Ride Away Read online

  “No, Señor. It is Americanos from the Bar 3. My father t-told me to ride for . . . y-you. T-That you would . . . help us.” Paul shut his eyes to absorb the pain enveloping his body.

  “Of course, we will,” Deed said with clenched teeth and stood. “Willy, Little Jake, saddle our horses. Get everybody ready to ride.”

  Paul Sanchez reopened his eyes and saw Bina. “T-Thank you, Señora. Y-You are most kind. My family—” He gave a long sigh and was unconscious.

  Riding a black-tailed roan, Willy brought up two saddled horses, one was Deed’s buckskin. He belched and it filled the morning with thunder. Silka laughed. Chico rode up, leading a third mount. He had turned the Sanchez horse over to Too Tall, who didn’t like the idea but accepted the animal with the warning to continue to walk the horse and not to let it drink until it was completely cooled down.

  Little Jake rode beside Chico, ready to join in the fight. Deed swung into the saddle, holding his Winchester. Silka took the reins of a stocky bay and mounted, returning his sword to its sheath and pulling his rifle free from its saddle scabbard.

  “Bina, leave Paul here. There is nothing more we can do for him that rest and the good Lord can’t handle. We’ll move him to the house when we return. You need to get back inside, barricade the door and stay there. We don’t know if they will come for us, too.” He looked around at Blue climbing into the saddle. “No. Blue, stay with your family and make sure you are all safe. We must ride. Now. It might not be too late.”

  Bina nodded and stood, grabbing up the shotgun. Blue glanced at her and told Deed that he was not staying behind, but was coming, too.

  Too Tall was frightened, holding the Sanchez horse. “But, what if they come here?”

  “I don’t think they will, but stay alert,” Blue said. “If they do, we’ll hear their shots and return.”

  “I no worry. You go. Hurry. Sanchez family good people,” Bina declared.

  Willy’s expression was sour. “But, but, Deed, it sounds like there’s thirty guns. You can’t—”

  “Willy, I know what’s there. But we can’t leave the fight to our friends. Maybe we can drive them off before it’s too late. Or maybe we can end this thing,” Deed said and kicked his horse into a gallop. “Stay here if you want.”

  Red streaks were cutting swaths across the dull sky as they rode for the Lazy S. Harmon wondered what they would do, or could do, against a horde of gunmen. But he knew his employers; Deed was brave, but not foolhardy, and so was his brother. He wasn’t sure of the former samurai; Silka might decide a glorious death would be to ride straight into the attackers. He shivered at the thought.

  Harmon glanced at Silka who nodded and said something in Japanese. The cowboy admitted to himself that the Oriental was mysterious and hard to figure.

  Blue looked over at Deed. “This would be a good time to have Holt with us, wouldn’t it?”

  “Any time, big brother. Any time.”

  Harmon was always fascinated by the way Blue rode one-handed, holding the reins and balancing his rifle against the saddle pommel. He made it look easy. Harmon had tried it once and the gun had slid away after only a few strides of his horse.

  To avoid giving in to his doubts and fears, in a strong voice Harmon declared, “And this stern joy which warriors feel . . . in foemen worthy of their steel.’”

  “I like that, Harmon. What’s it from?” Blue asked.

  “Sir Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake, canto 5.”

  Willy raised and lowered his shoulders and Silka declared, “If they still there, we surprise them. Catch in crossfire. Velly good.”

  This time Harmon nodded. It sounded good to him.

  All rode with their rifles readied over their saddles and waited for Deed’s commands. Blue had no problem with Deed taking control. They rode without further words, until sounds of gunfire broke through the early morning.

  “Well, that’s a damn good sign. The Lazy S boys are still alive and fighting,” Deed observed. “Maybe we can catch these bastards in a crossfire.”

  They reined up alongside a gathering of rocks and boulders. It looked like the stones had met long ago and never left. Deed studied the Sanchez ranch yard with his field glasses.

  “Can’t see how many for sure. Looks like they’ve got the ranch surrounded,” Deed advised, lowering the glasses. “They’re spread out around that old stone fence. You know, the one that goes all around the ranch yard.”

  “Well, we’ve still got time then,” Blue responded.

  “Not much. The Sanchezes won’t be able to stop a full-out charge.”

