by Cotton Smith
Benjamin, looking older than his twelve years, came from the barn and walked to the buckboard. “Well, howdy, Deed. We heard you were in another fight with Injuns. Wow! That must’ve been something.”
“How are you, Benjamin? You look like you’ve grown a foot,” Deed exclaimed as he set the brake and wrapped the reins around the brake handle.
The boy smiled. His dog, Cooper, bounded from the barn and skidded to a stop beside his master.
“Hey, you should see Chester. Him an’ me get along just great.”
Atlee frowned and corrected her son, “He and I.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“Glad to hear it,” Deed said, climbing down and then helping Atlee.
Without hesitating, Benjamin held out his hand and Deed took it vigorously. The boy told him what he had been doing with the horse Deed had given him. Atlee walked over to greet her son, who stepped back, embarrassed by her show of affection. He glanced at Deed, who nodded, and the boy returned his mother’s hug.
“Mommy!”
Watching from a few feet away, Elizabeth held a doll against her chest.
Eagerly, she waddled toward the buckboard with her arms now outstretched. In one hand, the six-year-old held the doll Deed had brought her. Atlee turned to Elizabeth and took her in her arms, hugged her, and let the excited girl down.
“Good afternoon, Miss Forsyth,” Deed said politely. “How have you been?”
“I’ll bet you don’t remember the name of my doll,” Elizabeth pouted.
“Hmmm, let’s see. It isn’t Mary Louise.” Deed knelt and the little girl wandered closer. “And it isn’t Rebecca.” He rubbed his chin. “And I know it isn’t Olivia.”
She frowned.
“But it is Jessica. Jessica Forsyth.”
She ran to him and he took her into his arms and stood. Without his asking, she told him in exhaustive detail what she had been doing and how her doll had been.
“That’s enough, Elizabeth,” Atlee said. “Mr. Corrigan’s head will be buzzing for hours.”
Deed laughed and kissed Elizabeth’s cheek. “Not at all. I enjoyed it. Every word. Seems like I haven’t seen you or your brother forever.”
“It has been a long time,” Elizabeth declared. “You shouldn’t stay away so long.” She wiggled to be let down.
Deed released her and asked the two men how the operation was going. Atlee came and stood beside him. Since Deed left, they had replaced one team of horses with a new set, purchased from August Magnuson in El Paso. Hermann emphasized they had gotten a good deal.
“Es bueno hosses,” Billy added proudly. “Strong. Steady. Nuthin’ scares them. Nuthin’. You should see them.”
“I’d like that. We bought a stallion from that man. Excellent animal.”
Beinrigt agreed with Billy’s assessment; his response laced with German phrases.
Benjamin leaned over to pat Cooper and they wandered back to the barn. Elizabeth meandered away, singing a song about Jessica and Deed. Atlee asked if there had been any signs of Indians while she was gone. Both men assured her that there hadn’t been. Billy added that he kept a shotgun handy.
Turning to Deed, Hermann said, “Ve just heard of du and dur bruthur fighting redmen. Du are sehr brave, Herr Corrigan.”
“Well, thank you,” Deed said, glancing at the smiling Atlee. “Just lucky.”
“Is they be gone now?”
Deed told them what the lieutenant had said about trying to round up the few remaining renegades from Achak’s band.
“So, da heathens still be about?”
“Only a few as far as we know,” Deed responded and adjusted his heavy gun belt out of habit. He stomped his boots to clear them of dust. His spurs sang. “But I’d stay alert. They’d love your horses.”
Billy shook his head and declared they intended to keep the animals in the barn most of the time, until needed.
“That’s smart, Billy.”
The Mexican grinned.
The station doorway swung open and Olivia Beinrigt appeared, wearing a fresh apron over her gray dress. The green scarf Deed had given her was around her neck. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and a smudge of flour adorned one cheek.
“It ist du, Herr Deed! Guten tag!” she said. “Valkom-men! Coffee ist on and a fine stew ist ready. We need to hear how du are.” She looked at Atlee and smiled.
