Ride for Rule Cordell (17 page)

“I see,” Seitmeyer said. “Do you know where this Meade fellow is now?”

Checker grinned. “When I go outside, I’ll look under the first rock I see.”

Without further probing, Checker explained what had happened, that they were moving Emmett’s family to a safe place after the attack by Holt’s men, led by Jaudon. He said six Holt riders were trying to intercept their escape and he rode to stop them. He made the mistake of not watching his back. Meade had tried to kill him at that time.

Seitmeyer scribbled in his notebook, looked up and said, “I trust you are all right, Ranger Checker.”

“I’m all right.”

“That’s good. For all of us, sir. Your reputation is known—and respected,” Seitmeyer said. “I have a question for the sheriff, if you don’t mind.”

“Please go ahead. I’m sure Sheriff Hangar will be happy to help.”

“This morning you told me Rule Cordell was an outlaw and was part of Emmett Gardner’s rustling operation. You insisted I write a story about it.” He paused and added, “You said Lady Holt wanted it done. Did I miss anything?”

Snickering followed and the closest cowboy whooped, slapped his thigh and apologized for the reaction.

Hangar turned white and waved his hands urgent. “I—I didn’t have all the facts.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” the editor said. “So, you don’t want me to run a story about Rule Cordell being an outlaw—and a part of the Emmett Gardner rustling operation—is that correct?”

Laughter spat through the room and Hangar winced.

Opat shifted in the chair behind the bench. He glanced at the dry goods store woman and smiled his best smile. She ignored the attempt at connection, choosing the moment to say something to the blacksmith sitting beside her. He nodded and looked at Opat.

Damn, the judge thought. Why did he let Lady Holt talk him into coming to Caisson? He had built a nice legal practice in Austin. A profitable one. She had come to see him, paid for the visit and told him of her plans. When first hearing them, he wanted to laugh. King was building a cattle empire in middle Texas and this British woman wanted to make him look like a two-bit farmer. The opportunity was there, he saw that in her plan. For the right person with the right instincts—and the ability to destroy anyone in the way. Still, a woman? A woman from En gland, no less?

What finally convinced him to go with Lady Holt was the revelation of her relationship with Governor Citale. He knew the man was weak—and crooked. But she planned to turn him into a weapon. Opat’s own checking supported her claim. He had come to Claisson, opened a practice and was immediately recommended for the open municipal judge position. Judge Diales had been shot and killed two weeks earlier. No one knew who or why.

Hangar had joined the conspiracy a month later. Opat seemed to be the only one in town who knew he was wanted for fraud in Tennessee.

It had been a good run, he told himself. If he was lucky, the Ranger would let him leave. That’s what Checker had said. He didn’t seem like a man who made promises lightly. John Checker was known throughout Texas. Fearless. Honest. Driven by something no one quite knew. And sometimes, he was violent. Opat had heard the stories. Who hadn’t? Some said he was better with a gun than anyone in Texas. Better than Allison. Than Harding. The only gun warrior who might be as good—or better—was Rule Cordell. And he was working with Checker.

Opat shivered and wished the killer Meade had done what he bragged he had accomplished. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to concentrate on Morgan’s ending testimony.

“…if a fellow was going to steal beef, he’d do it with mine. There’s just me and a good friend helping me. Everybody around knows Holt has gunmen…everywhere. Nobody’s going to be stupid enough to steal from her. Nobody. And you know it, Judge.”

Hunching his shoulders, Opat said, “Anything further from the prosecution?” He didn’t wait for Hangar to respond. “Hearing none, I rule in favor of the defendant. There is no
basis for the rustling charge against Mr. Gardner. I declare this matter dismissed.”

From the back of the room, Emmett grinned and said, “ ’Bout time we got some justice outta the bastard.”

Several in the audience turned to congratulate him; loudest were the two Triple C cowboys.

“When we’re finished here,” Checker said, “we’ll go to Hangar’s office and pick up the wanted posters—and burn them.”

One of the cowboys yelled, “We’ll help ya tear down the ones they put up. Charlie’ll be real happy to hear ’bout this.”

“Wires will go out to surrounding towns. From you, Judge. And you, Hangar,” Checker added.

Hangar nodded and leaned down to scratch his right leg. The movement reminded Opat that the crooked lawman carried a short-barreled Scofield revolver in a special holster built into his boot. Did they check him for hideaways? Should he tell Checker about the gun? The questions popped into Opat’s mind. No one would expect him to know of such a weapon, so he wouldn’t say anything. If Hangar got lucky and shot Checker, everything would change. At least until Rule came back.

