A trailblazing series about three Texas brothers. “Solid writing and superb storytelling” from the acclaimed Western author of Kill Town ( American Cowboy Magazine). Deed Corrigan earned his reputation as a gunfighter—the hard way. But now, after forging cattle trails and fighting off the Comanche, he’s setting his sights on a brighter future. With the help of his older brother Blue, a Civil War veteran who lost his arm in battle, Deed turns the Rafter C homestead into a successful, working cattle ranch. But when a land-grubbing banker tries to wipe out the competition—slaughtering ranchers, robbing farmers, and building an army of hired killers—Deed and Blue have no choice but to fight back with everything they’ve got. That means bringing in the big guns. Settling old scores. And taking a chance on a dangerous outlaw named Holt Corrigan—their long-lost brother . . . Praise for Cotton Smith “Cotton Smith turns in a terrific story every time.” — Roundup “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:
December 29, 2015
Publisher:
Pinnacle Books
Print pages:
288
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
The Texas midmorning sky looked like God hadn’t decided what to make of the day as Tade Balkins drove the stagecoach toward the Wilkon relay station. No driver got more out of his horses, taking great pride in always being on time. He was well respected on the Southern Overland Mail line that ran from Hays City to El Paso, then on to Santa Fe, Tucson, San Diego, and finally Los Angeles. Even with railroad construction heating up again after the war, it was still an important route.
As far as the eye could see was empty desert plain, marked with rock, catclaw, dry brush, mesquite, and a creek bed with only the memory of water. To the north were dark crests promising better land and water. Tade was holding the six-horse team to a steady trot, talking to them as usual. He would bring them into a controlled run when the stage got closer to the station. A full gallop was really for appearance. It looked impressive to pull the charging horses to a hard stop in front of a destination. Sitting beside him, Hank Johnson rode shotgun and was having difficulty staying awake. Last night had been a drunken one.
“Doin’ good, boys. Doin’ good. Ah, that’s just a tumbleweed. Nothin’ to worry about,” Tade assured the horses, then glanced over at the dozing guard and nudged him awake. “Better stay alert, Hank. Bad country along here.”
“Yeah, I know. Jes’ got a nasty headache.”
“Atlee Forsyth, she’ll have some good hot coffee. That’ll help.”
“Wish she had some whiskey.”
Tade frowned and returned to talking to his horses.
Inside the coach, seven passengers were dulled by the never-ending bouncing and the ever-swirling dust.
“Is your ranch near here, Mr. Corrigan?”
The question to Deed Corrigan came from Rebecca Tuttle, the younger of the two women sitting across from him. Clearly she wanted to talk and had been doing so almost nonstop since the stage rolled out in the morning.
Dressed like a woman ready to stroll down the main street of El Paso, her green dress shimmered with its overskirts caught up and accented with black ribbons. Her flat-crowned straw hat held one large bow in the center of her forehead, matching the smaller ones on her dress. A jacket bodice, with a neckline close to her neck and black cuffs, completed the outfit. Brown ringlets framed her round face; light rouge highlighted her ample cheeks. To those in the coach, she looked like a woman of high social standing. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Her last cent had been spent on this stagecoach ticket.
Without waiting for Deed to answer, Rebecca explained that she was on the way to El Paso to meet her intended, a farmer she had met two years before in Ohio. Indeed, it was her only hope. That wasn’t expressed—just a sweet smile when she stated her intention.
Politely, Deed Corrigan touched the brim of his ill-shaped hat and explained that his ranch was about three hours’ ride from the station and he was returning home from a cattle drive to Kansas. It was more than he had said on the trip so far. His face, accented by a thick mustache, was deeply tanned from countless days on horseback. Long brown hair brushed against his shoulders. The bullet belt around Deed’s waist held a heavy Remington .44 revolver with its long barrel extending past the holster’s open end. Tan leather cuffs covered the frayed ends of his faded red shirt. A once-blue neckerchief hung loosely around his neck. Spurs were Mexican in styling and his worn Levi’s were shoved into knee-high boots.
