Kill Town

Book 2: Corrigan Brothers Western

by Cotton Smith

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

“Cotton Smith turns in a terrific story every time.” — Roundup Acclaimed Western author Cotton Smith tells the epic story of the Corrigan brothers, who will risk their lives to tame the American west . . . KILL TOWN Agon Bordner is dead, and the ranch he cheated for has been handed over to Deed Corrigan and his brothers. But before they can get the Bar 3 back on its feet, Deed, Holt, and Blue must fight to rebuild the town by buying the bank and appointing a marshal. For a moment, peace looks possible for these three weary veterans of the trail—until the guns begin to fire. Seeking vengeance for their boss, eight of Bordner’s killers storm the town. They rob the bank, kill the marshal, and break the rest of their gang out of the jail. To save the town, Deed and Holt hit the trail, planning vengeance the only way they know how. Blue stays behind, stepping into the marshal’s role to guard the jail, as the Corrigans risk their necks to save the only place they have ever called home. “Hard-eyed characters and six-gun action. Smith knows cattle drives and cowboy lore.” — Publishers Weekly “Cotton Smith’s stories are centered around the wonders of the human spirit in overcoming life's obstacles.” — True West

Release date: November 1, 2016

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 356

Sample

Cassidy County, Texas, sheriff Holt Corrigan adjusted his black string tie in the lopsided mirror that hung over a scratched dresser. He had no idea the Wilkon Bank, the town marshal, and he were about to be attacked while the three Bordner prisoners escaped.

A month ago, the three Corrigan brothers were the only force that stood between the evil Agon Bordner becoming the emperor of Northwest Texas. That seemed like enough. Then.

Holt’s hand served as a comb to straighten brown hair laying over his ears. He rubbed his just-shaved chin and brushed his trim mustache. It was important for a peace officer in the county to look right, he felt. The long scar on his right cheek, a reminder of a cavalry battle, had faded into a mark that some said made him more handsome, more mysterious. He was going to wear a black broadcloth suit, new. A gift from his brothers to celebrate his amnesty.

He had been staying in the small sheriff’s office-apartment, next to the jail, since federal judge Oscar Pence appointed him Cassidy County’s top lawman. It was part of his belated amnesty from the Confederate fighting and alleged crimes afterward. That was just two weeks ago and the whole thing was still a dream.

One minute, he was an outlaw; the next, a lawman.

The judge, like many in the area, was pleased to reward Holt for his help in bringing Agon Bordner and his henchmen to justice, stopping them from taking over Northeast Texas. Not to mention his known heroics during the war itself.

Slipping on his twin shoulder holsters, he checked the loads in each revolver, two Russian Smith & Wesson .44s, laying on the scarred desk. An ivory panther silhouette was inlaid in each black grip, a tribute to his belief in reincarnation and the idea that in one of his lives, he had been a jaguar in South America. The revolvers reminded him of the interview with the Dallas reporter yesterday.

It wasn’t the first such story as, seemingly, all of Texas was talking about the outlaw turned lawman. This interview, like the others so far, had been aided considerably by the judge’s stern declaration of Holt’s innocence and gallantry. Judge Pence linked the accusations to Bordner’s gang attempting to frame him and yellow newspaper headlines not checking facts.

To the reporter, Holt had simply said, “I’m very thankful to Judge Pence . . . and honored to serve the county where I grew up.”

The reporter wanted to know about Holt’s revolvers and he politely showed them, but he didn’t explain the symbolism of the handles. Shaking his head, he slid each weapon into place and glanced out the window. The lower right panel was cracked, a long-ago incident. The day was overcast and autumn cool. Up and down the street, false-fronted storefronts looked dark, in spite of people coming and going. Wilkon, the county seat, was welcoming the gray day.

“Going to rain. Too early to snow,” he muttered. “Good. That’ll knock down the dust. Help the farmers, too.”

