Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  Judd took two steps forward onto the porch. “What’s that mean, Corrigan?”

  “That means, Mr. Johnson, that she has a life. A real life. You need to hear it.” Holt was fighting to keep his temper. “Maybe she could use a little help.”

  “Well, you sonvuabitch, I suppose yur gonna git hitched to one o’ them red niggers like yur brother,” Judd snarled, waving his shotgun.

  Twisting in his saddle, Holt raised his rifle and levered it. “Mr. Johnson, I’ll let your insult to me pass . . . for now, but you’re not going to talk that way about my brother’s wife. Apologize. Now.”

  Waving the shotgun, Judd laughed. “Or what?”

  “First, I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap, then we’ll see if you’re interested in being polite,” Holt snapped. “If not, I’ll take out the other one.” He aimed his rifle.

  “I didna mean nuthin’. I’m, I’m sorry.” Judd waved his right hand, holding the shotgun with his left.

  Holt glanced at Mrs. Johnson cowering against the side of the house. “Mrs. Johnson, what’s your youngest boy’s name?’

  “O-Oliver. Why?”

  “Tell him to come up and drop his rifle, because I’ll be putting a bullet in him next. He’s going to get himself hurt for nothing.”

  The woman complied and the gangly young man strode toward the porch and laid his rifle on the wooden planks. Holt didn’t lower his gun, nor relax. Judd Johnson was crazy enough, and drunk enough, to rush him.

  “Now, Oliver, take the shotgun from your pa’s hands and bring it to me.” Holt motioned with the gun. “You’ll be doing him a favor, son.”

  Judd stared at his son, started to pull away as the boy reached for the weapon, then released it. The big man glared at Holt, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “Bring me both guns,” Holt said.

  The young man, looking much like his mother only with an elongated face, walked over to Holt, carrying both weapons in his arms. Oliver’s determination was carrying him now.

  “Lay them on the pack, beside my dog,” Holt glanced toward the packhorse. “Tag, play nice.”

  “Now what, Sheriff?” Oliver laid the guns beside Tag.

  Holt said, “I’m going to ride out of here, but I don’t want to have to dodge gunfire doing it, so I’m going to leave these out by the road. You can get them there.”

  Oliver nodded. “I heard you all talkin’. My ma made up all that about Allison. Ma’s afeared o’ Pa. He gits real mean when he drinks. Beats her . . . bad.” He lowered his eyes. “I’m afraid o’ him, too.”

  “Listen to me and listen good,” Holt said, almost in a whisper. “Your mother’s too good a woman to get beaten up by . . . him. And you know it. Now you must help. You must stand up to him . . . or watch your mother get hurt. You’ve got a buckboard?”

  “Yas, suh.”

  “I’m going to wait for you to hitch up a team. Take her to town to see your sister. Do it now. Have you seen Allison recently?”

  “Uh, no, suh. I hasn’t. Bin too busy doin’ chores.”

  “You’re a good son, but do what I say, all right? You stay in town with them for a few days. ’Til this gets straightened out.”

  “Yas, suh, I will.” Oliver’s back straightened, then he glanced at this glaring father and shivered.

  Shaking off his fear, the young man turned and ran toward the barn. Judd watched him go, seemingly puzzled.

  “Mrs. Johnson, your son is getting a buckboard, going to take you to town to see Allison,” Holt said, staring at Judd.

  Mrs. Johnson glanced at her husband and walked to the front of the porch. There was a brightness in her eyes he hadn’t seen before.

  “I will do that,” she said.

  “Ya ain’t goin’ nowhar I don’ say ya can, woman.” Judd grabbed her arm and pulled the distraught woman toward him. His fist swung at her face, but she managed to deflect the main force of the blow. Still, it landed hard on her cheek, drawing blood from her mouth.

  Holt jumped down from his horse, flipped the reins over the hitch rack, and flew toward them. Dazed, Mrs. Johnson struggled to break free of his tenacious grip, but was losing the effort.

  The young sheriff jammed the nose of his rifle into Judd’s stomach. The blow drove the wind from the larger man and he let go of Mrs. Johnson to grab his stomach and bent over. In a continuing motion, Holt drove his rifle butt up and into Judd’s chin, snapping back the man’s head. The unbalanced farmer collapsed on the porch.

