Ride for Rule Cordell (14 page)

As Hangar and Meade straightened, a pearl-handled gun appeared in the shootist’s fist. “No, I’m going to shoot you, Rule Cordell.”

Taking time to announce his intention was a mistake. Rule’s left hand was a blur that shoved the gun hand sideways. A bullet smashed into the far wall. Rule’s right fist was
an eyeblink behind, slamming into Meade’s face and sending blood onto both of them. The shootist’s gun thudded on the floor.

From behind them, Bartlett hurried across the room, shifting the shotgun to his left and drawing Rule’s pistol with his freed right fist.

“Give me a reason, Hangar,” he bellowed.

The sheriff backed up, holding his hands away from his side.

Meanwhile, Rule drove his left into the gunman’s stomach. Meade bent over in agony, trying to find breath. A right uppercut sent the gunman flying backward. Unconscious, he slid on his back and stopped with his head against the door.

“When he wakes up, tell him to run—and run hard.” Rule turned toward Hangar and shook his fist to rid it of the pain. “I don’t like people who shoot people in the back.”

Hangar’s face was a snarl.

“And tell this Holt woman that the fire has come to town—and she isn’t going to rise. She’ll just be another fried bird, if she doesn’t stop.”

Rule yanked Hangar’s gun from its holster and pointed it at him. “You aren’t going to like the fire, either. Neither is Opat.”

Hangar glanced down at the groaning Meade as Rule took the shootist’s handguns and shoved them into his waistband beside Hangar’s. Swallowing, the sheriff managed to say, “Cordell, you and Bartlett will be sorry when Lady Holt hears this. She’ll come after you with all of hell. You have no idea what’s going to happen. I don’t know why you’re here, or why you bought that old man’s ranch, but it was a big mistake.”

Returning to the far side of the saloon, Bartlett retrieved the weapons of the standing gunman and the wounded one.
He quietly told the young gunman that it would be wise for him to get out of the region. He walked over to the wounded gunman, lying like a child on the floor. Wimpering. A patron squatting behind the upturned table motioned toward the gunman’s revolver a few feet away.

Bartlett thanked him, picked up the gun and checked the wounded man for any hideaway weapons. After removing a second Colt from the man’s back waistband, Bartlett shoved it into his own with the others and strode toward Rule. Everything in him wanted to kill Meade. The bastard had killed his friend. Killed John Checker!

“Leave this piece of scum, A.J. Justice will get all of them.” Rule stepped past the dazed Meade to the door, recognizing the feelings of the Ranger.

Halfway through the door, he stopped and turned back toward the inside of the saloon.

“Gentlemen, tell your friends justice is coming to Caisson. Tell them Lady Holt isn’t going to run things anymore.”

Tossing the retrieved guns into the street, Rule Cordell and A. J. Bartlett rode hard until they cleared the town, both taking turns at checking behind them as they galloped out onto the prairie. Satisfied they were safe for the moment, the two eased their horses into a walk.

Shaking his head, Bartlett said, “Well, that’s one way of letting folks know.” He chuckled. “Why did you put your guns away?”

“It wasn’t my smartest move. I didn’t think Meade had the nerve to pull on me. I knew Hangar didn’t.”

“You wanted him to, didn’t you?”

Rule rode without speaking for a few heartbeats. “I guess I did. It gave me an excuse to hit him.”

“We’d better get your hands into some water. They’ll swell.”

“There’s a spring where Emmett and Rikor are waiting.”

Bartlett held his hand to his forehead and studied the horizon. “What’ll Lady Holt do…when she hears?”

Rule patted the neck of his horse. “She has to send Jaudon and his men after us. I’m guessing he’s coming from Austin.”

“That’ll be more than a handful. What are we going to do?”

“First, we’re going to ride to this Morgan Peale’s ranch and find out what happened to your friend,” Rule said, glancing back over his shoulder. “Then I think we should pay a visit to this lady.”

Bartlett adjusted his gun belt because it didn’t feel right.

“Then we need to see the governor.”

Bartlett’s shoulders rose and fell. “You mean, kill him?”

“No, I mean…get him to resign,” Rule said. “Something’s happened to your captain, too. We need to find out what.”

“I forgot about Captain Temple.” Bartlett licked his lower lip and stared at the land ahead.

Minutes later, they reunited with the two Gardners and shared the news with them. With Bartlett’s reminder, Rule soaked his hands in the cooling spring water. Emmett Gardner was visibly upset and slammed his fist against his thigh; Rikor walked away for a moment to hide his feelings. They agreed to ride for the Peale Ranch and see what had really happened to Checker.