A few years ago, the county had turned a former tailor shop into the sheriff’s office and sleeping quarters. The room contained a bed, a dresser, a desk covered with wanted bulletins and telegrams, and a struggling wood stove. A small closet still contained clothes worn by the late former sheriff. Holt intended to give them away when he got around to it. Bordner and his key henchmen were downed in a fierce fight with the Corrigan brothers, their great friend and mentor, Silka, the former samurai, and help from the Sanchez men.

Three outlaws were arrested, tried, and convicted of murder, coercion, and fraud. They were being held in the town jail for escort to the Huntsville state prison by Rangers who were expected any day.

He heard a freighter rumble down the main street, its trace chains rattling, followed by someone yelling for someone else to get out of the way, then swearing. Holt chuckled.

Unnoticed, Degory Black reined up at the hitching rack outside the bank near the end of the street. A killer of men, women, and children without remorse, he wore a long duster and a wide-brimmed hat. Under his coat were crossed belts holding handguns. With a quick look around, he went into the bank. A minute later, the crazy twins, Dek and Lennie Kinney, rode up to the adjacent hitch rack and swung down. Like Black, they were among the last of Agon Bordner’s gang, managing to escape the Rangers’ follow-up pursuit. Nonchalantly, they entered the bank.

The townspeople were happy after the removal of the would-be “king” of the region and his reign of evil acquisition of area ranches. However, many were also unsettled by a Confederate outlaw, known to them only from yellow newspaper headlines and saloon talk, becoming the county’s top lawman.

Holt eased into his coat. Looking around, he spotted his narrow-brimmed hat laying on the unmade bed and walked over. After running his fingers over the cardinal feather in its band for luck, he put on the hat and tugged on the brim. He planned to check on the new town marshal and his deputy, who were guarding the Bordner men.

Along the crowded main street, two additional armed men of the Bordner gang dismounted on the far side of the thoroughfare. A third rider, blond-haired Chetan Jenson, nonchalantly pulled up to a hitch rack outside the Hammon General Merchandise Store. Two more armed riders rode down the street and dismounted; both were noted for their assassination skills and wanted in Texas and Kansas.

Just before stepping outside, Holt remembered something. Glancing back, he saw the sheriff’s badge on the dresser and returned to pin it on his vest. Outside, German Hedrick pulled up alongside Degory Black’s horse. A half-breed known only as Pickles, because of his love of them, trotted toward the middle of town and disappeared down an alley. Hedrick quietly waited. Four more former Bordner gang members rode into town from the south and went into the livery.

Unaware of the pending trouble, Sheriff Holt Corrigan stepped from his small office next to the jail and onto the planked sidewalk. Hot coffee would be waiting as usual. Sounds of the day greeted him. An unseen dog barked at something it didn’t like. A water pump creaked and groaned before releasing its liquid. A door slammed. Somewhere a woman laughed and a tinny piano tried to brighten the day. A few buildings away, two businessmen were arguing loudly about a delivery of goods.

Seeing a button on the sidewalk, Holt leaned over and picked it up as he continued along. Good luck. He slid the tiny piece into his coat pocket. Only his two brothers, and Silka, knew of Holt’s superstitious nature. Hard-faced with light blue eyes and high cheekbones of bronze, the young lawman was an imposing figure, even though he was only average height. In the short-brimmed black hat, Holt was the shortest and second oldest of his brothers, Deed and Blue. Most men who saw him sensed the warrior within, even though he was a rawboned gunfighter, and were intimidated whether they admitted it or not. Many women were drawn to the hidden gentleness.

He passed an older couple obviously uncomfortable being near him. Regardless, his smile was as warm as his greeting, coming with a slight bow as he walked on.

Touching his hat brim as Miss Behesba Miller smiled and stopped to speak with him as they passed, Holt felt his face turning red with her attention.

“Oh, aren’t you just excited about next Saturday’s big day?” she purred. “All kinds of fun things are planned, you know.” Her smile was inviting.

She went on to explain that there was going to be a horse race, a footrace, a dance, a cake contest, a box supper auction, and a much anticipated baseball game between the town’s menfolk. There was also the possibility of a spelling bee for young and old. She was particularly interested in the dance and whether or not he was planning on attending.

