “Silka no need whiskey.”

  “Think of it as medicine, old friend,” Deed said. “I’m going to need hot water and some of the salve you always carry.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Deed met Holt at the bottom of the hill, holding a jar of ointment and a shirt from Silka’s saddlebags. At Holt’s insistence, the dog stayed by the dying fire.

  “I’ll come up to help you make Silka comfortable and then head right back,” Holt responded. “Like you said, they might not be alone.”

  They went back up to the top.

  “Yeah, they were good enough, to get close to Silka without him knowing.”

  “I’ll keep a sharp eye.”

  Propping up Silka’s head, Deed offered him a drink from the flask. The Oriental grimaced at the taste.

  “No like.”

  “Not giving it to you to like, you old dog,” Deed said and held the flask to Silka’s mouth. “Drink. It’ll help.”

  Silka swallowed two more sips, then said he’d had enough. Deed made him drink one more; he knew what he had to do was going to hurt and hurt a lot. He picked up a thick stick and placed it in Silka’s mouth.

  “Bite down on this. I’m going to push this arrow through. It’ll hurt.”

  “Aiie, a samurai is ready to die.”

  “You’re not going to die. It’s just going to hurt.”

  Deed took hold of the arrow shaft protruding from Silka’s chest and pushed down with both hands. Silka’s face broke out in sweat and his trembling hands became tightened into fists. Deed also shivered as he applied all his strength to forcing the point through the skin in Silka’s back.

  Finally, the arrowhead popped through. He drew the throwing knife hung behind his neck and made quick work of the arrowhead, severing it from the shaft. Deed took a deep breath.

  “One more tough move,” the young gunfighter said and grabbed the arrow protruding from Silka’s chest and began to pull.

  Silka passed out and the stick fell to the ground.

  The shaft came free, bringing fresh blood and a little tissue. Deed cleaned the wound with whiskey and hot water. After applying some of Silka’s salve to both wounds, he bandaged it with strips from the shirt, noting to himself that the shirt was Holt’s. Deed moved his attention to the arrow in Silka’s thigh. The arrow hadn’t gone as deep as the chest wound, probably due to Silka’s movement. Silka’s pant leg cut open easily so Deed could get to the embedded shaft, then he made four cuts around the arrow to allow for easier withdrawal.

  The arrowhead came free, bringing more fresh blood. He cleaned and bound the wound, then began removing the arrow in Silka’s arm. The arrowhead had been driven through his arm. Deed cut off the point, removed the shaft, and cleaned and dressed the wound. He was glad Silka had passed out.

  Finished, he laid exhausted beside Silka.

  Below, Holt stared at the canyon’s opening and the shadows beginning to sneak into the brush-laden corners. Anyone trying to enter the canyon would be subject to heavy rifle fire by him. From the tobacco pouch, he took a handful of shreds and tossed them in all directions, thanking the canyon’s spirits for allowing them to stay and asking for their protection. Holt blamed himself for Silka’s wounds; he had waited too long to give tribute to the spirits.

  It was time to make supper and he welcomed the task. He went over to the stream with a pot from their supplies, his eyes alert for any movement. Their food was getting low, but should be enough if they could make it to Wilkon in a few days. Killing an antelope would be a nice addition to their menu.

  Alongside the strips of jerky were the remains of a salted bacon slab, cans of beans and peaches, a handful of carrots and six potatoes, dried fruit and apples, a small sack of salt, a half sack of flour and another of sugar. There was a sack of coffee and a sack of crackers. Two large sacks of oats remained for the horses. The large sacks carrying the Wilkon bank’s money were set off to the side, along with a shovel, a hand axe, extra picket pins, and hobbles. Three “good ’nuffs,” slip-on substitutes for horseshoes if any were lost. Three boxes of cartridges, a waterproof container of matches, and a small bird’s nest of tinder and sticks were also part of their supplies. Personal items were carried by each man in his own saddlebags.

  He would make a broth for Rose and Silka, and later, a heavier stew for Deed and himself. Some small sticks made the fire stronger. After the water was boiling, he shaved jerky into the pot, offering an occasional morsel to Tag, and stirred the broth with his knife. Later, he would add bigger chunks of jerky, a cut-up potato and three carrots, and a few wild onions he had found to make a hearty meal.

  Checking the broth, he decided it was as good as he could make it. He tasted the hot liquid and decided the broth was definitely worth eating. Putting on his gloves, he poured some into a tin cup and took it to Rose. Tag trotted along as if on a wonderful adventure.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Malcom, can you eat something?” Holt said, leaning over the sleeping townsman. “I made some broth. Be good for you.”

