Ride for Rule Cordell (12 page)

Rule smiled. “I think you misread the value of attacking. Can’t speak for the Rangers…but most of the time, the advantage goes to the attacker.”

“Well, maybe. Sounds like something John would say. Or Spake. He’s a tough old rooster,” Bartlett said.

Rule smiled. “Heard of him. Like John Checker.” He shifted his boots and looked at Bartlett. “John Checker is alive, A.J.”

“Well, maybe.”

Both were quiet again, retreating to yesterday in the shadows of their thoughts.

“Was John in the war?” Rule spun the gun in his hand and was satisfied with its handling, then began reloading it.

“Not like you or me. Younger than us to begin with.” Bartlett rubbed his stockinged feet. “Boy, there’s nothing like a good pair of socks, is there?’

Rule grinned, ignoring the break in thought.

Movement among their horses brought both men to alertness. Rule jumped to his feet and walked over. The sounds weren’t those of his mustang trying to warn him of someone coming; rather they were nervous sounds. Maybe a wolf or a mountain lion prowling.

A few minutes later, Rule returned, guessing there was a lion around. He suggested they move closer to the horses. Grabbing his boots and rifle, Bartlett walked over to the mesquite trees where Rule was already sitting. The famed gunfighter
had already returned the Colt to his waistband and withdrawn the Dean & Adams revolver from his belt in back.

“Almost forgot what I was telling you about,” Bartlett said as he squatted beside the middle tree, set his boots carefully beside him and explained Checker had been in a squad of Union sharpshooters but didn’t like taking orders from officers he didn’t respect. After his tour of duty was over, he left.

“Had plenty of those on both sides.”

“Yeah, that’s sure the truth.”

Bartlett rubbed his feet again, brushing off pieces of dirt and sticks that had attached themselves to his socks when he walked over. Checker had run with a bad bunch for a while, with the outlaw Sam Lane before he straightened himself out and became a Ranger. He wanted to compare it to Rule’s time with Johnny Cat Carlson but didn’t.

“ ‘Howe’er it be, it seems to me, ’tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.’ ” Bartlett recited another Tennyson line and shifted his rifle to a more comfortable position on his lap.

“Easier said than done, my friend.”

They talked a few minutes longer with the Ranger sharing the fact that Lady Holt was fascinated with the myth of the phoenix. He thought it was something she had learned while she was in England. Rule listened and mouthed “fire.” Bartlett yawned and apologized. Rule told him to get some sleep; tomorrow would likely be a long day.

“Say a prayer for John, will you, Rule?” Bartlett said. “Figure you’re a might closer to the right fellow than I am.”

“I will do so, A.J.—but not for that reason. He listens to everyone the same. Give it a try.”

Bartlett blinked his eyes. “I will, Rule. Thanks.”

After a few more minutes of discussion about the phoenix myth, Lady Holt and the governor, Bartlett said he had better
get some sleep. Soon the Ranger was stretched out on the ground under his blanket, using his saddle for a pillow. Next to him were his weapons. He was snoring softly.

Rule stood among the trees, letting their trunks provide additional cover. Here he was. The former, intense Confederate warrior. His name alone had brought fear to many Texans after the War, expecially Union soldiers and sympathizers. He watched a half-moon take ownership of the dark sky. In his thoughts, he was riding again in the Virginia woods. It was a cold February in 1865 and the collapse of the South was near. He was scouting alone and suddenly heard a Union battalion marching ahead of him along the Boydon Plank Road.

Behind that piece of yesterday came the Sunday morning when he challenged the Regulators and the “Sons of Thunder” came alive to stand with him. Men and women of his parish refusing to bow to their evil tyranny. Of course, the name itself had been a fake one he had used to make the state police think there was a whole band of guerrillas after them, when it was only one. Well, actually two. A traveling peddler had helped him greatly. Caleb Shank. Now a good friend. Folks called him “the Russian,” even though he wasn’t.

He jerked his head to send the memory into the shadows of his mind. Tomorrow they would have a better idea of what they were up against.

