Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  “Do you, Tiorgs?”

  The rancher rolled his tongue along his parched lips. “Yah, me guess so.”

  “You guess so?”

  Tiorgs shook his head. “Nah. I be gittin’ it.” He added a Scottish phrase that Holt took for an apology.

  Angrily, Holt told Tiorgs that the price was fair and that was the end of the matter; Welton had bought the horse fair and square.

  After thanking Holt, Welton asked to be excused so he could get back to work.

  “Just a minute, Henry. Give me your bill of sale.”

  “Ah, sure.” Welton reached into his pocket and withdrew the folded paper.

  “Give it to Tiorgs. He wants to add something to it.”

  “Whadda are ye sayin’?” the surprised Scotsman asked as he took the paper.

  “You’re going to write more detail on it,” Holt declared. “Sorrel. Fifteen hands. Three years. Two white stockings.” He thought a moment. “Yeah, that should do it. Tiorgs, how long have you been writing bills of sale that are so vague?”

  “Meself? Naw so. A guid man, I bae.”

  “There’s a pencil on the desk. Get at it.”

  Tiorgs shuddered, then opened the paper, wrote slowly, then handed it back to Holt. “There. Shoulda this bae all right wit’ ye?”

  Holt read it, folded the paper, and handed it to Welton. “You’re welcome to go now. I’ll be over in a few minutes. Need some supplies for the trail.”

  “It’ll be my honor to serve you, Sheriff.”

  Welton left and Holt turned to the Scotsman. “Now, about the horse you rode in,” he said. “You can leave it at Littleson’s for three days. Two dollars a day. Or I’ll buy that horse for twenty dollars.”

  “How weel I be gettin’ maeself back to mae place?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “You can rent a horse,” Holt Corrigan said, folding his arms. “Then let him go when you get home. The horse will return by itself.” He cocked his head.

  “That be leavin’ me with wee fer me fine hoss.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t arrest you for mistreating the animal.”

  Tiorgs reluctantly agreed to Holt’s offer and accepted the money. “I suppose a bill o’ sale ye bae wantin’.”

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t trust you with a glass of water.” Holt picked up Tiorgs’s gun on the desk, emptied the cartridges into his hand, and tossed the empty weapon toward the Scotsman.

  Tiorgs cringed and wrote out a receipt. Satisfied, Holt directed him to the door and told him to get his saddle and bridle. Tag trotted at Holt’s side.

  At the livery, Jesse Littleson greeted Holt warmly and ignored Tiorgs. It was obvious the livery operator didn’t like the Scotsman. Smelling of whiskey, Littleson volunteered a similar situation involving Tiorgs two years ago. It resulted in a farmer paying two hundred dollars for one of the Scotsman’s draft horses after Tiorgs said it was stolen.

  Tiorgs’s face erupted in crimson and he dropped the saddle gear with a thud.

  “He won’t pull that stunt again,” Holt said, leading his packhorse from the stall.

  Littleson grinned and reported on the status of the Scotsman’s horse. Holt told him that he had purchased the animal and wished to leave it with him until the horse was recovered.

  “I be ri’t proud to do so, Sheriff,” the livery operator snorted. “It’ll be some weeks, I think. He was rode mighty hard.”

  “Tiorgs wants to rent a horse to ride back to his place,” Holt said, resting his hand against a stall board. “He’ll let it go.”

  “He be payin’ in advance, I take it.”

  “Of course. Only a fool would trust him.”

  Tiorgs snorted and crossed his arms. Littleson took Tiorgs’s saddle gear and headed for a back stall. “I’m going to let him ride Sadie.”

  Holt remembered Sadie was an older gray horse that was rarely used any more.

  He turned toward Littleson. “Good choice. He won’t be wearing spurs. Take ’em off, Tiorgs.”

  Tag growled. Holt felt the movement behind him, ducked, and spun around. Tiorgs’s windmill swing of his huge right fist missed him. Holt jammed his right fist deep into the man’s belly and followed it with a left into the same place. Groaning, the big man staggered backward. Thirty pounds heavier than Holt, and three inches taller, Tiorgs was a savage brawler used to winning fights by intimidation. Holt had learned his fighting from Silka and the war.

