by Cotton Smith
Hannah spoke first. “No need, Leroy, it’s our choice.”
Holt nodded. A few minutes later, Holt excused himself, explaining he needed to head out, and left. Hannah and Gillespie continued their conversation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Holt Corrigan rode easily out of town. It felt good to be in the saddle again. The noise and structures of Wilkon disappeared into broken land. Thin strips of gray clouds bumped against a sky headed toward winter. A lone hawk was performing in the distance, trying to encircle a weak sun that was nearing noon. Tag bounded across the prairie, seemingly as happy to be rid of the town as his master was. Here and there, he chased a field mouse or a rabbit, catching none and not caring. The chase was the thing.
Clusters of mesquite, stubby blackjack with its gnarly roots, and post oak followed a slope of dead grass and crumbled rock. This piece of country had little to link it to the fine meadows of the Rafter C ranch to the north. He rode alongside a timid stream that wandered a few yards to the west before disappearing into the ground. The stream would reappear as a small pond near the first farm.
Two antelope stood at attention as he passed, then broke for the nearest thicket of mesquite. He smiled and studied the land. Old habits kept him alert. The only things moving were dead leaves on the blackjack. Although the land looked flat, he knew there were long ravines that could hide an entire cavalry. He hadn’t forgotten the army officer’s warning that a few of Achak’s warriors were still on the prowl.
For the first time, it felt right to be sheriff. He patted the badge, then pulled it off and placed it into his vest pocket. It didn’t make sense to give away his approach with the reflection of the metal. He had never worn anything shiny for that reason. The awful time in the prairie returning the bank’s money flitted through his mind and he shook his head to push it away. The hip wound reminded him that it hadn’t yet completely healed.
A few feet off the trail, a cardinal watched him pass. Holt smiled. A sign of good luck, for certain. He touched the crimson feather in his hatband. A beautiful tan female cardinal joined her mate.
“Good for you,” he chuckled and his thoughts bounced to seeing Allison again after so long. Nothing there, he told himself. Not really. Perhaps a little sadness at her situation, or was it satisfaction? The birds flew away and brought his mind back to reality. He watched Tag disappear over the frown of a small hill and reappear again, trotting toward him as if a victorious warrior. In the dog’s mouth was a mouse.
“Well, that makes it easy on me for your dinner,” Holt laughed.
His first stop would be a small farm. He hadn’t been along this road since before the war. Way before. He wondered if it still belonged to the Halloran family. Good Irish folks. He remembered them from before the war and hoped he and Deed hadn’t been ornery to them or their kids back then. Blue certainly wouldn’t have.
The young lawman’s thoughts slipped away to boyhood days. In his mind, the three brothers were galloping at breakneck speed out of town after buying supplies, yelling and laughing. Everything was a new competition. Another day, they raced across a big pond to determine who was the best swimmer. He was, by a stroke. They took turns breaking a wild sorrel; Deed stayed on the longest, even though he was the youngest. Hunting was always competitive. However, the first time Deed fired a rifle, it knocked him backward. Another time, the youngest Corrigan brought home an injured fawn and raised it before returning the animal to the wild. Flashes of his mother, father, and sister followed, but their faces were only blurs. Somewhere in those days, he found importance in superstition and reincarnation—and Blue found his mother’s Bible. He found girls, spending a sweet afternoon with Allison Johnson. Mostly in the barn. She was as eager for him to unbutton her blouse as he was to touch her.
Their days of boyish adventure were mixed with hard work on the family ranch. But this came to an abrupt end when both parents and their sister died. Everything changed. The chance arrival of Nakashima Silka soon gave them stability and, then, confidence.
War tore into all that.
He jerked in the saddle, trying to push away the black images of that bitter conflict and the awful days after defeat. Shaking his head, he tried to clear it of yesterdays, knowing it was dangerous to daydream along this road, and most other roads within the region.
He passed a lone ash tree with its spindly branches stretching halfway across the well-traveled road. He reined his horse around them, being careful not to let any of the brittle branches touch either horse or rider. To break a branch of an ash tree was to bring much bad luck. The ash tree was known to protect against storms, witchcraft, and snakes. Studying the tree as he passed, Holt whistled for Tag and the dog appeared, his tongue hanging. Holt wondered if the dog had eaten the mouse or dropped it, not interested after the chase.
