Ride for Rule Cordell (21 page)

Hesitating, Margaret Loren opened the newspaper office door and stepped inside. “Mrs. Holt, I need to talk with you. I was hoping you’d see that this isn’t the way to build a community.”

Lady Holt stood a foot away from the printing press. Her eyes were wild, her complexion crimson once more.

“I told you to get out.” The words blurted from her mouth, leaving spittle on her lips.

The energetic store owner took a half step backward, refound her courage and walked closer. For the first time, she saw the unconscious editor on the floor.

“Oh my! Henry…is he…?” She rushed to his side.

Haughtily, Lady Holt said, “I have no idea. He slipped and hit his head. I called for a doctor to come.” She glanced away as if hearing a voice and looked back, “Oh yes, Iva Lee wants me to tell you that you have on a pretty dress.” She blinked twice. “I want to buy…ah, six custom dresses from you.”

Either Margaret didn’t hear the comments or didn’t care. “Find me a towel. Anything! Hurry!”

Lady Holt stared at her, not believing she had heard correctly.
This woman had dared to command her to do something. She turned away and sat down at the editor’s desk. Taking a pen and stroking it in the inkwell, she began to write. At the top of the paper, she wrote:

The Caisson Reporter
, scratched out
Reporter
and wrote
Phoenix
next to it. Below the heading, she scratched
Town Enjoys New Peace as Ranger Captain Sil Jaudon Combines Forces with Major Rancher
.

Taking a second sheet of paper, she wrote
Arrest Warrants Issued for Emmett Gardner, Charles Carlson, Morgan Peale, John Checker, London Fiss and Rule Cordell
.

Smiling, she grabbed a third sheet, dabbed her pen into the ink again and wrote
Lady Holt Agrees to Take Over Three Small Ranches After Owners Are Killed
.

She would write the stories later. It was important to get the overall sense of them down. Elliott would know how to set type, she told herself. Her most important task, right now, was getting the stories ready for a special edition. She had already written the proclamation of emergency law Jaudon had announced in the street. Elliott would set it first.

A knock on the door, answered by Margaret, brought Jaudon and the town doctor. The Frenchman barely noticed the store owner, moving to the editor’s desk to report Tapan Moore was going to be fine; he had merely had the wind knocked out of him.

Her eyes flashed and she mouthed, “Thank you, Great Phoenix.”

He ignored the supplication; legends were for people with too much time on their hands. He also reported one of his riders had left for the ranch and Elliott. All of the new newspaper copies had been collected and were being burned.

“All of them?” she asked, turning her head to the left.

“
Oui
. All that we could find, m’lady.” Jaudon bowed slightly.

Lowering the pen, she straightened her back and stared at
him. “That is not
all
. Didn’t I say that I wanted
all
of them collected and destroyed?”

The Frenchman listened without speaking. He hated this kind of rebuke. How the hell would he know if they got all of the copies? Somebody might have one hidden somewhere. What difference did it make? He smiled and said he would personally check out the situation.

“Good. I will expect a report of perfection.”

Outside, he saw Luke Dimitry walking toward him from across the street. His horse had just been tied to the hitching rack.

“Couldn’t find the darkie,” he said. “Didn’t look like he was headed for Peale’s place, more like due south. Maybe he’s running.”

“How bad was he hurt?”

“Don’t know that. Never saw him,” Dimitry said. “The way he was riding, I’d say he wasn’t hurt bad.”

Jaudon resisted asking how he knew that. Lady Holt would have asked the question, but he wasn’t Lady Holt. The Frenchman stepped down from the sidewalk and onto the street. “I want the blacksmith dead. He might cause trouble. Later.”

“Got it. I’ll do it myself.”

“A knife would be the best.”

“I would like that.”

Smiling evilly, Jaudon said he wanted all of his men ready to ride out after that. They would hit the Peale Ranch first, then the others. This would be the day.

“What happened to Henry?” the doctor said as he entered, ignoring both Margaret and Lady Holt.

“I have no idea.” Lady Holt snorted. “Fell against something, I guess. Can you get him out of here? We have work to do.”

The young, slim physician’s eyebrows cocked in reaction
as he slid beside the unconscious editor. He opened his large black bag, took out a stethoscope and listened to Seitmeyer’s breathing. Lady Holt returned to her writing, as if the room were empty and this were her own domain. Jaudon stared over the doctor’s shoulder, occasionally making a comment, sometimes in French.

Margaret leaned over and asked if she could do anything to help.

“I’m going to need hot water and cloths,” the doctor said. “I can’t move him like this. It’s too big a risk.”