“I am a son of Thunder,” he muttered into the night.

Rule studied the dark land, glad to hear night sounds that should be there. Whatever was bothering the horses earlier had left. For the time being anyway. Their horses were standing three-legged and quiet. Another good sign. If anything was to come close, they would warn him. Moon had told him silence was sacred, a time when man listened to the Great Spirit talking to him.

A strange contentment was settling within him, a feeling
he tried to ignore. He had felt the first sensation soon after Emmett and his family arrived. It was the contentment a warrior felt in battle or on the eve of it. Being a preacher had been an important transition in his life. A time for him and Aleta to begin their life together. A time to show his soul that his maniacal father was wrong. A time to put the wildness of the postwar years behind him.

Yet something was missing. He wasn’t meant for the pulpit. Or training horses. Not really.

He felt a certain rightness within when he undertook bringing the Regulators down to save friends.

He was good with a gun. Very good. Few could match him, especially in battle. The life of a gunfighter was not something he sought. He didn’t see himself as that. Rather, it was a strange sense God had placed him here—and now—to help those who couldn’t help themselves. War and its aftermath had sharpened him, but not hardened him, to caring about others. He hated the likes of the old Regulators, the former state police, who ran roughshod over Texas after the great war. He hated the likes of Lady Holt—and Governor Citale—who sought power and riches through the destruction of others.

Yes, this was what he was born for. He was a man of the time, a man of the gun. A Son of Thunder. Aleta knew it better than he did. She had encouraged his participation in Emmett’s battle.

“Yes, I am a Son of Thunder,” he said softly, and added, “And, Lady Holt, I am the fire you should fear. A fire you won’t rise from.”

Spake Jamison walked into the large jail and slammed the door behind him.

“I want to see Captain Temple.” His graying eyebrows arched in held anger.

The intense arrival startled the deputy in charge. He jumped and his hand reached out for the shotgun on the desk. His arm cuffed his coffee mug and spilled hot liquid over the desk.

“Ah…sure. I guess. Aren’t you a Ranger?”

“Was. Here are my guns, boy.” Jamison shoved the sawed-off shotgun and his belt gun on the desk. Chuckling, he added, “You need to write down my name, boy. You can clean up that spill later. It ain’t going nowhere.”

The round-faced deputy glanced at the spilled coffee, then at the entry log. It was, luckily, spared from the splatter.

“It’s Spake Jamison. One
m
.”

“Ah, sure. Jamison.”

“Where do you want me to sign?” Spake said.

The deputy pointed beside where he had written Spake’s name. The old Ranger took a pencil resting in the middle of
the log, stuck the lead point in his mouth and wrote an
X
where the deputy had pointed. Regaining his poise, the deputy stood and told Spake to follow him. He unlocked the outer steel frame and they walked past a second fuzzy-whiskered guard sitting on a straight-back chair, cradling a double-barreled shotgun.

“Hey, Spake! Shoot anybody lately?” a gritty voice called from the third cell.

Without pausing, Spake said, “Should’a shot you, Henry.”

Over his shoulder, the deputy asked, “How do you know Henry Nawell?”

“Brought him in two weeks ago. He killed a family in Waco. Mother, father and two little kids. Hanging’s too good for the sonvabitch.”

“Oh.”

They walked in silence down the row of cells; most were unoccupied. At the next-to-last cell was Captain Harrison Temple. Spake saw the tired man before Temple saw him. Temple looked weary, sitting on his cell bed.

“Afternoon, Captain.”

Temple looked up and a thin smile entered his face. “It’s good to see you, Spake. They fire all you boys?”

“Oh yeah. Couldn’t wait to get rid of us.”

Temple shook his head, stood and held out his hand through the cell bars and Spake shook it warmly.

“You’ve got five minutes, Jamison,” the deputy said, walking away.

Spake turned toward the departing guard. “When I’m ready, I’ll come. Not before, boy. Don’t press it.”

The deputy bristled, but kept walking.

