by Cotton Smith
Holt bowed. “Those are the nicest words I’ve heard in a long time, ma’am. I thank you kindly.”
The couples added further exclamation of gratitude as they left, almost shouting through the doorway.
Judge Pence beamed and spat into his ever-ready cup. “Thar ya go, boys. Yah are ’preciated. Yas, suh.”
Settling back to the table, Holt noticed Hannah was unusually quiet, drinking tequila and talking only when he was asked a question. The oldest Corrigan said, “James, this town is going to need a marshal. A good one. How about you staying on? I’ll put in a word to the mayor. So will Deed and Blue.”
Spitting into his cup, Judge Pence almost hollered, “Well, dammit, boys, I’m ahead o’ ya fer onces’t. Dun already talked to Patterson about it. He likes the idea, too.”
Holt looked at Hannah. “Well, my friend, what do you say?”
Smiling widely, Hannah pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Yeah, I like the idea, but I’ll have to talk it over with Rebecca. It’ll be her decision, too, you know.”
“Of course,” Holt said. “Will you know tomorrow?”
“Sure. I think she’s grown quite fond of Wilkon.”
“Great.”
Outside was the clatter of a fast-driven buckboard. It rattled to a stop in front of the restaurant. Into the gray room came Atlee Forsyth. Her face was taut with worry. Holt saw her first.
“He’s right over here, ma’am. Ornery as ever,” Holt greeted her and stood.
Deed met her a step later.
“Oh, Deed, I was so scared,” Atlee said, looking into his eyes. “I hadn’t heard from you. For years, it seemed.” She brushed away a tear escaping down her right cheek. “I-I left the Beinrigts in charge of the station and rode to your ranch. Bina told me what was going on. I saw Rebecca in the general store and she said you were here.”
“Shhh. It’s all right now,” Deed whispered. “All I could think about was getting back to you.”
“R-really?”
“Ask Holt. He teased me about it,” Deed said and brushed back a curl from her hair. “I love you.”
Her eyes locked onto his face. “Oh, and I love you, Deed Corrigan.”
Holt, Taol, Blue, and the judge winked and chuckled. The vaqueros joined in as Deed and Atlee hugged.
Taol and his men excused themselves and headed out after exchanging warm good-byes with the Corrigan brothers. Atlee joined them at the table, but said she wasn’t hungry and only wanted coffee. At Deed’s insistence, she ordered a piece of fresh apple pie.
A few minutes later, Blue, Holt, Hannah, and Judge Pence excused themselves. Blue wanted to head for home now that he wasn’t needed as the town’s interim lawman. Holt said he wanted to check on their horses and then go to bed. Judge Pence said he wanted to discuss some official business with Holt and Hannah.
Deed watched them leave, grinned, and said, “Got a feeling they thought we wanted to be alone.”
“I had the same thought,” Atlee beamed. “And I do.”
Deed reached across the table to take her hand. “You are the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, Deed . . . I missed you so much.”
They held hands and lost themselves in each other’s eyes. The waiter came and went, delivering her coffee and pie, and taking away the emptied dishes of the others. Atlee tasted the pie, said it was good, and drank some coffee. He asked about her children and the stage station, and she told him that Benjamin and Elizabeth missed him greatly. Benjamin was twelve and Elizabeth, six. The boy had initially resented Deed helping at the stage station after their father was killed by Comanche.
Deed smiled again. “Now, I can believe Elizabeth might miss me a little, maybe . . . but Benjamin? I doubt it.”
“Oh, not so, Deed. He talks about you every day . . . and cares for that horse you gave him like it was a gold statue. Every night, he includes you in his prayers. It was his idea.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever had anybody do that before, unless it was Blue.”
She smiled. “Well, I do it, too. Every night.”
Their conversation became easy, like that between husband and wife. They talked about the Corrigan ranch and the Bar 3 that had also become theirs, at least partially so. He told her about the court’s rulings on Agon Bordner’s ill-gotten holdings.
The only thing they didn’t discuss was the awful trip Deed and Holt had just completed. It wasn’t necessary and wasn’t anything he wanted to relive.