“It’s good to see you, too, Mrs. Beinrigt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Back in Wilkon, Holt Corrigan was regaining his strength and catching up on the area news from James Hannah, now the permanent town marshal. Judge Pence had resumed his circuit responsibilities and was out of town. The Wilkon Epitaph was doing well and had taken on some regular advertisers. A new couple in town from San Antonio had opened a small drugstore. The funeral service for Malcolm Rose had been well attended, and it sounded like Mrs. Rose was leaning toward staying and running their store. A series of lyceums, with their regular rounds of debates, lectures, and songfests, was being planned for the winter.
Miss Temple had resigned as the schoolteacher and was leaving town. It was thought she was getting married to an Ohio businessman. Hannah’s wife had agreed to fill in until a permanent teacher was secured.
To celebrate the mostly successful return of the posses, the special day of fun that was canceled earlier was now reorganized for the Saturday after next, still having all the events planned before.
Drinking coffee, Holt noticed a Bible laying on top of the cabinet under the gun rack. He wandered over, knowing it had to be Blue’s.
“Looks like my brother forgot his Bible,” Holt said, picking up the scripture. “Not like him to forget the good book.”
“Well, he was mighty worried about you boys,” Hannah said without moving. “Might’ve forgotten it then. Sure isn’t mine.”
Patting the Bible, Holt said he thought it was a good time to take a tour of the county so folks would know there was law in place. Hannah agreed.
The door slammed opened and both young lawmen drew and swung their revolvers toward the entrance. An arrogant and bullish Scotsman stomped into the office. Sleeping in the corner, Tag growled as he stormed inside.
“Be quiet, Tag,” Holt commanded, and the dog was silent.
Kornican Tiorgs, a local horse rancher, was mad as hell and certain that Henry Welton, a clerk in the general store, had stolen his horse. The powerfully built Scotsman had nearly killed another horse riding into town to find the county sheriff and demand an arrest. The madder he got, the thicker his brogue became. There was no doubt the store clerk had a new horse in the town livery. Both Holt and Hannah had seen it. The animal was carrying the accusing rancher’s brand. Welton said he had a bill of sale.
“There’s got to be a mistake, Tiorgs,” Holt said, returning his gun to its shoulder holster. “Welton is a good man.”
“Nae, that tae be bullshit. He is thae hoss thief. He is tae be hanged. I’ll gi’e ye a haund.” He patted the revolver resting in his belt.
Holt didn’t like the Scotsman and neither did his brothers. Tiorgs had run roughshod over a lot of folks over the years. He was used to having his own way, that was for certain.
“You wait here, Tiorgs. I’ll get Welton and we can talk it this out,” Holt said, brushing his fingers along the cardinal feather in his hatband. He placed the hat on his head.
“Dunno ye be takin’ a len o’Kornican Tiorgs. I guin’ wit’ ye.”
“I said stay here.” Holt’s eyes gave an even stronger message and the Scotsman looked away. “And hand that gun over to Marshal Hannah.”
Pushing his eyeglasses into place, Hannah motioned for him to sit down.
Frowning, the big Scotsman complied. Hannah smiled and thanked him. There was no choice but to bring in the clerk for questioning. It had seemed fairly simple. Set the two men down and work this matter out. It had to be a misunderstanding. Holt walked from the marshal’s office and patted his waiting horse. It was Judge Pence’s
suggestion that the two lawmen always have saddled horses available. Next to it was Hannah’s horse, standing three-legged, and the Scotsman’s lathered mount.
The animal had been pushed hard. Too hard. Holt patted Tiorgs’s horse’s neck and wiped the frothy wetness against the saddle blanket. No, he wasn’t going to leave Triogs’s horse in this condition. With a quick yank, he loosened the cinch and pushed the saddle and blanket off the heaving animal and into the street. His own mount jumped sideways. Tiorgs’s horse was bleeding where the Scotsman had savagely spurred him.
Waving at a boy running across the street, Holt untied the reins of Tiorgs’s horse and waited for the youngster to come to him. He recognized him as the ten-year-old Crutchfield lad.
“How’d you like to make a dollar, son?” he asked as the boy skidded to a stop next to him.
“That would be swell, Sheriff. What do I have to do? Can I use a gun?” The boy’s face was layered with freckles and his shapeless hat barely covered a long mop of brown hair.
“I want you to walk this horse to the livery. Don’t let it run . . . or drink any water. None,” Holt said. “Tell Mr. Littleson to brush him good and care for the cuts. Have him check that right front leg, too. I’ll be down later to settle up.” He reached into his pocket, past his small medicine stone, and withdrew a coin.