Spake’s questions triggered a terse recital from Temple. His hearing had been conducted in private and he was being held for trial. The evidence against him was so phony the judge had had difficulty with the charge. It looked as
though someone had changed the governor’s name on a bank account and inserted his. The governor’s direct plea had secured a trial.

“Doesn’t really matter,” Temple added. “All they want is time.”

“I’m gettin’ too old, Captain. What is all this crap?”

“Lady Holt.”

“Damn. Women are gonna be the death of us.” Spake grinned wolfishly.

Temple explained the situation, how he had sent Checker and Bartlett to protect Emmett Gardner, a small rancher, from the Holt attempt to take his land. He rattled off the incidents that had occurred since then.

“Poe said John’s dead.”

Temple’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, but no words would come. He stumbled back to his cot and sat. Finally, a rush of “Oh my God” found a strained voice.

“Nobody’s immune to a bullet, Captain. Not even John Checker.” Spake’s own face was taut. “A.J.’s wanted for murder. That woman works fast.”

“I heard.”

The grizzled Ranger glanced at the seated guard down the hallway, then back to Temple, who was struggling with his emotions. The old Ranger stepped next to the cell bars and leaned his face into the cell.

“Captain, we can get you outta here. Piece of cake.”

Shaking his head negatively, the Ranger captain told Spake he didn’t want that. At least not yet.

“All right, what do you want us to do?” Spake asked. “About a dozen of us are in town. Or close. More coming in, I hear.” He stepped back.

“Don’t worry about me, Spake,” Temple said. “I can handle the court. I think.” He paused. “Anyway, there’s no time to do both.” He stood again and walked to the front of the cell.
“I want…no, I can’t say that, I’d like you to ride for A.J.—and Emmett Gardner—and those other little ranchers. Before it’s too late.”

“You’re still our captain.”

“You’ll be riding outlaw.”

“Done that before. But let’s see how big an asshole Poe really is.”

Spake Jamison turned and headed back down the hallway. As he passed the seating guard, he growled, “Anything happens to that man down there—an’ I’ll find your silly little ass an’ kill you with my bare hands. You understand, boy?”

The long-faced guard jerked in the chair and started to raise his shotgun.

Spake spun, grabbed the gun and yanked it from the startled guard. The old Ranger stared at him.

“Didn’t like your reaction, boy. Want to try again?” Jamison said, holding the shotgun at his side. “I asked you a question. I want an answer.”

The guard’s eyes were plates. “A-ah…I’m s-sorry. I’ll make s-sure nothing happens to…Captain Temple. I—I p-promise.”

“Good boy.” Spake handed back the shotgun and left.

Early morning the next day found Eleven Meade pulling up his carriage in front of the small adobe ranch house belonging to Morgan Peale. He had overslept and blamed it on too much of Lady Holt’s fine wine.

“Aho, the house! Anyone home?” he yelled, and scratched the back of his white cat’s head. The little animal squirmed happily in response to the attention.

A dark figure came to the doorway; the shotgun in his hands was casually pointed in Meade’s direction. “This is Mrs. Peale’s land. Get off.”

“Sure and I will. First, I have a letter for Mrs. Peale. And I want to check on the condition of Ranger Checker,” Meade said. “Sheriff Hangar asked me to do so. The Ranger is wanted for murder, you know. Can he be moved to town? Does he need a doctor?”

A slow smile found the black man’s mouth and disappeared. “Too late for a doc. He’s dead.”

Meade tugged on his bowler hat brim. “I’d like to see the body.”

“Why?”

“He was a wanted killer. Sheriff Hangar will want to notify Ranger headquarters, you know. And the other lawmen in the area.”

“I just told you. He’s dead.”

Meade looked down, realized his action might be mistaken for an aggressive move to his gun and expanded his hands to grip both sides of the carriage.

“I know you did, sir, but you know lawmen. They want proof.”

“Tell him to come out an’ see for himself, then.” London Fiss turned to leave.

