Ride Away Read online

  There was a definite possibility that his buckskin would be near, unless they had taken it. After the initial fear, the animal would seek him out. Horses liked the comfort of being around people, and the buckskin was a favorite. Likely the animal would return to the trail to graze and wait. The repulsion of blood and dead bodies might change that, however. But Deed had to try and return to the trail. Some of the other posse horses might there as well. And, he reminded himself, so might be a bunch of outlaws.

  But it was early. Dawn was least an hour away. Not too many outlaws liked getting up early, especially on a cold, wet morning. Still, he had to be wary of guards left behind to watch for him and any other posse member that made it.

  Backtracking through the woods was slow. He couldn’t put any weight on his wounded leg and it was bleeding again. A long, crooked branch was serving as a crutch. Deed couldn’t remember feeling so weary. He even considered leaving his Spencer, but knew that wouldn’t be wise. From the cover of brush, he studied the awful reminders of the ambush. White corpses lay in various poses of death, apparently untouched since the fighting. As expected, three horses were grazing nearby; one with its saddle upside-down. His buckskin was among them.

  The smell of woodsmoke reached him before he saw its reason. Two men were crowded around a small, balky fire trying to keep warm. A blackened coffeepot sat on top of a half-burned log. A skillet of bacon slices was sizzling. Both bacon and coffee smelled delicious. On the ground nearby were tin cups and plates. Obviously, the guards were there to watch for Deed’s return. Neither were paying attention as he worked his way along the edge of the trail to a position where he could cover both easily.

  Dizziness tried to grab him, but he shook his head. Not now. Not now. He saw that his hat still lay within the trees near where he had fallen. Crawling, he managed to get to it and put it on, ignoring the hole through the crown and the fact that the edge rested on his injured ear.

  Then, leaning on his crutch, he took a few steps forward.

  “Mornin’, boys,” he said, aiming his carbine at them.

  Both men jumped and reached for rifles lying beside them.

  “Don’t. Unless you want to start the morning . . . dead,” Deed growled.

  “You must be Deed Corrigan,” the long-faced outlaw said. “Looks like our boys cut you up pretty bad.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Deed said, shifting his weight to his bad leg, then shifting it back. “You can tell Murphy and Lucas I’ll be coming for them.”

  The taller outlaw with a long chin that held a long-ago scar straightened his back. “Tell them yourself, Corrigan. They’ll be along. All of ’em. Real soon.”

  “You’d better hope not. The two of you won’t see them arrive.”

  “I gotta move that bacon. It’s gonna burn.” Leaning over in front of the fire, the taller outlaw took hold of the skillet as if to shift it away from the flames.

  Dropping his crutch, Deed realized the significance of the man using his left hand to control the skillet and stepped back and to the right as the outlaw flung the hot grease and bacon at him while reaching for his holstered gun.

  Two quick shots from Deed hit the outlaw heart high as two pieces of bacon reached his waist and the grease splattered around his boots. The movement sent a dull ache through his left arm.

  “Your turn.” Deed swung his recocked Spencer in the direction of the second outlaw. The man took a half step forward, froze, and raised his hands.

  After directing him to unbuckle his sidearm and drop a backup gun, Deed told him to take the two rifles and his pistols over to the wooded area and throw them into the forest. While that was being done, Deed picked up a slice of bacon, ate it, then retrieved the dead outlaw’s revolver, shoving it into his belt. His gaze rarely left the submissive outlaw; then Deed ordered the man to lay down across the fire from him with his head pointed away and his arms and legs outstretched.

  Satisfied the man couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything quickly, Deed ate another piece of bacon while he searched the dead outlaw for any hidden weapons and found a short-barreled Smith & Wesson Bulldog revolver. He shoved the gun into his back waistband, ate another piece of bacon from the ground, and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was hot and strong, but tasted good. He was weak and couldn’t move quickly, and the rest of the gang would not likely be far away. The gunshots might have alerted them, but he couldn’t worry about it.

  Drawing the outlaw’s main gun, he began hobbling toward his buckskin, leaving the crutch where he had discarded it. As he walked past the terrified outlaw, Deed slugged his head with the butt of his Spencer. It didn’t make sense to gamble on the man staying in place for long and Deed needed time.