Eight well-armed men burst into Ranger headquarters. Captain Poe jumped in his seat.

“Mornin’, Captain. We need to see you.” The gray-haired man’s mouth was loaded with licorice “Got any coffee, boy?”

Without waiting, Spake Jamison walked over to the stove, grabbed a cup from the shelf and poured a cupful.

“What can I do for you men?” Captain Poe asked, sitting down again, glad he had worn a dark suit today as it hid the wetness around his groin.

“We’re headed for Caisson.” Spake poured sugar into his coffee.

The other seven men spread out in the room. One was also eating licorice. The shortest Ranger walked over to the stove and helped himself to coffee as well.

“Caisson? Oh, going to work for Lady Holt, huh?” Captain Poe asked. “I’m a little surprised, but I’m sure she pays well.” He pointed to his desk. “Been working on getting jobs for all of you Special Forces men. You know, with ranches along the border. It’ll take a few days, but you’ll like the pay, I’m certain. Better than Texas pays, that’s for sure.”

Spake walked over to the desk, swallowing the licorice before washing it down with coffee. “Wrong. Again, Poe. We’re headed to Caisson to help A.J. and those little ranchers. Gonna stop that damn woman.”

Captain Poe wasn’t sure how to react. He looked over at the other former Rangers; each man stared at him. None smiled. The shortest man stirred his coffee with his finger.

“Reckon you didn’t have much of a meetin’ with Citale.” Spake reached inside his shirt with his free hand and pulled out a wrinkled sack of candy. “Licorice, boy?”

The Ranger captain shook his head. “No…ah, no, thank you.” He rubbed his cheek. “I thought my meeting with the governor went quite well.”

Spake grinned; his single eye glared at the lawman. “So you got our jobs back—and Temple’s our boss again.”

“What?”

“You know. Our jobs? As Rangers? You just said the meeting went well,” the older Ranger said. “Maybe you define ‘well’ different than we do.” He cocked his head to the side. “That’s how I’d describe getting our captain out of jail—and his and all of our jobs back. How would you define it?”

The other Rangers supported his comment with strong grunted agreement. Another walked over to the stove for coffee. Captain Poe didn’t like where this was going at all. He didn’t like Spake’s insubordination. Spake didn’t understand how difficult it was to stay on top in Austin. He remembered the old warrior mentioning he was headed for Houston the last time they talked.

“Thought you were headed for Houston, Spake?”

He hadn’t answered Spake’s question, but this might get him off the subject.

“Changed my mind.” Spake took a piece of licorice from the sack and tossed it toward the bearded Ranger. “I asked you a question, boy. I don’t like folks not answering my
questions. I always have the feeling they’ve got something to hide.”

“Is that a threat, Jamison?”

Scratching his chest through his shirt, the old Ranger thought a moment. “That was a statement of fact, Poe.” He adjusted the shotgun quiver strap on his shoulder.

Trying to deflect the intensity of the older man, Captain Poe turned in his chair toward the other former Rangers. “Well, how’d you men like the idea of getting good pay?”

“Poe, let’s quit dancing here. We came for one reason. So you could make us Rangers. Again,” Spake said. “Like I told you, we’re heading for Caisson. So let’s do it. We’ve got some hard riding to do.”

Frowning, Poe threw up his arms. “Make you Rangers? I can’t do that. I’ve already got my full battalion. You know that.”

“No. We don’t.”

“I—I don’t have that kind of bud get. The state of Texas isn’t very generous, I’m afraid.”

“You aren’t listening, boy. We want our badges, not money.”

Captain Poe stood, pushing back his chair. His hands trembled so much he held them behind his back. This was idiocy. Didn’t these men realize how things worked? Didn’t they realize no one could just do what they wanted when they wanted? A grim smile reached his mouth and vanished. Maybe someone like Lady Holt could. But not ordinary men and women.

“Look, men. If I did what you ask, I would be directly insulting the governor.” Captain Poe reinforced the statement with a wave of his right hand and quickly returned it to his back to rejoin the other.

“Harrison Temple refused a direct order from the governor. He was insubordinate and had to be removed,” he continued.
“That was before all this money fraud stuff surfaced. Understand?”

Without thinking about it, he brought both hands forward and waved them wildly. “I am not about to be removed by the governor. You and I don’t know that Jaudon might be a fine Ranger captain with an excellent force of men. We don’t know that.”