“I think you should know, sir, Sil Jaudon is the new Ranger captain for the Special Force. Governor Citale appointed him.”

Meade’s words stopped Fiss in midstride.

“The previous captain has been arrested. Some kind of financial matter as I understand the whole of it. Sad, really.”

As he spun around, Fiss’s tightened mouth flickered at the corner. He knew what Meade’s announcement meant to his boss. His words were a snarl.

“Tell the fat Frenchman that he’ll have to come through me, badge or no badge.”

“I believe he looks forward to that…sir.” Meade’s eyes sparkled with challenge.

“So do I,” Fiss stated without emotion, and slammed the door behind him.

Meade looked down at the envelope beside him. He would need to get the black man out again. Oh how he hated doing things he wasn’t hired to do.

Before he could call out, Morgan Peale emerged from the ranch door. Her face was pale, but determined. In her hands was a rifle. He noted it was cocked.

“Tell Sheriff Hangar that we buried Ranger Checker.
Under that string of cottonwoods. To the south. Nice an’ shady there.” She paused and added, “You can dig up the body yourself if you want to. But I want him reburied.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Peale, I appreciate the information.”

“I understand you have a letter for me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Here.”

She opened the envelope, read the letter and threw both to the ground. When she looked up, her face was hard. “You tell that woman you work for…to go to hell. I’m not selling to her or anybody else. Now get off my land—and don’t come back!”

She didn’t wait for his response and spun around, heading back inside.

Meade watched the door for a few moments before taking the reins and clicking his horse into trotting away. Minutes later, the gunfighter reined his carriage to a halt beside a freshly dug mound with a small wooden cross placed at one end. He studied it, rubbing his cat’s back, and decided there was no way in the world he was going to dig up the body. Lady Holt would just have to take Mrs. Peale’s word for it. Why would she lie?

He laughed out loud, drowning out the morning’s songbirds, and urged his horse again into a trot. Important news shouldn’t be delayed.

Not long afterward, four riders reined up on the ridge overlooking Morgan Peale’s land. The sun was struggling to gain control of the sky. Vultures hovering in the gray sky saddened them. It was a sign they hadn’t wanted to see. A sign of death.

Spurring their horses forward, A. J. Bartlett, Rule Cordell, Emmett Gardner and Rikor Gardner cleared the ridge and trotted across the grassland. A dark shape became a downed horse. Huge birds and a coyote were enjoying themselves.

Bartlett groaned, pulled his rifle from its scabbard and
fired three times. Two birds flopped to the ground and the others fled skyward. The lone coyote yipped and scooted away. Bartlett’s fourth bullet dusted the ground behind the fleeing animal.

“I’m sorry, Rule,” Bartlett said, lowering his rifle. “I—I…well…”

“Don’t apologize,” Rule said. “I would’ve done it, if you hadn’t.”

Their advance to the dead animal was a silent one; their horses were skittish, not wanting to get close to the stench of death.

Rule reined up and pointed. “Was that Checker’s horse?”

“Yes. The right flank had a small white splash.” Bartlett’s face registered the sadness his entire body felt.

“Well, A.J., somebody took away the saddle and bridle. See?” Rule pointed. “And there’s no sign of a body. That’s good, A.J.” His eyes searched the open area for sign. Any sign of a man. Nothing. Yesterday’s rain had taken away all traces of the violence, except the dead animal itself.

Emmett made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. “We ’uns rode ri’t down thatta way. With the wagon an’ all.”

Rikor nodded agreement, nudged his horse into a lope and rode out toward the ridge where Checker had gone.

Bartlett’s shoulders rose and fell. “Probably some bastard needed the saddle.”

“Maybe. But there’s no reason for Holt’s men to take the gear. Why would they?” He looked over at the distraught Ranger. “Maybe somebody came to help him. Took the saddle with them—and him.”

Bartlett listened and finally muttered, “Maybe…they took him…to town.”

Rule rode in a wide circle around the area of death, continuing his assessment. “Rain took away all the signs of a
fight. But somebody came by this morning. In a carriage. Came and went. From town. Any idea who that might be, Emmett?”