  As they rode closer, he outlined what they were going to do. Blue, Willy, and Chico would head for a ridge west of the ranch house. It was a long hiccup of land, crowded with brush and timber, a good position from which to direct fire at the attackers on that side. Silka would ride with a reluctant Harmon to the north side. Their destination was a group of cottonwoods, twenty yards from the stone fence. Deed and Little Jake would swing to the east side and positions there. After neutralizing the other parts, the south side would then be in a crossfire.

  “Start shooting when you get into position,” Deed advised and patted the rifle lying across his saddle. “Maybe they’ll get smart and give up.”

  “If they don’t?” Harmon asked, shifting the rifle ahead of him.

  “Then we’re in for a long morning,” Deed responded.

  “Ame futte ji katamaru,” Silka said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  Deed smiled. “It’s a Japanese expression. Means rained-on ground hardens. Uh, adversity builds character.”

  “Oh sure.”

  “We gonna shoot ’em in the back?” Willy asked, wide-eyed.

  “No. We’ll give them a chance to surrender. Our first shot will be over their heads,” Deed said. “Our second won’t. Remember these bastards killed our friends at the Bar 3 and they’re trying to do that at the Lazy S.” He wasn’t at all certain that Silka would give any Bar 3 men such a chance, but kept the thought to himself.

  Blue started to say something about killing, but changed his mind and only said, “Keep us safe, Lord.”

  Nodding, Deed touched the small circle at his neck. Silka did the same and they split into three groups and rode toward the ranch.

  A few minutes later, Blue and the others dismounted quietly on the back side of a long ridge west of the Sanchez ranch house. They tied their horses away from where they intended to fire. Spreading out, they crawled into positions behind rocks and earthen mounds. Twenty yards in front of them, silhouettes were shooting at the dark ranch house from behind the stone fence. In places, the rocks had crumbled into heaps. Scattered gunfire occasionally answered from the house. Here and there were dead raiders and a few bodies of vaqueros.

  Gunfire opened on the north side.

  “That’ll be Silka,” Blue said. “Guess it’s time.”

  He laid his rife against a boulder and drew his Walch handgun. Ahead of them, Bar 3 gunmen turned toward the sounds of the increased gunfire, uncertain of its meaning. His first shot clipped the dirt to the right of a gunman with a long scar along his right cheek. He squinted toward the north and yelled, “What the hell? Nobody’s supposed to charge till we get the order from Selmon.”

  Willy belched so loud it made all of the Bar 3 gunmen jump, even the scar-faced leader. Chico and Willy opened fire with their rifles, spitting lead in the direction of the spread-out attackers, completely surprised by the counterattack.

  On the far side of the ranch, Deed turned to Little Jake. “We’re late. There’s no time to hide.”

  He tied the reins together, looped the connected leathers through his left arm, and pulled both pistols from his belt. Glancing at Jake, he kicked his horse into a run toward the eight Bar 3 gunmen strung out along the east barricade. The tough, short cowhand followed, levering his Winchester into action, and holding his reins with his left hand, wrapped around the rifle.

  The east side Bar 3 attackers
were concentrating on the surprise firing across the ranch yard. Galloping toward them, Deed’s two pistols dropped the first Bar 3 gunman as he spun toward him. Deed’s horse slammed into the second man as the young gunfighter fired at the remaining line of attackers.

  One wounded gunman, whose hat flew off revealing a bald head, gulped, “Damn! That’s Deed Corrigan!”

  The taller gunman next to him stared at the two horsemen thundering toward them. “Deed Corrigan? Hell!” He dropped his rifle and raised his hands. Nodding, the bald man lowered his rifle. Deed rode past, shooting at the other Bar 3 gunmen with both hands.

  Less than a minute behind Deed and Jake came Silka, swinging his long sword from horseback. Harmon bit his lower lip and followed, his worst fear realized. The samurai had already dispatched the four Bar 3 gunmen on the north and hopped back on his horse to help Deed. The bald gunman raised his rifle to shoot at Deed’s back. Silka’s sword nearly decapitated the gunman. His rifle fired into the morning sky as he fell dead against the short wall.

  From the west side, Blue’s clear voice rang out. “Bar 3, you’re surrounded. Throw down your guns and put up your hands. Or die behind that stone wall. Your choice. Make it now.” So far, he had only wounded two men and hoped that would be the end of it. Chico and Willy had already moved to a new location where they could fire directly into the remaining Bar 3 raiders on the south.