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
“Good.” Holt watched the boy lead away the weary horse, then resumed his walk to the general store with Tag at his side.
Telling the dog to wait outside, he entered the general store with mixed feelings. At least this wasn’t like fighting Comanche or struggling to survive on the hot prairie without a horse. Still, having to respond to an egotistical bully like Tiorgs made him boil. He stepped inside, enjoying the range of smells. Leather, tobacco, spices, gun oil, even the sweet aromas of gingham and flour reached him. Glancing at the sides of bacon hanging from the rafter, he looked around for Welton.
From the middle of the store, Henry Welton saw him and waved. The portly Welton’s shiny bald head was offset by a full dark beard. His normally tailored appearance was marred by his shirttail sticking out from under his vest and his silk ascot pulled sideways. He was known as a hard worker, loyal to his employer. This wasn’t going to be fun, but it had to be done.
“Good day to you, Sheriff Corrigan. How can we help you?”
Speaking softly, Holt said, “Henry, I’ve got to ask you to come with me to the marshal’s office. Kornican Tiorgs says you stole one of his horses.” He held out his hand to keep Welton from overreacting. “I know you’re no horse thief, but we’ve got to get this straightened out.”
What happened next surprised Holt. Welton drew a handgun carried in his back waistband and pointed it at him.
“N-no, S-Sheriff . . . I-I can’t. I can’t. Y-you c-can’t arrest m-me. Y-you just can’t! I didn’t steal no horse. I didn’t. H-he’s lying,” Henry Welton stammered. “I-I paid him . . . a hundred and forty dollars.” His eyes blinked rapidly. “I should’ve known better than to trust him. He’s an evil man.”
The young lawman’s firm, low voice walked the line between friendship and business. “Henry, hand me the gun. It’s all going to work out. You don’t want to turn this into something bad.” His eyes locked onto the clerk’s eyes. Holt held out his hand toward the agitated store clerk.
The two stood ten feet apart. Nearby, three women and a man stood frozen in fascination and fear. One woman kept putting on and taking off a new bonnet, without her eyes leaving the two men or realizing her repetitive activity.
“Look, Henry, I know you,” Holt said quietly, his frown growing deeper as the clerk grew more irrational. “I know this is a misunderstanding. And I know Tiorgs. But you have to go with me. I’m sure we can get this straightened out in no time.”
“If you t-take another step, I-I’ll shoot you,” Henry Welton stammered, his voice breaking, his shaking fist holding the cocked .44 revolver. “I swear it, H-Holt. I swear it.”
The young lawman was an imposing figure even though he was only of average height. He made no attempt to draw either of his shoulder-holstered guns.
Holt took a deep breath. The man in front of him wasn’t really a friend, only an acquaintance. Henry Welton wasn’t the kind of man he liked to spend much time with. The store clerk was too inclined to want to talk money, or inventory, or business conditions. As far as Holt was concerned, he wasn’t a horse thief, either. Far from it.
Now the situation was looking dangerous. A scared man with a gun was like a cornered panther; one never knew when or if he might strike. Holt was trying to make it easy on Welton, but the man wasn’t listening. Most likely he was frightened of Tiorgs. Many were. The Scotsman’s bullying ways were well-known.
Without warning, the woman playing with the hat rushed to Holt’s side and grabbed his left arm. Uncontrollably, she screamed, “Do something, Sheriff! He’s going to kill us all!”
Surprised by her wild challenge, Welton’s gun exploded in his own emotional response and the bullet hit a table, spilling its riches of cigars, tobacco sacks, and plugs across the wood-planked floor. Holt pushed the woman away and grabbed Welton’s gun, yanking it from him in one swift motion.
The clerk melted into despair. “Oh, I’m sorry. I-I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t hurt . . .”
“But you almost did, Welton. Now straighten up. We’re going over to the jail to talk this over with Tiorgs.” Holt glared at the trembling man. “If you didn’t steal his horse, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”
“Ho ye, Sheriff ! How ar’ ye? What tae be guien’ on in thar?” The big Scotsman bellowed, pawing his way through the gathering crowd around the store’s opened doorway. An exasperated Hannah was twenty feet behind him, hurrying to catch up. Obviously, the Scotsman had not waited as directed.