The roosterlike judge banged his gavel and announced, “This court will now hear evidence concerning the deaths of…ah, three Holt…ah, cowhands. Accused of their deaths are John Checker and…ah, Bartlett…A. J. Bartlett.” He leaned forward. “This court will now hear the prosecution’s statement—and evidence. Sheriff Hangar, please proceed.”

Wilson Tanner, the well-dressed attorney, strolled toward the courthouse. He and Opat were planning on lunch together, a frequent activity. It was an easy way to exchange information, something Lady Holt considered as important as gold. Both were in Lady Holt’s employ; both were pragmatic about it.

As he walked along the planked sidewalk, he noticed two armed men standing outside the courthouse. A white man in a long black coat and a black man. They were talking quietly to each other while watching passersby. Resting in the black man’s crossed arms was a double-barreled shotgun. He was vaguely familiar to Tanner. Where had he seen him before? Of course. He was Morgan Peale’s hired man.

The other man? The white man. He didn’t know.

Yes, he was certain. The black man was with the woman rancher every time she came to town. Of course, he didn’t go into any of the stores. For a black man, that wasn’t allowed. He just waited. What was he doing there? What were the two of them doing there? If the black man was in town, Morgan Peale would be as well. Was she inside the court? Doing what?

He touched the brim of his hat in greeting to the two passing couples and headed across the street. Sheriff Hangar would know what was going on. He always did. A fast-moving carriage made him stop and wait for its passing. He fumed but held his temper. It was one of his strengths, he told himself. On the far side of the main street, he headed for the lawman’s office.

A glimpse through the window of Hangar’s office warned him again. A man sat behind the sheriff’s desk, drinking coffee. A shotgun lay on top of the desk. It looked as though Hangar’s deputies were each sitting in a cell. He didn’t see Hangar. What the hell was going on? Who was that man?

Tanner continued walking past the closed door and window, trying to think. The man had to be the Ranger who rode with John Checker. Had to be. Yes. Bartlett. What was he doing in town? He was wanted for murder. Was it just a coincidence that he and the Peale hand were in town at the same time, both at key locations?

Hardly.

Something was going on and it wasn’t good. What should he do? He wasn’t carrying a gun. Never did. Three or four Holt gunmen would be in the No. 8 Saloon. It was part of Lady Holt’s strategy to keep pressure on the town. Quick responses, if needed. There wasn’t much she didn’t think of. Caisson was vital to her plans for control. Only three ranches remained in this region. He knew she was already thinking about expansion beyond. Twice he had heard her refer to herself as “Queen of Texas.”

He pulled on his vest to straighten it and headed for the saloon. Once he reported the situation, he was done. Whatever Lady Holt’s men decided to do was fine. He had more than done his job: providing information.

She would pay well for that. Perhaps with herself. He longed for that pleasure. So far it had only been a tease.

The saloon was gray and the wall oil lamps were struggling to provide light to match the outside. He entered slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the darker atmosphere. There shouldn’t be any sense of distress. She never liked panic, or signs of it. She preferred careful, methodical action. So be it. At the back of the room were three men sitting at a table, playing cards. Luke Dimitry saw him and alerted the others.

Minutes later, the three Holt gunmen left the saloon with Tanner’s information ringing in their ears. He moved to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Drinking this early in the day was not his style, but a drink seemed like a good idea. Afterward, he would check the telegraph office for any new wires and ride out to see Lady Holt. She would want to know about this. Of course, he would wait until her gunmen took care of the situation.

Inside the sheriff’s office, A. J. Bartlett stood and headed toward the stove for another cup of coffee. Sheriff Hangar’s two deputies sat in one of the cells. Neither looked up, or spoke, as he passed. When the courtroom hearings were finished, Hangar’s two assistants would be released. Bartlett knew they were employed by the British woman; that was common knowledge. Still, they hadn’t been involved in the attempt to destroy Emmett’s family, so they would be allowed to ride away. Nobody expected them to ride any farther than the Holt Ranch.

Halfway across the busy street, the three Holt gunmen spread out and walked slowly, cutting in and out of passing traffic. After they took over the jail, they would head to the courtroom building. They moved easily. Confidently. Most likely this was some kind of attempt to retake the town. Lady Holt had expected it and ordered them to be especially on guard for strange-appearing actions. The promise of a
bonus was added to the direction. It was clear she didn’t have much confidence in Hangar’s ability to handle anything stressful.