  Malcolm Ro
se pushed himself up from his blanket and looked around. “How long have we been here?”

  “Since morning. Six hours or so,” Holt answered. “How are you feeling? Better blow on it. She’s hot.”

  “Sure. Sure. Thanks.” Rose blew on the brew and tasted it. “Say, that’s right good.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Was I dreaming . . . or did I hear gunshots a while ago?”

  Holt glanced up the hill. “Deed and Silka shot some Comanche trying to sneak up on us.”

  “C-Comanche? Oh, Lord, how many?” Rose almost dropped the cup, spilling some of the broth on his blanket.

  “Three. They’re dead.” Holt wasn’t sure if he should tell Rose that Silka was badly wounded.

  Rose wiped his hand across the blanket where he had spilled. Tag inspected the spill and licked it. The townsman watched the dog, then looked up at Holt. “I’m going to be all right. Just a little weak, that’s all. Should be just fine in a few days.” He took a sip of the broth. “How long are we staying here? Are we in danger of being attacked?”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll ride to Turkey Wing,” Holt said. “I hope we don’t run into any more Indians, but nobody can say for sure, you know that.”

  Rose nodded and drank more, then patted his coat pocket. “Wonder where I put my flask? A little sip would taste good.”

  Holt licked his mouth. “It’s up with Silka and Deed. I took it when you were sleeping.”

  “What?”

  “Silka’s been hurt. Bad. The Comanche ambushed him when he was standing guard,” Holt said. “The rest of us were sleeping. We used some of your whiskey to clean his wounds.”

  “I thought you said the Comanche were dead.”

  “They are. Silka killed them, even as they were shooting him.”

  “Oh.” Rose put his hand against his injured shoulder. “Was he hurt worse than me?”

  “Yes. A lot worse.” Holt was sorry to have stated Silka’s situation that way, but it was true.

  “I see. So my wound isn’t bad.”

  “I didn’t say that, Malcolm,” Holt said, getting irritated. “But Silka had an arrow in his chest, another in his arm and a third in his thigh. As well as a deep knife gash in his arm.”

  Rose stared at Holt without speaking.

  Holt folded his arms. “Deed’s going to stay up there tonight. We can’t move him. I’m going to take Deed’s horses up there. They’ll warn Deed if anybody tries to sneak up. I’ll stay down here and guard the rest of our horses.”

  “My Lord! We’re all going to be killed!”

  “That’s not our plan.”

  Rose began babbling and waving the cup in his hand.

  “Careful there. You’ll spill your broth.” Holt was trying hard not to be disgusted. “Tag’ll be happy if you do, come to think of it.”

  Rose stared at him. “What difference does it make! We’re all going to be dead by morning.”

  “Stop being a stupid little kid,” Holt blurted. “I’ve got to take some broth up to Deed, so he can give it to Silka.” He turned toward the fire.

  “B-but what about me?”

  “I’ll bring back your whiskey if there’s any left.”

  “There better be.”

  Holt spun around. “Drink your broth and shut up. I’ve got to help a brave man.” He walked over to the fire, put a spoon in his pocket, and filled another cup of broth.

  Picking up a canteen with his other hand, he headed up the hill, then stopped. Tag was surprised, but came to a stop a few steps behind. Holt yelled, “There’s more broth if you want it . . . and you’re not afraid to get it.”

  Holt fought to regain his temper as he continued walking up the slope. Deed was sleeping next to Silka. Tag’s lick on his face brought Deed awake with a start, fumbling for his holstered revolver.

  “Easy, little brother. Looks like you did well. Silka’s sleeping good,” Holt said and handed him the flask. “Here, there’s some left. Take a drink of Rose’s whiskey. You could use it.”

  Deed sipped the offered flask and handed it back. Without drinking himself, Holt pushed the stopper in place and shook it to see how much remained. Very little. Rose would have to do without. He hoped the townsman would complain.

  “Here’s some broth and some water for Silka. You’ll have to give it to him with this spoon.”

  “Thanks. I’ll wait for him to wake up.” Deed shook his head to clear it. “How far to Turkey Wing?”

  “Not far. Half a day, maybe.”

  “You wanted to bury McDugal and Buck.”

  “Yeah, but that was before this,” Holt said, motioning toward Silka. “Might not be the smart thing to do now.”

  Deed was silent, staring at the unconscious Silka. “He’s hurt bad, Holt.”

  “I know. But he’s a tough man.”

  “We can’t move our camp,” the youngest Corrigan said, putting his hands together as if to pray. “We can’t move him. Not yet.”

