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  They passed a cluster of stunted cedar, enclosing what had once been a buffalo wallow. Ahead he saw a large open tank holding water. As they approached, Deed woke up, shook his head, and told him to head toward a patch of brittle bush far to the left and to a gathering of trees just beyond. He grimaced that the tank was filled with scum and gestured that good water lay within the trees. Holt nodded and wheeled his horse in that direction, still leading Deed’s horse. They passed a snow-white steer skeleton, cleared a fat ridge, entered a shallow wash, and rode into a magnificent meadow, unseen from just a handful of yards away. In front of them was a sparkling pond, fed by two occasional streams and offering solace to a small gathering of cottonwood, pecan, and oak trees. A half-dozen steers drank from its wetness.

  “Told ya,” Deed muttered.

  “Lucky guess,” Holt growled. “Want down?”

  “No thanks. Better not. Might have trouble getting back on.” Deed’s face was white with shock.

  “All right.” Holt dismounted and led both horses to the pond. Several steers moved away as they advanced. All wore Bar 3 brands.

  While the animals drank, Holt Corrigan studied their surroundings. It was fine cattle country. Far to their left was a long arroyo that appeared to be filled with cattle. To their right was a patch of sandstone bursting with heavy rock. The sandstone was still heavy with last night’s rain. In all directions, the land was empty of riders. At least it would be difficult to surprise them in this flat country. Somewhere a quail whispered an inquiring song. Holt wondered if it was a sign and what kind. He decided it must be a good sign; how could a bird singing be an indication of bad things coming?

  After the horses had watered well, they took off again. Holt knew the land, but not like Deed and Blue did. It had been long years since his departure. Deed was asleep in the saddle and Holt let him rest.

  A late afternoon sun laid slanting rays across the two Corrigan brothers as they rode closer to the Lazy S. Ahead of them, two antelope were surprised from their grazing and began to run. Deed was apparently asleep, bobbing in the saddle. Holt watched four riders appear in the horizon and advance from a ridge to the northwest.

  He knew at once it was Comanches.

  Taking a knife from his belt, Holt turned to Deed. “Little brother, wake up. Got four Indians coming. Wake up.” He leaned over and cut free Deed’s hands with his knife.

  Deed blinked his eyes, trying to regain his senses, then began rubbing his stiff hands.

  “Got an idea, Deed. Make like you’re crazy in the head. You know, yelling crazy stuff. Wave your arms,” Holt told him as the watched the warriors advance.

  “You think it’s worth it. I can shoot.”

  “We’ll try that next.”

  Deed began to holler a mixture of Japanese phrases and biblical verses, anything he could recall. “Nakitsura ni hachi! Ame futte ji katamaru! There is a lion in the way; a lion is in the streets. Tonari no shibafu wa noi! The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. Fuku sui bon ni kaerazu!” He waved his right arm wildly, looking up to the sky.

  As they rode closer to the Indians, Holt said the Comanche words for medicine man while he made the signs. He put his fist at his forehead, extended two fingers skyward, then spiraled his fist upward. That was followed with holding up one finger. His left hand held his rifle in front of his saddle.

  The Indians made signs of understanding and moved out of their way. After clearing a short ridge, Holt said, “Come on, let’s ride before they change their minds.”

  They galloped hard across the broken plain and gradually brought their horses back to a trot, then a walk.

  “Damn, that was wild,” Holt said, shaking his head.

  “Sure was. I was out of stuff to yell,” Deed said and chuckled. “Never can tell about Indians.”

  “Yeah. Never. You sure must be feeling better to yell like that.”

  “Didn’t have much choice.”

  They rode silently for another hour when three riders became visible from the northwest. They were largely silhouettes. As they came closer, Deed could make out their sombreros and a stray ray of sun found one of their large-roweled spurs.

  “They’re friends, Holt. Lazy S vaqueros. Wave at them.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes.”

  The Corrigan brothers rode easily forward as the three vaqueros slipped beside them, eager to hear what had happened. Deed’s bloody shirt and pants told part of the story. Four brown and lean men with unrelenting dark eyes flashed ready smiles. Each was armed with a rifle and gunbelt; each had an extra cartridge belt across his shoulders. Large-roweled spurs seemed a part of their bodies.