“Stay close, Tag. We’re coming to our first visit.”
Just ahead was a small log-and-adobe house nestled in a gentle valley. Around the farm was an expanse of plowed black land with a small pond settled around willows and cottonwoods. Holt figured the fields were already planted with corn seed for the coming year. Next to the house was an unpainted barn, a peeled-pole corral, a lean-to and two other buildings, and a stone well. A picket fence, in need of painting, surrounded the mostly bare yard. A welcoming line of smoke curled from the fireplace. He remembered the poles and sod roof with an occasional bunch of dead grass and weeds sticking up. Nothing much had changed.
After putting his badge back on, he hallooed the house as he eased his horses forward. From the doorway, a stooped figure in suspenders appeared, using his hand to shield the sun. An old pipe was clenched in his teeth. Cradled in his other arm was a double-barreled shotgun. Holt recognized Ian Halloran, even with his graying hair.
Holt reined up twenty feet from the house and declared, “I’m Holt Corrigan. I’m the county sheriff. Just riding through to introduce myself and make sure all is well.” He leaned forward in the saddle. “May I get down?”
A bright smile popped onto the older man’s wrinkled face. “Well, swate Jaysus, ’tis Holt Corrigan, hisself. Sheriff Holt Corrigan, indeed. Bless me soul, a fine day it be. Get down, son. Get down.” The old man laid his shotgun against the doorway and stepped toward the young sheriff.
Holt reined his horse forward and swung from the saddle in front of the hitching rack. A walkway of flat stones waited. After flipping the reins around the pole and telling Tag to sit, he walked toward the man and held out his hand.
“Mr. Halloran, it’s good to see you again, sir.”
“Aye, Holt, me lad. ’Tis good to see you.” Halloran took the pipe from his mouth and grasped Holt’s hand with energy. “’Twere happy we were to hear the fine Judge Pence hisself be givin’ yourself a pardon. Most deservin’ it be.”
“Thanks.”
Halloran turned toward the inside of the house, waving the pipe in his hand, and yelled, “Greta, come here. Ye won’t be believin’ who be here hisself.” He turned back to Holt and told him to water his horses at the trough near the well.
A round-faced woman with crow’s-feet dancing around her happy green eyes came to the front door. Her graying hair was pulled back in a bun and she was wearing a soiled apron over her light blue dress.
Her hand went to her mouth and she exclaimed, “Holt Corrigan it be . . . hearin’ my prayers, the good Lord be doin’. So long it’s been since yourself and your fine brothers be visitin’.”
“Good day to you, Mrs. Halloran,” Holt said as he untied his horses.
She hurried and gave him a warm hug; her heavy breasts pushed against his stomach. Grasping his arm, she invited him inside for their noon meal. Holt was pleased. He wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he might receive. Most folks around the region knew of his outlaw past. He told her that he would be pleased to join them as soon as he watered his horses. Holt rang up a bucket of cold water and splashed it into the trough. Tag was eager to drink as well.
Their home was small, but neat. A
table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth was the center of attention, along with a blackened stone hearth offering a crackling fire that warmed everything. Holt was glad to see the fire was evenly orange, without any holes of blue. Smells of a venison stew reached him. On one wall were framed photographs of their family. Four sons. Two of the photographs were draped in black; Holt guessed the two sons died in the war. Holt didn’t remember much of the house, but decided he probably hadn’t ever been inside. The Corrigan boys, at least he and Deed, weren’t likely to be asked inside such nice homes.
Mrs. Halloran brought Holt and her husband steaming cups of coffee. It was freshly brewed, hot, and delicious. He said so. The Hallorans were eager to learn of news around town. They had heard about the bank robbery and the successful return of the posse, but wanted details. He mentioned having copies of the latest edition of the town newspaper in his gear and would leave one with them. He told about the upcoming celebration of activities and said he thought Mrs. Halloran would want to enter the cake contest. Her shy smile was her only response, but her eyes glowed with happy anticipation.
