Ride Away Read online

  Silka stared at her, unconvinced.

  After three more jumps, the paint horse settled down and began to walk again as if nothing had happened.

  Deed caught his breath and yelled, “Open the gate and let’s see what happens.”

  He directed the paint toward the opened gate. The paint horse saw the opening and burst into a gallop and, in three strides, was running all out across the yard. After circling the open space, horse and rider disappeared in a blur over the first ridge. Silka wanted to get a horse and go looking for them, worried about Deed.

  Bina told him to wait and Blue tried to act more confident than he felt. His younger brother could ride, really ride, but this was different. A horse like that could hurt its rider and itself, but Bina seemed quietly assured. Maybe his brother really was more Comanche than he thought.

  Minutes passed.

  “I go for Deed. He may be hurt,” Silka declared and headed for the barn.

  “Wait, Silka. I see him coming. Over there. See?” Blue pointed with his lone arm toward the south. A silhouette was apparent. Deed and the horse were loping easily toward the ranch yard. The eagle feathers and ribbons fluttered in the wind.

  Bina laughed. “It is Deed . . . and Warrior.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Two black, polished surreys pulled into the Bar 3 ranch yard. As if a king were arriving, Agon Bordner got out of the first carriage, said something to the black driver, and headed for the magnificent ranch house. He was more agile than his huge frame would suggest and his bearing would make any Eastern potentate jealous.

  He looked upon the region as his kingdom, his right. No one else deserved to own and operate this land. No one. All of Texas would be awed by what he would achieve here. He had decided it was time to make the next move in controlling this territory and fully expected it to happen as planned. Being closer was vital to his strategy; he trusted Rhey Selmon, but no one else. Not even his Bar 3 foreman, Dixie Murphy.

  From the other surrey, two cooks and a gray-haired butler emerged, giving orders to each other. Pulling into the ranch yard were two buckboards. One piled with foodstuffs and a second laden with cooking gear, a large bed, a rocking chair, and an oil painting of Bordner, looking like a prince. The fat man would leave the settling into the spacious main house to his staff; he wanted to talk with Selmon and Murphy.

  “Good to see you, boss!”

  The hearty greeting from Dixie Murphy came from the doorway. The cattleman’s lean frame was dwarfed by the huge door. He had fought for the South during the conflict and fled to Mexico with Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry, returning when Bordner contacted him through a mutual friend.

  “Have you eaten?” Dixie asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “I’ll have Terrell fix us some steaks.” Dixie motioned toward an unseen kitchen.

  “That won’t be necessary, Dixie,” Bordner responded. “My people know what I want. We’ve been over the menu several times. They’ll handle the meals from now on.”

  “Uh, sure. How ’bout a whiskey till it’s ready.”

  “That would be fine, if it’s good whiskey. Is Rhey here?”

  “Inside.”

  “Good.”

  The Bar 3 ranch house was big and attractively decorated with oil paintings of Texas scenes and mostly French furniture. Bordner liked the decor, but decided he would expand the kitchen and put in a wine cellar. His bed would be installed in the first bedroom and Dixie would move to another. His favorite rocking chair would be brought into the main room as well. It was the only chair he had found that could hold him. The large oil painting of himself would need to be displayed prominently as well.

  Rhey Selmon was sitting in the main room drinking whiskey when Bordner and Dixie entered. As usual, the gunman wore his bearskin coat and twin crossed gunbelts. He made no attempt to stand.

  “Glad you’re here, Agon. I’m headed for Wilkon this afternoon as ordered.”

  Selmon was the only Bordner gunman who called him by his first name or dared to do so to his face. Bordner smiled, knowing that Selmon, with two men, was to kill the town marshal, then have Macy Shields take over as the Wilkon lawman. Bank president Willard Hixon would handle the town council. One of Bordner’s men, Jephrum Virdin, had become the apparent owner of the Wilkon General Store in the past week, so there was another Bordner man to help with the voting. The previous owner had left town without notice.

  Selmon swallowed the rest of his whiskey, slammed the empty glass on a nearby coffee table in front of him, and stood.