Margaret was on her feet quickly and headed to the back room of the newspaper office, an odd sort of part kitchen and part storeroom, grabbed the only container she could find. An old pot. A towel and a shirt lay on a cluttered shelf. She took them, too. Hurrying past Lady Holt, who was writing furiously, she handed the towel and shirt to the doctor and left. Minutes later, she returned with the pot filled from the city well and placed it on the stove to heat.

“There’s not much I can do for him,” the doctor announced. “After I clean his wound, we’ll just have to let him sleep—and see what God wishes.”

Lady Holt looked up from her writing. “You’re not serious, are you, Doctor? We’re going to need room to get the next edition out.” She waved her left arm to demonstrate the need for space.

Angrily, the young physician glared at her. “I am quite serious, madam. A man’s life is at stake.” He glanced past her toward Margaret standing by the stove. “Mrs. Loren, is the water hot? It doesn’t have to be boiling.”

At Morgan Peale’s ranch, the small group of defenders ate silently. Rikor reluctantly agreed to stand watch down by the first ridge. Sending along some of Morgan’s donuts—and the promise of stew later—made it easier for him to go. Anyone coming from town could be seen for miles from that vantage point.

John Checker said he wasn’t hungry and resisted anyone looking at the wound on his side, even though it had bled through his shirt. He insisted that he was fine, doing so gruffly. The death of his friend lay heavily on him and it was obvious. He stood by the fireplace, drinking coffee and staring into the yellow coals.

After eating, Emmett said, “Ya know, I’d sure like to be a-seein’ my boys. The rest o’ ’em. Reckon yu’re a-missin’ your family, too, Rule. Think we could take a ride down thar? To yur place?” He put the last bite of stew into his mouth and savored it. “Like to see mine, too. See if my beeves are still happy. Got a lot of things to do there. That barn roof’s in need of fixin’.”

“That’s up to John,” Rule said, sipping his coffee. “Mrs. Peale, that was a fine meal. We thank you. Best stew I’ve had in a long time.”

“You’re welcome—and please call me Morgan,” Morgan said, removing some of the used dishes from the table and heading to the small kitchen.

From the counter, she looked back at the tall Ranger, drawn to him in ways she hadn’t felt since her feelings for her late husband. They were feelings she didn’t think would ever arise again. Or should. Yet she wanted to go to him. To comfort him, she told herself. Of course, to comfort him. He was a lonely man; any woman could read that. A man difficult to reach. Would he allow her close? To his soul? Had a woman ever done so?

She placed the dishes in a large bowl filled with hot water, cut off some soap shavings from the large bar and massaged the water to create a thin line of suds.

In the main room, Checker studied the tiny dancing flames within the hot coals. His mind danced with them, along yesterdays: A. J. Bartlett recited Tennyson from one corner of his mind; his little sister reminded him of his promise to return in another. In between were the shadows of Jaudon, Tapan, Dimitry and Meade. He couldn’t bring himself to think about what had to be done. He tried, but his thoughts kept curling back to other times.

Touching the small pouch under his shirt, Checker couldn’t help thinking about Stands-In-Thunder’s views on death, on the afterlife. The old war chief was convinced all Comanches went to live in a magnificent valley, where everyone was young and virile. At some point, each would return to the earth and be reborn, to help keep the People strong. There was a beauty in his words.

Would he ever see Stands-In-Thunder again? Or A.J.?

It took Emmett to pull him—and all of them—back to the day.

“Thought London would be back by now. Said so,” the old rancher declared. “What if that evil woman’s guns all
came to town after we done left? When was that Jaudon supposed to be back? Soon, I reckon.” He took another gulp of coffee. “Why don’t them other Rangers come an’ help us?”

Checker turned from the fireplace. “Citale would’ve fired all the Rangers in the Special Force. Jaudon’ll make Rangers out of his men.”

“What about that thar regular bunch of Rangers, then? Ain’t there more than just yur bunch, John?”

“Yes, the full force. But they’re spread out all over Texas, Emmett. Besides, Captain Poe knows which side his bread is buttered on,” Checker said. “I imagine he’s stayed out of this. And will. He can’t go against Citale and stay in his job. He’ll keep his men out of it. Or try to.” He shook his head.

“Ya mean he’s gonna let them do whatever to…ah, yur captain?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, Emmett.” Checker moved from the fireplace to the table.

Leaning forward at the table, Rule rubbed his hands together and stared at them. “What about this Spake Jamison? A.J. told me he was a tough old warrior.”

Checker was surprised Rule knew the older Ranger. “He is. Be a good hand to have on our side.” He slammed his fist on the table. “But he’s not here. None of them are. We can’t plan on wishes.”

