Ride for Rule Cordell (2 page)

Even the shotgun had been carefully chosen because of its firepower and its threatening appearance. He wasn’t nearly as good with a handgun as Checker. Few were. Supposedly, the Confederate cavalryman-turned-outlaw, Rule Cordell, was. So were John Wesley Hardin and Clay Allison. Rule Cordell wasn’t dead as previously reported and was now a preacher, or so Ranger reports had confirmed. Facing each other wouldn’t be anything any of them would want.

“Saw you introducing the fellow to the stars,” Bartlett said, pointing with the gun at the unconscious gunman. “Thought I’d see what you had in mind—and introduce you to a couple of lads I just ran into.”

The Ranger waved and an eight-year-old boy and a lanky young man of eighteen appeared from the darkness. The young man held a Henry carbine in his hands; he looked
comfortable with it. A long-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver was shoved into his pocket.

“You remember Rikor, John. And this fine-looking lad is Hans. Looks just like his pa, I do believe.” He continued telling Checker about the situation, then expanded his assessment to tell how much the boys had grown since the last time he had seen them, then wondering if Emmett Gardner’s herds were safe, and then wondering if cattle prices in Kansas were holding up. He finished by saying that his socks had gotten damp and were troubling him.

Checker stopped his wandering assessment by greeting the boys. “Well, good to see you, Rikor. You, too, Hans. The last time I saw you, you were just getting into everything you could reach.” Checker held out his hand to greet both.

Rikor, and then Hans, accepted the handshake enthusiastically. The smaller boy looked him straight in the eye. “They’ve got my pa. An’ Andrew.”

“Yes, I know,” Checker said, and leaned forward. “How many are in the house—holding them?”

Hans glanced away as if seeing the inside of his house once more, then looked back. “Four. Two inside—and two more fellas watchin’ the front an’ back doors. Standin’ outside.” Checker nodded; that matched the number given to him by Vince, the gunman he had just dispatched.

“There were five. One less now,” Rikor said with a grin reaching the corner of his mouth. “These are his guns. Jumped him when we went outside to the outhouse. He’s behind it now.”

“Heard about that,” Checker said. “Good work. You gave your pa time. Us, too.”

Rikor’s eyes brightened with the compliment.

In spite of his favored choice of weapons, the older Ranger was actually much less intense than his younger fellow Ranger, now a gun warrior known throughout Texas. He loved to talk
and usually it seemed to fill the silence left when he and Checker rode together. Now it was getting in the way.

“How do you want to play this, John?” Bartlett grinned and recited, “ ‘How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use, as tho’ to breathe were life!’ ”

Checker glanced at his older friend. “I think you made that up.”

“Ah, no, my friend, ’tis
Ulysses
, one of Tennyson’s best.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson was Bartlett’s favorite poet and he quoted from his works often.

“I like it.”

Checker looked at Bartlett, then back to the two Gardner sons. “Got an idea of how we might get close. Maybe even inside. But it will take being very brave.”

“What do you want me to do?” Hans blurted, and crossed his arms.

Minutes later, Checker walked with the boy toward the house. The tall Ranger had switched hats and pulled down the brim of the derby taken from the downed gunman to help keep his face covered. His rifle was cocked and ready, carrying at his side one-handed.

Bartlett and Rikor were headed for the back door, using the same approach with Bartlett appearing to bring in the oldest Gardner son. Rikor’s pistol, taken from the gunman earlier, was stuffed into his back waistband, so it wouldn’t be seen.

Checker straightened, lowered his rifle to his side, and pulled again on the brim of his adopted hat. He needed to get close. Pretending to be one of Jaudon’s men made the most sense. He hoped. He didn’t like using the boy for bait, but couldn’t think of a better way.

“Well, well, lookee here,” a yellow-haired gunman with a scrawny mustache and a leather vest greeted them at the door of the house. He stepped onto the porch to get a better view of the shadowed man advancing with the boy.

Checker kept walking, easing Hans to his left, so he could step in front of him if necessary.

“Hard to find a little bastard like that. Where’s the big one?”