  The lead vaquero with steel-gray hair and piercing eyes groaned when told the news about Sanchez’s son and the vaqueros with the posse. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

  “Are you the one they call El Punta?” he asked.

  “No, I’m Sam Holton,” Holt held out his hand.

  Taking it firmly, the man said, “I am Cliente, foreman of the Lazy S.”

  “Good to know you,” Holt said. “I take it you’ve met my little brother.” He smiled. “Guess that gave it away. Sorry. Too many folks trying to catch up with Holt Corrigan these days.”

  Straightening his back, Cliente said, “I understand. Señor Deed Corrigan is a most honored man in our ranchero. He save us. He and his brother, Blue. And Silka, the one with the long knives. You are most welcome . . . Sam Holton.”

  “Thanks. Agon Bordner behind all this?”

  “Sí, the fat man and his guns. Many guns. They outnumber us two times. Maybe more,” Cliente tossed his dead cigarette. “We are cowmen, not gunmen.”

  “All of us will have to get smarter and tougher,” Holt drawled.

  “Sí. Let us ride for our ranchero, amigos,” Cliente said. “Your brother need rest. We will send out a wagon to bring home the bodies of Thomas Sanchez and our friends who rode with the posse.”

  Deed bit his lower lip and asked if they would also bring Chico’s body back for burying at their ranch. Cliente readily agreed, then said something in Spanish to two of his men. They wheeled their horses and galloped back. Deed guessed Cliente was being careful and didn’t want to take a chance on Bar 3 riders coming up on them. A look at Holt told him that his brother was thinking the same thing.

  Motioning for the Corrigan brothers to follow, Cliente rolled another cigarette and said, “So now we fight the law as well as the fat man.” He snapped a match to flame on his pants, inhaled, and added, “Roundup will be a buen’ ocasión to attack us, I fear. We will be spread out and worried about our beeves.”

  Deed nodded, too tired to respond. His wounds were bleeding again, bringing fresh pain. Sleep would be welcomed. Forcing himself to speak, he said, “Not having the roundup would play right into their hands. They’d brand everything that moved.”

  “Sí. It is a tough thing we are in.”

  “Well, it’s a cinch they won’t be joining us this year,” Holt said, searching his coat pocket for a cigar.

  Deed smiled at the use of us. It was good to have Holt back. They rode for a few minutes; then Holt turned to his brother, leaned towards him, and just above a whisper, said, “Earlier I told those boys I was Sam Holton. You should know that I am going by that name for now. At least to outsiders. I’ll deal with the other later.”

  “Sure . . . Sam.”

  As soon as they reached the Lazy S hacienda, Cliente jumped down and went inside; he found Felix Sanchez and told him about Deed and Sam following. Felix met them at the hitchrail in front; reddened eyes told them that the news of his son’s death had already reached the family. Cliente was beside him.

  “Amigos. It is bueno that you make it, Señor Deed,” Felix said in a voice thick with sadness.

  “Felix, I’m so sorry about Thomas. We rode right into it,” Deed said.

  “Sheri
ff Lucas shall die by my hand,” the big Mexican rancher said.

  Holt leaned forward in his saddle. “You know something? Don’t be surprised if Sheriff what’s his name is already dead. With Deed getting away, his value to Bordner isn’t much.”

  Deed looked at him with a question in his eyes. “What about Murphy?”

  “Naw. He’s too good a cattleman.”

  Felix Sanchez waved his arms. “Por favor, where are my manners? Come in and eat. Señor Deed, you must rest. You come as well, Señor Holton.” The Sanchez family swarmed around Deed, insisting that he be treated for his wounds even as Deed insisted he was fine.

  “Señor Deed, you have been bleeding muy mal,” the gray-haired Maria Sanchez, Felix’s wife, declared. “Come now and let us clean your wounds. Find some new clothes.”

  Sanchez’s daughters, Tina and Lea, laughed and took him by the arm. Both were in their late teens and striking young women. Felix nodded agreement and his oldest son, Taol, shouted his support. Holt laughed and patted his brother on the back.

