Ride for Rule Cordell (15 page)

“You must be Rule Cordell,” Checker said.

“I am, John Checker. Been looking forward to meeting you.”

Rule held out his hand and Checker shook it.

After putting on his Comanche tunic and grabbing his
hat, Checker turned to the exasperated ranch woman. “Mrs. Peale, I can’t thank you—and London—enough for what you did. You made yourselves a big enemy in Lady Holt. But I reckon you know that—and that you already were.” Removing the bandage tied around his forehead, he returned his hat to his head.

“Only a fool wouldn’t want to stay here and be waited on by such a beautiful woman,” he continued, “but I’ve got work to do.”

He patted Rule on the shoulder and they walked together into the next room. As they did, Rule touched the medicine pouch under Checker’s shirt and then his own medicine pouch under his shirt. He said something no one understood. Strange words.

Bartlett thought it was a Comanche blessing, but the only two words he knew for sure were
muea
, Comanche for “moon” and
rami
, Comanche for “brother.” He heard Checker repeat the message.

As he followed the two gunfighters to the doorway, Rikor turned toward Bartlett and, through a mouth of donut, asked him what they had just said to each other. The Ranger explained it was a Comanche warrior blessing he had heard a long time ago. It connects the power of the moon to a man’s heart and makes it strong, he said.

Rikor stared at the gunfighters as if not believing, but not daring to challenge the statement.

Fiss watched him and shook his head. “I don’t think that En glishwoman has any idea of what she’s stirred up. John Checker and Rule Cordell.”

Lady Holt had just finished her phoenix ritual when Sheriff Hangar and Eleven Meade arrived at her ranch house. She was strolling from the red ceremonial room when she heard the knocking at the front door.

“Ill get it, Elliott,” she yelled, and strode to the heavy wood entrance. Looking away, she said softly, “Iva Lee, do you think it’s Emmett Gardner giving me his ranch? Or that foolish Peale woman?” Her laugh followed her approach.

“Well, good afternoon, Sheriff, what brings you to my land today?” She glanced at Meade holding his white cat. “I’m sure you’re here to collect your money—or advise me of the status of your assignment.”

Meade managed to say, “Checker’s dead” before Hangar declared, “Got some bad news. Somethin’ nobody expected.”

“You mean
you
didn’t expect,” Lady Holt said. “Come in. I was just about to have my afternoon tea.” She looked again at Meade. “Or do you need to be traveling? Elliott has your payment. I’ll call him.”

Eleven Meade bit his lower lip and smiled, more of a thin grin. “I’ll stay if you don’t mind, m’lady. You might have another assignment for me.”

“I see.”

He leaned over and let the cat loose. “Discover the world, my precious.”

Sitting around the elegant mahogany coffee table in the main room of the house, the threesome enjoyed hot tea and dainty cookies made by her chef. Elliott served them on fine Italian china. Hangar asked for three spoons of sugar, Meade a squeeze of fresh lemon. Lady Holt’s tea was laced with a spoon of sugar and a touch of cream, before presenting it to her; Elliott didn’t ask.

In the center of the table was a fresh display of prairie lackspur, rain lilies, scarlet pimpernel, Mexican gold poppies and wisteria. She loved the mixture of color and insisted on her considerable garden being harvested for the best blooms each day.

The quiet black man said something to her in Latin; she nodded and he left. She studied both men before finally asking what the problem was.

“Rule Cordell.”

“Rule Cordell?” she repeated. “If memory serves me right, he’s dead. One of those wild pistoleros who popped up in Texas after the war. What’s that got to do with me?”

Sipping the tea, Hangar explained about Cordell and his appearance in Caisson. Her lack of reaction surprised him. He was expecting a vicious outburst.

“So, Rule Cordell now owns Emmett Gardner’s ranch,” she said, more to herself than to either man. “And Gardner has left the region.”

“Looks that way.” Hangar reached for another cookie.

“And you were afraid to kill him. This Rule Cordell.” Her cold words stopped his advance on the plate.

Meade snickered. “No, he tried. Cordell was ready—and too good. For three of your men. That other Ranger…Bartlett…he was with him.”