He stopped and took a deep breath; most of his fear left with the following exhalation. “I am sorry Jaudon didn’t see fit to ask you to stay on. But that happens. Men are hired—and fired every day. Please. I am trying to find jobs for you on ranches that need protection. It’s the best I can do.”

With another deep breath, he sat in his chair and looked down at his desk. He didn’t look up again until he heard the door slam. They were gone.

“Do not talk to thunder and lightning. Do not challenge thunder and lightning. There is no pity, no caring, no understanding. I do so as a young man only because my vision showed me the Thunder Beings were there to guide me, not hurt me. Few are so chosen,” Stands-In-Thunder said to John Checker in the dark dream that engulfed the Ranger’s wounded body.

In the world of dreams, the old man told Checker part of the war chief’s spiritual connection included never to eat any raw meat, to sing a special song during all storms, always to carry white stones and a hard ball from the buffalo’s stomach into battle and to paint his face and body with lightning bolts and hail marks. His medicine also came from the Sky Beings—and the great Thunderbird itself. Few Comanches would ever challenge the Thunderbird as the old war chief had done.

Suddenly the dream turned ugly and one of the Indians standing beside the old war chief pulled a gun from his robes and began shooting at Checker. Then another pulled a gun from a pipe bag and fired at him, too.

“T
uwikaa
, the raven, no longer tells us where the buffalo have gone,” Stands-In-Thunder pronounced as if nothing were happening. “White soldiers have burned our lodges, and killed our women and our children. You are a white man. You are to blame.”

In his dream, Checker pleaded with the old man as the other Indians began to shoot at him. “I buried you, my father. With your best horse and your finest weapons. I prayed and sang for your spirit passage. I watched your spirit ride toward the great valley of wonder and youth.”

From somewhere came an old brown horse. Someone pushed a sack of food and a silver dollar into his hand and told him to run. Once again, his sister was beside him, wanting to go with him, tears filling her pale face. He promised to return when he could. She wanted something of his, a tangible thing to be his promise.

“Wait, Johnny…please,” Amelia said, her face wet with despair, her eyes bright with fear. “I want something of yours. To hold. Please.”

Grabbing his shirt, she pulled free a button from it. But this time it wouldn’t release and she was swept away into the shadows. Even in his dream, her face was a mere blur now. The only place he could actually see her—or their mother—again was in the small photograph pushed in the lid of his pocket watch.

Over his shoulder, a dark shadow appeared. It wore a bowler hat and held a rifle. Beside the looming shape was a carriage and a single horse breathing fire through its nostrils. The horse burst into flames and became a giant bird.

Checker was suddenly awake.

Where was he? Where were his guns? He shook his head and the ache came back. He was in some kind of sleeping clothes and his wounds were cleaned and wrapped
in bandages. He heard voices in the other room. Was it A.J.? Had the Gardners made it safely to Rule Cordell’s house? How long had he been here?

He looked at himself and remembered getting shot and trying to escape. What happened? His body was weak and pounding with pain. He looked down at himself again and was comforted to see he was wearing Stands-In-Thunder’s medicine pouch.

Lying back on the bed, he drifted again into another tortured dream. His sister was gone, as were his father and his two sons. Only Stands-In-Thunder remained. Checker touched his hand to his cheek and mumbled, “Yes. We fight in…
Llano Estacado
. It was many years back. Don’t you remember?” He used the Spanish name for the Staked Plains where the Comanches once were the lords. The rest of his words were nonsense only his sleeping mind heard.

In the other room, Rule, Bartlett, Emmett and Rikor were talking at the same time, almost delirious about discovering John Checker was not dead but wounded. Emmett had introduced Rule and Bartlett; Morgan had introduced them to London Fiss. Morgan and Fiss explained they thought it was the only way to protect Checker; they didn’t know exactly what had happened or where the Gardners had gone. All of the group were thankful for their help and their smart decision.

The Peale Ranch house was small, but sturdily built from a combination of rough-hewn logs, adobe bricks and flat boards. Two bedrooms were in the main house; London Fiss slept in a room built out from the barn even when Checker wasn’t there. Inside the main house the feeling was warm—and definitely a woman’s.

Fiss studied Rule as the group described what had happened on the trail and in town. Finally, the black man said, “Believe I know you, sir. Or of you.”

The other conversation stopped.