  Tiorgs lunged at the young lawman and knocked off his hat. Instead of moving aside, Holt stepped closer and stopped Tiorgs’s charge with a left uppercut to his chin, followed by a right jab to the Scotsman’s cheek. His cheekbone split and showered blood on both men.

  Yelling in pain, Tiorgs landed a thunderous right to Holt’s chest that he only partially blocked. The blow took away his wind and the young lawman was dazed. Holt slammed against a stall, but catapulted from it to land both fists into Tiorgs’s stomach. Tiorgs shoved him back and threw another windmill right fist that caught Holt on the side of his face, but the full force missed him. Wobbling from Holt’s previous blows, the Scotsman tried to tackle Holt, but the lawman stepped aside and delivered a savage chop to Tiorgs’s neck that would have made Silka proud. The Scotsman fell flat, his hands splayed to keep his face from hitting the dirt. He shook his head and managed to stand.

  Tag snapped at Tiorgs and bit his right leg. Holt moved forward and his right uppercut caught the Scotsman on the chin and he flew backward. The Scotsman’s head bounced on the livery floor and hay spit in every direction. He lay there, unmoving. Holt told the dog to back away and Tag reluctantly let go.

  Littleson looked over from saddling the horse. “Damn, looks like this ain’t his day.”

  “Guess not. Don’t like bullies much.” Holt could taste the blood in his mouth. His hands were raw and bleeding.

  Littleson laughed. “I can see that.”

  The livery operator returned Holt’s hat and said, “Better soak them hands, Sheriff. They’ll swell up somethin’ fierce if’n ya don’t.”

  Without further encouragement, Holt stuck his hands into a bucket of water held by Littleson.

  “Got some Epsom salts somewhar’s.”

  “This’ll be fine. Thanks.”

  After a few minutes, Holt dried his hands on the offered towel, then went to the barely conscious Tiorgs and pulled coins from his pocket to pay for the rental. He handed the money to the livery operator. The Scotsman’s spurs were quickly unbuckled.

  “Mind if I leave his spurs here?” Holt said.

  “Naw. That’s fine. He won’t cause me no problem.”

  They helped the dizzy Scotsman into the saddle and slapped the horse on the rear. Sadie trotted out of the livery with Tiorgs bobbing on its back. Both watched them ride away. Shaking his head to clear it, Tiorgs gathered the reins and finally turned the horse west.

  Holt slapped Littleson on the back. “I’m going to need my horse . . . and our packhorse. Going to ride the county. Introduce myself. Make sure all is quiet.”

  “How long you be gone, Sheriff?” Littleson brought the requested horses as they talked.

  “Probably a week.”

  “Well, you won’t want to miss the big shindig they’re fixin’ to hold. Finally. This Saturday, ya know.”

  “I’ll see. But if I’m not back, you’ll have to do my share of the dancing.” Holt smiled as they walked toward the stabled horses.

  Littleson slapped his thigh and laughed. “Sure ’nuff. ’Ceptin’ no nice lady’s gonna dance with the likes o’ me.”

  Holt shook his head. “Not true, Jess. You just show up with your dancing shoes on . . . and your hair slicked back.”

  Grinning, Littleson growled, “Well, tell ya what. I’d like to enter that hoss race they’re a’plannin’. Yes, suh, I would.”

  “Do it.”

  “Ain’t got no hoss. Leastwise, nuthin’ that would be fast enough.”

  Holt motioned toward a far stall where the second Comanche hors
e was stabled. “Take my other horse. He’ll run like a deer.”

  “Really? Could I?” Littleson rubbed his hands together.

  “’Course. Ride him a few times so you guys get to know to each other.” Holt adjusted the cinch on his waiting horse.

  Littleson bit his lower lip. “I be in your debt.”

  “Just take good care of my new horse.” Holt led his horses to the livery door. “Oh, don’t wear spurs. He doesn’t understand them. You won’t need them anyway.”

  “Sure ’nuff.”

  Holt reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold coin. “Put this on you two, to win.”

  Littleson’s smile cut across his wide face.

  The young sheriff finished his work in the livery by gathering two canteens and his bedroll. He waved good-bye and stepped into the street. The town was busy with wagons and freighters crisscrossing the main street; mounted riders slid between them. He warned Tag to watch where he was going.