  All along the south barricade, some of the Bar 3 men dropped their guns and stood.

  Swinging around the crumbling corner of the rock fence, Deed emptied both of his guns into a lanky gunman, standing three feet from the corner on the south side. Beside him, a fat-bellied outlaw hurried a rifle shot at the charging gunfighter. Deed’s sweating horse jumped sideways as the bullet burned its neck.

  As the fat gunman recocked his Henry, Deed threw both empty guns at him, which he was able to duck, and the man brought his rifle up to fire again. An instant behind the tossed guns, Deed’s throwing knife followed. The razor-sharp blade, carried behind his neck, drove into the man’s throat. His rifle exploded, its bullet singing into the air. The gunfighter leaped from his horse toward the staggering man, who was pulling at the embedded blade with both hands. Deed picked up the dropped rifle and slammed the butt into the gunman’s stomach. As the gunman groaned in pain, Deed slammed his open hand into the man’s throat. Then Deed’s left hand came thundering against the man’s neck and he collapsed.

  Behind him, Jake caught a bullet and slumped against his horse.

  Around the ranch yard, all was quiet. The shooting was over.

  Silka thundered up, brandishing his bloody sword.

  “Deed, you ’right?” Silka asked.

  “Yeah, but Jake’s been hit.” He pulled the knife from the dead gunman’s throat, wiped it on the man’s shirt, and returned the blade to its scabbard behind his back.

  They turned to the wounded cowhand, leaving Harmon to handle the remaining gunmen still standing. Jake gritted his teeth and mumbled something while Silka worked at cleaning the wound. Blue and Willy eased across the yard, directing the surrendered Bar 3 attackers. From the house came a brown-and-white dog, trotting among them. From the tree line, Chico appeared, leading six saddled horses. Deed picked up his revolvers and began reloading one.

  “Sí, is Bar 3 hosses. More in de trees. All without shoes,” he declared. In his other hand was a large sack filled with Indian weapons and feathers. He held up the sack. “Here is their leave-behinds to make it look like Comanche. Sí.”

  “Unshod horses and feathers. That figures,” Blue responded, studying the wall for any stragglers. “Makes them appear to be Indians. Willy, go with Chico and bring up the rest of their horses.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  On the west side, a disgruntled Rhey Selmon, in his bearskin coat, stood quietly, his guns laying at his feet. He told the man next to him to surrender, that Agon Bordner would take care of them, and ordered the scar-faced man to do the same.

  From the long adobe house came Felix Sanchez with a pistol in each hand. His shoulder was bloodied; his silver hair was matted with sweat. A sombrero bounced on his back, attached by a rawhide string.

  “Gracias, amigos. Gracias,” Felix shouted. “How is my Paul?”

  Behind him came two small children, his grandchildren. His oldest son, Taol, stepped into the yard from another door, brandishing a rifle and looking for someone to shoot.

  “He’s hurt bad,” Blue said, “but he’s tough. My Bina is with him.”

  “God is with us.”

  “Let’s hang these bastards by those trees,” Deed growled.

  Blue looked at him. “No, we’re taking them to town. They’ll stand trial . . . and then hang.”

  “What about Dixie Murphy? And what’s his name, the fat man?” Deed growled, reloading his second handgun. “They’re behind all this.”

  “I know. But we’re going to need some of his men to testify to that. The sheriff can be the eyewitness, then he’ll arrest them.” Blue’s manner indicated he didn’t intend to argue about the matter.

  “All right, but I want to be there when he does.”

  “Sure.”

  The closest Bar 3 gunman, holding his bleeding arm, looked at Deed. “A-Are you Deed Corrigan?”

  “I am. Want to make something of it?” Deed’s face was dark.

  “Hell no. Dixie told us you were dead. Said that gunslick James Hannah did you in.”

  Snorting, Deed said, “James Hannah’s a friend of mine.”

  “Should’ve known Dixie was full of it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Dixie! We got ambushed!” The scared rider reined up his lathered horse at the Bar 3 ranch yard, jumped down, and ran inside.

  Dixie Murphy was talking about cattle with Agon Bordner at a round table. The fat man was devouring a stack of hotcakes, smothered in butter and hot maple syrup, along with six fried eggs. A plate piled with bacon and slices of ham was to his left. They were awaiting word on the successful attack on the Lazy S. The necessary Lazy S loan papers lay on the table between them.

