Ride for Rule Cordell (24 page)

They reached the top of the ridge and saw the dark shapes of horses ahead of them as planned. No one called out, but Checker thought that was smart. At this point, they couldn’t be certain if the entire gang had fled or not.

Wind had intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more desolate than it was. The top of the ridge flattened out into a large spoon of quiet land. They passed a shallow pond. A struggling cottonwood stood not far from its life-giving water. Nearby was a squatty bowl of land where buffalo once rolled. Rule stared at it and remembered playing in something like that as a child. His best friend jumped into mind. Ian Taullary. They had protected each other growing up and fought beside each other during the war. Sadly, Taullary had gotten caught up in the wrong things in life, but had died trying to protect him. Again. He reminded himself that it was important to remember his friend’s good ways, their good times together.

He was tired and knew Checker had to be. Once a fight was over, energy left quickly, leaving the body drained. He glanced at the Ranger, but Checker was studying the silhouettes ahead of them. Ahead, their horses were grouped
around three trees. Shapes of men were knotted against the dark sky.

Checker said, “Something’s wrong, Rule.”

An invisible voice was cruel and demanding. “Come on, Checker. You, too, Cordell. Walk easy toward us. Don’t try anything funny. Or the Peale woman and these two Gardners die.”

Without saying anything, Rule and Checker separated and walked toward the horses.

“Drop those rifles. Do it now.”

Both men let the long guns in their hands slip to the hard earth. The thuds of weapons hitting against the ground were four heartbeats. They dropped their hands to their sides, standing mostly in shadow.

The gray shapes in front of them became four Holt men. Luke Dimitry. Tapan Moore. And two men Checker didn’t know.

Tapan had his arm around Morgan’s neck, holding her close to him. In his hand was a cocked revolver. Dimitry stood, nonchalantly, pointing a rifle on Emmett and Rikor. The other two gunmen stood near the horses, holding rifles. Beside them, Checker saw the motionless body of London Fiss.

“Come on in, boys. The party’s just getting started,” Tapan said, motioning with his gun. “That was a good stunt you pulled on the Frenchman. What a stupid sonvabitch! Lady Holt should’ve had me become the Ranger captain, not him.” Tapan laughed. “Reckon he won’t stop running ’til he hits town. Him an’ his men.”

Checker and Rule stood with their arms at their sides.

Tapan’s eyes brightened. “I see you boys brought along all your big toys.” His smile reached only half of his mouth. “Luke an’ I had a hunch you might try something. So we went a different route.”

Dimitry glanced at the dead Fiss. “Ran into that colored boy and figured we’d just sit tight an’ see who came along. Lo and behold, all kinds of folks Lady Holt wants to see dead came wandering in.”

“Didn’t want to do that before we had a chance to talk with you two. Besides, you would’ve heard the shots,” Tapan explained. “That colored boy wasn’t so lucky. He got his while you all were firing up a storm.”

The curly-headed gunman smiled widely, his white teeth glistening in the moonlight, and continued, “Fact is, we would’ve shot you two when you came up the hill…but we wanted to know something.”

Morgan struggled against his tightened arm and he shoved his gun into her side.

“Stand still, lady. Or I’ll shoot you first.”

“Sorry, John, we done jes’ walked ri’t into this,” Emmett said, waving his arms in frustration.

Rikor’s expression was impossible to read. Was it anger or fear?

“I see you boys are carrying lots of iron. Ready for a war, huh?” Tapan motioned with his gun. “Unbuckle the gun belts. All of it. Real easy, now.”

Checker unbuckled his double-rowed cartridge belt and let it slide down his legs. The cartridge box tumbled ahead of it. Without being asked, he drew Bartlett’s pistol from his waistband and tossed it on the ground. The leather string attached to the trigger fluttered in the air. He drew the other revolver used in the fake barrage with his fingers holding the butt and dropped it as well.

At the same time, Rule unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall. Both of his barrage handguns followed; one had been the backup Colt carried in his front waistband.

Checker said, “You won’t get away with this. We’ve got Rangers…real Rangers…coming. Lady Holt is done.”

“Save that crap for the town newspaper,” Tapan snarled. “I want to know something. Eleven Meade was a friend of ours.”

“Where is he? Waiting to shoot us in the back?” Checker answered, and looked behind him.

“You know where he is. He’s dead. In Clark Springs.”

The tall Ranger looked at Rule on his left.