“I see. And you?” She stared at Meade.

The hired killer’s face was taut. “Actually I
was
going to kill him. For you. But I wasn’t going up against two guns.”

“That isn’t how it happened, Meade,” Hangar said. “Cordell knocked your gun away and hit you to the floor. It was something to see. Slammed him silly.”

“I didn’t see you trying anything.” Meade stared at the lawman.

“Gentlemen, I really don’t care—or have time for this,” Lady Holt said, waving her hands for emphasis. “Do you know where this Rule Cordell was going? You said he left town. Was he headed for Gardner’s ranch? I assume you checked on the validity of his claim.”

“Yes to both. Hires said it was all legal and buttoned up. He left town with that other Ranger, but I don’t know where they were going.”

“And you didn’t follow him.” Lady Holt’s eyes tightened around Hangar’s face.

“I…ah, I…no, I didn’t,” Hangar said. “Thought I’d better come out here to make sure you knew about him.”

Lady Holt sipped her tea. “And you thought I’d rather hear about him coming, than hear you took care of him.”

Meade smiled.

“Well, ah, no, I…ah, I…”

“Never mind. Jaudon should be back from Austin tomorrow. All of his men are officially Rangers—or we can say they are. I’ll have them take out this Rule Cordell and take over the Gardner Ranch at the same time.” She placed her teacup on the table. “Eleven, did you deliver the letter to that Peale woman as I asked?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me how you know John Checker is dead.”

Rubbing his hands together, Meade explained what had happened at the Peale Ranch and his subsequent inspection
of the Checker burial, ending with his shooting into the dead man’s face.

She stood and looked down at the killer. “So you always carry a shovel with you?”

“What?”

“I asked if you carry a shovel in your carriage.” Her mouth was a slit with a snarl appearing at the right corner. “Surely you didn’t dig him up with your bare hands.”

Meade glanced at the amused sheriff and said, “No, I don’t—and I didn’t. I made the colored man do it. The one who works for the Peale woman.”

Her smirk disappeared.

“He didn’t want to…but he did.” Meade patted the holstered pistol at his hip.

Lady Holt ran her hands over her gold-striped blouse, looked down at herself and said, “You think she beds that black?”

Meade was happy to have her attention on something else. But how would he know if the woman was involved with her hired hand? All he knew for certain was London Fiss was a formidable man who would protect her with his last breath. He shivered. Facing such a man was not something he wished to do.

“Here’s what I want you to do, Hangar.” Lady Holt was focused on the lawman again.

She began to pace, rattling off what she expected. Hangar was to get Judge Opat to issue a warrant for Rule Cordell’s arrest and wire the governor to have Cordell’s pardon revoked. After that, he was to go to the town’s newspaper editor and tell him about the outlaw coming to town and being a part of Emmett Gardner’s rustling operation. She made it clear Hangar was to insist on the story being run. What wasn’t said was that Henry Seitmeyer, the editor, was his own man.

Hangar looked as if he had been slapped in the face. Why did he have to do all the dirty work?

Lady Holt’s directive to Meade was simple. “Find this A. J. Bartlett and kill him. I’ll pay you the same as the other Ranger.”

Meade nodded, stood and nudged Hangar to respond the same way. As they started to leave, she said, “Wait. Where does this Rule Cordell live? Do you know?” Her smile was radiant, her eyes wide and bright. “That’s where Emmett Gardner and his stupid sons are hiding. Has to be.”

Hangar and Meade stood in the hallway, both unsure of what she wanted.

“Ah, Hires said the deed was written up in…ah, Clark Springs,” Hangar said.

“That’s it, then. Eleven, I want you to ride there,” Lady Holt demanded. “You can be there by morning.” She nodded agreement at her own thinking. “Find where he lives. Then wire me. I’ll decide what happens next. Don’t kill him ’til I tell you to.”

Hangar was relieved. His assignments seemed easier by contrast.

Meade straightened his cravat. “You’re going to have to be more clear, m’lady. Is this project in addition to the Bartlett assignment—or instead of? Either way, what are you going to pay me for this search? It might be quite timeconsuming.”