  “I want it done clean. Just the way I told you. Exactly the way.” Bordner accepted a glass and watched Dixie pour brown liquid into it. When the foreman paused, the fat man pushed the glass against the bottle to indicate more whiskey was needed.

  “Waid and Peter are going with me. They’ll get the lawman,” Selmon said, adjusting his fur coat. “Then Macy Shields will arrest them. Citizen’s arrest.” He chuckled.

  “How good are Waid and Peter?” Bordner asked.

  “Good enough. Why?”

  “Change of plans.” Bordner studied the painting on the wall again.

  “Oh?”

  “You and Macy will kill Waid and Peter after they kill the marshal.”

  Selmon shook his head. “That’s not going to sit well with the boys, Agon.”

  “So what? I don’t want any loose ends.” Bordner stared at him until Selmon looked away. “Oh yeah, almost forgot. We don’t need to worry about the county law either. Had a nice chat with Sheriff Matthew R. Lucas. In fact, he’s coming by for supper.”

  Licking his lips, Selmon smiled. How like his boss to take care of every detail. Obviously, Sheriff Lucas was now on the take.

  Bordner tasted his drink, frowned, and told Dixie, “I’m thinking we should hit the Lazy S and the LC during roundup. Get it done all at once. We can blame it on the Comanches again.”

  “No, boss,” Dixie gulped his own whiskey and continued, “Everybody will be spread out, looking for cattle. Tough to get everybody, or even find all of them.” He poured another. “Besides that, I’m not interested in going against Deed Corrigan. You know that.”

  Selmon nodded. “Neither am I, Agon.”

  “Is Hannah gonna get rid of Deed Corrigan like you talked?” Dixie growled.

  “Yes.”

  Bordner took three black cigars from his inside coat pocket and handed one each to his key men and bit off the end of one and spit it on the floor.

  “When?” Selmon asked, his eyes flashing.

  “That’s up to him. He hadn’t left El Paso when we did. Said he had some business to handle first.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Selmon growled.

  Bordner stirred his drink with his finger and ignored the comment. “All right. We’ll do this more slowly. I want the Lazy S before roundup, then we’ll take over the Corrigan ranch after Deed’s dead. Probably after the roundup.” He swallowed most of the whiskey. “No mistakes this time.”

  No mistakes meant no one left alive.

  “So you want the Lazy S before the roundup?” Dixie asked. “Could let them Mex boys do their gatherin’ and brandin’. Save us the trouble.”

  “No. I want control of the two biggest ranches now,” Bordner snapped. “Besides, I intend to rename the whole thing. Got a new brand already registered.” He made a motion that looked like two Ms pushed together forming a crown. He smiled, “This whole thing’ll become the Crown Ranch.”

  “Give us a couple of days. We’ll hit them and the house at the same time,” Dixie growled.

  “Good,” Bordner said, waiting for Dixie to light his smoke, then the foreman’s own.

  “Check with Simpson. I’m getting hungry.”

  Selmon wanted to know how James Hannah was going to kill Deed Corrigan and get away from his brother and that damn Jap. It didn’t matter to him if Hannah didn’t get away. That was okay too.

  Bordner looked annoyed; he wasn’t used to being qu
estioned, even by Selmon. He drank the glass of whiskey in one gulp, then responded, “I don’t know, Rhey. Last I heard Deed was still at that stage station outside of Wilkon. I figure he’ll go there. Get Corrigan while he’s alone.”

  “No, he’s not at the station. Some of the boys saw him and his one-armed brother talking with Old Man Sanchez two days ago,” Rhey Selmon growled.

  “Well, I guess that’s Hannah’s problem.” Bordner looked surprised. “But if Hannah fails, I’ve got another way to get rid of both of them. Legal-like. And then we get rid of Hannah.”

  Selmon laughed out loud.

  Sunday found Blue Corrigan taking his turn in the pulpit of the town’s church. He really didn’t have the time to prepare because of roundup preparations, but considered it his responsibility. The handmade pews were full as usual. Bina and their three children were in the front row to his left. She was always reluctant; many white people weren’t comfortable around her, especially in the church. She told him the Great Spirit was not contained within a building and that he could be worshipped anywhere. He didn’t disagree, but felt it was important for their children.

