Kill Town

by Cotton Smith

  The far bench seat held Rebecca Tuttle and a German couple. Neither Hermann Beinrigt, a skinny farmer in worn overalls, nor his wife, Olivia, had talked to anyone so far, only whispered to each other in German. Tade Balkins told Deed earlier the couple hoped to lease land for farming near El Paso, where relatives lived. Their farm in Kansas had been lost to drought and grasshoppers.

  As the coach rattled and banged across the uneven prairie, Rebecca glanced at James Hannah, eager for a new target for her thoughts, and asked, “Are you going on to El Paso?” Her smile was warm, very warm.

  Hannah looked up from his book.

  But the question went unanswered as Torce glanced out the window and yelled, “Oh my God, it’s Indians!”

  Rebecca turned to the window and screamed.

  Eighteen painted Comanches on horseback had appeared over a shallow ridge and were swarming toward the coach, like bees near a disturbed nest. All carried painted war shields. Half were waving rifles or revolvers and the rest, bows and arrows or short lances. Without a word, Deed and Hannah yanked free their revolvers and turned to their respective windows.

  “Giddyap, boys! Earn your pay. Come on!” Tade yelled and snapped his nine-foot bullwhip over the horses’ heads to get their full attention. They were running full-out in five strides and surprised the war party with their sudden swiftness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Quickly, the menacing war party reacted to the now-racing coach. Riding as if they were part of their horses, the warriors had long black hair decorated with feathers, glass beads, silver conchos, and pieces of fur. A streak of color lined the central part of each warrior’s head, from forehead back along the crown. Eagle feathers were attached to their side locks. A beaver-fur-wrapped braid on each side of their heads was highlighted with bright cloth, and a special braided scalp lock, accented with a smaller feather, bounced on top of their heads.

  Several wore antelope skins as breechclouts or war shirts, a sign they were of the Antelope band, the fiercest of Comanches and the terror of the entire region. Deed, Hannah, and the stagecoach guard began firing at them, but without success. The bouncing of the heavy vehicle made accuracy nearly impossible.

  Hurdling across the land, the stage slammed across a shallow creek that fed into the bigger stream near the station, spraying water and launching its passengers against each other, then cut through a crusted band of dried alkali, sending up a snow of white powder.

  Four warriors outraced the rest of the war party and closed in on the hard-running stage. Two went on one side of the coach; two, on the other. The guard fired at the closest warrior and managed to kill his horse, sending its rider stumbling onto the prairie. Hank Johnson scrambled to find the sack of shotgun slugs at his feet. Hannah leveled his Smith & Wesson. 44 Russian revolver, holding it with both hands, and fired at the second warrior, whose face, chest, and leggings were striped in black. Hannah’s bullets cut across the Comanche’s stomach and slammed into his right arm. Yelping in pain, the Indian swung away from the coach.

  On the left side of the coach, the other two warriors were spread out; one was nearing the hard-running team and the other, just out of Deed’s line of sight, was near the back of the coach. The front warrior, with his lower face painted red, drew an arrow from the handful he held next to his bow. Stretching out behind Tade Balkins to shoot, the guard fired too quickly and missed, barely catching the Comanche with a few stray buckshot. Deed leaned out of the coach window and fired, missing twice. His third and fourth shots slammed into the warrior’s back just as he unleashed an arrow. The shaft struck the front edge of the driver’s box. Deed emptied his Remington into the Indian’s flailing body. Tade yelled his thanks as Deed ducked back inside.

  The fourth warrior swooped near the same window. He swung low on his pony to thrust his lance inside, but Deed saw him coming. As the Comanche shoved it through the opened coach window, Deed Corrigan dropped his empty gun, grabbed and yanked hard on the spear. He pulled the surprised warrior, still holding the lance, from his horse and slammed him against the coach. For an instant, the warrior’s face was pinned against the coach window. Deed’s open left hand drove into the Comanche’s exposed Adam’s apple as if his hand were an axe.

  The blow was so swift and fierce that only James Hannah and the farming couple realized what had happened.

  A soft gurgle followed the Indian as his limp body slid down the outside of the coach. Deed Corrigan let go of the lance and retrieved his Remington revolver, pushed his hat brim against its crown, and began reloading. The lance bounced off the top-hatted drummer’s knees and fell harmlessly on the coach floor.

