Ride Away Read online

  “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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Unaware of the incoming stage’s peril, Wilkon Station Manager Caleb Forsyth led a fresh team of horses out of the corral in preparation for the expected coach to the relay post. Morning sounds were strangely missing and he thought it was too quiet, but shoved the concern out of his mind. Not even the leaves of the cottonwoods, guarding the northwest edge of the stage station area, were fluttering.

  A lone dirt devil spun its way across the open ground and disappeared over the hill as if hurrying to the nearby town of Wilkon. The well pump groaned about the day and the two lead horses were nervous, their ears on full alert. Off to the side of the yard was the separate adobe home where his family lived and a small cooling house for meat, milk, and butter. A barn, corral, blacksmith shed, the relay station building itself, and its accompanying outhouses, were the only other structures.

  The coach wasn’t in sight, but would be soon; Tade Balkins was never late.

  “Easy, boys. It’s all just fine an’ dandy. Tade’ll treat you right,” he said and patted the closest bay’s neck.

  As always, Caleb’s twelve-year-old son, Benjamin, was at his father’s side. He was a good helper with a knack for handling horses. The boy patted the nose of the other lead horse and called him by a name no one else used. Beside the boy was a black-and
-white dog named Cooper. The happy animal was rarely away from Benjamin and today was no exception.

  Behind them, the one-eyed Mexican, Billy Lee Montez, was closing the corral gate next to the weathered barn with one hand and swatting at a horsefly who wanted to make his acquaintance with his other. He had been with the Forsyths since they took over the station two years ago. Billy Lee was good with horses and a better-than-average blacksmith. The Forsyths had developed the swing relay station into one of the best-run operations on the route, a station with a reputation for excellent food, fast service, and cleanliness. All of those attributes were due to Caleb’s wife, Atlee.

  All three heard the gunfire before the coach was in sight. It was Billy Lee who first realized what the sounds meant.

  “Oh Lord me God! It ees Comanche!” the Mexican yelled.

  “Go to the station, Benjamin! Stay there. Take Cooper with you,” Caleb commanded, pushing his son toward the main building where his wife was preparing a meal for the passengers. The frightened boy hesitated, then ran to the building with Cooper at his heels.

  His face taut with the knowledge of what was coming, Caleb turned the team toward the corral. “Billy Lee, let’s get these horses back in the corral.”

  “Sí. Pronto.” The Mexican had already reopened the gate “Gonna get mi shotgun. It is in de barn,” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Caleb Forsyth hurried the anxious horses into the corral and closed the gate. He stepped away, saw his son and dog disappear into the relay station, and returned his focus to the as yet empty horizon. Turning, he ran to the house and grabbed the offered Henry from his son, ignored his wife’s plea to come inside, knelt on the planked porch, and waited. It was his duty to protect the stage.

  Without further discussion, Atlee Forsyth grabbed the seven-shot Spencer carbine from the rack of rifles on the wall and went to a gun port in the wall. A heavy weapon, she had mastered its kick. Frowning, Benjamin aimed a Burnside carbine from another gun port. His father had taught him how to shoot with the weapon. The rack still held an English Whitworth musket, another Burnside carbine, and a double-barreled shotgun. Several pistols lay at the base of the rack.

  A few minutes later, the coach roared into view with warriors snapping at it like mad dogs. Inside the coach, only Hannah was shooting now. Deed’s firing had kept them farther away than they wanted. From a safe distance, the war leader studied Deed Corrigan. To quit now would mean his disgrace; no warrior would follow him again into battle. Across the leader’s shoulders was draped an antelope skin decorated with silver conchos and bits of colored cloth. In the leader’s scalp lock was a black feather with a red circle near the top.

  His striking appearance was reinforced by the glistening sorrel horse he rode, painted for war and wearing feathers streaming in the powerful mount’s mane and tail. Seeing Deed reload, he commanded two warriors to kill the lead coach horses. He raised his shield to the sky, then leaned over and touched the ground with his shield, both movements made to reinforce his war medicine. A hundred yards from the relay station’s barn, two warriors raced forward to comply with his command; one on each side of the coach.

  Deed whirled from his position on top and missed twice. Inside the coach, Hannah cursed and also missed. The Comanches fired their rifles at close range and the two lead Morgan horses grunted and tumbled forward, sending the coach in a furious, sideways skid. Deed brought down one of the Comanches. But it was too late; the damage was done. The other warrior spun away, yelling his war medicine. The coach was uncontrollable as Tade fought to stop the other horses and keep the wobbling vehicle upright. Inside, Hannah cursed and was unable to fire. Both women cried. Deed grabbed for the railing and hung on.

  “Whoa, boys! Whoa! Stay up. Stay up, damn you, stay up!”

  As the one-ton Concord stage lurched and skidded to a stop, Tade Balkins dropped the reins and jumped down from the driver’s box. Whinnying, the remaining horses stumbled against each other. The two carriage-suspension thoroughbraces, three-inch-thick strips of leather, groaned but held. The middle horses went down in a snarl of harness and flailing legs. The two rear horses stutter-stepped fearfully, but remained upright, coming to a complete halt. Tade staggered toward the barn and was helped inside by Billy Lee Montez.

  “I’m getting out. God will protect me,” Persam Torce yelled, then pushed open the door and tumbled out of the coach before Hannah could stop him. A few feet from the coach, Torce knelt and began to pray, holding a cross in his hands.