His response to her engaging questions were mostly a series of “mmms,” “uhs,” and “maybes” as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and alternately stared at the ground and looked into her brown eyes. A boyish grin followed. For a man who had faced all kinds of death, in war and afterward, it was unexpected that he would act so uncomfortable around women. It had always been so, even with Allison Johnson; she had been the aggressor.

Coyly, Behesba dropped her handkerchief and he bent over to retrieve it.

Three shots blistered past where his head had been. The movement saved his life. Behesba screamed and spun to the ground as her blue, wide-brimmed hat fluttered from her head. Instinctively, Holt dove and drew his Smith & Wesson revolver from one of the two shoulder holsters.

His dive carried him behind the support beam holding up the jail front’s overhang. It was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. Cocking the big gun, he fired at the blossoming orange gun blast coming from behind a parked freight wagon across the street. Neither shot was effective.

“Stay down, Miss Miller,” he managed to say before more bullets clipped the beam inches above his head.

He thought she was wounded and had fainted, but couldn’t tell for certain. The wood planks under her showed streaks of crimson. There wasn’t anything he could do for her at the moment. A light rain began to take over the town as the street emptied quickly; people scattered when the first shots exploded into the quiet morning. The firing was coming from men with rifles, spread out across the street.

Town marshal Micah Foster burst from the jail, shotgun in hand. His deputy, Billy Jorgenson, was a stride behind, levering a Henry.

“Get back, Micah!” Holt yelled.

Bullets slammed the farmer-marshal against the wall. He shuddered and slid down the unpainted surface into a strange heap. The deputy spun sideways, knocked off balance by the marshal’s collapse. A bullet caught the deputy’s shoulder, but he managed to scramble behind the doorway.

Holt’s hat brim wasn’t helping stave off the wetness as he squinted for targets. Four more shots spit at him; one creased his lower right leg; another clipped the beam, sending splinters into his cheek. Forcing himself to ignore both, he drew a bead on the legs visible under the wagon and squeezed the trigger. His assailant screamed and stumbled sideways, grabbing for his wounded leg. Holt’s second shot spun him around; his third jolted the outlaw backward into an unmoving heap.

He knew who these men were, even though he’d never met them. They had to be part of the old Bordner gang, and they were trying to break out their fellow outlaws. The thought slid through him: where were his brothers? Both were in town. So was Silka.

Firing quickly twice more, he missed the heavyset man firing with a rifle from behind a barrel next to the Blue Dog Saloon. The return fire was intense, but so far the beam was protecting him as he shoved new loads into his gun. The remaining outlaws continued their firing and he kept his head down. If he attempted to dash for the jail door behind him, their gunfire would stop him before he went two steps.

“Let us go, law dog! They’ll quit shootin’ if’n you drop your gun an’ hold up your hands.” The suggestion came from one of the jailed outlaws, Rhey Selmon, able to see through the half-opened door from his cell.

“Go to hell. Before they get me, I’ll kill all of you bastards.”

“So will I,” Deputy Jorgenson added.

That quieted the prisoners.

“Blue, Deed, Silka, where the hell are you?” he mumbled.

As fast as it had come again, the rain decided to go elsewhere, leaving only a gray mist and equally gray day.

Sneaking toward Holt from his left was Pickle, the half-breed in a brand-new Stetson hat with a cocked Henry. He moved silently from alley to alley with the goal of getting close enough to kill Holt.

Across the street, Deed Corrigan, Holt’s younger brother, and Nakashima Silka, who was like a stepfather to all three brothers, were in the general store, buying supplies for the ranch. A former samurai who had emigrated from Japan, Silka had raised Deed, in particular, to fight effectively with any weapon as well as with his hands and feet in classic Japanese style, to understand the importance of timing and leverage. Deed’s reputation was at least as great as Holt’s.

Deed and Silka reacted in unison as soon as they realized the shots weren’t the sounds of a cowboy letting off steam.

“Where you heading?” the storekeeper asked. “What about your supplies? There’s a gunfight going on out there, you know.”

“We’ll be back,” Deed said.