  The buckskin’s head came up and its ears pricked as Deed neared. Would the animal shy away from him? Deed’s strength was draining fast; he wouldn’t be able to trail after the horse if it moved away. But the buckskin nickered and rubbed its nose against Deed’s chest as he came close.

  “Yeah, it’s me, boy. We’re going to ride out of here, but you have to help me.”

  Deed took the downed reins, shoved the carbine into its sleeve and led the horse to some boulders that looked like God had been playing dice with them before leaving. There was no way he would be able to mount the horse with his wounded leg. He would get on from the wrong side, and do so from an elevated position. Finding the right rock, he led the horse alongside, then eased his good leg into the stirrup and tried to slide his left leg across the saddle.

  The buckskin wanted to move out, but Deed held the reins tightly with his right hand and forced himself to complete mounting. His left leg screamed in pain. At least he was in place and he eased the reins. The buckskin took off with a familiar canter, then into a smooth lope. Deed hoped he would be able to stay conscious long enough to reach their ranch. He had to, to do otherwise was to die.

  “Not today. Not going to die today.”

  The buckskin’s ears twisted to catch the words.

  “It’s all right, boy, I’m just a little weak right now.” He forced his left arm toward the pommel and wrapped the reins around his wrist and the pommel to help keep him upright if he passed out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Thirty minutes after Deed rode away, Dixie Murphy, Sheriff Lucas, Rhey Selmon, and the rest of the Bar 3 gunmen rode up to the ambush site, leading the rest of the unridden horses. They were surprised to see the lone outlaw drinking coffee by his campfire.

  “What the hell happened?” Murphy screamed as he reined up next to the man, who stood and wiped off his pants.

  “Ah, Deed Corrigan. That’s what happened. He jumped us. Got away. About a half hour ago, I reckon,” the outlaw said, scratching his boot heel on the ground and rubbing his sore head where Deed had hit him.

  “Why didn’t you go after him? That’s why you boys were here,” Murphy demanded.

  “I didn’t have no gun. Made me throw ’em in the woods. Yonder.” He motioned toward the thick grove of trees. “Then he knocked me out. When I came around, I looked, but couldn’t find them.”

  Rhey Selmon cursed and so did Dixie Murphy.

  “If he gets away, there’s no telling what kind of hell he’ll create,” Lucas said, shaking his head.

  “Won’t be too good for you, that’s for sure,” Selmon grunted and turned toward his men. “You three, grab an extra horse each and go after Corrigan. He’s hurt . . . bad. Stop him.”

  The three men nudged their mounts forward, grabbing the reins of three other saddled horses.

  “Push ’em hard and you’ll catch him,” Murphy declared, waving his arm in the direction of Deed’s escape. “Just let’em go when you switch. They’ll head for the Bar 3 after a while.” He bit off a chaw from a square of tobacco. “We’ll take a roundabout way to the ranch. Don’t want anybody tracking us there. Come as soon as he’s dead.”

  Sheriff Lucas watched them gallop away with the extra horses beside them. “What should I do?”

  Selmon
spun toward him and fired. “Nothing, Sheriff. Nothing at all.”

  The county lawman’s eyes widened, his hands extended as if to stop the bullets.

  “No—”

  Selmon fired three more times and Lucas fell face-down from his horse. Mud popped around him; his leg twitched and was still.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Murphy screamed. “You just killed the county sheriff.”

  “Agon’s orders.”

  Selmon turned toward the cattleman and fired again. Murphy grabbed his arm and screamed again. “Damn you, I’ll—”

  Holding up his left hand, Selmon explained, “Agon thought it would look a little suspicious if you were the only one in the posse not hurt.”

  “Oh, damn. Couldn’t you have just grazed me?”

  “I was trying.”

  “Damn.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Dizzy and weak, Deed Corrigan weaved in the saddle. Ahead was a cluster of cottonwoods. He remembered there should be water, especially after the rain. His horse needed to rest as well.