  At the general store, Henry Welton was eager to help him select his supplies and settle them on the packhorse. Holt warned him about being careful with a gun and the clerk nodded sheepishly. Three-quarters of a pound of salt pork, a small sack of jerked beef, another of coffee, cans of beans and peaches, and a box of .44s. After a moment, he decided to buy three sacks of sugar, three of flour, and several copies of the latest edition of the town newspaper. As Holt was leaving, Welton hurried from the store with a fistful of cigars as a thank-you. Holt bit off the end of one, lit it, and shoved the others into his inside coat pocket. He thanked Welton. The clerk noticed Holt’s bloody knuckles, but said nothing about them.

  After thanking Welton, he mounted his horse and had started to pull away when he saw Allison Johnson hurrying toward him. She and Holt had been involved romantically before the war, but she had married Andrew Hamm while he was gone. Hamm had died from influenza two years ago. Holt had deliberately avoided seeing her.

  Her face appeared to be frozen in time by too much rouge and powder. She was wearing an attractive dark green dress with a matching hat. The dress accented her ample bosom. Seeing her was a jolt to Holt, instantly releasing old memories. At the same moment, there was a sense of revulsion that rolled through him. He wasn’t sure why.

  “Holt! Holt Corrigan. I thought I’d never get to see you,” she said with her best smile. “I’m living with Mrs. Yardish. I work for her, sewing.”

  “Didn’t know that . . . Mrs. Hamm.” He rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth.

  “Andrew Hamm died over two years ago,” she responded. “I am a widow.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He tugged on his hat brim. “Well, you take care.” He nudged his horse forward.

  “Wait, Holt. Please.”

  Pulling on the reins, Holt took a deep breath.

  “Can’t we start over?” She stared at his face. “If I remember right, you used to like being with me.” She glanced down at her breasts.

  “That was a long time ago, Allison. We were just kids.”

  She forced a laugh. “You didn’t feel like a kid.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Will you be attending the dance Saturday?”

  “Doubt it. I’ve got business in the county.” He puffed on the cigar and wished he was elsewhere.

  Fluttering her eyelashes, she asked, “Well, if you do, will you save a dance . . . for me?”

  He clucked to his horse. “It’s been good to see you, but I’ve got to get going.”

  “Oh, certainly.” She looked down at her dress and brushed away invisible dust. “Oh, my box will have a purple bow.”

  She was referring to the custom of auctioning dinner boxes provided by the unmarried women. Supposedly, the boxes were kept a secret with the top-bidding man getting to have dinner with the woman.

  He nodded and rode toward the marshal’s office, puffing on the cigar and keeping an eye on Tag. Several men waved as he passed and he returned the greeting. Allison Johnson Hamm watched him, hoping he’d look back. He didn’t, and yelled at Tag to stay close as a Dearborn wagon thundered past them, following by a shiny surrey and a buckboard.

  “Holt . . . Holt Corrigan.”

  He knew who it was before turning. Everett Reindal. He was one of the former Rebels Holt had run with until telling them he was headed home, to his brothers’ ranch. Everett looked the same, only more tired and a little thinner.

  “Everett, what brings you to Wilkon?” Holt said as he turned, drawing one of his revolvers. Gripping the gun hurt his hand. “Not planning on robbing our bank, I hope. We just dealt with the last bunch. They weren’t very lucky.”

  “You won’t need that,” Everett said. “I came for . . . advice.” He was standing in the shadows at the entrance of an alley.

  “Advice?” Holt asked without lowering his gun. “Where are the rest of the boys?”

  “Don’t know. We split up shortly after you left,” Everett said, rubbing his unshaved chin. “Guess you made us all do some thinkin’.”

  Holt took several steps toward his old friend. “Good for you. All of you.” He returned the gun to its holster. “Doesn’t sound like you need any advice from me.”

  Shaking his head, the former Confederate explained he was hoping to find a job, preferably a riding job, and had come to Holt to ask for possible ranches looking for men.

  “Not a good time for that,” Holt said and held out his hand as he crossed into the alley. “Roundup’s over. Going to be mostly line cabin stuff. Not extra hands.”