“No, cain’t say as I do. Wilkerson, he drives a carriage. He’s the banker. Mayor, too. Figger he’s owned by Lady Holt. Might be he was headin’ to Peale’s place.” He shook his head. “Holt’s gonna want it, too. An’ Charlie’s.”

“Whoever was in that carriage knew there was a dead animal here.” Rule reined his horse and studied the land.

“What?” Bartlett’s attention was returned.

“Look.” Rule motioned toward the lines in the land. “There’s no pause. No stopping. Just a wide loop around it.”

Bartlett licked his lower lip. “Maybe he thought it was a dead steer.”

Rule waved his hand toward the ridge. “Wouldn’t you be curious if you saw a dead horse? Wouldn’t you want to see if there was someone hurt?”

Bartlett struggled with the reality lying in front of them. It was hard to believe so much had happened so quickly. He and Checker were Rangers one minute and wanted murderers the next. Now his mind was churning and replaying the time when Checker left the wagon. He shouldn’t have let his friend go alone. He shouldn’t have. Was his friend in jail? Wounded? How badly? Where was he? Was he…dead?

“Yeah. Could be. If it was Wilkerson, though, that ol’ boy wouldn’t like bein’ close to no dead animal,” Emmett declared.

“Maybe. It still looks to me like he knew the horse was there. John’s horse.”

“Why don’t we ride into town? Might find out who belongs to that carriage,” Bartlett said. “Maybe those bastards took John to jail.” Bartlett didn’t believe his own statement.

Rikor rode back and reported there were no signs of
Checker or anyone else along the ridge. No one had expected any; the rain had done its job in that regard.

Rule pointed in the direction the carriage had been heading. “You say there’s a ranch that way, Emmett?”

“Yes, suh. Morgan Peale’s place ain’t too far from hyar. She’s gonna feel that bitch a’fer long, I reckon. Don’t reckon the black feller’s gonna be able to stop ’em for long.”

Rikor nodded agreement.

“I think we should head for town. This man in the carriage knows something, I think,” Rule said.

“Yu’re a-thinkin’ the doc came to he’p him some?” Emmett asked, staring toward the horizon as if he could see the Peale Ranch. “Ol’ Doc Curtis, he rides a buggy, ya know.”

“Could be. I don’t know. Just seems like we should try there first. What do you think, A.J.?” Rule asked, leaning forward on his saddle horn.

Bartlett swung his horse toward the west, trying hard to clear his mind of the guilt sitting there. “It’s worth it. Let’s go.”

Outside Caisson, Rule wanted them to wait, near a small grove of pecan trees and a sometime spring. They would be able to see in all directions a long way. It made sense to stay out of town, but all three refused. Bartlett said he had let Checker talk him into staying with the wagon and now his friend was hurt or worse. Emmett agreed. So did Rikor. Rule Cordell understood their concern, but pointed out that their arrival in town would make it more difficult to determine what had happened to the Ranger.

Reluctantly, he agreed Bartlett could go along, but he would have to alter his appearance. He convinced Emmett and Rikor that he needed them to wait, in case they had to make a run for it from town. Splitting their resources made sense. Besides, the old rancher and his son were well known in town; Bartlett wasn’t.

A short ride later, the two entered the south edge of Caisson. Bartlett wore Rikor’s battered chaps and Emmett’s coat and hat. It was a long way from a perfect disguise, but it might do the trick. No one would be expecting the Ranger; that was in their favor. No one knew Rule. At least, not by sight.

Midday activity was brisk. No one seemed to notice the arrival of the twosome, and for that, Rule was grateful. A freighter rumbled beside them with the driver yelling at his mules. He waved, between curses, as his wagon headed out of town and Rule returned the greeting.

They passed the hosteler leaning on a pitchfork at the Howard Livery and Grain.

“Wonder if the fellow with the carriage stopped there?” Rule asked.