Lady Holt’s expression transformed from enthusiastic to vengeful. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze homed in on the hired killer.

“Maybe I should just have Ranger Captain Jaudon arrest you for murder?” The snarl reappeared at the corner of her mouth.

Meade’s first impulse was to challenge the statement with his own threat. “Well, now, what’s to keep me from shooting
you—and your darling star packer here—taking my money and leaving?” He rested his right hand on the pearl handle of his holstered gun. “What would you say to that, m’lady?”

“I would say turn around. Real slow. Elliott doesn’t like quickness.”

“
Cor aut more.
” The phrase came from behind the killer.

“That’s Latin for ‘heart or death.’ Interesting choice of words, huh? In case you didn’t look, Elliott is holding a shotgun. Is it cocked, Elliott? Ah yes, it is.”

Meade chuckled. “Touché, m’lady.”

“Find where Rule Cordell lives—and I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”

“For that, I’d kill him.”

“I’ll remember you said that.” She smiled and ran her fingers through her hair. “Oh, Elliott, please give Mr. Meade his money—and after you’ve seen them out, please find Mr. Moore. Have him come and see me. I need his report on his meeting with Charlie Carlson.” Her smile was lustful.

It was midmorning when Eleven Meade pulled up in front of the first saloon he saw upon entering the town of Clark Springs. He was tired and dirty. He couldn’t remember when he last drove so long in such a short time. Something about Lady Holt made a man do things he didn’t want to do. Ah, but the money was good. Very good.

A drink, something to eat and a bath were his priorities. After that, he would check into finding Rule Cordell’s home. He didn’t think it would be hard to do. A nap would also be wonderful, but he wouldn’t allow himself that pleasure. Not yet.

Unlike Lady Holt, he didn’t expect to find much there. Anything, actually. He figured Emmett Gardner had taken his sons and gone on, probably heading toward New Mexico. Santa Fe, likely. And not Nebraska as the fool Hires had reported. He smiled. If Lady Holt wanted him to do so, he could return there and find them.

His apartment in Santa Fe wasn’t much, but it was home when he wasn’t working. Like now. He wrapped the reins of his tired horse around the hitching rack and strolled inside,
telling his cat to remain in the carriage. The happy noise of the saloon always pleased him. Comforting.

An open table caught his eye and he moved to it, slid into a chair and let his body relax. Soon a Mexican waitress came to find out what he wanted; she was also offering herself in the back. He snorted and said he was too tired and just wanted a drink and something to eat. Then he changed his mind.

“Say, I’m looking for Rule Cordell. He’s an old friend. Heard he lived here. In Clark Springs. Do you know him?” He handed her a coin and she took it, slipping it between her breasts visible above the wrinkled peasant blouse.

“
Sí, senor
. All know of ze great Rule Cordell. He ees a pistolero. He ees a preacher. Ah, he ees, what you call eet…a hoss man,” she said, tossing her long black hair as she spoke.

He handed her another coin. “Good. That’s good. Do you know where he lives?”

She thought for a moment and said she needed to check with someone. After talking with a hard-looking vaquero in the far corner of the long bar, she returned and told him where to find the Cordell house. He paid her again and asked for a bottle and whatever they were serving for food.

After eating, he left, found the town public bath, a service in the back of the barbershop, and bathed. Completing his initial self-prescribed tasks, he returned to his horse and carriage. The animal looked tired, so Meade headed to the livery and exchanged horses, paying in advance for the stable manager to feed and water his horse.

There was no hurry. Lady Holt would be wired after he went to the Cordell house and found it empty. Of that, he was certain.

The directions were easy to follow and he soon found
himself overlooking a small house with three corrals, a windmill and several outbuildings. He reined the horse within a narrow crease in a mile-long ridge that yo-yoed across the prairie. Viewing the entire ranch yard would be excellent from here, he decided.

After laying out a saddle blanket carefully on the ground, he straightened it several times and stretched out on the blue-and-green fabric. He withdrew his two pistols and positioned himself to study the ranch and its empty yard through his field glasses. The guns were placed at his side to allow for more comfort as he lay.

