Ride Away Read online

  Benjamin wanted Deed to sit next to him. So did Elizabeth. He suggested the boy move over one chair so he could sit between them. Olivia came from the kitchen with a plate stacked with steaming hotcakes and a fresh pot of coffee. From the expression on her face, Deed guessed Atlee had told her that he was leaving. It aggravated him; why should he feel guilty about going to his own ranch? The only reason he had stayed this long was to be near Atlee and that was a silly reason, he told himself. The sooner he left, the better for all of them.

  Olivia poured coffee into Deed’s cup and leaned close to whisper in his ear, “She ist most upset. She cares . . . about you. You know this.”

  Deed forked two flapjacks, planted them on his plate, and muttered, “No, I don’t know that.”

  Elizabeth leaned toward him and declared, “I helped make the batter for the hotcakes.”

  “I’ll bet they’re extra good,” Deed said.

  She beamed.

  Quietly, Deed turned and told her he would be leaving for his ranch. Her face broke into sadness and tears festered in the corners of her eyes.

  “Now don’t cry,” Deed whispered. “I’ll be coming back. Benjamin’s going to help with our roundup . . . and you will come with us, to play with my brother’s children. It’ll be lots of fun.”

  He took a sip of coffee and told her about Blue’s children, Matthew and Mary Jo, and a visiting child, Jeremy. He didn’t explain about Jeremy’s reason for being there. Elizabeth’s countenance brightened as he told her about the new adventure.

  “We could go with you now and help,” she said, wide-eyed.

  Deed took another sip and told her there was much work to do before the roundup started.

  “Isn’t there stuff we could do?” she said.

  Deed looked up and saw Atlee standing across the table, watching the exchange.

  “That’s enough, Elizabeth. Mr. Corrigan needs to go,” she said.

  The rest of the meal was mostly quiet with Billy and Hermann discussing a horse they thought should be taken out of rotation for a few days. Even Benjamin and Elizabeth were silent. Deed excused himself, thanked Atlee and Olivia and left.

  He checked the cinch on his saddle, rechecked it, hoping against hope that Atlee might come to say good-bye. Finally, he swung into the saddle and nudged the bay into a smooth lope. He didn’t intend to look back, but he did. Atlee was standing in the station’s doorway with her hand shielding the sunlight from her face. She saw him glance in her direction and waved. He swallowed, waved back, then spurred his horse into a gallop.

  The ride home was the longest and loneliest he could recall. Twice he stopped and almost turned around, but knew he couldn’t. Blue and Silka needed him at the ranch; they had been most understanding to let him stay this long at the station. Atlee Forsythe was a widow, a new widow; he had no business thinking about her as he did.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After a week of drunkenness and mental conflict, Holt Corrigan decided to ride for his brothers’ ranch. If nothing else, he could go by Samuel Holton for the rest of his life. He told his landlord of his plan to look for work on a ranch up north and the quiet man had advised that jobs were scarce, but he had heard that Agon Bordner was hiring. Thanking him, Holt shook the man’s hand and left.

  First, though, he must tell his fellow ex-Confederates of his intentions. He owed them that. Purchasing a second horse from the livery, Holt bought supplies and left El Paso. The ride north was dusty, as a dry autumn settled around the land. He rode carefully, keeping away from ridges and places of possible ambush. It wasn’t likely any soldiers would be out here, but the way to stay alive was to be careful all the time. At night, he kept his fires to a small hatful with no smoke and put them out as soon as his supper was finished. Once, he observed some tiny blue flames in the fire and knew it meant spirits were close. He assumed they were friendly and told them so.

  Studying the barren region, he rode up to the deserted-looking cabin in the belly of a forgotten canyon well north of El Paso. Smoke twisting from the chimney told him his friends were there as planned. The nose of a rifle was evident from the corner of the lone window, then it disappeared.

  “Yo, the cabin! Can I come in? Looking for some hot coffee,” Holt yelled as he neared, keeping both hands in full view of the cabin’s unseen occupants.

  Like him, the men inside were considered outlaws. They had missed the window of amnesty by several years and by their own decisions. Now the United States Army and the Texas Rangers sought their capture.