  Over the hill behind him came three riders, whipping their horses in a fierce gallop. They had to be Bar 3 gunmen coming to finish the job. He spurred the buckskin into a run it couldn’t keep up long. Ahead was a small ridge. That would have to do. He was too far from the cottonwoods to make it. Nearing the ridge, he slowed his horse and untied the reins from his left hand. He pulled his carbine from its sleeve and tossed it on the ground. Trying to dismount while holding the gun could prove disastrous. The horse threw its head, wanting to run in spite of its weariness.

  “Not now, boy. I need you to stop. Whoa.”

  Angling across the hills, Holt Corrigan saw three horsemen chasing after a lone rider, who was wounded. Deed! It was his brother!

  Dismounting, Holt drew his rifle and knelt. He raised the gun to his shoulder and began firing. The lead rider grabbed his chest and tumbled from his horse. Holt’s next shots missed, but the two remaining gunmen were now aware of his presence. From the ridge in front of them, Deed propped his rifle against a rock, laid his wounded arm across the barrel and shot one-handed. A second rider’s face turned red and he fell off the back of his horse. The third rider tried to turn his horse around, but the animal wouldn’t obey. Bullets from both Deed and Holt brought him down. The three empty horses ran past Deed as he slowly stood.

  Who had helped him? Was it one of the Lazy S vaqueros? He wasn’t far from the Sanchez ranch. He watched as the figure remounted and rode toward him, waving.

  Holt!

  How in the world? Deed wondered but was very happy, whatever the reason. He was weak and went to his knees.

  “Hey, Deed, what the hell you doing out here?” Holt asked as he rode up. “Wait a minute. You’re hurt. Really hurt.” He swung his horse around toward the attackers. “Hold on, Deed. I gotta check on these bastards first, so they won’t cause us more problems.”

  Holt walked his horse next to the closest outlaw and jumped down, holding his rifle in his right hand. The dead gunman’s face was a red pumpkin. He yanked free the man’s pistols and a knife and threw them in Deed’s direction, then went to the second downed gunman. Stepping close, he kicked the prone man in the ribs. Hard. The grunt that followed was what Holt expected.

  “When you turn over, peckerhead, you’d better have empty hands,” Holt growled. “I’d like an excuse to put a bullet in your head.”

  “I-I’m hurt. R-Real bad.”

  “Tell somebody who gives a damn,” Holt responded. “You bastards were trying to kill my little brother.” He pointed his rifle at the slowly moving man. “I oughta put a bullet in your head just for good measure.”

  “P-Please . . . mister,” the long-faced outlaw said, holding his side. His shirt was mostly crimson.

  “Shut up.”

  “P-Please I was j-just followin’ orders.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Uh, nobody.”

  Holt fired and the outlaw screamed and grabbed his right knee. “That’s one knee gone. Want to try two?” Holt levered a new cartridge into his rifle.

  “Oh God, no! No! Dixie Murphy and Rhey Selmon, they sent us.”

  “That’s better. What’s going on here?”

  The outlaw jabbered about what had happened, the attack and arrest at the Lazy S, the escape from jail, the ambush of the posse, the involvement of the county sheriff. Holt stripped the man of his weapons and tossed them toward his brother, then walked on to the third outlaw. The man was dead; Holt disarmed him, shoving his guns into his waistband and heading for his brother.

  “Hey, are you Holt Corrigan?” the long-faced outlaw asked. “I heard you was dead.”

  Holt smiled. “Heard that, too. I’m Sam Holton.”

  “Sam H-Holton? Do I know you?”

  “No. I don’t hang around with scum.” Holt hurried to his wounded brother.

  “I’m all right. Nothing serious. They caught us in an ambush yesterday.”

  “I heard.” Holt looked up. “Think any more of those bastards will be coming?”

  “Don’t know. I doubt it. Getting too close to the Lazy S.”

  “You’ve got blood in your hair, on your ear.”

  “Yeah, they nicked my ear. Think a little piece is gone.”

  Holt examined Deed’s ear. “Yeah. But no one will notice if you keep your hair long.”

  “I guess I was lucky.”

  “Are you carrying any lead?” Holt asked.