“I hope someday you’ll join me at the Bar 3,” Deed said. “You, and Elizabeth, and Benjamin . . . and Cooper, too. He’s a great dog.”
“We would love that,” Atlee said. “Anywhere you are is where I want to be.”
They talked on and on. Finally, Deed looked around and realized they were the only people in the restaurant. The waiter returned to tell him that the meal was on the house, a thank-you for getting the bank’s money back. He said people were talking about it all over town and calling it “the great prairie fight.”
Deed smiled, handed the waiter several coins for a tip, and said they would be leaving.
“Atlee, we need to go. They want to close up,” Deed said. “I’m staying the night at the hotel. Silka’s already there.” He stood, walked around the table, and pulled back her chair. “How about we get you a room as well?” He examined her face. “Tomorrow I’m planning on taking Silka home. He was badly hurt during our return.” He bit his lower lip. “We can ride there together and I’ll go with you to the station, if you want.”
A tear escaped from her eye and hurried down her cheek. “You are so brave.”
“Shall we head for the hotel?”
“Yes.”
At the hotel, the clerk was eager to provide Atlee a room and avoid another confrontation. She and Deed walked up the stairs without talking, and went directly to her room, 235. His lodging was down the hall, 216, next to Silka’s room. He told her to come and get him if she needed anything. They kissed and kissed. Neither wanted to end the evening, but they finally did, with Atlee going into her room.
His walk down the hall was a daze. He was weary, but excited from being with Atlee. Her appearance washed away the awfulness of the Comanche fighting. It was hard to believe how their day had begun, with his oldest brother playing medicine man and killing the wicked Achak. He stepped into the darkened room, not bothering to light the lamp on the table. He unbuckled his gun belt and took the heavy Remington revolver and laid it on the bed. The gun belt and empty holster were tossed on a chair. His hat followed.
One boot came off easily and he dropped it on the floor. A small chunk of dried mud popped from the heel and dribbled away with the jingle of his spur. Then came the second. After taking off his shirt, he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes without taking off his pants. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just for a moment.
An hour later, he heard a soft knocking on his door. He sat up, shook his head, and grabbed his gun. Opening the door slowly, he saw Atlee.
“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” she said. “I want to be with you.” Her hands went to his bare chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Early the next morning, Deed and Atlee were eating breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant. They had already taken food to Silka. He ate some oatmeal and drank coffee with lots of sugar. His eyes stayed focused on them, and he whispered a sweet Japanese blessing on their relationship.
Outside, a bugle cut through the quiet town. The waiter went to the window and exclaimed, “There’s a bunch of soldiers coming in!”
Deed sipped his coffee and smiled at Atlee. “Looks like those boys are trying to catch up with Achak. A little late, I’d say.”
Silka put two more spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “Soldiers may want to talk with Holt. Not so good, maybe.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Deed said. “I’d better go and check.” He reached across the table and touched Atlee’s hand. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”
&n
bsp; “Of course, my dearest, if Silka promises to tell more about you. I love it.” Her eyes caressed his face.
Deed shook his head and glanced at Silka, who appeared busy stirring his coffee. “Don’t believe everything that old samurai tells you.”
Outside, a column of uniformed cavalry pulled up in front of the jail in a tight file. A heavy wagon carrying a mounted Gatling gun pulled up next to the troopers. Dismounting, a young lieutenant with a razor-thin mustache stepped onto the boardwalk and stomped his boots. His uniform looked like he had never left the post. He slapped his glove against his thigh to pop away what dust dared to rest there.
Scrambling to catch up, a skinny man appeared with a lopsided face tanned by long days in the saddle and grizzled with graying beard. He was the opposite in appearance to the young officer. Smoking an old corncob pipe, the sloppy-looking man wore a wide-brimmed hat with an eagle feather fluttering from a beaded hatband. At his waist was a bullet belt holding a large knife in a beaded sheath. He wore a sweat- and dirt-stained buckskin shirt and striped pants stuck into knee-high boots. Deed guessed he was a scout for the patrol. His smile showed many yellowed or missing teeth.