  “I agree, but the horses will be out of grass soon. We’ll leave tomorrow. We have to.” Holt walked across the rocky hilltop, examining the dead Comanche, and returned.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. You rest and I’ll bring two horses up here. They’ll make good alarms. One of us will stay up here tonight. The other, below. Tag’ll help, too.”

  Holt and Deed talked a few minutes longer. Moving the entire camp to the hilltop wasn’t practical. Any fire this high would be seen for miles. Silka needed rest, maybe for days, but they would have to move before he could ride. There was no doubt they would have to build a travois and should start looking for any poles that would suffice. Holt said he would fix them some stew and bring it up when ready.

  Deed mumbled something about the stew sounding good, then said, “He can’t die. He can’t.”

  “Silka’s going to be fine, Deed. You did well treating him. No doctor could’ve done better.”

  “I’ll stay here with him,” Deed said, looking at Silka.

  “Sure. I’ll bring up your ponies,” Holt responded, “and some blankets for both of you. It’ll be cold tonight, especially up here. Hard to believe, but it will.”

  “Let me know when it’s ready and I’ll come down. I can bring up the ponies then.” Deed bit his lip. “How’s Malcolm doing?”

  “Good enough to know his flask is missing,” Holt said, shaking his head. “If he’s not careful, he’s really going to have something to whine about.”

  “He’s a good man, Holt.”

  “Maybe.” Holt put his hand in his pocket and withdrew the small red medicine stone. “Got something I want to leave with Silka. It’ll help bring him back. It’s done that for me, you know.”

  “He’ll appreciate that, Holt.”

  Stepping over to the prone Silka, Holt laid the stone on his bloody shirt. As he turned away, Silka’s eyes fluttered open. He took the stone with his left hand, squeezed it, and said, “Arigato.”

  “You’re welcome, my friend,” Holt said softly. He patted his brother on the shoulder and retreated down the hill with Tag bouncing behind him.

  After a few minutes, Deed focused on the wounded samurai. “Silka, you need to drink some water. Have some of this broth Holt made for you.”

  He put his hand on Silka’s forehead. It was hot. Very hot.

  “I not thirsty.”

  “Please, for me. Take a swallow or two. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Your body needs this.”

  The severely wounded Oriental swallowed six spoonsful of water and broth, then shook his head. “Where is my gun?” His hand patted the ground.

  “It’s right here,” Deed said and moved the Winchester beside Silka.

  “Is reloaded?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “What have I told you?” Silka’s breathing was labored.

  “Sure.” Deed shoved new cartridges into the gun.

  “Is cocked? We may have more fight tonight. Must be ready.”

  “It is now,” Deed said. “How about some more broth?”<
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  “Where is my sword?”

  “It’s right beside you. Now, how about some more broth?”

  “No. I sleep now.”

  “All right. Sleep, my good friend,” Deed said and stood, checking the load in his carbine.

  The heat of the day was leaving when Holt called to Deed that the stew was ready. The meal was good, and so was the hot coffee. Rose was asleep again or pretending to be. Earlier, Holt had laid the nearly empty flask next to him.

  The brothers talked quietly, looking forward to the coming dusk. Much of their talk was about their ranch and taking over the Bar 3 as well. There was no mention of their dangerous situation. Both had been in similar situations. Both had survived. Neither looked into the fire. To do so would blind a man for an instant that could mean the difference between life and death if he had turn around quickly and shoot.

  A quail called out for company, but none answered. Holt and Deed listened carefully and decided it was, indeed, a real quail. No echo that would have come from an Indian. Tag seemed to listen for a moment, then stretched out beside Holt. Holt thought they should secure the horses more than usual and Deed agreed.

  Silka needed sleep, but they wouldn’t be able to give him much.

  “I looked at those scrawny cottonwoods by the spring,” Holt said. “A couple should work.”

  “Good. Thanks for the stew,” Deed replied and laid back on his elbows. “You’ll make somebody a good wife one of these days.”

  They both chuckled.

  “When we get back, I think you’d better get yourself hitched up to that fine stagecoach lady,” Holt said and poured more coffee for both of them.

  “Guess that’ll be up to her.”

  “Well, don’t make her guess.”

  Deed smiled. “Since when have you become the expert on marriage?”

  “Since I didn’t . . . and didn’t ask.” He scratched Tag’s back with his fingers.

  Deed studied his brother’s face, painted by the low orange of their fire, and changed the subject. “I’ll take my horses back with me. That’ll stretch our grass a little.”

  “Some, but we’ll be gone by noon. I was going to suggest taking my ponies, but they wouldn’t be worried by Comanche.” Holt motioned toward the horses. “Rather not use our grain if we don’t have to.”