“My cousin, Alexander Morrison. Lives over your way. He told me about you and your wife helping…us. Teaching our children. You stopped one of those awful clans that killed Suitcase…Mr. Eliason.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fiss. Suitcase was a good friend,” Rule responded. “My Aleta enjoyed her time with the children. She said they were bright and eager to learn.”

“It was very much appreciated,” Fiss said, “and please call me London.”

“I’d like that. My name is Rule.”

Rule shared that Eleven Meade said he had dug up Checker’s grave and shot at the body. The gunfighter cocked his head slightly and added that he didn’t think the killer had done so, because it would have taken some serious work.

With a wistful smile, Fiss said, “I was watching him through my field glasses. If he had started digging, I would have killed him.”

The statement was matter-of-fact.

“John Checker saved my life a few years back. I owed him that,” the black man continued, and motioned toward Morgan. “Mrs. Peale, she gave me a chance. I owed her, too.”

Conversation among the group grew once more, mostly about Lady Holt and what was happening. They avoided the subject of Checker’s condition.

“Can we see him?” Bartlett finally asked. His face was years younger in its relief to know his friend was alive.

Morgan frowned. “I don’t know. He’s been asleep since we found him. Or nearly so. Woke up briefly last night. Said something about Apaches. Then a woman…ah, named Amelia, I think. I couldn’t make out the rest.”

“Amelia, that’s his sister’s name,” Bartlett said. “Hasn’t seen her since they were little. Awful tale.”

Morgan smiled at hearing the woman was Checker’s sister
and said, “Mr. Fiss has been treating him with some family remedies. We were afraid to ride for the doctor.”

The black man nodded. “Good remedies, they are. Especially with bullet wounds.” He paused and added, “The only lead in him was in his lower back. The rest were scrapes and burns. Really lucky. None caught anything vital. Got a wound in his left leg. Not from this gunfight. Looks like it’s been treated. Before.” He grimaced. “He’s got some old bullet scars. Not the first time he’s been hit.”

Emmett nodded. “Yeah. Got that hole in his leg fightin’ off Jaudon’s bunch. At my place.”

“The bullet in his back was a short .44.” Fiss put his hand against the lower left corner of his own back. “You don’t see many like that.”

“Eleven Meade.” Rule’s declaration had an ominous ring.

“Yes. I saw one of those Evans rifles in his carriage.” Fiss added, “Shoots a short .44. Shoots a lot of them.”

“How long before John can ride…again?” Bartlett asked.

Fiss looked at Morgan before responding. “He’s a tough man. You know that. But he lost a lot of blood. Awful weak.”

Almost crying, Morgan blurted, “He needs to sleep. To rest.”

“We owe both of you a lot,” Bartlett said. “How can we ever thank you?”

Morgan smiled gently. “Win this war against Lady Holt. Or we all go down.” She told about Eleven Meade delivering a letter from Lady Holt offering to buy her ranch for a cheap price. “I imagine that’s so she can tell others that she tried to buy it…before we got wiped out. I figure Charlie Carlson got the same letter. Got one for you, too.” She swung her fist in the air and grimaced.

Before anyone could respond, she invited them into her
small kitchen for coffee and freshly baked donuts. Rikor was particularly pleased with the offering and had to be reminded by his father to only take one.

Morgan heard the whispered direction and said, “Rikor, there are plenty. Please help yourself. I would feel insulted if you didn’t.”

Glancing at his father for approval, Rikor thanked her and immediately took two donuts.

As they enjoyed the refreshment, Rule turned to Fiss and Morgan with a response to her earlier statement. “A few minutes ago, you said we needed to win. I agree. But that’s going to be more easily said than done, ma’am. We’re going to have to do what she doesn’t expect—and do it swiftly. And we’re going to have to be lucky.”

“What do you have in mind?” she said, putting her coffee mug down on the table.

Rikor sneaked another donut while the others were concentrating on Rule.

“As soon as this Jaudon returns from Austin, she’ll send him and his men on a sweep through here. Emmett’s place. Yours. Carlson’s. She’ll figure this Ranger setup won’t last long—so she’ll strike and strike hard,” Rule said softly.

No one spoke.

Emmett downed the last of his coffee and declared, “Why don’t we jes’ go an’ see that damn governor an’ send him skedaddlin’ out o’ Texas?”

After taking a bite of his donut, Rule responded, “Uncle Emmett, I think that’s a good idea.”

“Ya do?”

“Yes, I do.” Rule took another bite. “But we need to do some changes in Caisson first. Get those arrest warrants changed. Get Captain Temple back in charge of his Ranger force so we’ve got some men to go against hers.”

