by Cotton Smith
“Y-yes. Thanks to you.”
He kissed her cheek.
A few feet away, Blue and Bina exchanged quiet words. Holt wheeled the buckboard alongside his brothers and their women. Beside him on the bench was one of his black-handled Russian Smith & Wesson revolvers. Next to it was his medicine stone. His second handgun was propped out of sight, against his right leg, for easy reach. Tag was in the back, as if standing guard.
Stepping next to the buckboard, Deed studied the readied weapons and the special rock. “You weren’t planning on giving them the buckboard, were you, big brother?”
“Seemed like a good idea.”
Running from the bathhouse came a shirtless Silka. In one hand was his large sword. In the other, its sheath. The wounded Rhey Selmon saw the former samurai advancing, pointed at Silka, and yelled, “Keep that crazy bastard away from me! I’ll tell you anything you want.”
Chuckling, Deed yelled to Silka. “Thanks, old friend, but it’s over. You can return to your . . . business.”
Silka stutter-stepped to a stop, not yet believing or wanting to believe the fighting was over. He looked at Rhey, then the three brothers and Wheeler.
From the general store, the woman again declared that the Corrigans had killed two more women. This time, her husband told her that they were outlaws disguised as women. She wasn’t certain. Another customer reinforced his assessment.
“I know him. Bear-coat man,” the Japanese warrior declared. “Holt bring him in once before. Judge Pence praise.”
“Yeah, I sure did,” Holt said and clucked to the buckboard team to return them to the bank hitching rack and out of the street. Tag was now sitting beside him. Silka saluted and went back to the bathhouse.
All around the town, people were beginning to believe the shooting was over and coming out again. Claude Gausage, undertaker, had surfaced and was going about his business, dealing with the dead outlaws.
A merchant across the street yelled, “Sheriff Corrigan, is it safe again?”
Holt’s voice was clear. “Yes, Wilkon is safe . . . again. Let’s get on with our celebration.”
Somewhere a cheer went up, then another. An older woman strutted out onto the boardwalk from the general store. She smiled brightly and cheered, “You saved our bank . . . again! Let’s celebrate!”
Cheers began popping up throughout the town.
Hannah joined them, pushing Georgian ahead of him. “Keep moving. Remember, it would be easier for me to blow you away then to mess with you in my jail.” Shifting his shotgun to his right hand, he waved at the Corrigan brothers and yelled, “Riders coming. Far end of town. Some of Taol’s men and your Bar 3 hands.” He pointed toward the south. “They’re bringing something that’ll make you smile. They’ve got that half-breed. That’s the last of them.”
“Yep. It’s over.”
Taking Atlee by the hand, Deed walked down the street. Men slapped him on the back as they passed; women smiled and thanked him. Near the bank, he met the oncoming band of men—ten vaqueros led by Taol Sanchez, and another eight riders from the Bar 3 led by Harmon. In front of the armed group was Pickles on a horse with his hands tied behind his back. He was sullen; his face carried marks of being hit.
“Taol and Harmon, you don’t know how great it is to see you.” Deed waved at the approaching riders. “And especially with your gift here.”
Taol Sanchez broke away from the group and rode over to Deed on a magnificent black horse. They shook hands. Deed reminded him that he had met Atlee earlier and Taol took off his sombrero and bowed graciously.
“How’d you come across this guy?”
Taol told him that two Bar 3 cowhands were checking cattle on their far range when they spotted the empty prisoner wagon. The Bar 3 foreman, Harmon Payne, rode over to the Lazy S and the combined riders began backtracking the escaped outlaws. They found the deserted farm, the murdered farmer, and his wife. On the way to town, following the outlaws, they found the Bordner half-breed holding getaway horses.
“Well, it is good you are here,” Deed continued. “The celebration will be twice as sweet.” He glanced at the vaqueros. “You didn’t bring your sisters?”
Taol’s eyes twinkled. “Sí. They is come in the carriage. With mother and father. They knew they would be welcome with you Corrigans here.”
Deed frowned. “If they aren’t, no one is.” He walked over to Harmon Payne, sitting on his horse with a rifle across his saddle. Not far away from Harmon was his Confederate friend, Everett.
“Awfully glad you’re all right,” Harmon said. “I was worried. That’s one mean bunch and they had a big lead.”