The ears of his mustang sprang up to determine if the words were for him.

“Let’s find out.” Bartlett reined his horse.

They swung their mounts around and returned to the livery.

“Howdy. Didn’t happen to rent a carriage this morning, did you? Rode east an’ back this morning,” Rule said, leaning over the saddle. He smiled; his manner was nonchalant.

The bald-headed liveryman studied the former gunfighter for an instant, then looked at Bartlett, trying to place them. He spat a thick brown stream into the worried ground and said, “Why ya askin’? Are ya lawmen?”

Rule laughed. “No, I’m not. This is my friend Bart. Saw the tracks coming in. Been thinking about getting one, a carriage like that—for my wife and me. Thought I’d see if that carriage fellow liked it.”

“Don’t figger a fella like you’d like ridin’ no carriage.” The man rubbed his bald head and looked down at the pitchfork. “There’s a few round, ya know.”

Without a pause, he rattled off six names of men in town who owned carriages; none had used them this morning, including Alex Wilkerson, the town mayor. Rule tried to think of a tactful way to excuse himself as the man continued describing each owner without seeming to take a breath or even spit.

Finally, he said, “Ya might be lookin’ for Eleven Meade, though. He rode in not long ago, left his carriage hyar. Didn’t rent it. It’s his.” He motioned with his free hand toward the stable. “Reckon he wouldn’t care if ya looked it over. It’s a good ’un.” He rolled his eyes. “Strange name. Eleven. Don’t tell him I said so. He’s that, ah, shootist. From over New Mexico way.”

“Oh, I won’t. Sure, I’d appreciate taking a quick look.” Rule swung down and handed the reins to Bartlett. They exchanged looks that indicated their hunch was right.

The gunfighter knew of Meade; he was a ruthless back-shooter who killed easily for money. Rule didn’t care about seeing the carriage, of course, but it made sense to act that way. Bartlett said he would wait outside.

The liveryman followed Rule, eager to point out aspects of the carriage. “See them fancy wheels? Mighty fine. Got a fine top, too.” He spat again and added, “She’s got a crank axle. It’s bent twice…ri’t thar an’ thar. That gives it a low sit, ya know, makes them wheels look even bigger.” He shook his head in support of his statement.

Rule nodded, eyed the white cat resting on the carriage seat and leaned over to examine the underframe. He couldn’t care less, but it made sense to follow through with his story. The bald hosteler kept jabbering, pointing out the dirt board that kept dirt from the axle itself and other structural details.

“That thar drag shoe looks like it needs some work.”

“How’s the ride?” Rule asked, standing again, rubbing his horse’s nose.

Cocking his head, the liveryman gave a long answer that basically meant he didn’t know. Without being asked, he said Meade went to the sheriff’s office, but he didn’t know if he was still there or not. He added that Hangar had county authority as well as being the town law.

Rule thanked him and declined the man’s offer to see Meade’s horse. He said he understood when the liveryman told him the cat wasn’t his, that he didn’t let cats sit on his carriages. The offer to order him a carriage was also declined, with Rule saying he would talk with his wife about it. With the liveryman still talking, Rule walked outside and swung back into the saddle. He waved good-bye and loped away.

His mind had already settled on the interesting coincidence of Eleven Meade riding near the dead horse and not pausing to see what had happened. It meant the shootist already knew. Meade had either shot Checker or been involved in the shooting.

A few minutes later, they reined their horses in front of the Hires & Ludlum Land Attorneys and Real Estate Agents office. Rule eased down, flipped the reins around the hitching rack and strode quickly onto the planked boardwalk. His spurs rattled their agreement. Bartlett was a few strides behind, looking at both sides of the street as he moved. Two couples passed with only perfunctory greetings, as were his.

Elrod Hires looked up from his cluttered desk as Rule stepped inside. In the uneven light of his small office, he examined the stranger, wondering what he wanted. That the man was armed was evident by the bulges under his long black coat. It was against the law to carry weapons in town, but Hires didn’t intend to bring up the matter.