“I imagine there’s a good bunch of former Rangers all
spitting and fuming right now,” Bartlett said. “Maybe they’ve already started something.”

“Maybe so. We’re going to need them.” Rule took a long swig of coffee and pushed his hat back on his forehead. He wanted to say they were going to need John Checker but didn’t.

Morgan licked her lower lip and looked away. “I don’t see how that’s going to happen. Governor Citale is dug in deep. His alliance with Holt has made him a rich man. Others, too. Railroad men mostly.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Rule said. “But if we stay here, or at Emmett’s, her men will eventually overrun us. Our only weapon is movement and surprise.”

“Doesn’t sound like we’ve got much of a chance,” Emmett growled. “I’d jes’ like to wring…”

He didn’t finish the statement.

“All right, I’m in.” Morgan folded her arms. “Tell me what to do.”

Fiss walked over beside her. “I ride for Mrs. Peale.”

“Mr. Fiss, I don’t expect you…”

“I know you don’t, but I must.”

Rule frowned and sipped his coffee. “You know they might burn your place, Mrs. Peale. And make you an outlaw again, London.”

A noise in the other room stopped the conversation.

“What’s that?” Bartlett said, and spun toward the unseen disturbance.

“It came from John’s room!” Morgan headed in that direction before the statement was completely out of her mouth.

Everyone hurried toward the bedroom where John Checker had been sleeping. Rikor hesitated and grabbed another donut before leaving the kitchen. In the narrow room, Checker, already in his pants and boots, was putting on a shirt. His medicine pouch, dangling from his neck,
bounced against his chest. His Comanche war tunic lay folded at the top of an old dresser, along with his rifle, gun belt and hat.

“John, what in the hell are you doing!” Bartlett said, and hurried into the room, passing Morgan. “You’ve got no business being up.”

Checker stared at him and frowned. “A.J., it’s mighty good to see you, too. I’m all right. A little stiff, that’s all. Where am I?”

“You’re in my home.” Morgan rushed past Bartlett and stood beside the wounded Ranger. “John Checker, you get back in bed.” She touched Checker’s arm and left it there.

Smiling weakly at her, he continued to put on his shirt.

“He gonna be all right?” Rikor asked, poking his head into the room and munching another donut.

“Guess that’s gonna be up to the good Lord—and Mrs. Morgan an’ Mr. Fiss hyar,” Emmett said.

Ignoring Morgan’s concerns as well, Fiss told Checker what had happened, including the news of Sil Jaudon being named a captain of the Rangers and of Captain Temple being dismissed and arrested—and the faking of the Ranger’s death to give them some time for him to heal.

Waving her arms in frustration, Morgan told him again to lie down and rest.

Stepping into the room and standing next to his father, Rikor grinned awkwardly and mumbled Checker wouldn’t get any donuts if he didn’t do what she said.

Shaking her head, Morgan took a step closer. “You need to rest, John Checker.”

“No, I need a horse. Mine’s dead. I remember that. I can pay.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re lucky to be alive. You look like you’ve got a fever.” She reached up to touch his forehead, but his smile stopped her.

Edging closer, the black man explained how Rule expected Lady Holt to send her men to check out the Peale Ranch, that she wouldn’t take Meade’s word for his death. He thought they would move on Emmett’s ranch and take control of it.

“Meade? Eleven Meade? The New Mexico gunman?”

“Yes, that’s the one. He even came to Mrs. Peale’s ranch and delivered a letter from Lady Holt. An offer to buy her place. An insulting one, of course,” Fiss said. “He also wanted to know about you.”

Checker asked, “He’s the one…who got behind me…isn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s the one. Quite proud of telling people in Caisson that he killed you. Sheriff Hangar backed him up, saying you were wanted dead or alive.”

Checker tucked his shirttails into his waistband. “Where are my guns?”

Fiss pointed at them.

Stepping toward his weapons, the Ranger stopped. “Instead of asking questions, I should be thanking you—and Mrs. Peale. You saved my life.”

Morgan turned toward him and smiled. “That’s not necessary. You Rangers are trying to save all of us from that awful woman.”

“I’m not a Ranger. I’m an outlaw.”

Her mouth opened, but she didn’t know how to respond.

Checker buckled on his gun belt, shoved his second gun into his back waistband and looked over at Rule Cordell, who was standing quietly, with his arms crossed, in the doorway.