Behind them, horses snorted and stomped, spurs and bits jingled, saddles creaked. One man coughed and another spat. A second wagon pulled up alongside the first, packed with supplies, ammunition, tents, and bedrolls.
Holt met the officer and scout on the boardwalk. “Morning, gentlemen. I’m the sheriff of Cassidy County. How can we help you?”
“My men and I have been trailing a renegade Comanche named Achak and his men since they left the reservation,” the lieutenant said stiffly. “From the looks of it, there was a fight a few hours south of Wilkon. Another fight back at”—he looked at the scout, who told him—“Turkey Wing. Riders headed this way after that last fight. Know anything about it?”
“Yeah. My brother and I were in all of them.” Holt touched the feather in his hatband.
Holt told them what had happened in a few sentences. The scout was impressed; the lieutenant tried not to act so.
“Do you know if the Comanche leader known as Achak was with them?” the young officer asked, taking off his hat and wiping his brow with his sleeve and attempting to act nonchalant.
“Yeah. I killed him and we killed a bunch more.”
“How do you know it was him?”
Holt cocked his head. “Ever see another Indian . . . hell, another anything, wearing a necklace of human tongues?”
The scout turned to the side, took out his pipe, and spat toward the ground. “That’s the he-devil all right. You was lucky.”
“Never hurts.”
Returning the pipe to his mouth, the scout said, “Didn’t find no Injun bodies, ’ceptin’ one. Couldn’t tell much ’bout it. Buzzards were workin’ it over, ya know.”
Holt folded his arms and saw Deed coming from the hotel. “Yeah, they usually drag off their dead. Bet they left Achak because his medicine had gone bad. He couldn’t take us, even though they had us outnumbered.”
The scout nodded agreement and relit his pipe. Behind him a trooper mumbled, “Damn.” The scout turned toward him and said something Holt didn’t hear.
The lieutenant held out his hand to Holt. “I’m Lieutenant St. John of the Tenth Cavalry. This is my chief scout, Eagle Jones.”
Holt shook both men’s hands, but didn’t give his name. “Glad to know you.” He glanced down the street and saw Judge Pence headed their way from the other part of town. Occasionally, he spent evenings with a widow who lived in a small cottage there. Holt glanced in the other direction and saw Silka exit the hotel, carrying his Winchester. He was twenty feet behind Deed.
From inside the jail, a crisp voice yelled, “What do these boys in blue want?”
Holt grinned. How like James Hannah. Holt turned toward the unseen voice and reported, “Lieutenant St. John and his men are after Achak and his Comanche.”
“Typical army. You’ve already taken care of the problem,” Hannah yelled again. “Did he think they’re going to sit and wait while he got that Gatling gun in place?”
The scout chuckled, removed his pipe again, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A trooper in the third row laughed out loud. A cavalry horse whinnied and its rider cursed. The man beside him yawned. It had been a long, hard ride for nothing so far.
Lieutenant St. John stiffened; the heels of his boots clicked together. “We have our orders and we will carry them out.”
“I’m sure you will, St. John,” Holt said, “but my friend is right. Those wagons only slow you down. Comanche can live off the land. What’s left of them will be split up now, looking for easy targets . . . or sneaking back to the reservation.”
The scout stepped forward, partly to change the subject and partly to keep his young officer from saying something foolish.
“Came across two graves. Outside o’ Turkey Wing. Looked new.” The question was implied.
Holt leaned over to pat Tag, who had just burst out from the marshal’s office. Looking up, Holt said, “We did that, too. One was a friend who was riding with us.” He licked his lower lip. “The other was my horse, Buck.” He straightened his back. “Comanche didn’t do it. They were killed by bank robbers we were trailing.”
“They get away?”
“No.”
“Good for you.”
“Guess you’d say we were lucky.” Holt tugged on his suit coat, covering his twin shoulder-holstered guns.
Eagle Jones grinned like a jack-o’-lantern.