“Not mean enough, I guess,” Deed said and introduced Atlee.
“Mighty glad to meet you, ma’am.” Harmon touched his hand to his hat brim. “We were wondering what the boss found so fascinating about stagecoaches. Now we know.” He smiled broadly.
Atlee returned the greeting.
Deed laughed and recited, “‘And this stern joy which warriors feel . . . In foemen worthy of their steel.’”
Harmon smiled. His love of Sir Walter Scott and Tennyson were well known by the Corrigan brothers. “You remembered. Sir Walter Scott’s ‘Canto V.’”
“Of course. After you drop off these two at the jail, I’ll stand drinks for all of you.”
“Sounds good to me, boss,” the well-educated foreman said. “Then we’re heading back. So are the Lazy S men. Don’t feel comfortable leaving our range unprotected. Not if there might be more of these bastards around.” He straightened his back. “Besides, R.J. is cooking them a big steak supper. Like Too Tall’s doing.”
“Take along some bottles of good whiskey when you go. They earned it.” Deed walked over to Everett and introduced him to Atlee. “This is one of my best friends from . . . after the war.”
Everett smiled widely and leaned over his saddle to take her offered hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Finally the day got back on track. Music once again filled the town. Holt wired Ranger headquarters providing an update of the situation. The return wire was immediate and thankful. Benjamin and Chester did well in the gymkhana, taking third place. A young clerk won the footrace, as he had for three years in a row. The Red team beat the Green team 8 to 3. Mrs. Beinrigt’s cake took second in the cake-baking contest and Deed bought it in the auction that followed.
The big horse race drew significant competitors. In addition to Deed riding one of Holt’s bay Indian ponies, Taol entered with his black horse, Kornican Tiorgs brought a fine sorrel, and the stranger Deed had seen earlier brought over a white Arabian. A clerk decided to compete with his own horse, a short-coupled bay mustang. At the last minute, Mayor Patterson Cooke decided to enter a steel-gray horse, to be ridden by his twenty-year-old son. Around the starting line, heavy betting was underway.
Deed left his gun belt with Blue. His saddle was already free of its saddle gun. Holt stood near the starting line, smoking a cigar. He walked over to his younger brother, checking his cinch.
“Ride well, little brother. I hope you come in second.” He laughed and so did Deed. The youngest Corrigan didn’t see his older brother slip the cardinal feather from his hatband between Deed’s saddle and saddle blanket.
After mounting, Deed leaned close to Warrior’s neck and whispered a Comanche phrase Bina had given him earlier, blessing the horse and asking it to run like the wind. Bina herself left the other spectators and came over. Without saying a word, she tied an eagle feather to its headband, whispered something to the powerfully built paint horse, and returned. Deed’s gaze found Atlee’s and their eyes made love.
Beside her was Silka, smiling proudly. He touched the brass circle at his neck and Deed returned the tribute.
Six horses were now officially entered and standing at the starting line. The race would be a mile long, out north of town and back. Four judges on horseback were stationed along the course, so no competitor could turn early or foul other riders. The turnaround point w
as an old elm, white and gnarly against the gray sky. The tree had to be circled. Off to the side, several boys had been secured to hold town dogs away from the running horses. Holt had Tag in his arms.
“Riders to the ready,” the starter yelled and cocked his starter gun. “Get set. Go!” He fired into the air.
The horses broke as one and galloped smoothly away. Tiorgs’s big sorrel took the early lead but Deed held Warrior to an easy ground-eating stride three horses back. Taol’s black horse was right beside him. The cheers and yells of the crowd were lost in the thundering hooves. The course initially followed a narrow creek bed, crossed a wide strip of sand and cactus, and followed an uneven line of oak and pecan trees, then opened into a wide expanse clotted with mesquite and offering some surprising gullies.
With the horses spreading out some, Warrior was the third to reach the sand. Fine sprays of gravel peppered against Deed’s face as they ran through this ragged piece of the race.
“Stay steady, Warrior. Your time will come. Steady now.”
Tiorgs’s horse was tiring and soon the stranger’s white Arabian took the lead. Tiorgs’s horse was slipping fast. Deed and Warrior settled into fourth, behind Taol, Littleson, and the stranger. The clerk pulled up with his horse limping. Oak and pecan branches slapped at all their faces, but with little effect.