  Maria turned to Holt. “You must eat too, Señor Holton. You have saved our Deed.” It was obvious they realized he was Deed’s older brother, but honored Holt’s wish to be called Sam Holton.

  “Sounds great.”

  Felix Sanchez told them that his youngest son, Paul, had been moved back home and was resting well and Felix’s thanks for saving Paul and all at the ranch came again. Deed was so tired he wasn’t sure he could stand. They entered the great house, taking in its quiet majesty. Adobe walls held the temperatures well and everywhere the Corrigans looked were paintings, Mexican artifacts, Indian pottery, and handwoven rugs. A large gun rack held a dozen rifles and three shotguns.

  Heavy chairs, hand engraved, awaited them around the massive wooden table. Felix and Cliente were already seated and talking. Holt sat down, after washing his face and hands outside. A few minutes later, Deed joined them wearing a new shirt and pants, flared at the bottom. He looked pale, but acted like he was fine. His ear was bandaged and it smelled like his arm and thigh had been dressed as well. He was wearing his gunbelt, but had discarded the outlaw revolvers picked up at their camp.

  “You look ready for church services, even Blue would be pleased,” Holt said and added, “I’m going to ride with Cliente and his riders back to the ambush. Felix wants the bodies back here as soon as possible. You’ll stay here, all right?”

  “Uh, sure. Sure.”

  Felix’s daughters brought in steaming plates of tortillas, beef, and beans, with plenty of fresh, hot coffee. After finishing, Deed asked if it would be all right for him to lie down for a few minutes. The two daughters led him to one of the extra bedrooms and he was asleep in minutes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Rhey Selmon reported to Agon Bordner and was surprised at the oversized boss’s reaction—or rather, the lack of it. Savoring a freshly baked apple pie, the huge man stopped eating as his top gunman reported that all of the posse had been killed except Deed Corrigan, but he was wounded and three men had gone after him to finish the job.

  In the far corner, a man was playing the violin for Bordner’s enjoyment as he ate. He hadn’t shared with Selmon or Murphy that two Texas Rangers had made an appearance while they were gone. Bordner had fed them generously and given them a place to sleep, then they had ridden on. He was certain they believed his story about an unknown band of renegades attacking his ranch, stealing horses, and then attacking the Lazy S.

  Bordner looked up, apple syrup dripping down his chin. “What about Lucas?”

  “He’s dead,” Selmon said. “Murphy’s wounded. Just skinned his arm. Like you ordered.”

  “Good. Good.” Bordner took another bite of pie, enjoying the combination of crust and fruit. “Fine job on the pie, Simpson,” he yelled to the unseen cook.

  Outside of the ranch was a burst of noise and Selmon went to see what was happening. He came back, frowning.

  “That’s Benson. He’s shot up some,” Selmon said. “Some stranger gunned down the other two.”

  Bordner licked his fingers and called for more coffee. Without turning toward Selmon, he asked, “What stranger?”

  Hitching his gunbelt as if to challenge someone, Selmon said that a stranger who called himself Sam Holton showed up as they were closing in on the wounded Deed Corrigan. He made the difference and they rode off together.

  “This stranger was leading Deed’s horse. Deed had his hands tied to the pommel and his boots to the stirrups, to keep him steady,” Selmon said. “Like I said, he was carrying lead. Don’t know how bad though. He’s a tough sonuvabitch.” He cocked his head to the side. “From what Benson says, this other guy was, too.”

  “Ever hear of a Sam Holton?”

  “No.”

  “Well, well, that’s not a good day’s work, Rhey. You didn’t kill them,” Bordner said and pushed another quarter section of pie into his mouth and followed it with coffee.

  Selmon looked at him, worried about what Bordner would do.

  Bordner told him to keep the arrested and escaped Bar 3 men there on the ranch, except when on specific assignment. To make it easier for them, he had ordered extra whiskey and a wagonload of prostitutes to be brought in for their enjoyment. He planned to keep three for himself.

  Rhey Selmon smiled and left to tell the men.