He saw the fat outlaw, hiding behind the barrel next to the saloon, as soon as he left the store and headed for him. Two strides away, he yelled and the outlaw turned toward the sound. His eyes opened wide and he swung his rifle toward Deed. The youngest Corrigan flew into the air, cocked his legs, then straightened them, driving his boots into the man’s face and throat. The outlaw’s head snapped back, and he groaned and fell to the ground. His rifle rattled onto the sidewalk.

Landing on his feet, Deed spun, drew his .44 Remington, and leveled three quick shots at blond-haired Chetan Jenson, who was concentrating his firing at the wounded deputy. Deed’s first shot sent splinters from the stack of building materials where Jenson hid. He turned and Deed’s second and third shots caught him belly-high. Jenson half-stood, reacting to the impact, and Holt’s shot from across the street struck him again. The blond outlaw staggered and fell into the water tank.

From inside the store, hiding behind a shelf of canned goods, a bearded man with big ears and long hair took the corncob pipe from his mouth and growled to no one in particular, “Ain’t never seed nothin’ like that a’fer.” He turned around to a nodding farmer and his wife.

Silka was close behind Deed, drawing a classic samurai sword carried in a sheath across his back. The short, stocky Japanese man was many years older than the Corrigan boys; he had a graying mustache and hair pulled tight to a tail in back. His clothes were definitely those of a cowboy. Around his waist a wide belt held three sheathed throwing knives. His broad-brimmed hat flew from his head as he ran at the other outlaw concentrating on Holt across the street.

The gravel-faced outlaw heard the rush and turned to meet Silka’s charge.

“Aiiie!” Silka yelled, and drove his sword into the outlaw’s stomach. The outlaw fired his rifle into the sidewalk and dropped. Silka withdrew his bloody sword and wiped it clean on the dead man’s shirt, returned it to its sheath, and picked up the dead man’s rifle.

From the store, the grizzled man shook his head. “Damn. Sakes alive. It don’t pay to mess with those boys.”

Inside the hotel on the same side of the street as the jail, customers in the lobby had ducked under tables and behind chairs to wait out the fight; a few were brave enough to peek through the main window.

Striding from the adjoining restaurant was Blue Corrigan. Holt’s older brother by two years stepped into the lobby from a meeting in the restaurant. Blue’s coat and chaps showed signs of trail dust. The sleeve of his left arm was pinned against his coat. Yankee artillery fire had blown it off; he was lucky to have survived. His right pocket was jammed with extra cartridges but had room for the small Bible his mother had given him. He always carried it, even during the war, and credited the Scripture with saving his life.

At his hip was a holstered Walch Navy 12-shot revolver with two triggers and two hammers. Weighing two pounds, it was twelve inches long. It was a gun rarely seen in this part of Texas. Blue had taken it from a dead Union officer during the war and decided he liked it, especially since reloading a standard six-shooter wasn’t easy one-handed.

Three steps behind Blue came Judge Oscar Pence, the circuit judge for this federal district.

The two were meeting and going over final details of how Bordner’s ill-gained ranch holdings and town business would be distributed or sold. In his hand was his usual can for holding tobacco juice. Judge Pence stepped in after the death of Bordner and put up his ill-gained ranch holdings and businesses for return to their proper owners or auction. Taol Sanchez, the oldest son of the patriarch of the Lazy S Ranch, bought two of the smaller ranches Bordner had absconded with. Bordner’s largest illegal gain, the Bar 3, was divided between the Corrigan brothers and Jeremy Regan, since it was the boy’s family who had owned it originally and been murdered by Bordner’s gang. Jeremy was now an adopted member of Blue Corrigan’s family. The three Corrigan brothers would run the Bar 3, as well as their own Rafter C spread, until Jeremy was old enough to officially become a co-owner.

The bank, taken by Bordner, was purchased by a combination of the Sanchezes, Corrigans, and Judge Pence. The general store, his other grab, was bought by a family well known in Wilkon. Bordner’s mansion in El Paso was put up for auction and a local businessman had bought it.

“What’s going on?” Blue asked no one in particular.