The turning point elm was soon reached and left behind. The white horse had opened a two-length lead with Taol in second and Littleson’s borrowed horse from Holt, third. Tiorgs was fourth. Deed and the mayor were in the rear.
Five hundred yards from the finish line, Deed slapped Warrior on the withers with his reins. “Now, Warrior!”
As if waiting for the okay, the big horse began to run as if the other horses were standing still. The eagle feather flattened against his neck. Deed’s hat flew off, held at his neck by its stampede string. They closed in on Tiorgs and the Scotsman reached down and grabbed at Deed’s cinch, popping it loose, as Warrior ran past him. He laughed wickedly.
Deed realized what had happened. His saddle was now loose, simply resting on Warrior’s back with nothing holding it in place. All he could do was to keep balanced and keep Warrior running. Trying to retie the cinch would be next to impossible and likely to cause him to fall off. The best thing he had going for him was that the horse was used to all kinds of saddles.
“Come on, Warrior! I’ll stay on. You win this thing,” Deed whispered, leaning forward. If the saddle slipped, he would try to jump up and stay on the horse.
Deed and Warrior passed Littleson’s Indian pony, then Taol’s, and ran by the stranger’s Arabian with twenty yards to go.
“You are the wind, amigo,” Taol yelled as Warrior thundered past the Mexican’s horse. “Ride, amigo, ride!” The Mexican saw the loosened cinch and bit his lip.
Warrior and Deed crossed the finish line to the cheers of the Corrigans and some others. In second came Taol, followed by the stranger’s Arabian. Littleson was fourth and Tiorgs and the mayor’s mount tied for last. Benjamin was first to reach Deed as he slowed the horse to a trot, then a walk. Finally, he jumped down and the saddle came with him.
“I knew you’d do it, Deed. I knew it!” the boy beamed.
“Thank you, son. He’s quite a horse. I just had to sit on him.”
Carrying the saddle over his shoulder, Deed began walking Warrior to cool him down. He and Benjamin headed toward the buckboard where Deed tossed the saddle into the back and tied up the heavily sweating horse. A bedraggled red feather fell on the ground. Deed glanced at it, then took two big towels from the wagon and began rubbing Warrior’s back. Blue came over and congratulated him, giving him the earlier side bet. Holt joined in, looking surprisingly happy.
“Wow! Got beat by a tornado. That was something,” he said and slapped Deed on the back. “By the way, I did well.” He grinned. “Bet on you to win. Put one down for you, too.” He grinned and looked at the ground. “Actually, I just came over to get this back.” He bent over and picked up the ruffled cardinal feather, stroked it with his fingers, and returned the small plume to his hatband, grinning like a cat who’d just emptied a bowl of cream. “You won’t need it anymore.”
Deed nodded. “I see. Glad it was with me.”
“Probably kept you from falling. What happened with your saddle? I saw the cinch flapping.”
“More likely it was my two legs.” Deed told him what Tiorgs had done.
“That sonuvabitch! I’m going to arrest him.”
Deed smiled. “I’ll take care of it. You just be your wonderful gentle self.” He shook his head. “Who’s at the jail?”
“Well, Hannah’s there . . . and his new deputy. Logan Wheeler replaced the wounded one when Bordner’s boys first came to town,” Holt said, walking with them.
“Glad to hear it. He’ll make a good one,” Deed said, continuing to dry off Warrior. “What’s he going to do with his kids while he’s working?”
“Rebecca’s going to watch them. She loves children.”
One by one, the other riders came by with their congratulations. Taol was first and the most gracious. Littleson was impressed that Holt’s Comanche pony had been beaten by another Comanche horse. Mayor Cooke stomped his boots and brushed his shirt before coming up to Deed. His son had disappeared into the crowd.
“Ja, I am better stick to mein business.” Cooke held out his hand to Deed. “Should haff known myself better than to ride against a Corrigan.” That was followed with a German expression of praise and a submission of the cash prize for winning the race.
“Thanks. It was great fun. You’ve got a fine horse there . . . and your son rides very well.” Deed accepted the money, then handed it back. “Here, put it with your fund for the town.”