Shrugging, the gunfighter said, “Last time I saw him, he was on the saloon floor. From my fist. He didn’t die from that, I hope.” His remark snapped with sarcasm.

“I didn’t know that, Moore. When did it happen?” Checker said, hoping the conversation would keep going until he thought of something.

Tapan frowned and licked his lower lip. “Your friend here, he got a wire from Clark Springs about it. Someone named ‘A’ said Eleven was killed. There in Clark Springs.” The curly-headed outlaw jutted out his chin. “Lady Holt sent him there. To see where you were living. You, Cordell. She wanted you dead. Since you own the Gardner Ranch—or whatever that little game was.” The outlaw grinned again. “We want to know who ‘A’ is. Gonna pay him a little visit when this is over.”

Rule shrugged his shoulders again. “You must be more stupid than I thought. Just when do you think I would have seen this wire? We haven’t been to town. Or haven’t you been paying attention?” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know any man like that.”

“You don’t know who ‘A’ is? Come on, Cordell.”

“I sure don’t know any man with the name that starts with an
A
. Wait, I know a grocery store clerk…in Clark Springs…he’s Andrew. Andrew Gates.” Rule shook his head. “Don’t think he could’ve killed anybody. Andrew doesn’t even own a gun.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, wait a minute, there’s old Amos Pillar. He’s about seventy, I think. Spends most of his time in a rocking chair.”

“Well, you aren’t much help.”

“Sorry. I’ll keep thinking.”

“No need. There’s no reason you boys should live any longer, is there?” Tapan challenged.

Dimitry tugged on his Navajo coat and examined a particular large hole near its right-hand pocket. “This is quite a day. We kill two of the best there is, Checker and Cordell. And we get rid of two of the ranchers Lady Holt wants out of the way. I’d say we’ll have a big bonus coming.” He tugged on the coat again. “Reckon I’ll just see how that fancy tunic of yours fits, Checker. Be a nice way to remember this.”

“Mind if I have a last smoke?” Checker said.

Chuckling, Tapan said, “Sure, why not? Make it fast, though. We’ve got a long ride back to town. Lady Holt’ll want to hear this. Probably make some changes in that newspaper edition she was working on. When we left. Her and our colored boy, you know.” Tapan motioned with his pistol. “He knows how to set type, you know.”

“Thanks. Nice of you.”

“How about you, Cordell? Reckon it’s the right thing to do,” Tapan said.

“No, thanks. Tobacco and lead don’t set well with me.”

All four of the gunmen laughed.

Checker reached slowly inside his tunic and brought out a tobacco pouch and papers. He took a paper, creased it and began to pour tobacco shreds along the line. His hands shook and he dropped the paper.

“Kinda nervous there, aren’t ya, Checker?” Tapan said, watching the Ranger bend over to retrieve the paper.

The other gunmen’s attention went to the paper and the movement, chuckling at the Ranger’s obvious nervousness.

Checker came up firing his backup revolver carried in his back waistband. His first two shots hit Tapan in the face.
The outlaw screamed. Morgan shoved her elbow in his side and dove. Blood covering his face, Tapan Moore fired his revolver as he fell. His shot sang past the tall Ranger’s head. Checker fired his gun twice more at the bearded gunman to Tapan’s left. Leaning over, the Ranger picked up the closest pistol, Bartlett’s, with his left hand.

The bearded gunman grabbed his stomach and groaned, dropping his rifle.

Rule’s own backup Dean & Adams revolver, also carried in his back waistband, was barely an eyeblink behind. His shots blasted into Dimitry and into the other gunman beside him. Dimitry spun halfway and tried to bring his rifle toward the diving Emmett. From a crouching position, Rikor pulled a handgun hidden in his back waistband and fired at the other gunman. The gunman’s rifle roared into the night and ripped along the top of Rikor’s shoulder. The young Gardner released his gun and grabbed for the searing pain.

Rule emptied his handgun into all four gunmen and grabbed one of the discarded weapons.

“They’re done, Rule,” Checker said, stepping closer. “Morgan, are you all right?”

Rule walked over to the dead gunmen, kicking their weapons away. He retrieved his gun belt and buckled it, adding his backup Colt to his waistband. He stood without talking, reloading the Dean & Adams gun.

Emmett was examining his son’s wound. It wasn’t serious, only a burn along his shoulder.