  Townspeople were still coming in so he decided to wait before starting. The church door swung open and Agon Bordner entered, nearly blocking out the sunlight. Down the middle of the church he strolled, smiling broadly and greeting everyone as he entered. He glanced at Blue, nodded, and took a seat on the front row to his right. Only one other person sat there—an elderly woman who was hard of hearing. In the back row, several hard-looking men were taking seats and urging others to move.

  “Welcome. What a good morning to gather together and worship our Lord,” Blue announced. “Let us begin our service with a prayer and then we’ll sing Hymn 37, ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.’”

  The congregation thumbed through their hymnals, a recent gift from the Corrigans and sent all the way from Cincinnati, Ohio.

  He stepped away from the homemade pulpit and it swayed slightly. “Please bow your heads. O Lord, hear us this morning as we humbly seek your love. Grant us your forgiveness for our sins and touch us with your grace. Help us to love each other more and to help our community grow strong. We ask this in your holy name, amen.”

  He lifted his eyes and began to sing.

  “A mighty fortress is our God,

  a bulwark never failing;

  our helper he amid the flood . . .

  of mortal ills prevailing.

  For still our ancient foe

  doth seek to work us woe;

  his craft and power are great . . .

  and armed with cruel hate,

  on earth is not his equal.”

  The singing was uneven yet joyful. Bordner’s voice boomed above the rest of the congregation and Blue tried to ignore its intensity. Few did, however. The rest of the service went without incident. Blue’s sermon was short and based on Deed’s thoughts—and Bina’s.

  “As we go about our daily tasks, it is important that we see God’s hand everywhere we look. In things we don’t really see, but should and savor for their specialness. Like the richness of ripened corn or the glory of contented cattle . . . the beauty of a snowflake or the song of a gentle rain . . . the sweet song of a robin or the haunting call of an owl . . . the breathtaking wonder of dawn itself and the opportunity to serve God another day.” He looked at Bina. “The magic of your wife’s smile. Or your husband’s.” He turned toward the silent audience. “Or the beauty of a stag deer in tall grass, the wonder of a harnessed team of horses working in unison . . . the comfort of a fire on a cold evening . . . or the sheer magnificence of a running horse or a happy child . . . and the love of our families for each other. All are gifts from God. All are miracles from him. All should be accepted with thankfulness. Amen. Let us together say the Lord’s Prayer. Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name—”

  After the service, Blue stood at the back of the church and talked with townspeople as they exited the church. The last to leave was Agon Bordner. Bina and the children waited in the front as usual.

  He strolled up to Blue and said in a dry voice, “Very good service, Corrigan. You definitely have a gift of the tongue. May I suggest that you take this gift and apply it elsewhere. I will buy your ranch. With cash.”

  “Our ranch isn’t for sale, Bordner. Neither is the Lazy S.”

  “That’s too bad, Corrigan.” Bordner put on his rumpled hat and headed for his carriage. Four mounted men waited. A fifth helped him into the vehicle. It wasn’t easy.

  Adjusting his great weight, Bordner looked back at Blue, slightly out of breath. “I would hate to see anything happen to your fine family.”

  Blue’s granite face broke. “Touch my family, Bordner, and you will die a horrible death.”

  “My, my. Such words from a man of God.” He turned to his driver and ordered him to drive away.

  Blue heard his shrill laughter as they left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dawn was an hour away, but Deed Corrigan was up and fully dressed, stoking the reluctant fire in the stone fireplace into rebirth. Silka was still sleeping in his room, which was part of the added wing of the ranch house. As far as Deed knew, so were Blue and his family. Their regular hands, Chico, Willy, Little Jake, and Harmon were in the bunkhouse. He figured Too Tall would be coming from there soon to start breakfast.

  Coming back to the ranch three days ago held mixed emotions for him as his thoughts were rarely away from Atlee Forsyth. He missed her terribly. But he needed to be here and she didn’t have any feelings for him. He kept telling himself that.