  A lanky, bearded silhouette stepped into the doorway with the heavy door creaking its objection to opening.

  “Ya alone, Holt?” The silhouette hollered back. A rifle was cradled in his arms.

  “Alone as always, Everett.”

  The silhouette was Everett Reindal, a former lieutenant in the Confederate army under Early’s command. He and Holt hadn’t met until after the war. Everett looked more haggard than the last time Holt had seen him, over a month ago.

  Walking his bay to the cabin’s hitchrail, Holt dismounted and flipped the reins around its pole and then led the packhorse to the rail and tied its lead-rope to the crossbar.

  “Put yer hosses in the corral out back,” Everett said, motioning over his shoulder with his rifle. “That’s whar ours be.”

  “No thanks, Everett. I’ll be riding on in a bit.”

  “Somebody chasin’ ya?”

  “Not that I know of. I’m heading for my brothers’ ranch.”

  Everett frowned. “What ’bout the El Paso Bank? Thought we was gonna hit thar next. Yeh were supposed to be checkin’ it out.”

  Holt took off his hat and slapped it against his pants and coat to remove some of the trail dust and give him time to form an answer. There was no easy way around it, he was quitting their mad crusade, if that’s what it was. When he thought about it, he realized most of them just liked stealing.

  “Naw, not me. Some old Confederate friend of mine runs it,” he answered and held out his hand. “Did you know Dave Copate. He was with me at Sabine Pass.”

  “Yer kiddin’,” Everett Reindal shook Holt’s hand, but his eyes sought more information.

  “No. I talked to him about three weeks ago. In his bank office.”

  Everett looked doubtful. “Weren’t he ’fraid ya’d rob him?”

  “Didn’t act like it. He was glad to see me.” Holt returned his hat to his head and proceeded to tell that he had decided to return to ranching and get on with his life.

  Everett turned toward the other unseen occupants of the cabin. “Y’all hear that? Holt’s givin’ up the fight.”

  “War’s been over a long time,” Holt said.

  “Never thought I’d hear ya say that,” Everett spat. “It ain’t fer us. We’re never givin’ up. Nossir.”

  Rushing to the doorway, a grizzled man in torn Rebel pants and a misshapen hat demanded, “How do we know ya ain’t got Federals trailin’ ya? Go a long way to gettin’ amnesty iffen they got us.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Hoffman. You can start over today,” Holt blurted. “Nobody knows what we look like. Hell, nobody even knows your name. The Federals only know mine.” He folded his arms. “I came to tell you what I was going to do. You can do anything you want.”

  The grizzled man put his hand on the heavy gunbelt holding four revolvers. “Maybe we won’t let ya go.”

  From the cabin, another voice called out, “Ya be a fraud, Holt Corrigan. Ya tolt us ya’d never surrender.”

  A fourth man in a filthy hat with the right side brim pinned to the crown limped to the doorway and waved his arms. “Come on, Holt. This hyar’s only the start. France’ll be comin’ to he’p us real soon.”

  “France, Leap?” Both Everett and Holt asked at the same time.

  “Yessirree. Once France gits in, we’ll have the money we need for guns an’ cannon . . . an’ we kin drive them Yanks all the way to D.C.,” the man called Leap proclaimed.

  Holt looked at Everett and
shook his head. Clearly Leap was insane. Everett knew it, too.

  Holt took several steps off the porch and back to his bay; pulling free the lead-rope of the packhorse, he stopped and said, “My brothers need me more than you boys do. They’re going up against Agon Bordner and his bunch.” He pulled free the reins, stepped into the stirrup, and swung up. “You’re always welcome at our table.”

  “Hate to see ya go, Holt,” Everett Reindal said. “Ya know we might end up ridin’ for Bordner. Hear tell he’s payin’ good money.”

  Leap continued outside, babbling about seeing French ships.

  “If you do, don’t come tellin’ me about fighting for the South. You’ll just be hired guns, doing bad things to good folks.”

  From the cabin came a loud Rebel yell and “Long live the Confederacy!”