Wearing an old Navajo coat, Luke Dimitry slid behind a rumbling freight wagon, watching the two men outside the court as he moved. The half-breed knew who they were: London Fiss and Rule Cordell. He had no intention of facing them. That was suicide. Once they had retaken the jail, he would have the deputies go and ask them to move on. While that exchange was going on, he and his two comrades would sneak into the courtroom from the back door. There, they would be able to determine what was happening. Maybe Judge Opat was being forced out by some townsmen.

He didn’t want anyone inside the jail to know they were coming until they hit the door. From what the fancy attorney said, there was only one man inside. The other Ranger, the educated one. They reached the planked sidewalk and Dimitry motioned for the skinny gunman with crossed bullet bandoliers to make his move.

The gunman slipped to the back of the jail as planned. Once there, he stood against the adobe wall and said, “Alex, this is Sonny. Is the Ranger close? Is he watching?”

“Naw. Drinking coffee. By the stove,” the jailed deputy whispered.

“Good. I’m going to push a gun through the bars. You catch it. All right?” the skinny gunman said, glancing around to make sure no one was watching.

“Say when.”

“Here she comes.” He stood on his tiptoes, eased the handle of the revolver between the bars, holding it by the long barrel, and let it go.

“Got it. What’s next?”

Looking around again, the skinny gunman told him to wrap something around the barrel to hold down the noise and wait, that they were coming in the front door in about two minutes. He walked away, stopped and coughed, holding his hand against his mouth to minimize the noise. The other two were waiting in the alley.

“He get it?” Dimitry asked.

“Yeah. He’s ready. Waiting for us.”

“Should’ve got one to Lamon, too.” The gunman with the long scar on his face tugged on the brim of his flattened hat.

The half-breed responded with a curse and said, “Yeah, an’ you might’ve handed off a gun right to that Ranger, too.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“Give me one of those towels.”

The scarred gunman distributed three towels taken from the saloon and each man wrapped one around his gun. Satisfied with their readiness, Dimitry jerked his head for the other two to follow him and went to the sheriff’s locked door.

Knock! Knock!

“Sheriff! There’s trouble in one of the saloons!”

He was certain the call for help would yield an immediate response.

“The sheriff isn’t here. I’m sorry,” Bartlett said from the other side of the door.

“Please, sir. You’re a Ranger. We need your help. Please. It’s Lady Holt’s men.”

“Coming. Hold your horses.” Bartlett grabbed the shotgun from the desk.

“Please hurry. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

The heavy oak door swung open to the office.

Inside, the deputy with the sneaked-in gun fired. Bartlett grimaced and spun toward the cell and fired a barrel of his gun. He twirled back toward the door too slowly as the
three gunmen pushed through the opening, pouring bullets into him.

The Ranger fired the second barrel as he fell. The skinny gunman screamed and grabbed his bloody face.

Pulling the smoking towel from his gun, Dimitry stomped on the garment to put out the flames. He shoved the second gunman. “Let’s get outta here! Rule Cordell will be coming fast!”

“Rule Cordell? You’re kidding,” the second gunman said.

“He was standing outside the courtroom. That damn shotgun blast will bring him—and the black man. Do what you want. I’m leaving.” Dimitry turned and headed outside.

“Hey! Let me out!” The deputy looked stunned by the suddenness of the attack and the immediate retreat. He stared at Bartlett and the skinny gunman and the widening circle of blood beneath both of them.

The second gunman hesitated and followed. As he stepped to the opened doorway, a blood-soaked Bartlett groaned and raised his arm, enough to draw his revolver. His hand shook as he fired. The scarred gunman staggered into the sidewalk. Bartlett’s hand couldn’t hold the heavy gun any longer and it thudded to the floor.

He gasped and said, “I—I a-am a Ranger.”

From the courtroom building, Rule and Fiss came running. The street had already become empty as people realized the noise from the sheriff’s office meant trouble. In six strides, Rule was ten feet ahead of Fiss, drawing his revolvers as he ran. From the front door of the courthouse, Checker emerged. The look on his face was tense. He, too, knew what the booming sounds from the jail meant.

“Emmett, stay here. Watch Opat and Hangar. Opat, finish this hearing. I’ll be back,” he yelled, and ran after the men halfway down the sidewalk.