  Both Mrs. Johnson and Holt stood over the unconscious man for a long, silent moment.

  Finally, she looked up at him and smiled. “I think I’ll help Oliver. Get some things.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  She touched his cheek. “Thank you, Holt Corrigan. You would have been a wonderful son-in-law.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  In a few minutes, Oliver and Mrs. Johnson drove away from the farm, waving at Holt. He had told them to find Marshal Hannah and he would help them. He knew this wasn’t the end of the matter, but it was a beginning. Maybe Mrs. Johnson was strong enough. Maybe. At least, she would be with Allison. His gaze took in Judd Johnson, who was stirring. How the man reacted would be anybody’s guess. But at least Mrs. Johnson was free for the moment. The rest would be up to them, and Allison.

  Walking back to his horses, he looked back at Tag lying on the packhorse. “Come on, Tag. I’ve never wanted to be away from a place so much in my whole life.” Mounting, Holt nudged his horse into a trot and looked back to make certain Tag was settled onto the pack. If he pushed it, they could reach the ranch tonight. Late, but home.

  No matter, this didn’t feel right. He couldn’t leave these people right now. He just couldn’t. If he hadn’t come by, nothing would have happened. Nothing new, anyway. Judd Johnson would have continued terrorizing his wife and son. But now, he knew.

  No, he would ride with them back to town get them settled somewhere. If necessary, they could to stay in his small sheriff’s quarters for the night and he would sleep in the jail. Spinning his horses around, he yelled at Tag.

  “Tag, we’ve got to help these folks.” Holt ran his fingers along the cardinal feather in his hat for luck.

  As they rode back past the Johnson’s farmhouse, Judd was standing on the porch, looking inside. Tag growled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Farther south and west of Wilkon, the prisoner wagon and the Ranger escort were stopped for the night. The last red spears cut across the dying horizon and the night was already cold. Their camp was a frequent one for travelers headed for and from Austin. A small, deep pond offered fresh water most of the time. The next water was a day’s ride away at the rate the wagon was going.

  The camp itself lay on an elevated shelf west of the pond and had been used for this purpose many times, judging from the old fires. A campfire was dying into red embers. Around them night sounds were surprisingly absent. The outrider horses and wagon mules were watered and picketed with oat bags. The prisoners had been fed beans, jerky, and coffee, allowed to relieve themselves, and locked into the wagon for the night. Each was given an old army blanket.

  The half-breed, Pickles, asked if the Rangers had any pickles and was told they didn’t. Rhey Selmon, in his traditional bearskin coat, told him to shut up. Pickles fumbled in his pockets and was quiet.

  Ranger Captain Palerns rolled his stiffened back, checked his Winchester, and stepped to the campfire for a last cup of coffee. He would take the first watch. One of the first things he did when they stopped was find a good place to watch the land. An old habit.

  Watching him, Ranger Rice lit a cigar off a small stick from the fire, stomped his boots, and decided the fire needed building up. His rifle was propped against the wagon behind him. He shivered and pulled his long coat closer. Breath-smoke hovered around his face. He was tired and looking forward to a few hours of rest. A señorita was missing him in Austin. He smiled and exhaled cigar smoke to join his chilled breath. Cradling his Wi
nchester in his arms, Captain Palerns stepped toward the younger Ranger. “Wouldn’t be smoking if I were you, Ranger. Makes a good target. So does standing next to a fire.”

  Chuckling, Rice said, “Who the hell would be out here tonight? My ass is half froze.”

  “Your decision. I’ll take the first watch. Williams has the second. Put out the fire.” The captain walked away.

  Ranger Williams was spread out under the wagon. So was the driver, snoring loudly. Glancing at the noise, Rice pushed his hat back on his forehead and reached for the coffeepot. He jiggled it. Enough for another cup. Maybe later. The lanky lawman took another drag on his cigar, grabbed a small log from the gathered wood, and added it to the struggling flames. Quickly, its hot fingers brought warmth to his body. Man, that felt good. So good.

  He was alert. What did he hear? Over where the captain just went? A gurgle? Couldn’t be. He was imaging things. The captain had made him jumpy. No one would be out on a night like this, he reminded himself. Especially not Indians. He hesitated, tossed the cigar, then went for his rifle anyway. Cradling the weapon, he turned and peered into the darkness.