  The fat man was pleased with several outcomes of the last few days. The men who had attacked the Lazy S and survived the Corrigan counterattack were back and no law would be looking for them. So were all of their horses. That brought his force to twenty-two men. Not as many as he wanted, but enough if he used them well, and more were available for hire in El Paso. The Lazy S had lost another three men; he was certain Felix Sanchez had no more than ten men left to operate and protect his ranch.

  Murphy was ordered to go to town and report on the posse’s demise. He was to say he didn’t know if Deed Corrigan was alive or not, only that his body wasn’t there when he rode away. He was to tell the town editor that he had been hit on the head and had been unconscious until after the ambush was over. Bordner wanted the town council to select an interim county sheriff until an election could be held and he wanted Macy Shields to hold both jobs, at least for now. It would make the final takeover of the region’s cattle lands so much easier. He prided himself on thinking long-term. That was the key. None of his men knew all of his plans. Not Dixie Murphy. Not Rhey Selmon. Not Macy Shields. Not anyone.

  He finished the pie with a flourish and lit up a black cigar. The women should arrive anytime this afternoon.

  After returning from town, Murphy was to oversee the gathering of cows with calves for fall branding. There would be no cooperation with the Sanchezes or the Corrigans, of course. He had already merged the two small ranches into the Bar 3 and all of the new animals were being marked with his bar crown brand. He loved the look of it. Sheer power he thought. Murphy’s men were to stay on their side of the boundary between the Bar 3 and the Lazy S spreads. Bordner wanted it to appear that he was a law-abiding citizen and any trouble that occurred was not his doing.

  He didn’t like hearing about a gun-savvy stranger helping Deed Corrigan. Things he couldn’t control upset him. He planned on having Murphy drive some cattle to the railroad crew working around Houston to provide some immediate cash. Selmon would also be directed to rob the El Paso stage, at least once more. Bordner had kept his men away from robbing the trains; he didn’t like the idea of Pinkertons backtracking them . . . to him.

  Bordner pulled on his cigar and waved at the violinist to leave. The house was quiet and he liked that. He took the cigar from his mouth, studied it, and called out for Selmon. The gunfighter was in the other room and responded quickly.

  “Did you leave all the bodies where they fell?” Bordner asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think the Sanchezes will send a wagon to bring back the bodies of their men?” Bordner ran his finger along the table.

  Selmon rubbed his chin. “Hadn
’t thought about it. But, yeah, I reckon so.”

  “Yes. So do I. Here’s what I want you to do.” Bordner had decided he wanted to hit the Sanchez ranch again, right now when they wouldn’t be expecting it.

  “Take men with you and wait. Out of sight. When you see the wagon and their men leave the Lazy S, I want to you to hit the ranch again. They won’t be expecting it.” He returned the cigar to his mouth.

  Controlling the county law would make it all go smoothly. Since the owning family was Mexican, he didn’t expect much of an outcry from the rest of the community. Except for the Corrigans. They would be dealt with separately.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was late afternoon and cool. Holt was checking his rifle as Cliente picked three men to go with him and the burial wagon.

  Deed woke up suddenly and scrambled from the room. He was light-headed, but knew he was stronger than he felt. His voice was steady, even though he was not. He walked toward the front of the hacienda, using his right hand to balance his movements, touching anything that went in the direction he sought to go.

  From the kitchen, Tina Sanchez heard him and came to see to what was happening.

  “Wait, Holt! Wait. I think Bordner will use this time to strike here,” Deed hollered.

  “Señor Corrigan, you must get back in bed,” Tina said and took his arm.

  “No. I can’t. Please, I must stop them.” He brushed her hand from his arm and continued toward the doorway. She wasn’t sure what to do and hurried after him.

  Holt was the first to hear and stop what he was doing, then Cliente did the same, holding up his hand for his men to wait.

  “We’re outside, Deed. Getting ready to leave,” Holt called back.

  “Wait. Hear me,” Deed opened the door. “They will attack as soon as you leave. It makes too much sense. Felix and his wife are dealing with their sadness . . . and Cliente will have three or four men with him. That leaves only a handful to guard this place. It is perfect for them. If they come, it’ll be with twenty guns. Maybe more,” Deed said. “How many can you stand?”