  “No. Just been bleeding a lot.”

  “Your ear looks like somebody bit it.”

  “Yeah, a bullet.”

  “Can you ride?” Holt asked, shoving his rifle into its sleeve and pulling his canteen from his saddle and handing to Deed.

  “I got here, didn’t I?”

  Deed took the canteen and drank deeply, holding it with his right hand. His left hand was at his side. He tried to put weight on his left leg but it wouldn’t hold him and he fell.

  “Careful, little brother. Go slow.”

  “Yeah, maybe so. Can you get my horse? The buckskin might let you. He’s a good one,” Deed said.

  “Sure. Can you hold mine?”

  “Got it.”

  After slipping the canteen sling over his saddle horn, Holt walked to Deed’s grazing horse. The buckskin raised his head and his ears went up as Holt approached.

  “Easy, buck. Easy now. I’m Deed’s brother. Nothing to get excited about. Right?” Holt held out his opened palm for the horse to sniff, then slid it along the animal’s face to take hold of his halter, then the reins. “See, buck. Nothing to it. Going to be fine, you and me. Let’s go over here where Deed is.”

  He led the horse back to Deed. The buckskin shook its head and snorted, smelling Deed’s blood.

  “You’re all right, Buck. It’s old blood,” Holt helped Deed into the saddle, holding the reins of both horses, then retrieved Deed’s Spencer and returned it to the saddle scabbard.

  “Tie my hands . . . and my boots,” Deed said. “There’s piggin’ strings in my saddlebags.”

  Holt looked over at the wounded outlaw, who was laying down, holding his bloody knee. Two of the outlaw horses were grazing nearby; the third was nowhere in sight.

  After Holt had laced his brother into place, he jammed the collected outlaw guns, barrel first, into the muddy ground.

  “Deed, think I’d better get rid of those rifles on their horses before we go. Don’t want to give ol’ one knee any ideas,” Holt said.

  “They might not let you get close.”

  “We’ll see. If they don’t, I’ll send ’em running.”

  Mounting, Holt swung his horse toward the quiet horses. The closest bay tensed as he rode up, but didn’t move. He eased alongside the animal and yanked the rifle clear and laid it across his saddle in front of him. The second rifle was lifted as easily and Holt pulled away, balancing both guns in front of him.

  The wounded outlaw watched him and called out, “You better keep ridin’, Cor
rigan. Bordner’s gonna git all of you. You, too, Holton.”

  Holt’s eyes were hot. For an instant, his fingers found the trigger of the top rifle, then he relaxed. “Tell that fat bastard we’ll be coming after him. Tell him to get his fat ass out of here.”

  The outlaw muttered something the Corrigan brothers didn’t understand as they rode away with Holt leading Deed’s horse. After a few minutes, Holt threw the two outlaw rifles into the brush.

  “Holt, I’m mighty glad to see you,” Deed said through clenched teeth. “Blue said he talked with you in El Paso.”

  “Yeah, he told me to quit fighting a dead war and come home. So, here I am.”

  Deed smiled. “Blue makes a lot of sense sometimes. Kinda like Ma used to.”

  “Right.”

  “You didn’t rob the El Paso bank?”

  “No. Blue said it was owned by Confederates. So I went to see for myself. Ended up talking with Dave Copate. We fought together at Sabine Pass. Good man,” Holt said. “He told me a lot of what Blue said.”

  “We got word at the Forsyth station that the bank had been robbed.”

  “Really. Well, it wasn’t me.”

  Deed shook his head. “Yeah, the stage driver said that the bank president claimed it wasn’t you. Was real strong about it.”

  Holt was silent, then changed the subject. “How far to the next . . . friendly ranch?”

  “The Lazy S is about three hours from here. Due north.”

  They rode on, each with his own thoughts, into a wide and broken land. Ahead of them grazing cattle were mere dots on a light brown canvas. Overhead, the sky was a mass of jagged gray clouds, as if a long heavenly fire had turned ashen.

  Holt was worried about more Bar 3 riders following them or coming up on them from some unseen draw. They were crossing Bar 3 land; he knew that. Deed was mumbling to himself, barely conscious.