“Danke.”
Behind them, boys were walking the weary horses to cool them down. Only the clerk and his horse were absent. Deed guessed he had taken the animal into the livery to care for it.
Tiorgs stomped past him, leading his horse and hoping to avoid Deed’s stare. “Naethin’ guid ta come from this day. I shoulda known.”
Deed stepped in front of him. “You and I need to settle something, Tiorgs.”
The Scotsman tensed. “What are ye speakin’ of?”
“My cinch.”
“Nay, I dinna’ know what ye be speakin’.”
Deed put his hand on the Scotsman’s shoulder. “Usually I wouldn’t give a man who tried to kill me a second chance. But I’m feeling real charitable today, Tiorgs.” He pushed the Scotsman backward. “I don’t want to see you again. Ever. If I do, you will die. No one does that. You’re a piece of crap.”
“I dinna’ wear a gun.”
“Won’t matter. Get out of here before I change my mind about waiting.”
Watching him pass, Holt said, “Be sure you take care of that fine horse, Tiorgs. You didn’t do too well with the last one you ran hard.”
The Scotsman gave him a hard look, uttered a Scottish curse, but kept moving.
“Easy now, Tiorgs. We don’t allow cussing in public, you know,” Holt snapped.
Tiorgs humphed and pulled on his horse to move faster.
Behind them came heavy footsteps. Deed turned to see the stranger. He was smiling.
“That was some ride, friend,” the stranger said. “Didn’t think anyone could catch my Arabian.” He held out his hand. “Meden Taliff. Just came to town two days ago. I’m an attorney.” His handsome face met Deed’s. “Kinda like the way Wilkon is growing.”
“Glad to meet you, Meden. I’m Deed. Deed Corrigan,” the youngest Corrigan brother said. “These are my brothers, Blue . . . and Holt.”
Blue and Holt shook Taliff’s hand. Deed then introduced Benjamin and praised the boy’s performance in the gymkhana.
“Think you were out of town on business when I came in, Sheriff,” Taliff said. “Glad to make your acquaintance. You Corrigan boys have quite a reputation, you know.”
Holt said, “I’m sure Judge Pence will be eager to me
et a fellow of the court. He’s the federal circuit judge. Thought he’d make it for today’s celebration, but I guess he got tied up.”
“Heard the name. Looking forward to meeting him,” Taliff said. “The mayor asked me to become justice of the peace and I accepted. So I’m sure we’ll be working together. Saw you boys in action earlier. You don’t mess around.”
“Didn’t have much choice,” Deed responded and asked Benjamin to walk Warrior again. “Don’t let him drink. Yet.”
The boy beamed at being given this responsibility and led the big animal away proudly. Taliff lit a black cheroot and asked, “Will there be a trial for the men you arrested today? Here?”
“Whenever Pence gets here. His call. We just arrest them,” Holt responded.
Taliff’s eyes narrowed for an instant. “Maybe I’ll see if they need legal counsel. From what I’ve heard, there were no witnesses to this Ranger breakout.”
If either Holt or Deed were surprised, they didn’t show it.
“Every rat bastard deserves a fair trail. Have at it, but it’s pretty hard to deny an attempted bank robbery. . . and attempted murder of two women,” Deed growled. “Not to mention attempting to kill the sheriff. I don’t think you’ll make much of an impression defending them in Wilkon. Your decision.” He saw Atlee working through the crowd. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Taliff . . . Holt. Got a pretty lady coming my way.”
“Of course. Talk to you later, Deed,” Taliff said, turning to Holt. “You might like to know I am of the Southern persuasion. Some of us hoped you wouldn’t accept the amnesty.”
Holt’s face froze in anger. “Interesting. Well, there’s nothing keeping your friends and you from trying to resurrect Dixie.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, that’s what’s sad.” Holt said. “Excuse me, but I’ve got to collect on some bets.” He walked away without another word.
Atlee hurried next to Deed. “Oh, you were magnificent.”
“I had a great horse. Let’s go check on him.”
With Atlee at his side, Deed went to Benjamin and Warrior. The fine paint horse was cooled and ready for water. After watering him, Deed tied his lead rope to the buckboard and gave the horse a nosebag of oats. Then the happy threesome went over to the box supper raffle.