  “Will they go away now?” Rebecca blurted.

  Deed finished reloading and looked up. “Doubt it.”

  The coach banged over a small ridge and slammed through a cluster of stunted cedar trees. Their stout branches scraped along the coach and forced Deed to duck back inside, but the trees gave the stagecoach a moment of reprieve from the war party as they were forced to ride around the trees or slow down to ride through them.

  Leaning out the window, Deed yelled at the driver to hand down a rifle, then fired his revolver twice at the rest of the Indians racing to catch them and missed both times.

  “Ain’t got one, mister,” Tade Balkins yelled back. “Unless you can get yurn in your gear. In the back boot.” He licked his lips and added, “Pull down them leather curtains. It’ll keep some of them arrows out.” He cracked his whip again and yelled at the horses. “Won’t do much about them bullets though.”

  Hannah looked over at Deed and said, “Don’t even think about going up there to get your rifle, Corrigan. You’d be a pincushion in seconds.”

  “If I could get to my Spencer, it’d make them think twice.”

  “Yeah, well, the only word that counts there is if,” Hannah growled and fired again. “We’re doing all right. Could use another shooter though.”

  “I’ve got to go now. Once they get around the coach, we won’t be able to handle them.” Deed said, “An old Japanese warrior friend says to always find a way to attack.”

  “Wonder if he ever fought red devils like these?”

  “Count on it.”

  Both men pulled down the leather curtains at the same time. Quickly, Deed replaced the two spent cartridges in his handgun and unbuckled his heavy gunbelt. Beside him, Persam Torce was whimpering and praying loudly.

  In the middle bench, the top-hatted drummer looked like he couldn’t believe what was happening as he heard the war party’s yells become louder again. He held a handkerchief close to his mouth to avoid any unexpected vomiting. His eyes went from Deed Corrigan to James Hannah to the lance at his feet.

  Rebecca Tuttle sobbed and slid to the floor, as if it would keep her safe. She held her hands over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. An arrow burst through the closed curtains and slammed into where she had been. She glanced at it and shrieked.

  “God could use a little help here, partner. Can you shoot?” Deed said to the praying Persam Torce, holding out his holstered revolver and gunbelt.

  “N-No, sir. I am a m-man of G-God.”

  “You can pray and shoot, you know. Lots of folks do. My big brother does. Real good at it, too.”

  For a moment, Deed considered giving his gun to Torce anyway, but decided against it. He swung back to the coach window, aimed at an Indian’s exposed leg over the back of his running horse, fired, and missed. The coach itself flew in the air, then banged back to the ground, jarring everyone inside. The drummer on the middle bench grunted and grabbed his chest. A crimson circle appeared on his boiled shirt. He looked down and collapsed in front of the praying Persam Torce.

  “Get down there and see if you can help him. Stop the bleeding. Do something. Anything,” Deed said and returned to the coach window, touching the brass circle at his neck and mumbling some ritual-sounding phrase to himself.

  The stage station was in sight, barely, but the young rancher didn’t expect much help there.
It was a relay station, not a fort. He must go now, before the entire war party encircled the coach. He must. He jammed a new cartridge into the Remington and was ready to go.

  James Hannah looked at the terrified Torce and growled, “At least you can pray for him, dumb ass.” He pushed aside the leather curtain and fired at a warrior galloping past, barely visible by swinging to the outside of his horse.

  Persam Torce’s hands trembled as he fumbled for a handkerchief.

  “Guten tag, Herr Corrigan. If du vould, Ich vould . . . borrow der gun,” the thin-faced German farmer said. “I vould . . . do der covering für du.”

  Deed stared at him, nodded, and handed over the gun and gunbelt.

  “This has a hair trigger. Better point it out the window before you cock. There’s six beans in the wheel. Uh, six bullets. Usually I leave the chamber under the hammer empty. Not now though.”

  Taking the handgun as if it were hot, the farmer pushed aside the curtain, pointed the weapon out the coach window, aimed, and fired. Missing.

  “Ja. God bless du, Herr Corrigan,” the farmer’s wife, Olivia Beinrigt, whispered.