Holt met him there. The young lawman’s eyes struck the cattleman’s with a coldness that would have made a lesser man weep. As it was, Tiorgs only blinked and took a half step backward in response to the deadly stare.
“What tae be happenin’? Heard a muckle o’ shootin’. Wouldna thae hoss thief be comin’ peaceable-like?” Tiorgs swallowed and added that someone had stolen the horse he rode into town. He seemed more surprised about it than angry.
“Your horse was taken to the livery,” Holt said. “You almost killed it. No animal should be treated that way. It’s getting a rubdown and some care.”
“Who be doin’ sech?”
“I did.”
“Oh. What o’ thae shootin’? I be comin’ to help ye.”
“It’s nothing. Just an accident. And I don’t need your help,” Holt said, growing more irritated by the minute. “Go back to the marshal’s office and stay there, like I told you.” He looked at the curious gathering of townspeople and declared, “The rest of you get on with what you were doing. There’s nothing here to see.”
The broad-shouldered Scotsman was silent only for a moment, then blurted out, “Dinna’ watch yerself, Sheriff, ye think I woulda come pussy-footin’ tae town . . . if’n I didna have thae ’sairy proof. Weel, five years back, I woulda just hung ’im maeself. Tryin’ tae do thae right thing I be.” A long Scottish expression followed.
“If you had, I’d have hanged you for murder,” Holt answered, unsure of what the expression meant and didn’t care.
Tiorgs started to say something and decided it was best to be silent. Hannah caught up and reinforced Holt’s order with his handgun. The Scotsman didn’t like it, but choose to go along without arguing. Tag’s fierce growl only punctuated his decision.
Back at the marshal’s office, Holt ordered both men to stand in opposite corners of the small quarters. He allowed Tiorgs, as the accuser, to go first. After listening to Tiorgs’s rambling tirade, the matter was clear. Typical of his bullying style, Tiorgs thought he could coerce the clerk into paying more money by threatening him with being a horse thief. He had many horses and claimed that he was selling Welton a three-year-old
bay with three white stockings and Welton took a three-year-old sorrel with two white stockings when he wasn’t around.
The Scotsman snarled the clerk thought he could get away with it that way. Welton’s bill of sale made no reference to the kind of horse he had bought; Holt figured this vagueness was deliberate on Tiorgs’s part.
“Hold on, Tiorgs,” Holt declared, pointing a finger at the Scotsman. “I thought you were supposed to be a horseman.”
“’Deed, thae best around, I be.”
“Well, tell me then, how does a good horseman not know the difference between a bay with three stockings and a sorrel with two?”
Tiorgs licked his lower lip. “I dinna’ be sellin’ that hoss for sech wee money.”
Holt turned to Welton. “Henry, did you talk to Tiorgs about a sorrel or a bay?”
“Only a sorrel. It is a fine horse . . . and I paid well for it.”
“Yes, you did. Very well.” Holt turned back to the fuming Scotsman.
He cocked his head. “I’ll try again, Tiorgs. Where did you and Mr. Welton look at the horse you claim was stolen?”
“I donna’ understand ye. Out o’ thoucht.” Tiorgs’ face reddened and his fists clinched and unclenched.
Hannah watched him closely and casually put his hand around the butt of his revolver.
Holt continued, “Were both the bay and the sorrel standing together? Did Mr. Welton check out the horse’s teeth? Which one? How about its legs? Back? Which horse’s neck did he pet?”
“Ay. O’ course he did.”
“I asked which horse?” Holt’s voice was gravelly as he leaned against the marshal’s desk. “Meet my eyes, Tiorgs.”
Welton grimaced. Would the Scotsman tell the truth? Hannah walked over to the stove, purposefully and visibly adjusted his gun in his waistband, and poured himself a new cup of coffee.
“Meet my eyes, Tiorgs. Which horse?”
Tiorgs looked away.
“Thought so.” Holt said. “The next time you pull a stunt like this, Tiorgs, I’m going to arrest you for fraud. Do you understand?” He slammed his fist against the marshal’s desk and papers danced in response. Hannah stood against the wall and hid his chuckle behind his hand.