“Don’t know.” Checker’s voice was little more than a hoarse growl. “Got any smokes? I’m all out.”

“You bet.” The yellow-haired gunman reached for his shirt pocket.

Checker drew closer, passing Hans.

“Keep your hands right there.”

Grim-faced John Checker shoved his rifle into the man’s belly. Moonlight shivered, for an instant, along its barrel.

“Wh-what? Who are you?”

“I’m Ranger John Checker and I don’t like what’s going on here.” Checker pulled the man’s revolver from its holster. “Turn around.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. Ask another stupid question and I’ll go ahead without you.” The arrowhead-shaped scar on Checker’s cheek flamed with his anger.

“You’re buttin’ into somethin’ you shouldn’t, mister. This is Lady Holt’s business.” The yellow-haired gunman pushed out his chin and straightened his back.

“When I see her, I’ll tell her you were clear about that. Turn around.”

Slowly, the man turned. Checker handed the gun to the boy and told him to empty out the cartridges. He pushed against the gunman’s back with his Winchester as he waited. Hans completed the task and held out the gun. In his other small hand were the cartridges. The tall Ranger took the handgun and shoved it back into the man’s holster, then received the handful of cartridges and put them in his pocket.

“Now lower your hands and walk inside. You’re going to tell your boss that the boy’s been found. Say it wrong and you won’t know what happens this night.”

The house consisted of four rooms: a living room, kitchen,
and two bedrooms. Pine floors were freshly swept; Checker had been here several times, as had Bartlett. The house had the feel of a woman’s care, even though Gardner had been a widower for nearly six years. Framed pictures of the family sat atop a cabinet in the corner, along with a kerosene lamp. The stone fireplace was the centerpiece of the main room; a small fire was mostly ashes.

Emmett Gardner stood near the fireplace, his face hard and drawn. Hands at his sides, both clenched into fists. A blooded gash on the side of his head spoke silently of an earlier attempt to fight back. On the other side of the fireplace a white-faced boy of fourteen stood. Beside him an ugly brown dog waited for instructions.

Sitting at a large brown sofa that was pushed against the north wall was a half-breed gunman drinking coffee. His wide, moon eyes never left the old rancher. The half-breed grinned a mouthful of missing teeth, bright against his skin, in response to a joke only he knew. A torn spot on the side of the sofa looked as though someone had tried to sew it together unsuccessfully. The half-breed’s face was a constant smirk. It pleased Checker to see that the sofa-seated gunman wasn’t holding a gun. A rifle lay at his feet; a holstered handgun was barely visible under his worn Navajo coat. Checker knew the gunman. Luke Dimitry. Some said he had killed twenty men.

At an adjacent table, a large, pig-faced man in a three-piece suit sat in one of the four unmatched wooden chairs. His hat brim was pinned to its crown in the style favored by some Civil War officers. He was holding two gold-plated revolvers with ivory handles, both aimed at the old rancher. His eyebrows were plucked clean like a Cheyenne warrior’s, giving him an even more sinister appearance.

Checker guessed this was Sil Jaudon, the transplanted Frenchman who led Lady Holt’s gang, according to Ranger
reports. Jaudon had supposedly come from New Orleans, where he had been involved in a number of killings.

“Quoi?”
Jaudon’s guns swung toward their entrance, barely missing the blue flower vase, filled with dried wildflowers, in the middle of the table

“B-boss, h-he found the b-boy,” the yellow-haired gunman announced stiffly as they entered and motioned toward Checker and the boy behind him.

Wagging its tail, the dog trotted across the room to greet Hans.

Jaudon’s face became a smile and the guns returned to their position of aiming at Emmett. “
Bien
!
Bien
! Ah, now we vill see how tough this old rooster is.”

The tall Ranger stepped forward from the shadows, pushing the guard to the side, and swung his Winchester toward Jaudon.

“Drop your guns. Do it now.” Checker pointed at Jaudon, then spoke to the gunman in the sofa. “Dimitry, don’t move. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“S-sorry, boss. He got the drop on me. He’s a R-Ranger,” the guard said, his shoulders slumping in shame.