The sudden movement made him light-headed and he grabbed his side as new pain struck the wound. His hand came away with fresh blood. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. He had a bad feeling they were too late to help his friend.

Reaching the opened sheriff’s office, Rule wheeled inside with a cocked revolver in each hand. His gaze absorbed the awful results of the Holt attack, then studied the town for signs of movement. The only thing he saw, on this end of main street, were two dogs chasing each other. In the window of the barbershop, three men watched; one turned away as soon as Rule looked in their direction.

Nothing would be gained now looking for whoever escaped. He stepped past the groaning gunman with the scar on his face. The man held both hands to his stomach to hold in the blood that wanted out. Rule walked past the dead, skinny gunman, whose face was a red mask. He sought A. J. Bartlett.

“Oh, A.J.,” he muttered, and hurried to the still, bloody body.

Laying his guns on the floor, Rule knelt beside the dying Ranger and cradled him in his arms. “My God, they set you up. From front and back—and you still managed to get three of them,” he said. His next words were a whispered prayer to God to welcome the Ranger’s soul.

Behind him, a frozen deputy finally managed to speak. “I—I d-didn’t have anything t-to…do with th-this. H-honest, I d-didn’t.”

Rule’s face was a hot snarl. “You mean your friends didn’t have time to get you out. How many got away? One? Two? Don’t lie to me.”

“Ah…just one. It was one. Dimitry. Luke Dimitry. H-he works for L-Lady Holt.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I—I d-don’t know. H-he ran…south.”

Rule’s attention was drawn to Bartlett. The dying Ranger’s eyes fluttered open and he tried to speak.

“Rest easy, old friend. We’ll have the doctor in here.”

Bartlett shook his head. “No. I-t’s too late. T-tell John…I’m s-sorry I…c-can’t stay around. I—I sure…would’ve liked to.”

“Hang on, A.J. Hang on.”

“Did you g-get the h-hearings d-done? I-s…Emmett s-still w-wanted…for r-rustling?” Bartlett grabbed Rule’s arm.

Swallowing, Rule told him the hearings were over, that the charge against Emmett was dropped—and so were the charges against Checker and Bartlett. Then he added they had just received a wire and both men had been reinstated as Rangers. It was a lie, but one he wanted to say. Needed to say.

Bartlett patted his arm weakly. “P-pray for me…will you?”

Rule started to tell him that he already had, but realized Bartlett was dead. At the doorway, Fiss appeared, holding his shotgun.

The black man shook his head and stared at the various guns on the floor, all wrapped in towels. One was still smoking.

“Well, they figured on shooting whoever was here—and we wouldn’t have known it until it was too late. A.J…” Fiss didn’t finish the statement.

Through the doorway came John Checker, almost out of breath. His dark eyes took in the scene and locked on to Bartlett in Rule’s arms. “Is he?”

“Yes. Died in my arms. Told me to tell you that he was sorry he couldn’t stay.” Rule lowered his head. “Only wanted to know if Emmett’s charge was dropped.” The gunfighter
looked up at the tall Ranger. “Told him it was—and I told him he was a Ranger…again.”

Checker’s mouth was a slit. He stared down at the wounded gunman and kicked him in the stomach. “Get that gun of yours, you bastard. You can forget the towel.” He spat; his eyes were hard. “Let’s see how good you are when you’re
facing
a Ranger.” He kicked him again. “Get up—or I’ll shoot you right there.”

Into his hand, the black-handled Colt appeared.

“No, John. A.J. wouldn’t want that.” Rule’s voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Checker’s shoulders rose and fell. Twice. He shuddered as he struggled to bring his rage under control. Fiss watched him from next to the dead deputy’s cell. His shotgun was held at his side. He was almost motionless; only his cheeks showed movement as he bit them to hold in his feelings.

“I’m sorry, John,” Fiss said. “He was a man to ride the river with.”

Checker tried to answer but couldn’t.

After easing Bartlett’s head back on the floor, Rule closed the Ranger’s unmoving eyes. He stood, saw his own pistols and leaned over to retrieve them, shoving one into its holster and the other into his waistband. He looked at Checker and his eyes asked what the Ranger wanted to do next.

Checker’s return gaze was full of hurt as he walked toward Bartlett and knelt beside him. “I’ll miss you, my friend. You kept me balanced. You always had my back.” He took a deep breath. “I should’ve had yours.” He bit his lower lip and recited, “ ‘
Your
strength is as the strength of ten, because
your
heart is pure.’ ”