Quietly, Rikor confessed, “Pa, I saw Uncle Rule and John carry extra guns in their belts. In back. That’s what I did. Nobody thought I was carrying.”

“Smart o’ ya, son.”

Morgan was in Checker’s arms moments later. Tears covered her face. “They killed…Mr. Fiss. London. They shot
him…in the back. Oh, I hoped you wouldn’t…come. They wanted to kill you and Rule so bad.”

Breath hissed through Checker’s clenched teeth. “Lady Holt has killed two very good men.”

She buried her head against his Comanche tunic and sobbed.

Rule was already heading to the horses. His face was frozen in fury.

Looking at the fast-moving gunfighter, Emmett said, “The one who done kilt Eleven Meade…that were Aleta, weren’t it? Ya figger her an’ the kids is all ri’t?”

Swinging into the saddle, Rule said, “I’m riding to town to find that wire. And see a British lady.”

He whirled the horse and galloped into the darkness, slapping its withers with the reins.

The tall Ranger stepped back from Morgan. “I must go with him. You and Emmett…and Rikor…ride back to your place.”

“Reckon we should go wi’ ya, John,” Emmett said, and looked at the grieving Morgan. “I’m sorry, li’l lady, but…”

“Not this time, Emmett. Please take London back to their ranch.” Checker looked at Morgan. “Maybe you’d like to bury him in the same place where…A.J. is.”

Walking toward him, the wounded Rikor said, “I’m going with you. They can’t do this to us.”

Checker shook his head. “Not this time, Rikor. They need you with them.”

The young man stared at the Ranger. “You figured they wouldn’t think of asking about backup guns—with all those irons you were carrying. Right?”

“That’s what I was hoping, Rikor.”

Wiping the tears from her face, Morgan walked over to the tall Ranger. “You come back. To me. You hear, John Checker?”

“I will. I promise.”

Saying the words made the image of his little sister fly through his mind. He touched Morgan’s cheek. “A long time ago, I gave that same promise to my little sister. When I had to leave Dodge. She took a button from my shirt. To remember me by. Didn’t have anything else.” He looked away. “I haven’t kept that promise, Morgan. Not yet anyway.”

She grabbed his shirt under his tunic and yanked a button free. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll help you keep it.”

Late night in Caisson found the lamps burning in the newspaper office. Even the saloons had quieted. Inside, Lady Holt wrote furiously.

Her face was flushed with the energy of creation. Behind her, Elliott toiled at setting type. Tomorrow would bring a brand-new world. Her empire would be established, and what better way to announce it than with a special edition of the newspaper?

Outside, lounging on the sidewalk, were four of her gunmen. The rest had gone with Jaudon to rid the region of the last of the interference to her empire. They would sweep through the Peale Ranch, then the Carlson place and lastly destroy Emmett Gardner’s ranch house, burning and killing. Tracking down any of the remaining ranch owners who lived would come next. Another day.

She chuckled when she recalled Tapan and Dimitry coming to her, asking for permission to ride a different direction. They were concerned John Checker and Rule Cordell might set a trap. How could she resist! She had kissed the curly-headed gunman and told him to hurry back. She would stay
in town, at her apartment, after the newspaper edition was finished. They could celebrate. Together.

Rubbing her hands together to rid them of writer’s cramp, she examined the page before her. She had already finished the articles headlined T
OWN
E
NJOYS
N
EW
P
EACE AS
R
ANGER
C
APTAIN
S
IL
J
AUDON
C
OMBINES
F
ORCES WITH
R
ANCHER
and A
RREST
W
ARRANTS
I
SSUED
F
OR
E
MMETT
G
ARDNER
, C
HARLES
C
ARLSON
, M
ORGAN
P
EALE
, J
OHN
C
HECKER
, L
ONDON
F
ISS AND
R
ULE
C
ORDELL
and L
ADY
H
OLT
A
GREES
T
O
T
AKE
O
VER
T
HREE
S
MALL
R
ANCHES
A
FTER
O
WNERS
A
RE
K
ILLED
.

Halfway finished was the story headlined G
OVERNOR
C
ITALE
P
RAISES
R
ANGER
C
APTAIN AND
M
AJOR
R
ANCHER
F
OR
F
AST
W
ORK IN
Q
UELLING
O
UTLAW
R
EBELLION
.