  A silhouette strutted from where Captain Palerns had gone.

  “Oh . . . is that you, Captain? I thought I heard . . .”

  An orange flame erupted from the silhouette. Then two more. Rice stumbled sideways and fell headfirst into the fire. Groaned and was still. Ranger Williams woke up with a start and was driven back by three more bullets. Two additional shots stopped the driver’s snoring.

  Silence again took over the camp. A short man with blond hair and a green sash stepped closer into the uneven light from the fire. Pearl-handled revolvers reflected the flames. His light green eyes studied the death camp under his wide-brimmed black hat. He kicked Rice’s body and shot into it.

  Satisfied, he walked back to where the captain lay, his throat cut. He pulled clear the knife, cleaned it on the dead grass, and returned the blade to its sheath at his hip. It took a few seconds to find a set of keys within the captain’s coat. He walked casually to the back of the wagon. The gunman, known as Lorat, was in total control and enjoyed the moment.

  He burst into song, a Civil War tune that used the melody of the “Yellow Rose of Texas.”

  “’Tis joy to be a Ranger! To fight for dear Southland! ’Tis joy to follow Wharton, with his gallant trusty band! ’Tis joy to see our Harrison plunge, like a meteor bright, into the thickest fray, and deal his deadly might. O! who’d not be a Ranger and follow Wharton’s cry! And battle for his country, and, if needs be, die?”

  He stopped at the back of the prisoner wagon and yelled, “Rhey, are you in there?”

  “Dammit, little brother, where’d you think I’d be? You took long enough,” came a sarcastic response from Rhey Selmon.

  “Get away from the door. I found all the keys, except the door key,” the short man responded. “I’m going to blast off that lock.”

  “Get at it.”

  Minutes later, Rhey Selmon, Sear Georgian, Willard Hixon, Pickles, an eye-patched outlaw known only as Bear, and the additional Bordner outlaw called Billy Joe poured out of the wagon. Hixon and Georgian sought the dead Rangers’ long coats while Rhey and Bear eagerly strapped on the Ranger handguns given to them. One at a time, Lorat removed their hand and leg irons with the keys from the dead Ranger captain.

  He licked his lower lip. “Oh yeah, get all of the Ranger badges. Who knows, we might want them.”

  Rhey looked at the waiting Ranger horses and mules. “What are we doing with their stock?”

  “Cut them loose. We don’t need them. Got horses waiting.”

  Rhey released the animals from their pickets, but decided not to make them run. It didn’t matter what they did.

  Georgian made a point of urinating on the dead Ranger captain’s body after taking his coat and rifle. Hixon drank the rest of the coffee from the pot. As soon as the camp was stripped of guns, ammunition, supplies, and coats, Lorat led his half-brother and the other Bordner outlaws down a long draw. A quarter of a mile away was a string of saddled horses. One of the Ranger horses followed on its own.

  “Couldn’t ya have left the hosses closer?” Sear Georgian grumbled as they walked through the night.

  Lorat looked at Rhey. “Do you want to tell the big idiot about horses whinnying . . . or should I?”

  The big-shouldered Georgian fumed and sputtered, “I know. I know. Je’s makin’ talk. It’s cold out here, ya know.”

  Lorat’s eyes blinked quickly. He snapped, “I’ve been watching those Rangers stand around a warm fire for two hours. Just to get you loose.” Cold breath covered his face. “So tell me about being cold, big boy.”

  Georgian’s teeth clenched, but he said nothing. Rhey’s glare was enough to keep him quiet.

  Paying no further attention to the large outlaw, Lorat explained they would ride about two miles to a small farm in a narrow canyon. He pointed at twin mesas barely visible in the night sky and indicated that the hideout sat between them. He had killed the farmer and his wife earlier in the day.

  “We’ll spend a couple of days there. Got plenty of food. You guys can get rested up,” Lorat said as they walked. “We’ll ride into Wilkon early Saturday morning, kill the sheriff, and take back the money.”

  “Anything’s better than bouncing in that damn wagon,” Hixon exclaimed and adjusted Ranger Williams’s gun belt around his waist. “Don’t like the way the Ranger’s rig fits me. Just doesn’t feel right.” He stubbed his toe against a mesquite root and nearly fell.