No Rule Cordell. At least not in sight.

In his mind, he began drafting the wire he would send to Lady Holt. After an hour, he decided he had watched long enough. Only a few children had ever emerged from the house to play hide-and-seek. If the former outlaw was in the house, he was apparently not coming out. The only thing to do was to ride down there and find out.

He would present himself as a horse buyer from Austin. If Cordell was there, he would return here and wait to kill him. That would definitely please Lady Holt. The price would be fair, even though the act was done before she told him to do it. If he didn’t get the chance—or Cordell wasn’t there—he would drive back to town and wire her what he knew and ask for orders.

After returning his revolvers to their holsters, he stood and wiped imaginary dust from his coat and sleeves. He straightened his cravat and his hat. When this was over, he would go back to the saloon and have a nice time with that Mexican waitress. He deserved it. Grabbing the blanket and folding it carefully, he carried it back to the carriage and laid the garment on the carriage floor.

Where was his rifle? He left it in the carriage with his cat,
he was certain. He looked at the ground on all sides of the stationary vehicle. This didn’t make sense.

From behind a large boulder stepped a handsome woman with snapping black eyes and black hair pulled back into a single mane on her back. In her hands were two pistols. Silver-plated and pearl-handled. A few steps behind her came the vaquero from the saloon, holding the Evans rifle in his hands.

“You come lookeeng for
mío
husband.” Aleta’s words were a meanacing challenge.

Taking a deep breath, Meade introduced himself as a horse buyer from Austin.

“Do you always look from ze hidden place?”

Licking his lips, Meade took off his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know how it must look. But I like to be careful. Found it’s easier to look at a man’s horses…when he isn’t standing right there, telling me how good they are. You know…” His voice trailed off.

“Is eet so important to carry so many guns when you do thees…thees horse buying?”

“Well, I’ve found it’s better to be safe than sorry,” Meade said, avoiding her eyes.

Actually he found her to be more fearsome than the silent man holding his rifle. There was something about her that made him shiver. He noticed the vaquero had not cocked the rifle in his hands. That was good. Very good.

“I’ve a letter from your husband. About selling me horses,” Meade said. “Let me show it to you. I represent a large rancher there. He wants only the best mounts.”

Without asking, he reached into his coat, smoothly drew the short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver from its shoulder holster and brought it forward with his coat hiding his real intent.

This would be easy. After all, he was “Eleven,” the chosen one. Eleven was a master number in astrology and numerology, he had been told by his parents. Others looked to those who were “Eleven” for inspiration.

He would kill her first, then the foolish man who had told on him. The gun had been named “Illumination” in honor of his special presence. The black nose of the pearl-handled gun with its strange markings and a left-handed loading gate cleared his coat.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The impact of Aleta’s bullets drove him backward. His bowler spun from his head as if it had its own life. He staggered and tried to fire his own gun. His eyes were blurring. What was wrong? No one could stop Eleven. He had known this since he was a child. His gun finally exploded, missing the woman before him.

Two more bullets, one from each gun in her hands, smashed into his chest, inches from the first three.

He staggered backward. His gun was too heavy and slipped from his fingers and thudded on the ground. Blood slipped from his mouth and he collapsed.

“I—I—I…a-am…E—Eleven. I—I am…L-Light…B-Bea…”

His eyes stared unseeing at the midday sky.

Aleta walked over to him, keeping her guns pointed at the unmoving body. She pulled his second revolver from its hip holster and tossed it. “You ees a murderer. It does not matter what number you ees.” She stepped back. “
Mío
husband has never written a letter to anyone in Austin.”

She spun on her heel and thanked the hard-looking Mexican in Spanish. He said again Rule had told him to keep a lookout for any strangers coming to town asking about him. She nodded and said they would go to the town marshal to
report the attempt on her life. A wire to Rule would inform him of what had happened.

“What do you think he meant by saying he ees ‘eleven’?” she asked.

“No
comprende
.”

Aleta stared at the carriage. “We weel need to see if someone in town wants a cat.”