Lying to her left was a blank sheet of paper with only the headline scratched on its top: B
RITISH
N
OBILITY
B
RINGS
W
EALTH
T
O
R
EGION
. It would be a piece about her—with liberties taken as to accuracy. A third sheet contained the beginnings of a poem, entitled “Iva Lee, I wish you were here.” Several lines had been furiously scribbled.

O Iva Lee     O Iva Lee

In the morning mist, I see thee.

In the afternoon dusk, I call your name

O Iva Lee     O Iva Lee

You are with me

Even when you are not

You are part of me

Even though you cannot be

O Iva Lee     O Iva Lee.

She thought it would make a nice inset piece and planned to finish it later.

Elliott had created a new masthead as she requested. The
Caisson Reporter
was now The
Caisson Phoenix
. Under the large typeset heading was a Latin phrase he had suggested.
Emitte lucem et veritatem
. He said it meant “Send out light and truth.”

She had loved it. Jaudon wouldn’t return for several days and she hoped to have the newspaper on the streets of Caisson before he rode in victoriously.

A knock on the door brought her alert.

“Yes?” she asked without moving.

“It’s Wilson. Wilson Tanner. Thought you might like to take a break.” The voice from the other side of the door was syrupy. “I’ve got some fine Tennessee whiskey. For toasting.”

She smiled, rose and then stopped. “No, Iva Lee. I won’t drink until I’m finished. Yes, I know this is important.” Brushing her hair with her hand, she turned toward Elliott. “I’ll let him in, but now is not the time to celebrate.”

“
Ab inconvenienti
,” he muttered without looking up.

“Exactly.”

Opening the door, she smiled her most magnificent smile. “Come in, Wilson. As you can see, we are hard at work. It will be my grand announcement, so to speak. The grand announcement of my becoming the Queen of Texas.”

Looking disheveled, Tanner bowed and stepped inside, holding a bottle of whiskey in his hand. His own face was flushed from several hours of drinking.

“Well, I thought…perhaps, you’d like to take a break…from your writing. It is, indeed, a grand night—and one worth celebrating. Your greatness will soon be known throughout Texas—and beyond.” He made an exaggerated gesture, then quickly held his fist to his mouth to conceal a hiccup.

“Your kindness is most appreciated, Wilson,” Lady Holt said, returning to her desk. “Why don’t you leave the bottle and Elliott and I will toast…when the newspaper is done?”
She smiled. “I’ve renamed it the
Caisson Phoenix
. Do you like that?” She motioned toward Elliott. “And dear Elliott, he has given it the perfect, ah, what do you call it? Ah yes, slogan. That’s it, slogan.
Emitte lucem et veritatem
.” She lifted her chin and added, “It means ‘Send out light and truth.’ ”

She pointed at the edge of the writing table. “You can leave it there, Wilson. That would be a sweet boy.”

The attorney-judge wasn’t certain how to react. He had hoped she might be interested in a more romantic time in the back room. Or at least, the promise of a clandestine meeting in her apartment later. Instead, he had only gotten a rather cold dismissal.

“I like it.”
Hiccup
. “Very much,” Tanner said, and held his hand to his mouth again to deflect another hiccup. “Very much.” He swallowed and placed the bottle on the table and started to leave.

“Wilson?”

His heart pounded and he turned around. “Yes, m’lady?”
Hiccup
.

“What do you hear…around town? How are…my people taking all of this?” Her face was full of joy.

He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Ah, what do I hear around town?”
Hiccup
. “How are your people taking all of this?”

Repeating her questions gave him time to think, but his hiccupping wasn’t helping his concentration. What should he say? That Margaret Loren was trying to raise a posse to run her out of town? Should he tell her that Dimitry’s killing of the blacksmith earlier had almost started a riot? That the only thing keeping a lid on things was the obvious fear of her retaliation against anyone who crossed her?

“I think…ah, I think the town is very pleased you have taken control.”
Hiccup
. “You and Jaudon. There is praise for his swift action,” he said, pulling on his collar to provide
some relief from its tightness. “I would say many see…in you…the leader so needed in this region.”
Hiccup
. “The word
queen
has been mentioned.”

“Oh, very good, Wilson. Very good.” She looked down at her writing. “You may leave now.”

Outside, an attractive Mexican woman rode a spirited horse down the main street, heading for the hotel. Her ample bosom, covered by her blouse and a sarape, bounced with the movement of her horse. A sombrero, lying against her back, accompanied the rhythm and hid most of the trailing braid of long black hair.