“Wonder why we haven’t seen Eleven Meade,” Rule said, changing the subject. He held up three fingers. “Guess it doesn’t matter. She’s got three really bad ones, besides him. Sil Jaudon. Tapan Moore. And Luke Dimitry.”

“Figure we’re going to see all of them soon enough,” Checker said. “Might not see Meade unless we’re watching our backs.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “I’m going to get some more coffee. Anybody need some?”

“Naw. Done coffee’d out.”

“No, thanks, John.”

The tall Ranger headed into the small room and was greeted by Morgan with a warm smile.

“What do ya think, Rule?” Emmett’s tired face was a question.

At first, Rule thought the old rancher was talking about the attraction between Checker and Morgan. Then he realized the gunfighter was talking about their situation. “We bought a little time.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know how much. I’d say we’re going to have to leave here as soon as we can. My guess is they’ll hit tonight.”

“ ’Member when ya fooled all them Yanks?” Emmett stroked his unshaven chin as if he wasn’t listening. “Wha’d they call it? Masquerade Battalion, I think. Yah, that’s it. How ’bout we try somethin’ like that?”

Rule winced, trying to think of some gentle way to tell the older man that it was a different situation in a different time with a different objective. All he was trying to do then was to slow down the Union sneak attack long enough for the Confederates to prepare for the advance.

Shaking his head, the gunfighter explained, “Not sure how we could do anything like that, Emmett.” He pointed out that his scouts had taken advantage of an abandoned breastworks with left-behind uniforms and gear.

“We even had some cannonballs,” he said. “No cannons, but we faked those. It’s not the same, Uncle. All we were trying to do was slow them down so our boys wouldn’t be ambushed. We knew exactly where the Yanks were heading.”

“Well, ya faked out them Regulators, too. With that ‘Sons of Thunder’ stuff. That big boy…ah, ‘the Russian’…the travelin’ trader tolt me ’bout it. Said he did some helpin’.”

Rule shook his head, watching Checker come back into the room, sipping a filled mug. “Yes, Caleb Shank was a big part of bringing them down. Still…” He stopped talking
and looked at Checker. “You know, Uncle Emmett, we’re not even sure where they’ll hit first. They should come here, but they might not.”

“You’re right, Rule. But a smart play is that they will.” Checker walked over to the fireplace where he had been before. He took another sip. “Ever been around Luke Dimitry or Tapan Moore?”

“Can’t say as I have.” Rule ran his fingers along the table. “How good are they?”

“We aren’t going to like facing them.”

Checker turned toward the fire and drank his coffee. Rule and Emmett gathered the rest of the used dishes and took them into the kitchen. The old rancher took charge of washing, in spite of Morgan’s insistence that she would finish the chore. With a backward glance at Checker, she took an old watering pot outside to fill at her well and water a string of struggling flowers on the east side of her house.

“I’ll be right back, Uncle Emmett,” Rule said. “Want to tell John something. Before I forget it.”

“Sure. I’m an old hand at this…since my li’l lady up an’ died on me.” He bit his lower lip and looked away.

Rule spun back toward the main room. His own thoughts were huddling next to his wife, Aleta. He missed her very much. And Ian and Rosie. And Two, for that matter. In his mind, his children hugged him every night before he went to sleep. His dog, Two, joined in the warmth. Being separated, sometimes, was the cost of liberty.

Lady Holt seemingly had every advantage going for her against the three small ranches. She had money and influence, the governor, a gang of gunmen and now she had the Rangers. That meant the law. Like Checker, he had no illusion about what they had accomplished in town. The overturn of the charges against Emmett and the two Rangers would only last until Lady Holt heard about them. The
townspeople couldn’t be expected to stand up against her power.

Pausing, he laid a hand on the back of the closest chair. John Checker had his back to him, lost in yesterdays.

“John, may I bother you?” he said, walking closer.

“What? Oh, of course, Rule.” Checker turned toward him and waved his hand. “I was just…doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does. A.J. was a great friend,” Rule said. “He died fighting…for a better Texas. That’s what he wanted.” The gunfighter stood next to Checker and laid a hand on the tall man’s shoulder. “It’s our job to make it happen.”

There was a hesitation before Checker agreed.

“I think you ought to go outside now,” Rule said, removing his hand and looping both thumbs into his gun belt. “I think a certain young lady would like that. A lot.”

Checker stared at Rule, then frowned. “Rule, I can’t. This isn’t the time. You know what we’re up against.”

The gunfighter took a step back and looked out the window. He could see Morgan watering her flowers.