  Holt wrapped the lead-rope of his packhorse around his saddle horn and swung his horse away. He waved and kicked his horse into a gallop and the packhorse reluctantly followed. He half expected them to shoot at him. But the only thing he heard was Everett’s yell, “Ride careful, Holt Corrigan. Ride careful.”

  Telling his friends good-bye was the easy part, he knew. A trial, maybe several, would come next. What if he were put in prison? A shiver went through him. He trusted Blue to know what was best. He was through running and pretending to fight a war that didn’t exist except in the minds of a few. Besides, he knew Agon Bordner and his gang would be going after the LC ranch. His brothers would need another gun, after that he would surrender.

  Holt’s mind raced into the past as he rode. Thoughts long kept locked into place came rushing out. He wondered what had happened to the silver medal he had received from Jefferson Davis for the Sabine Pass victory. There had been other battles, too many, but none so dramatic. He remembered the day the news came that Lee had surrendered to Grant. He had gone on a one-man rampage attacking Union camps, firing at anything that moved. It wasn’t long before he and a handful of like-minded Rebels were holding up Union payroll wagons. That had evolved into holding up Union banks. All the time, he had told himself that they were fighting for the South. How foolish it all seemed now.

  Just as foolish was the thought that the Federal army was going to let him get away with such actions. Foolish—

  Nightfall came and he camped in a narrow hollow. Holt rested on a log and pushed sticks into his small fire. Behind him was a tall, crested bank that made up one side of the hollow. Not far away, his horses grazed contentedly. His small coffeepot bubbled with the heat and Holt sliced some bacon into a skillet. He was hungry and put in six slices, before rewrapping the bacon in an oilskin and returning it to his saddlebag. He grabbed a biscuit from another sack.

  The bacon spat and gurgled and he took a slice, spearing it with his knife. It was too hot to eat, so he laid the meat on a flat rock and poured himself a cup of coffee. After eating the bacon and drinking down the coffee, he added a few stick to the coals and retreated once more to his saddlebags resting with his other gear. He pulled out the piece of Confederate flag, returned to the fire, and tossed the jagged cloth into the hungry flames. Standing erect, he saluted as the flag remnant turned black and gradually disappeared. Satisfied with his little ceremony ending his private war, he kicked dirt over the dying fire and doused it with the remains of his coffeepot. First, though, he put the grounds into a handkerchief. Wasting coffee grounds was something he had learned not to do.

  Out of long habit, he cleaned and reloaded his revolvers and rifle, touching them with the feather from his hat. His mind flitted away, further and further. Was he seeing glimpses of another life? Were his brothers with him in another time? He was afraid of heights and believed that’s how he had died in a previous life, falling from some high place or being pushed. There were times during the war when he had the strong feeling that he had been in this battle before, only with different weapons and against a different enemy.

  He shook his head. At times there was great sorrow within him, a sadness that seemed to well up from somewhere else. During the war, he had heard that the actions in one life had a direct effect on the next. A person must be reborn endless times until he found the purpose God had for him. If so, what was his purpose?

  Once, after a successful battle, he had run into a long-haired, wild-looking preacher who told him that the reason Mary didn’t recognize Jesus at the tomb and that the disciples didn’t know him on the road was that he didn’t look the same because Jesus had been reincarnated. The thought had really stuck, although he never told the story to anyone.

  Finally, his thoughts slid to a pretty summer day when he walked with Allison Johnson. They kissed behind the Johnson barn and she promised to wait. He rode out to enlist the next day.

  He stretched out on his bedroll and tried to sleep. Maybe he should ride back and rejoin his comrades. He didn’t remember going to sleep. Morning sun woke him. His resolve came with its growing warmth. His brothers, and Silka, needed his gun and his savvy.

  When he walked to the dead fire, a tiny flame popped through the dirt, then another and another. He decided that was a sign he was headed in the right direction. Deciding he was hungry, he stoked the fire into full strength and grabbed the skillet and coffeepot.

  A jay landed on a nearby branch and began to scold him. He decided the bird wasn’t an omen, just hungry. He tossed pieces of a biscuit in the jay’s direction. Immediately, it flew down and gobbled them up.

  He laughed. “That’s all you get, buddy.” Then he tossed some more crumbs.