  “Be glad you’ve got a gun,” Rhey said. “And watch where you’re going.” He chuckled.

  The lithe half-breed ran up to Lorat. “You have pickle?”

  Nodding, the gunman told him a full jug of pickles awaited. Pickles giggled and skipped ahead. Laughter cut through the darkness.

  A dark row of mesquite trees greeted them, and was accompanied by the sounds of stomping hooves, creaking leather, and curious whinnies.

  “This sorrel is for you, big brother,” Lorat said as they reached the string of mounts. “It matches mine. Mother would like that.”

  “Mother was a whore.”

  “That she was. So what?”

  “Where’ d you get all these horses?” Hixon asked as he adjusted the cinch on a tall bay.

  “Got ’em from some Mexicans. South of here. They didn’t seem to mind. Didn’t say anything anyway.” Lorat’s evil chuckle made even Rhey shiver.

  The band of outlaws headed east with Lorat leading the way. Turning in the saddle, Lorat said, “There’s a trail around this thicket and through the shallow creek ahead. We’ll water the horses there and then we’ll move on to the farm.”

  No one spoke until they reached the creek. Lorat smiled and shared more of his plan. “We’ll slip into town Saturday morning when everyone is gathering for their big celebration.” He chuckled. “To celebrate getting the town’s money back.”

  “Some of us are known in town,” Hixon declared. “All of us, I guess.”

  “Right. That’s why we’ll be wearing disguises. Nobody will pay any attention to us until it’s too late.” His laugh was shrill and evil.

  “What about Ranger headquarters?” Rhey pulled his horse from the creek.

  “It’ll be days before they know what happened. We’ll be long gone by the time any Rangers can get here.”

  The group continued riding in a small bunches of twos and threes, following the creek bed. After a handful of minutes, Hixon blurted, “What about Holt Corrigan and that gunslick friend of his . . . James Hannah?”

  Lorat looked back and grinned. “You aren’t the first to think about them.” He glanced across at Rhey’s sorrel and added, “We’ve got some surprises for them. Real special surprises.”

  Georgian wasn’t convinced. “If it’s such a big day, don’t you think Deed Corrigan and his Jap friend will be there, too?”

  “I certainly hope so.” Lorat began to sing his strange Civil War Ranger song ag
ain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Dawn had not arrived Saturday morning and two separate groups, unknown to each other, were already on the move.

  Deed Corrigan was on the way back from the stage station to the family ranch with Atlee and her children so they could enjoy Wilkon’s celebration. The Beinrigts would manage the station, even though no stages were expected until Monday. Deed and Atlee would meet with Blue, Bina, and their children and all go into town together. All were excited about the day.

  * * *

  Back on the hidden farm, Lorat and the Bordner outlaws were ready to head for Wilkon. Lorat, Rhey, Billy Joe, and Hixon were dressed as women, their heads and most of their faces covered by large, tied-down hats. All wore wigs as well, except for Lorat, whose long blond hair served the same purpose. Lorat actually made a pretty woman and made a point of saying so. Each man disguised as a woman carried a large purse containing two pistols each

  Georgian, Bear, and Billy Joe were dressed as farmers and wore fake beards; handguns were shoved into overall pockets. It was decided that Bear’s eye patch wasn’t that distinctive, particularly if he kept a a full-brimmed hat pulled down. But Pickles himself would be too easily spotted. Lorat decreed that the half-breed would hold all of the getaway horses outside of town. Lorat and Bear were riding together in a carriage as husband and wife; Rhey and Georgian were in a buckboard as another married couple. Hixon and Billy Joe rode in a carriage. Their arrivals into town would be staggered so no one would pay any attention to them. The rest of Lorat’s strategy was quite specific. Bear and Georgian would hit the bank with Billy Joe and Hixon waiting outside. Rhey and Lorat had the assignments of killing Holt Corrigan and James Hannah. All were excited about the day.

  * * *

  Deed and Atlee talked and laughed as they rode through the early morning. Streaks of rose and gold were turning the land into a rich presentation of the coming day. In the back of the buckboard, Benjamin was watching his tied, saddled horse. The mount was Chester, the older horse Deed had given the boy. Benjamin was going to compete in the boy’s gymkhana. Elizabeth held her doll, Jessica, and sang a song only she knew.