  A warrior, wearing a sleeveless military jacket reined up next to him and raised his tomahawk. Hannah fired twice and the savage shuddered, slid off his horse backward, and thudded on the prairie, face-down. Torce stood and began walking to the station as if it were a nice day in the park, but two other warriors rode past the coach yipping, and the first clubbed him to the ground and leaped off his snorting horse to scalp him. A third warrior was close behind. Caleb Forsyth’s shots from the station’s porch snapped into the warrior as he grabbed the dead man’s hair. The Comanche jerked, tried to step away and collapsed, dropping his knife.

  “Get inside, Caleb! You can’t help him,” Atlee declared from the window and returned to the gun port a few feet away.

  Caleb Forsyth swung around to go inside as two bullets tore into his body. He stumbled and reached for the door. An arrow drove through his back and the bloody steel point came out his stomach. He took a step and fell. Opening the door, Atlee threw his gun inside, then grabbed her prone husband and, with Benjamin helping, dragged him inside, leaving a trail of blood. Cooper barked and ran around the mortally wounded man. With Caleb inside, she slammed shut the door and shoved the heavy support beam in place as bullets and another arrow hammered against it.

  “God, hold him here with us . . . please,” she gasped.

  Cooper laid down next to Caleb, resting his head on the man’s unmoving shoulder.

  With only a momentary glance at her husband, Atlee returned to her post and aimed the Spencer through the gun port—this time at two warriors, now dismounted and coming toward the porch.

  “Reload Pa’s gun,” Atlee commanded, not taking her eyes from the Indians.

  One of her shots ripped through the right leg of the tallest and he staggered. A second bullet hit him in the chest and he fell against the porch. The other brandished his bow, but ran for his horse. Her shots missed him. Benjamin fired the reloaded Henry, but also missed. The second warrior grabbed his horse’s mane, swung onto its back, and galloped away, yelling.

  “Ma, I’ve only got eight bullets after this.” Benjamin finished reloading the Henry. His voice was drained of emotion and he dared not look at the unmoving face of his father.

  “All right, son. The Burnside is loaded. So is the Whitworth. The shotgun’s ready, too.”

  “They only shoot once.”

  “We can reload. Get them down. There’s ball and powder in the cabinet. Shotgun shells, too.”

  “Ma? Are we going to die? Is Pa . . . dead?”

  Atlee glared in her son’s direction and declared, “No, we are not. We are going to fight. Your father would want that. He’s in God’s hands now.” She turned back to her shooting post. “Benjamin, two men in the coach. One’s on top. They’re shooting at the Comanches! I can see them. They’re good, Benjamin.”

  “As good as Pa . . . was?”

  “Nobody’s that good, son.”

  Her face was flushed and her brown hair was halfway out of its regular tight bun. Even under stress, she was an attractive woman. Her light blue dress was torn at the right sleeve and her bosom was heaving, but she had never wavered or whimpered, only grabbed a gun when she saw the war party. It wasn’t the first time Comanches had attempted to stop a stagecoach coming to their station and they had managed to successfully drive them off without any loss. But this was different. She knew her husband was dead.

  The other Forsyth child, Elizabeth, was six and sat near the fireplace, ablaze with flame. She was playing with a cloth doll;
her round cheeks were flushed from the heat, but seemingly, she had no sense of what was happening.

  “Our horses! They’re after our horses!” she muttered, took careful aim, and fired through the rifle hole, winging a yellow-painted warrior.

  Leaving the wounded brave, three other warriors headed for the corral and the agitated coach horses there. Deed resumed shooting from the top of the coach, making them retreat. One staggered and fell a few feet from the corral gate. The two remaining Indians headed for the barn that held two additional teams of coach horses and the family’s three personal mounts and a milk cow. Billy Lee Montez emptied both barrels of his shotgun at them. One warrior fell in the doorway. The last warrior hurried to his horse as Deed’s big gun slammed against a spent shell. A new cartridge tube was shoved in place and he looked for other targets as the warrior galloped away.

  From the other side of the coach, James Hannah fired at a fleeing warrior and missed. He yelled, “Deed, I thought they’d come at us hard now that we’ve stopped, but they’re gathering behind us. Near those trees. Are they quitting?”

  “We’ve stung ’em. Maybe we can help them with that thought.”

  Meanwhile, the remaining war party had pulled back fifty yards with the war leader waving toward the coach. Deed figured they were puzzled by their lack of success. Half the warriors were down. Dead or wounded. They hadn’t expected to lose men in battle, not like this anyway. Some of the warriors were openly questioning their leader’s war medicine. They were used to hitting outlying farmers or ranches, or attacking a lone stage coach, all easy prey for red raiders who struck like lightning. Not so today. It must mean their war leader’s puhahante, his war medicine, was broken.

  Stretching out, Deed balanced his carbine against the railing, cocked and aimed the big gun. The war leader’s war cry jerked to a stop and he folded from his horse; his head a bloody mess with a huge bullet hole between his eyes. His fellow warriors stared at their dead leader in disbelief. They must flee or be destroyed by the angry spirits now turning on them. Deed fired again and another warrior’s chest became a crimson ball as he fell from his horse. The remaining warriors kicked their ponies into a frightened retreat. He emptied the Spencer at their retreat, taking another Comanche from his horse.