  Dixie turned toward the shouting. His hand dropped to the holstered handgun at his waist.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on, Wyman?” the crooked cowman yelled.

  “It’s the Corrigans. They hit us. Had us surrounded. We never saw them comin’.” The scared cowboy swallowed and fought to gain control of his emotions.

  “What? That can’t be.” Dixie looked at Bordner, wiping syrup from his chin. “There couldn’t be more than seven or eight of those bastards to begin with.” Dixie stood and slammed his fist on the table. The impact turned over the syrup pitcher. Bordner reached over and resettled it, ignoring the spilled stickiness. It was his first reaction to anything so far.

  Wyman explained what had happened at the Sanchez ranch, then added, “I thought you said James Hannah was going to take care of Deed Corrigan.” He swallowed to find courage. “They were all there, including that Oriental with the big sword.”

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Wyman continued, “Rhey had us spread all around the Sanchez ranch house. Behind that old stone fence of theirs. We picked off all their riders first. Had ’em where we wanted, holed up.” He shook his head again. “Then, all of a sudden . . . the Corrigans were around us, tearing us apart.”

  “How’d you get away?” Dixie growled, crossing his arms.

  “Almost didn’t. They got Pete. Me an’ him were holdin’ all our hosses.”

  “I didn’t tell you when Hannah was going to kill Corrigan, dammit, did I!” Dixie yelled and waved his arms.

  Looking up, Bordner put a fried egg into his mouth and let the yolk drip down his chin as he spoke. “I assume the objective of eliminating the Sanchezes was not achieved.”

  Wyman glanced at the furious Dixie, then at Bordner, then away. “I . . . uh, I don’t know.”

  “Did they get Rhey?”

  “Don’t know. Guess so.”

  “Did you leave the sacks of In
dian weapons behind?” Bordner asked and shoved another egg into his mouth.

  “Ah, they was on two of our hosses we was . . . watchin’.”

  “So, the attack was not only a failure, evidence of it being a staged Comanche attack is now in Deed Corrigan’s hands.” Bordner gulped coffee and waved at the cook to bring more.

  “Ah, guess so.”

  A gunshot blistered the room and the cook dropped the coffeepot. Wyman stared wide-eyed at his reddening shirt around his shirt pocket. A second bullet hit him just below the nose and the cowboy crashed to the ground. A third went into the top of his head. His leg twitched and then was still.

  Stunned, Dixie looked over at Bordner. A smoking revolver was in the big man’s hand. A long-barreled, silver-plated Smith & Wesson, it looked almost like a derringer in his huge fist.

  “Now, Dixie,” Bordner said calmly, “Take this piece of garbage, put it on his horse, and ride for town. Halfway there, shoot the horse and leave both.” He paused to drink the rest of his coffee and looked around, irritated that the cook had disappeared into the kitchen. “It’ll look like he and his horse were wounded leaving the ambush and made it that far.”

  Dixie nodded without speaking, staring at the missing forefinger on his left hand.

  “Ride hard for town. You need to be there before they do. Find Sheriff Lucas and tell him the Bar 3 was attacked and outlaws stole thirty head of horses,” Bordner said, cutting into the remaining pancakes. “Tell him that the horses had been brought up to the big corral for shoeing for the roundup and they were all unshod.”

  Dixie nodded again and managed to ask what if the Corrigans came to town with some of his men.

  “I would expect that. They may even come here first. That’s another reason for you to be gone.”

  “Stay in town after you tell the sheriff. Tell Macy, ah, the new marshal, too,” Bordner said and began buttering the sliced pancakes, then decided they were cold and yelled, “Simpson, bring in some fresh hotcakes. These aren’t worth eating.” He looked up at Murphy. “Tell Macy that I expect our men to . . . escape.”

  Late afternoon lay on their shoulders as Deed Corrigan, Felix Sanchez, and Chico rode into Wilkon with nine tied Bar 3 gunmen on their horses. One was Rhey Selmon. A buckboard, driven by Taol, the oldest Sanchez son, held the bodies of the dead gunmen. One was the body of Wyman, found on the way. Another five wounded attackers also rode their horses, flanked by three Sanchez vaqueros. Blue, Willy, Harmon, and Silka, carrying rifles across their saddles, rode alongside.