Folding his arms, the scout said, “Had me a hoss like that once. Used to eat carrots ri’t out of my mouth.”
Holt nodded and looked away.
A few feet away, the trooper holding the lieutenant’s horse, his own mount, and the scout’s shifted his feet, put all of the reins in his left hand, and reached for a wad of tobacco from his shirt pocket. As he pulled it free, the lieutenant’s horse stomped its feet and shook its head, causing the trooper to drop the chaw. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, he picked up the tobacco, wiped it off against his pants, and bit off a piece, returning the rest of his pocket. He savored the taste and went back to daydreaming.
Several stores away, Judge Pence went into Howard’s Real Estate, Insurance, and Telegraph office.
Recovering his poise, Lieutenant St. John slowly put on his gauntlets, tugging them into suitable position. “Are you saying that you and your brother . . . and two other men . . . fought off twenty Comanche?” he asked, his thin eyebrows jumping. “That doesn’t seem likely, sir. Are you sure? I must know for certain.”
“Didn’t have much choice,” Holt said and shifted his feet. “We lost a good man and our best friend got shot up.”
“Amazing.”
“That’s one word for it.”
St. John wiped at some dust on his tunic. “There was another really bad heathen . . . named Hakan . . . riding with Achak. Did you see him?”
Holt glanced at the scout who was relighting his pipe. “The only Comanche that stood out was wearing a woman’s dress. He was riding beside Achak when I killed him. My brother shot up the one in the dress. Was that Hakan?”
“Probably not, Sheriff. The last time he was seen, Hakan was wearing a cavalry officer’s coat with the sleeves cut out,” St. John replied. “He favors war paint in long stripes on his face.” He looked at the scout for verification.
“Kinda hopin’ you boys got him, too,” Eagle Jones said, reinforcing the separation with his hands.
Deed strolled up to his brother. The handle of his revolver was apparent above his belt.
“Well, Lieutenant, here’s my little brother, Deed. You might learn more from him.” Holt reached out and put his arm around Deed’s back.
“Deed, this is Lieutenant St. John and his scout, Eagle Jones. They’re wondering if we saw another killer Comanche with Achak . . . uh, his name was . . .”
The lieutenant finished the statement. “Hakan. Wearing an officer’
s coat with the sleeves cut off. We think he serves as Achak’s right-hand man.”
“Yeah, saw him twice. Big fella. His face was painted in black-and-white stripes. He was leading a bunch dragging blankets to make us think there were more with them than there actually was. That him?”
“Sounds like it. When was that?” the lieutenant asked, aware that his scout was staring at Deed.
“Early on. We were holed up in a deserted ranch.”
“You said you saw him twice.”
“Second time he was laying on top of our friend at our last stand. This Hakan was dead. Silka killed him with his sword.”
Taking his pipe from his mouth, Eagle Jones said, “Well, good. Makes our job a helluva lot easier. Say, ain’t you the one who took down two bank robbers, one holding a gun in your belly? Austin, I think it was.”
“Something like that.”
Holt laughed. “My brother’s modest. That story’s been up and down all of Texas.”
“That makes you Deed Corrigan, right? And you’re Holt Corrigan,” the lieutenant said, his eyes widening.
“It does. Thought I said that earlier.”
The lieutenant turned toward his men, then spun around. “You are under arrest, Holt Corrigan, for the robbery of a United States payroll wagon and the murder of two soldiers and an officer.” His eyes were bright with anger.
A slight twitch caught the corner of Holt’s mouth. “When did this supposedly happen, lieutenant?”
“Three years ago. Near Fort Worth,” St. John blurted, his face beet red. “You and your Reb cowards murdered my brother.”
“Sorry about your brother, but I wasn’t there.”
Without responding, the young officer turned again toward his men. “Sergeant, take three men and place this man under military arrest. We’ll take them to the fort for processing.”
“Sergeant, you move from that saddle and it’s the last thing you’re going to do.” In Deed’s hand was his Remington. Cocked.
The sergeant froze and the lieutenant was surprised. “Sir, if I give the command, you and your brother will be shot down.”