  Opening the door, he swung out on it. The hinges creaked with his weight. He shoved his boot into the window where he had been shooting and tried to balance himself as the coach rocked and bounced. A misstep here would be fatal. A blue-faced warrior swung his lathered horse closer to the coach. As the warrior shrieked his war cry and swung his tomahawk, Deed let go of the coach rail with his right hand and grabbed the warrior’s forearm as it came at him. His powerful move stopped the downward motion, but the Comanche grinned at him and reached for the knife carried at his waist.

  Deed thought about gambling and letting go of the Indian’s forearm and reaching for his own knife. The chances of doing that and staying on the coach weren’t likely. As he shifted his boots, he heard the German farmer fire three times and the warrior groaned and fell away.

  “Thanks, you saved my bacon,” Deed yelled and released the limp Indian’s arm.

  “Ja. Bitte sehr.”

  Guessing that meant “you’re welcome,” Deed Corrigan pushed the body away and clambered onto the coach roof. Scurrying across the roof to the back boot, he found his gear and yanked free the Spencer carbine and a box with reloading tubes. Each tube held seven cartridges for quick reloading. The 52-caliber breechloader held one bullet in the chamber and seven in the magazine. After loading the big gun, he yanked two suitcases free of the boot and arranged them on either side of him. The thick luggage would provide some protection from bullets and arrows. Stretching out, he balanced the carbine against the railing, cocked and aimed the big gun. Bullets sang past his head and an arrow thudded into the coach roof inches from his thigh.

  One warrior with his mouth painted with a yellow handprint got close enough to the coach to grab the canvas covering the back boot. A shot from Deed drove the warrior from his horse, but his grip tore open the canvas. Three suitcases and a mailbag flew into the air and banged on the ground. Three warriors jumped from their horses and ripped open the luggage and waved colorful pieces of clothing as each treasure was uncovered. A thick-waisted Comanche, with his face and body painted half white and half blue, yanked a tweed suitcoat over his breastplate and painted arms; another tried putting on a dress; a hand mirror became a prized find for the third. Their stay was short as Deed’s Spencer tore into the warrior staring at himself in the mirror. He staggered and fell. The other two quickly returned to their mounts, wearing their new garments.

  Steadily, the war party gained on the weary coach horses. The coach banged along the well-defined road with Comanches on both sides, but wary due to the shooting of Hannah, Beinrigt, Johnson, and especially Deed. In the driver’s box, the shotgun guard straightened and tumbled over the driver’s box with two arrows protruding from his throat and chest. Tade Balkins tried to grab the dead guard’s shotgun, but couldn’t reach it as the weapon fell against the corner of the driver’s box. He returned his attention to the horses, snapping his nine-foot-long whip over the lathered horses and urging them on as they bounded closer to the line of cottonwoods that edged the open yard of the relay station.

  The fat Persam Torce sat cross-legged on the coach floor, praying beside the dead man in the top hat. He looked at the others as if this couldn’t be happening and began to laugh weirdly and then to sob. Olivia Beinrigt patted the hysterical Rebecca’s shoulder and told her it would all soon pass.

  Deed’s accuracy took down a warrior in a white-woman’s dress. James Hannah yelled that he was hit and dropped his fancy gun. It thudded on the coach floor. Rebecca Tuttle wailed hysterically. The German woman told her to be quiet. The stagecoach thumped over some rocks and everyone was jolted again; Deed thought he was going to be thrown and grabbed the railing.

  “I’m all right. I’m all right. It just burned my damn elbow,” Hannah said gruffly and picked up the weapon and straightened his eyeglasses. His right coat sleeve showed a trace of blood, but he continued to focus on the war party outside.

  “Sehr gut,” Olivia Beinrigt said, watching her husband carefully aim and fire. From his silence, she assumed he hadn’t hit a Comanche. She hid her concern from the distraught younger woman; expressing her fear would do nothing. Above, she heard the loud roar of Deed Corrigan’s Spencer and said a silent prayer for his safety. Her husband looked down at the gun to reload it and an arrow slammed through his shoulder with the bloody point extruding from his back. Hermann Beinrigt looked at his wife and collapsed. The gun thudded onto the coach floor. His wife sobbed, bit her lip, then leaned forward to stroke her wounded husband’s pale face.