A baldheaded businessman with scrawny sideburns, watching from the corner of the window, turned away and said, “Gunfight. A bunch of gunmen are trying to break out those fellas in jail. They’ve got the sheriff pinned down. Looks like they killed the marshal.” It was as if he were describing a town baseball game.

Blue’s move to the window was so swift the businessman didn’t have time to get out of his way. The baldheaded man stumbled and fell.

“Anybody gonna help your lawman?” Blue barked.

“Not my town. He was an outlaw before anyway.”

Blue spun and pushed back past the same man.

“Sir! I demand an apology,” the red-faced man said, slamming his fist against the floor.

Blue stopped and looked puzzled, “For what? Calling you a coward?”

“No, you didn’t call me a coward, you . . .”

“Guess I just thought it.” Blue hurried toward the main door, drawing his massive handgun.

“I hope he makes it,” a thin-faced man with sad-dog eyes behind thick glasses uttered as he stared at the street through the lobby window. Wearing an ink-stained coat and shirt, he held a pad of paper in his hand.

“I’m doing a story on him, for the Wilkon Epitaph,” Leroy Gillespie announced proudly. The Epitaph was the name of the town’s new newspaper. Gillespie had come to town two weeks ago with a printing press and was aggressively trying to build interest in his paper.

The newspaper owner and editor glanced at Blue. “The president of the Amarillo Bank said Holt Corrigan wasn’t a bank robber. Isn’t that something? I read that in the Amarillo Post.”

As he left, the man huddled under the next table leaned forward and whispered to the baldheaded businessman. “Don’t you know that was Blue Corrigan? He’s the sheriff’s brother. That fellow across the street, the one who just hammered a man with a flying kick and shot another, that’s Deed Corrigan, his other brother. That Oriental with the sword, he’s their partner.”

“Is that the Deed Corrigan who stopped three bank robbers? With only his hands? In Austin it was. A few years ago?” The reporter asked.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

The businessman looked like he was going to be sick. Gillespie, the editor, wrote a quick note on his pad, then resumed watching through the window.

Outside, Blue studied the street. The jail was down the way. A rider in a wet slicker rode past, but he was interested only in getting out of the way. Blue’s gaze took in the half-breed sneaking toward Holt.

Blue’s first shot slammed against the sidewalk in front of the creeping outlaw. It was like him to shoot to stop the action, not kill. Pickles froze, uncertain of where the shot had come from.

Running toward him, Blue growled, “Drop your gun and raise your hands. Or the next bullet hurts. Bad.”

The half-breed dropped his rifle as if it were hot, raised his hands, and turned toward Blue.

“I go to help sheriff,” Pickles blurted. “He need help.”

“Not your kind.”

From the bank doorway, Degory Black watched the destruction of most of their plan. German Hedrick, already mounted, held Black’s horse for him as the Kinney twins jumped on their horses holding the bank’s money. The four men eased around the back of the bank, out of town, smiling. They looked at the sky and hoped it foretold of a downpour coming soon and wiping out their tracks.

Unsure of what had happened, Holt took a deep breath, held it, and looked for an outlaw. He saw none. Only his brothers and Silka. Slowly he stood, holding his revolver at his side. Grinning, he yelled, “Wondered when you boys might join in. Is that the end of it?”

From across the street, Deed yelled back, “Think it is. Are you hurt?”

“No, just wet.” Holt ignored the burning crease along his lower leg and wiped his forehead.

Of medium height and build, all three brothers looked much alike, resembling their late mother and father, even down to their once-broken noses, courtesy of each other. Deed was eight years younger than Blue, an inch taller, fifteen pounds heavier, and definitely wilder; he and Holt resembled each other the most in looks and temperament.

Distinctly, the three brothers had elements of their mother’s approach to life within them. Deed cared about all things of nature, from snakes to birds to deer, much like that of an Indian. Holt had picked up their mother’s fascination with superstition and reincarnation. His first experience in believing he had lived before had occurred during the war. Blue’s beliefs were more traditional. In fact, he served the Wilkon church as a part-time mi. . .