  He had shared his feelings about Atlee with Silka and the old samurai told him that she needed time and that he should work hard to keep from thinking about her too much. So far he hadn’t said anything to Blue; that would bring an uninvited warning from his older brother. Maybe he should talk with Bina; she was level-headed and compassionate. She would give him a woman’s perspective.

  The fire was well banked, as usual, last night. Among the ashes were nuggets of embers waiting to be coaxed to life once more. He added larger chunks of wood as soon as the fire decided to respond. Today he planned on readying more horses for the roundup; he liked working the half-wild mustangs because it kept his mind off Atlee. Some would need reshodding as well. Warrior was developing into a fine horse, but one Deed only trusted himself to ride. Roundup was scheduled to start next week.

  As was his custom, he said a silent prayer as he worked the fire and watched the golden sparks pop up to greet him. It was a prayer of thanks and a wish for a good day; it was a Japanese prayer Silka had taught him long ago.

  Two days ago, he and Blue had met with Felix Sanchez, the patriarch of the Lazy S family, and his oldest son, Taol. It was the Sanchezes’ recommendation that Blue take over as wagon boss. They also reported that Dixie Murphy would be participating in the roundup and was looking forward to it. The news had pleased everyone, except Deed. He didn’t trust Murphy, or his boss, Agon Bordner, and had said so. Blue and the others were willing to give them a chance. He had no doubt that working with Dixie Murphy and the rest of the new Bar 3 riders would be awkward at best, but Blue insisted that they, at least, try to act civilly.

  He cocked his head to try to catch the faint sound over the now crackling wood. It wasn’t a coyote or wind. No, someone was in pain. Great pain. He grabbed his Winchester cradled against the doorframe, strapped on his gunbelt, and shoved a second pistol into his belt. Opening the door carefully, he stepped out on the porch. The uneven gray light made it difficult to distinguish a tree from a rider. Then he saw a lone figure.

  A man, barely in the saddle, was advancing toward the ranch house. A sombrero bounced on the man’s back, held by a stampede string at his neck. The horse was lathered and moving more out of fear than any direction being given. The rider yelped again, an agonizing cry for help, then slumped against the horse’s neck.

  “Silka! Blue! Willy . . . Harmon! Chico! Little Jake! We’ve got trouble!” Deed y
elled and hurried toward the horse and rider.

  The horse stumbled, then came to stop. One rein dragged on the ground. White with sweat, the animal was heaving for breath that wouldn’t come fast enough. Even in the grayness, Deed recognized the rider as Paul Sanchez, the youngest Sanchez son.

  As Deed approached, he could see Paul’s white shirt was soaked in blood. The young Mexican’s eyes fluttered open.

  “S-Señor Deed . . . our ranch it’s . . . been a-ttacked.” He struggled to say more, but couldn’t.

  In their long johns, Willy and Harmon were only a handful of steps behind Deed, both holding six-guns. Chico was fully dressed and so was Little Jake. Silka came dressed and carrying his long samurai sword in one hand and its sheath in the other. Blue came running from the main house, wearing only pants and boots. In his right hand was the Walch 12-shot navy revolver.

  “Get him down,” Deed said, then told Harmon to go for water and rags.

  As they stretched the badly wounded Mexican vaquero on the ground, Bina arrived, also fully dressed and holding a shotgun. Laying the gun beside her, she knelt beside Paul and began pulling part his blood-soaked shirt. Harmon brought a bucket of water with a dipper and towels from the bunkhouse. They were the only cloths he could find. The young Mexican rose on his elbows and drank gratefully from the filled dipper offered by Blue. Too Tall, the short, fat-bellied black cook, came, panting for breath. Quietly, he told Blue that coffee was on. Chico led the worn-out Sanchez horse away, walking it to cool it down before letting the animal have any water.

  After a few sips of water, Paul Sanchez sank back to the ground, muttering. In a halting mixture of English and Spanish, Paul explained that their riders had been shot from ambush. An ongoing gunfight had ensued, but he didn’t know if all the vaqueros were killed. He remembered seeing their foreman, Cliente, alive and fighting. At the same time, another force of gunmen struck the grand ranch house itself.

  “Is it Comanches?” Deed leaned over.