Around Deed’s neck hung a small, Oriental-looking brass circle on a rawhide thong. Engraved on the circle was the Japanese word, Bushido. No one asked what it meant. Hanging unseen down the back of his shirt was a sheathed throwing knife, attached to the thong.
Next to him sat a fat drummer, Persam Torce, representing several companies making fine linens and other cloth goods. He had declared often of their quality, whether anyone asked or not. Stuffed into a store-bought suit that didn’t fit, he said he, too, was headed to El Paso and wondered if it was much farther, or if a railroad went there.
“It’s a ways, mister. No railroad yet either,” Deed said, grinning. “Better get used to this.”
Frowning, Persam Torce looked at Deed. “Is it really necessary to be armed as you are, sir?”
“Only if you want to stay alive . . . sir.” Deed’s answer carried an edge.
Torce pulled on his collar. “Surely, there are law officers with the responsibility to protect us.”
On the far side of the same bench, sitting next to the drummer, a well-dressed passenger with long sideburns, thick spectacles, and black bowler leaned forward, laughed, and said, “Tell that to the next bunch of highwaymen, or war party, we see.”
Returning to his reading, the gentleman’s Victorian black suitcoat flared open to reveal the butt of a silver-plated revolver in a shoulder holster. He also carried a sleeve gun, probably a derringer, Deed figured by the way he favored his right wrist. On the man’s lap was an opened book of Tennyson he had been enjoying since the coach left Hays. This was the first time he had said anything to anyone, except to introduce himself earlier to Deed as James Hannah. A name known to many in the region; the name of a man of the gun—a gun for hire. The singular introduction was an indication Hannah was aware of Deed Corrigan’s reputation as a fighting man as well.
In the middle bench sat another drummer who sold Swedish furniture and held tightly to one of the straps hanging from the coach roof for use by middle-bench passengers to balance themselves. Wearing a dust-covered top hat, he acted as if he hadn’t heard the conversation or cared about it. He hadn’t said where he was headed.
The far bench seat held Rebecca Tuttle and a German couple. Neither Hermann Beinrigt, a skinny farmer in worn overalls, nor his wife, Olivia, had talked to anyone so far, only whispered to each other in German. Tade Balkins told Deed earlier the couple hoped to lease land for farming near El Paso, where relatives lived. Their farm in Kansas had been lost to drought and grasshoppers.
As the coach rattled and banged across the uneven prairie, Rebecca glanced at James Hannah, eager for a new target for her thoughts, and asked, “Are you going on to El Paso?” Her smile was warm, very warm.
Hannah looked up from his book.
But the question went unanswered as Torce glanced out the window and yelled, “Oh my God, it’s Indians!”
Rebecca turned to the window and screamed.
Eighteen painted Comanches on horseback had appeared over a shallow ridge and were swarming toward the coach, like bees near a disturbed nest. All carried painted war shields. Half were waving rifles or revolvers and the rest, bows and arrows or short lances. Without a word, Deed and Hannah yanked free their revolvers and turned to their respective windows.
“Giddyap, boys! Earn your pay. Come on!” Tade yelled and snapped his nine-foot bullwhip over the horses’ heads to get their full attention. They were running full out in five strides and surprised the war party with their sudden swiftness.
Quickly, the menacing war party reacted to the now-racing coach. Riding as if they were part of their horses, the warriors had long black hair decorated with feathers, glass beads, silver conchos, and pieces of fur. A streak of color lined the central part of each warrior’s head, from forehead back along the crown. Eagle feathers were attached to their side locks. A beaver-fur-wrapped braid on each side of their heads was highlighted with bright cloth, and a special braided scalp lock, accented with a smaller feather, bounced on top of their heads.
Several wore antelope skins as breech clouts or war shirts, a sign they were of the Antelope band, the fiercest of Comanches and the terror of the entire region. Deed, Hannah, and the stagecoach guard began firing at them, but without success. The bouncing of the heavy vehicle made accuracy nearly impossible.
Hurdling across the land, the stage slammed across a shallow creek that fed into the bigger stream near the station, spraying water and launching its passengers against each other, then cut through a crusted band of dried alkali, sending up a snow of white powder.