Grinning savagely, Sil Jaudon kept his revolvers directed at the old rancher. “
Salut.
Ranger. If
vous
shoot,
mon
guns, they vill go off. An’
mon
boys’ll know
vous
are here. Both
beaucoup
bad. For
vous
.”

“I’ve taken lead before, Checker,” Emmett growled, and straightened his shoulders.

Checker raised his gun to fire. “A shot to the head usually stops such a reaction. Let’s find out.”

Jaudon hesitated, as if waiting for something or someone.

Emmett waved his arm toward the kitchen. “There’s another o’ them bastards outside the back door.”

“He’s got a rifle,” Andrew, the fourteen-year-old son, volunteered, pointing in the same direction.

Bartlett and Rikor stepped through the small kitchen into the main room, almost on cue. In front of them was a disarmed gunman with eyebrows that sought to live together. His pockmarked face was more yellow than tan and he wore a long red silk scarf around his neck; its silk ends dangled near his belt.

“There isn’t any more,” Bartlett said. “Wilson’s down, too. But you already knew that, didn’t you, Frenchie.”

“You all right, Pa?” Rikor asked, and knelt to pat the dog. “How about you, Andrew?” He looked down at the animal. “And you, Hammer, how are you?”

“I be fine, son. Jes’ fine. Now. So’s Hammer.”

“Yeah,” Andrew said, then hurried to hold his father.

Shaking his head, Jaudon muttered something in French, released the hammers on his guns, and laid them on the table. His hands slowly rose; the movement caused his ample belly to shake like waves on a lake.

“You learn well. Might make it through the night if you stay that smart,” Checker growled. “Now get rid of that other gun. Behind your back.”

His face blossoming into an eddy of angry wrinkles, Jaudon slowly withdrew the third weapon and laid it alongside the other two. The gun was a match to the first two. Checker had seen its shape in Jaudon’s coat when the fat man moved.

“You, unbuckle that belt and shove it to the floor.” Checker motioned with his rifle toward the seated half-breed. “Then get rid of that pistol in your boot. Do it real slow. I’m getting really tired of this.”

Nervously, the seated half-breed released the gun belt and holstered revolver and shoved it off the sofa as if it were contaminated. He reached down to his boot, looked up, and slowly withdrew a double-action Webley Bulldog pocket gun. His eyes flirted with shooting.

“Ah, lad, ever have your belly turned apart by one of these?” Bartlett said, his eyes squinting at the man as he motioned with his shotgun.

Jerking, the half-breed, Luke Dimitry, dropped the weapon and raised his hands.

Hans ran for his father and the gray-haired rancher held both boys tightly. “You’ve been real brave, sons. Real proud o’ ya.”

“Thanks, Pa. I was scared, though,” Andrew said, shaking his head.

“I was…a little,” Hans added, looking away.

“That’s what brave men do, boys. They do the ri’t thang even when they’re scar’t.” The old rancher’s wrinkled face became boyish as he looked at the two Rangers. “I knew ya Ranger boys would come. I knew’d it. These sonvabitches snuck up on me. Sorry to say. Got my youngest when he was in the barn. I couldn’t…”

Jaudon coughed and explained, his eyes glowing from hate, “
Vous
do not have ze chance,
monsieur
.
Mon
men are everywhere out there. But I vill let
vous
go.
Vous
are ze lawmen. No quarrel I have with
vous.
” He motioned with his head. “Only want this ol’ man.
Sacre bleu
, he has been rustling our beef—an’ the other ranchers, too.” He grinned again; his mouth twitching at the right corner. “All Madame Holt wants—is justice.
Oui
, justice.”

“That’s a goddamn lie—an’ ya knows it, Jaudon,” Emmett growled. “He kills an’ steals for that witch. Give me a gun, boys, an’ I’ll settle this crap, once an’ for all.”

Jaudon’s face was white, the corner of his mouth trembling.

Stepping away from his sons, Emmett rushed toward the fat man and spat. Brown liquid slammed into the outlaw leader’s face and rushed down his cheeks and mouth.