“Don’t figure she sees it that way, John. The heart doesn’t carry a watch.” He smiled. “I only know life started for me when I met Aleta.” He turned away and headed back to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he yelled, “You do what you think best, John.”

Checker shook his head and chuckled. The time for mourning was over. He put down his cup on the table and headed outside. Taking a deep breath, he eased toward Morgan, who was pretending not to notice his coming.

“Flowers do something special to a place,” he said, shoving his hat back on his forehead.

Glancing at him and smiling, Morgan said, “Wouldn’t think someone like you would notice.”

“You don’t think Rangers like flowers?” His returning smile equaled hers.

Their eyes met and danced briefly.

“I—I w-wish things were different,” he managed to say. “I’d do things different.”

She stood and stepped closer to him. “How different, John?” Her voice was soft.

Putting his hand on her arm, he pulled her to him.

Their mouths met.

As they kissed, the silhouette of a rider appeared from the west. Their moment of intimacy interrupted, Checker and Morgan stepped back from each other. Their hands held each other’s arms to keep the instant from fleeing.

“That’s got to be London. Otherwise Rikor would be warning us,” Checker said.

“Something’s wrong! Mr. Fiss has been hurt!” she yelled, and headed for the incoming figure.

The black man reined up; his left arm hung at his side.

“Mr. Fiss, what happened? You’ve been shot.” She pointed at his bloody sleeve.

Rule and Emmett joined her with Checker a few strides behind.

The three men helped him from the saddle and he told them what had happened in town.

Checker’s face matched Rule’s in intensity.

“Rode south out of town. Like I was scared, headed for the border. Left plenty of tracks,” the black man said, trying to catch his breath and ignore the steady ache in his arm. “They quit following me. Saw them turn back. An hour out, I’d guess.” He took a deep breath. “One of them was Dimitry. I’d recognize that old Navajo coat anywhere.”

“So Jaudon and Lady Holt are both in town,” Checker said.

“And Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry,” Rule added.

“Let’s go inside. We can talk there,” Checker said. “Morgan made a fine stew for us. Maybe I’ll have some, too. I’m getting hungry.”

Rule grinned to himself.

Holding the reins of Fiss’s horse, Emmett said, “If’n you don’t mind, London, I’ll borrow yur hoss an’ ride down to Rikor. He’ll be a-wantin’ some o’ that stew.” He shook his head. “Fact, you boys better git yur fill afore he comes. That boy kin eat somethin’ fierce.”

The black man warmly agreed. They continued walking to the house while the old rancher swung into the saddle and headed back. Checker looked at Morgan and smiled. Her return smile made him want to take her in his arms right there. Her eyes said she would like that, too.

As they walked into the house, Rule asked Fiss if he had seen Eleven Meade. The black man hadn’t seen him.

Fiss looked at the three men and the woman walking beside him. He should feel strange. White people didn’t like being around black people. For any reason. But not these four. They thought of him as a friend, an equal. And he wasn’t just a colored man, he was a former convict. It didn’t matter. Not to them. It hadn’t mattered to Morgan, either; she respected his skills. Of course, he lived in the special bunkhouse built from the barn, which was empty except at roundup when she hired short-time riders. At her insistence, his meals were always taken in the main house.

Inside, Morgan insisted she should clean his wound.

“There’s no lead in there. I checked. And it’s my left arm. It’ll have to do.”

“Better let her have a look anyway,” Checker said.

“Look who’s talking,” Fiss replied.

Morgan took his arm. “Hold out your arm, Mr. Fiss.”

“Sure. Sure.” He shook his head, but complied.

Checker handed him a fresh cup of coffee.

She began to cut away the bloody sleeve, pulling slowly on the garment where it had embedded itself in the wound.

“I’ll get some hot water going.” Rule headed for the
kitchen. Over his shoulder, he yelled, “Where’s a big pot, Morgan?”

After the wound was treated and wrapped with a white bandage, Fiss finished a second cup of coffee. Morgan returned with a new shirt.

“It was my husband’s. I think it’ll fit, Mr. Fiss.”

In spite of his suggestion that she call him “London,” she always insisted on the more formal designation.

“I can’t wear that, Mrs. Peale.”

“Put it on. Now, how would you like some stew?” Morgan asked.

“Thanks, Mrs. Peale. I’m hungry as can be.” He looked at his left arm; it was stiff and hurting badly. John Checker wouldn’t stay in bed with a wound much worse than this; he couldn’t show any sign of weakness. He removed the old shirt with Rule’s help and put on the fresh one. It was a dull brown. It fit.

“And you, John, are you ready…for some stew?” Morgan smiled.