A tall young man of eighteen with light brown hair nearly covering his ears entered the room. The Hallorans’ youngest son, Doolin, had been in the barn. Holt introduced himself and the boy smiled, saying everyone knew who he was. Ian laid his pipe beside his plate, part of his mealtime routine.
After Greta added another chair and tableware, they sat down at the table and Mrs. Halloran asked Holt to say grace. He was thankful for listening to Blue’s prayers over a meal, and nodded and recited, “‘God is great. God is good. Him we thank for our daily food. By his hand, we all are fed. By his love, we all are led. Amen.’” He couldn’t resist a grin in remembering never having said grace before. It was always Blue’s duty and, during the war, it wasn’t done. At least not where he ate.
“Thank you, Holt,” Greta said and passed him the bowl of stew, followed by a large plate of fresh biscuits. “Not be happy with these biscuits meself. Sure an’ it be this day that they disappoint me.”
“I’m sure they’re great, ma’am,” Holt said, helping himself to the stew. “You are most kind to invite me to your table. I am honored.” He took a biscuit and was handed a bowl of butter and another of jam.
“It be the Hallorans who be honored with the presence of the fine sheriff of this county,” Greta said and smiled.
Ian patted Holt on the back. “A rider be comin’ through last week. Said ye and yer brothers be bringin’ back the bank’s money.” He crossed his arms. “Said ye had killed that Comanche from hell. And some o’ his men, I be told.”
“Yes, Achak. We lost two fine men, though. Malcolm Rose and Ira McDugal. Brave men.”
“Heard that, too. Real shame.”
“A cavalry unit is hunting down the rest of them. You’d best stay alert.”
“By the grace o’ God, we do. Thank ye.”
Like most Western people, they ate in silence, and then Ian Halloran proudly pronounced that they had just purchased a new two-bottom sulky plow pulled by three horses while a man rode. Much faster than the older single plow pulled by two oxen or mules. Doolin added that he did the riding. Holt made appropriate comments, realizing how little he knew about farming.
“Doolin, me boy, yourself be eating with one of the heroes themselves who stopped all those Yankees at Sabine Pass. Aye, just forty-three Confederates with rifles and six small cannon stopped a whole fleet of fifteen thousand federals who be tryin’ to land. Aye, that they did.”
Holt shrugged.
“Our boys be sinking a gunboat, capturing more, and turning away the rest of that whole fleet sure as you please. Be taking four hundred prisoners. Best of it be, they dinna’ lose a man.” Ian shook his head. “Heard that meself direct from one who were there.”
“We were lucky that day,” Holt managed to say.
“Aye, an’ our two oldest, Killian and Aiden, not be so. We lost them to that awful war.” Ian turned his head. His next word was barely a whisper. “Gettysburg.” His right hand reached for his dead pipe, then pulled back.
Greta wiped her eyes with her apron and managed to change the subject a little. “Our third son, Patrick, did come home. A captain, hisself be.” She swallowed and continued, “Now he be livin’ in Dallas with his sweet wife and two children. Theirselves be joinin’ us for Thanksgiving.” She motioned toward Doolin. “Our youngest is, of course, with us. A mighty big help, he be.”
“Thanksgiving’ll be a grand time, I’m sure,” Holt said and sipped his coffee, deciding not to comment on their loss of two sons. Greta gathered the empty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.
Doolin selected another biscuit, plastered it with butter and jam, and took a large bite. With his mouth full, as if to give him confidence, he asked about Holt’s days as an outlaw after the war.
Ian’s response was immediate and harsh. “Doolin, what be ye thinkin’? That be no way to be talkin’.”
Holt set down his cup and said, “That’s all right, Mr. Halloran. He . . . and you deserve to know.” He licked his lower lip. “Back then, I couldn’t bring myself to admit the South had lost. I just couldn’t. There were others like me. We started hitting Union payrolls and the like. Guess we thought it would bring back the South.” He looked at Ian Halloran. “It didn’t. Just made me a wanted man. Nobody’s fault but mine.”
Leaning forward on his elbows, Doolin said, “Sounded like you were . . . everywhere.”