  “Yeah, figured that, but I gotta try.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Holt withdrew some coins and held them out. “Here. You’re going to need some eatin’ money.”

  “I wasn’t lookin’ for a handout.” Everett’s face was a frown.

  “Wasn’t giving one,” Holt said. “I think a friend can help a friend, don’t you?” He paused. “Guess I thought we were friends.”

  Everett looked like he was going to cry. Holt stepped next to him and put his left hand on the former Confederate’s shoulder while his other hand held out the coins.

  “T-thanks.” Everett took the money and shoved the coins into his pocket.

  “Now, after you get something to eat,” Holt said, stepping back and folding his arms, “I want you to ride out to the Bar 3. Big outfit. I’ll give you directions.” He licked his lower lip. “Ask for the foreman. Harmon Payne. Good man, even if he was a Yankee. Tell him that Captain Holt sent you.”

  “Captain Holt? Are you sure?”

  “Couldn’t be more certain. Harmon will understand.”

  Holt told him how to get to the ranch, shook his hand, and walked away.

  “I won’t let you down . . . Captain.” Everett saluted.

  “Didn’t figure you would.” Holt returned the salute and walked on.

  Entering the marshal’s office, Holt went directly to the coffeepot boiling on the cranky stove and poured a cup for Hannah and then one for himself. It was scalding and he sipped it tentatively. Hannah looked for a bowl of sugar kept nearby. Tag wandered over and leaned against Holt’s leg. His request for attention was rewarded with a lengthy scratch on his head.

  Studying his friend, Hannah smiled. “Well. I see you and Tiorgs had more words.”

  “Something like that. He wouldn’t take off his spurs.”

  They both laughed. Hannah asked if Holt wanted him to get hot water to soak his hands and Holt thought they would be all right.

  “If you like balloons,” Hannah said.

  Holt squeezed his fists. “They’re better than they look. Littleson gave me a bucket to soak them in.”

  “I’ll bet that was clean.”

  “It was. Really,” Holt responded and added, “Say, I told him he could ride my other horse in Saturday’s big race.”

  “Why tell me?”

  Holt chuckled. “Didn’t want you to arrest him for stealing, and I bet on him.”

  “So now I suppose you want me to bet on him, too.”

 
; “I did. Gave him twenty dollars.”

  “Damn.” Hannah sipped his coffee. “Just might have to check into that.”

  Holt followed up on his decision to tour the county, explaining he had put together supplies, and saying he should be back in a week. He planned to stop at the Rafter C after going first to the farms not far from town. Hannah told him that he had hired a deputy with the town council’s approval, a young farmer in need of extra cash.

  Five minutes later, Leroy Gillespie knocked on the marshal’s office and entered after Hannah told him to do so. Gillespie addressed them both and turned to Holt.

  “Sheriff Corrigan, I understand there was an altercation in the general store this morning,” Gillespie stated. “Would you mind telling me what happened?”

  Holt’s first reaction was negative, but decided it was an opportunity to put the Scotsman bully in his place. He described the situation as an attempt by Tiorgs to extort more money from an innocent man.

  “What about the shot that was heard?”

  “A gun went off by accident. The only thing it hurt was some tobacco.”

  “Really?” Gillespie wrote on his ever-present pad. “I heard Mr. Welton was threatening you and others.”

  Holt glanced at Hannah. “Actually, he was showing me a new handgun I had expressed interest in buying. He didn’t know it was loaded.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Eyewitnesses don’t always see what really happened.”

  Hannah offered the editor a cup of coffee and Gillespie accepted it with thanks. It was clear they had become friends while Holt and Deed were away.

  “May I ask how you hurt your hands, Sheriff?” Gillespie asking as he blew on the coffee.

  “No.”

  Gillespie wrote another line, sipped his coffee, and asked if Holt and Hannah had heard about the special day of celebration being planned.

  “Sounds like a lot of fun.” Holt looked at Hannah. “That’ll be good for the town.”

  “Yeah. Rebecca will be glad to hear about it.”

  Smiling, Gillespie said, “The region is most fortunate to have you as its sheriff, Mr. Corrigan, and you, James, as the town marshal. I’m doing an editorial on that.”