  Satisfied, the jay returned to the branch and whistled softly.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He finished his breakfast, saddled up, and rode out, singing about goober peas. The jay followed for a few minutes before flying away.

  “Well, I thought we were going to be friends,” Holt muttered. “You remind me of Allison Johnson.” He began to laugh. Spluttery at first, then a long bellow. It was the first time he had been able to even smile about her decision. This was going to be a good day, he decided.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A lone quail fluttered from the thick brush and sought another place to hide. Seconds later, Deed Corrigan cleared the halfmoon hill rimming the southern lip of the Corrigan ranch yard. He reined up the bay and studied the busy scene below. A soft autumn breeze ran through his shoulder-length hair on its way to a row of cottonwood trees. Overhead, the sun was easing into afternoon.

  Behind the house he could see the top of the old oak tree that shaded the graves of their father, mother, and sister. How long ago that seemed, almost like it was part of another life. He thought of Holt and what he would say about that, shook his head, and studied the activity. Neither of his parents’ faces, nor that of his sister, came to his mind anymore. Only blurred images. Silka had become a father—guiding, teaching, caring. He touched the brass circle at his neck.

  In the farthest corral, a cowboy rode a semibroke mustang, a regular fall task to turn all of their horses into good work mounts. He guessed it was Chico. Standing next to the corral was Little Jake, waiting to take the next horse. All their horses would be needed for the fall roundup. The systematic search of the territory for cattle was hard, time-consuming, and involved the cooperation of all the ranches in the area. Or had in the past.

  Not far from the corrals, another man was singeing the whiskers off a new rope over a small fire. Most likely it was Harmon. Tied to two trees was another new rope, pulled tight to get out the kinks. He smiled; ropes didn’t last long around there, even when they had been waterproofed with beef tallow. Old ropes were cut up into shorter piggin’ strings for tying calves’ legs to quiet them for branding.

  He felt guilty about not being here before. Breaking horses was something he usually was involved in and good at doing. But he shouldn’t have had the guilt. His presence had given Atlee Forsyth the strength to go on, and the protection from Indians. It had been important to stay. Still, it hurt to see others hard at work.

  Sitting on a bench be
side the ranch house was Willy, repairing a saddle. A few feet away were two more saddles. It was a time when all gear must be in top shape; a bridle or cinch snapping at the wrong moment could bring serious injury or worse. At his feet was a long-eared brown dog napping; another was inspecting something just inside the barn door.

  Silka was shoeing a roan; he had learned the skill moving across the country and took pride in his work. An anvil and bellows was kept very busy this time of year. Of course, like most ranches, there was a keg of good ’nuffs, or shoes of various sizes ready to put on a horse without heating them. As expected, Silka didn’t like them.

  The horse wrangler, Harmon Payne, was a well-built cowboy who liked to spout phrases from Sir Walter Scott and Tennyson. The Corrigans knew he had been a teacher in Ohio before coming to Texas. Something had happened there, but no one asked. He was loyal to a fault and tougher than his thin frame would indicate. Willy Court was average-sized, cocky, and always interested in a fight, and he, too, would stand for the ranch. Jacob Jason, or “Little Jake” as most called him, was a short, fiery hand, ready for anything and anyone. Chico was a hardy Mexican; he knew little English, but knew cattle and horses well. Deed wondered if Blue was planning on hiring any other short-term help for the roundup. He figured the three hands would be kept on during the winter months.

  Not far from the southern corral was the chuck wagon they had brought back. It, too, would be needed for the autumnal gathering. All of the area ranches supplied their own. He figured their black cook, Too Tall, was back, too. The short man also did the cooking for the ranch. His real name was Oliver Gistale, but nobody called him that.

  Chickens were pecking the ground on the west side of the house, oblivious to the rest of the world. Somewhere a rooster strutted, letting the world know who was in charge. He didn’t see Blue or Bina, but saw the children playing on the east side. He nudged the bay into an easy lope and hallooed the ranch as he neared. The dog snapped from its nap, barked, and headed toward Deed. Silka looked up and waved. All three children stopped playing, then came running and laughing toward him, too.