Holt nodded. “Yeah, we started getting blamed for every bank robbery and stage holdup around. I’d love to have the horse I was supposed to be riding everywhere. He’d be magical. Anyway, you can’t believe everything you hear or read. I was lucky that Judge Pence decided I deserved a second chance.”
He looked up as Greta, returning from the kitchen, placed a plate of oatmeal cookies in front of him, touched his shoulder, and quietly said, “Help yourself, Holt.”
“What about the other Rebels . . . the ones who rode with you?” Doolin asked and shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and grabbed two cookies in one continuous motion.
“That’s a good question, Doolin,” Holt said, munching on a cookie. “These are wonderful, Mrs. Halloran. Best I’ve ever had.”
She blushed and curtseyed, returned to the kitchen, and came back with the coffeepot. Holt returned his attention to the youngest Halloran as she refilled all their cups and sat down again.
“Since I was the only Rebel identified, they were free to return to their homes and begin again. I told them to do so.”
“Did they?”
“Don’t know.” Holt decided not to mention seeing Everett Reindal.
Wiping cookie crumbs from his mouth, Doolin asked if the amnesty was forever. Holt responded simply that it dealt only with past deeds. Like all citizens, he was expected to obey the law.
“Aye, an’ a fine job ye be doin’.” Ian picked up his pipe, checked the load of tobacco, and lit it with a match from his shirt pocket. An intense glare at his son followed. But Doolin mistook it for approval to keep asking questions.
Warming to his interest, Doolin asked about the story of Deed taking on three bank robbers. The first robber had shoved a gun into Deed’s belly and so Deed took him down with only his hands, then grabbed the outlaw’s gun, killed the second outlaw, and wounded the third. Doolin had heard the story on a visit to town for supplies.
“That’s quite true.”
“I also heard your brother Deed whipped Sear Georgian with his bare hands. An’ Deed being weak from being wounded an’ all. Your brother was protecting one of the Sanchez men. That true?”
“That’s true. Deed can fight well with his hands, his feet, anything, I suppose.” Holt pushed back his chair to end the discussion. “Folks, I appreciate very much your hospitality, but I must be riding. Got a few other places to visit before nightfall.”
“Of course,” Ian said, visibly relieved to have his son’s questioning stopped.
Outside of
the home, Holt got into his pack, pulled out the newspaper and a sack of sugar, another of flour, and one of coffee.
“I figured this time of year, you might be needing some extra.” He smiled and handed the sacks and paper to the pleased couple. Smiling, Mrs. Halloran turned to her husband and whispered to him.
“We thank ye kindly, Holt Corrigan. Ye be comin’ back soon.”
They stood waving as he rode away and headed for the second farm in the county. He couldn’t remember who lived there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After riding a few minutes, Holt remembered the cigars in his coat pocket and pulled one free. He wished that he had remembered them while at the Hallorans; he could have given a smoke to the men. For an instant, he considered going back, but decided against the idea.
He bit off the end and lit the black cigar, watching Tag as they rode. The dog was enjoying a piece of jerky Holt had given him. The road wasn’t as well traveled as earlier and followed the slope of an uneven hillside. He dipped into a long, narrow draw, crossed a sometime stream, and headed across broken land mixed with rock, mesquite thickets, prickly pear, willows, and a line of cottonwoods. They rode silently, dipping into a shallow draw and following it. He crossed a dried creek bed and stopped on the frown of a hillside.
Ahead, he saw the next farm with its cultivated land and freshly painted barn and outbuildings. From here, he could see chickens exploring the main yard and a dog trying to act like he was in charge. Holt was certain that he didn’t know who lived here. Rubbing out his cigar on his saddle horn, he looked down to see that his badge was still attached to his vest. As he neared the house, he yelled his advance.
A tall man wearing an ill-shaped hat and holding a Henry came from the barn. He studied Holt for a long minute and said nothing. His nose was pointed and his cheeks were sunken, with a firm chin. His overalls showed signs of long wear and his shirt had once been red.
“Afternoon, sir. I’m Holt Corrigan, county sheriff. Just left the Hallorans,” Holt declared, keeping his hands on the saddle horn. “I’m just riding through the county to introduce myself and see if all is right. May I come closer?”