Four warriors outraced the rest of the war party and closed in on the hard-running stage. Two went on one side of the coach; two, on the other. The guard fired at the closest warrior and managed to kill his horse, sending its rider stumbling onto the prairie. Hank Johnson scrambled to find the sack of shotgun slugs at his feet. Hannah leveled his Smith & Wesson. 44 Russian revolver, holding it with both hands, and fired at the second warrior, whose face, chest, and leggings were striped in black. Hannah’s bullets cut across the Comanche’s stomach and slammed into his right arm. Yelping in pain, the Indian swung away from the coach.
On the left side of the coach, the other two warriors were spread out; one was nearing the hard-running team and the other, just out of Deed’s line of sight, was near the back of the coach. The front warrior, with his lower face painted red, drew an arrow from the handful he held next to his bow. Stretching out behind Tade Balkins to shoot, the guard fired too quickly and missed, barely catching the Comanche with a few stray buckshot. Deed leaned out of the coach window and fired, missing twice. His third and fourth shots slammed into the warrior’s back just as he unleashed an arrow. The shaft struck the front edge of the driver’s box. Deed emptied his Remington into the Indian’s flailing body. Tade yelled his thanks as Deed ducked back inside.
The fourth warrior swooped near the same window. He swung low on his pony to thrust his lance inside, but Deed saw him coming. As the Comanche shoved it through the opened coach window, Deed Corrigan dropped his empty gun, grabbed and yanked hard on the spear. He pulled the surprised warrior, still holding the lance, from his horse and slammed him against the coach. For an instant, the warrior’s face was pinned against the coach window. Deed’s open left hand drove into the Comanche’s exposed Adam’s apple as if his hand were an axe.
The blow was so swift and fierce that only James Hannah and the farming couple realized what had happened.
A soft gurgle followed the Indian as his limp body slid down the outside of the coach. Deed Corrigan let go of the lance and retrieved his Remington revolver, pushed his hat brim against its crown, and began reloading. The lance bounced off the top-hatted drummer’s knees and fell harmlessly on the coach floor.
“Will they go away now?” Rebecca blurted.
Deed finished reloading and looked up. “Doubt it.”
The coach banged over a small ridge and slammed through a cluster of stunted cedar trees. Their stout branches scraped along the coach and forced Deed to duck back inside, but the trees gave the stagecoach a moment of reprieve from the war party as they were forced to ride around the trees or slow down to ride through them.
Leaning out the window, Deed yelled at the driver to hand down a rifle, then fired his revolver twice at the rest of the Indians racing to catch them and missed both times.
“Ain’t got one, mister,” Tade Balkins yelled back. “Unless you can get yurn in your gear. In the back boot.” He licked his lips and added, “Pull down them leather curtains. It’ll keep some of them arrows out.” He cracked his whip again and yelled at the horses. “Won’t do much about them bullets though.”
Hannah looked over at Deed and said, “Don’t even think about going up there to get your rifle, Corrigan. You’d be a pincushion in seconds.”
“If I could get to my Spencer, it’d make them think twice.”
“Yeah, well, the only word that counts there is if,” Hannah growled and fired again. “We’re doing all right. Could use another shooter though.”
“I’ve got to go now. Once they get around the coach, we won’t be able to handle them.” Deed said, “An old Japanese warrior friend says to always find a way to attack.”
“Wonder if he ever fought red devils like these?”
“Count on it.”
Both men pulled down the leather curtains at the same time. Quickly, Deed replaced the two spent cartridges in his handgun and unbuckled his heavy gunbelt. Beside him, Persam Torce was whimpering and praying loudly.
In the middle bench, the top-hatted drummer looked like he couldn’t believe what was happening as he heard the war party’s yells become louder again. He held a handkerchief close to his mouth to avoid any unexpected vomiting. His eyes went from Deed Corrigan to James Hannah to the lance at his feet.
Rebecca Tuttle sobbed and slid to the floor, as if it would keep her safe. She held her hands over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. An arrow burst through the closed curtains and slammed into where she had been. She glanced at it and shrieked.
“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.
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.
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