“Damn
vous
!” Jaudon wiped at his stained face. “I vill kill
vous
. I vill kill
vous
with
mon
hands bare.”

“If’n ya don’t shut up, I’m gonna spit ag’in,” Emmett growled, half smiling. “What ar’ we a-doin’ with these hyar clowns, Rangers? Shoot ’em?”

“That would be the fastest, but no,” Checker said with the hint of a smile. “We’re taking them into town. To jail. They’ll stand trial for attempted murder.”

Jaudon’s face brightened.

“That damn, no-good judge is in cohoots with Lady Holt. So’s the sheriff. They’ll just let ’em go,” Emmett pleaded.

“Emmett, we’re taking this bunch to town. For trial.” Checker’s voice was low and even. The soft yellow of gaslight draped across his tan, chiseled face with its once-broken Roman nose for an instant, making him look like a wild Comanche warrior in war paint.

The old rancher frowned and shook his head. “How we gonna do this?”

“The Frenchman is going out on the porch and calling in his men,” Checker said.

“This vill never work,” Jaudon snarled.

“Better hope it does,” Checker said. “Or you’re dead. Got any rope around the house, Emmett? I’d like to make sure the rest of this batch aren’t a problem.”

“Sure do. In the kitchen.” Emmett headed toward the back, paused and chuckled. “Most folks don’t keep lassos in with their cookin’ stuff. Almina wouldn’t have allowed it.” He bit his lower lip. “It’s new. Bin a-workin’ it some to get it nice an’ smooth.”

“Rangers,
vous
are new to ze region.” Jaudon put both large hands on the tabletop. “Madame Holt vill understand this. She is a grand woman. She vill own this part of Texas. But
vous
have got to stop now. She vill reward
vous
…greatly. She knows ze governor. She can be most helpful…to your careers.”

“Jaudon. I’m real tired of your jabbering,” Checker said. “I
don’t want to hear anything more from you. ’Til I say so. Out on the porch.”

In minutes, the half-breed and the other two gunmen were tied and kerchiefs shoved into their mouths to keep them quiet. To make certain the new ropes would be taut enough, the men’s belts were added as restraints. The old rancher relished the task, tightening the cords and retightening them.

Checker motioned with his Winchester. “Emmett, take two of his fancy pistols. A.J., you’re going to need that rifle.” Gaslight danced again along the Ranger’s derby hat, then sashayed with his black hair moving near his shoulders.

Staring at him, the old rancher said, “How long ya bin wearin’ that…derby, John? Don’t look like ya.”

“About ten minutes, Emmett. My hat’s outside. Thought it would help us get close.” Checker grinned and pulled on the brim. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

“Jes’ ain’t you, that’s all.”

Picking up the discarded rifle, Bartlett added, “Ah, Frenchie, we know how many you have with you tonight.” He started to indicate how many and where they might be, but Checker’s eyes told him this wasn’t the time to elaborate because they didn’t know.

Emmett retrieved Jaudon’s golden revolvers and Rikor took the remaining handguns and shoved them into his belt.

Looking at the old rancher, Checker said, “A.J. and Rikor will head out the back. A.J., you take the side of the house closest to the barn. Rikor, you’ve got the other side. Stay out of sight, both of you. Emmett and I will escort Mr. Jaudon to the porch.”

Hans Gardner pursed his lips. “What about me, Ranger? What do you want me to do?”

“And me?” Andrew pouted.

Checker turned toward the boys, whose faces were filled with determination. For an instant, the sight of the boys took him back to Dodge City, where he had been forced to flee as a fourteen-year-old, leaving his younger sister with neighbors. Their mother had just died of whooping cough. Neighbors took in Amelia, but young John Checker posed too much of a threat. Pent-up anger at the way his mother had been treated in life by the merciless J. D. McCallister broke loose after his mother’s terrible death. The boy had gone to his uncaring father’s saloon to confront him and ended up fighting some of his men, wounding one with a knife. A sympathetic prostitute had helped him escape.

He shook his head to drive the memory back.

“We need you two to watch the back door,” Checker said.