Ride for Rule Cordell (3 page)

“Do I get a gun?” Andrew asked

Glancing at Emmett and Rikor, who both nodded approval, the tall Ranger agreed and the older son pulled one of the hideout guns from his waistband and held it for the younger son.

“It’s double action, Andrew. You don’t have to cock it,” Rikor said as the fourteen-year-old took the gun.

“I know. Pa showed me lots of times.”

“How about me, do I get a gun?” Hans asked, his eyes bright with eagerness.

Checker shook his head. “No…I need you ready to run to the porch and tell us what’s happening.” He patted the boy on the shoulder. “Watch through the back door, but don’t stand where you can be seen. If anyone comes, you hurry back. It won’t be A.J. or Rikor.”

“Should I shoot if they come?” Andrew asked.

“Yes. Once. Then get away from the door. Ah, take Hammer with you.”

The boys beamed with the responsibility given them and
solemnly headed for the back door with the dog trotting obediently between them.

Nodding, Checker turned toward the sullen Jaudon. “If anything goes wrong, Emmett, shoot the Frenchman.”

The French outlaw leader walked toward the front door; his eyes avoided looking at anyone. His face was a deep crimson; his ample belly jiggled with the movement. Hatred poured from his eyes and his fists opened and closed to release some of the anger building within him.

Renewal of the threat straightened the pig-faced man’s back and he began to walk stiffly as if precision would fully indicate his desire to comply. A few shadows lined up to support his compliance. Shifting the shotgun to his other hand, Bartlett grabbed the rifle as he and Rikor followed the boys to the back.

A dozen steps later, John Checker, Emmett Gardner and Sil Jaudon stood on the wood-planked front porch that covered the entire front of the ranch house. Four posts supported the overhanging roof, but provided little cover if needed. Shapes moved in the darkness. The Ranger could see two men standing under a thick cottonwood near the edge of the open ranch yard. Others were moving near the barn where he had seen them earlier.

If the Ranger report was correct, Lady Holt—and Jaudon—had at least forty gunmen working for her. Checker guessed there were twenty there tonight. Four were down and three were in the house under control. That left thirteen. If his speculation was right. Being only one off would be enough to cause trouble, though.

Without looking, Checker knew Bartlett had taken a position
near the front of the house, crouched behind a scraggly bush. The barn and corrals were to their right. He couldn’t see where Rikor was hiding on the other side closest to the shed.

“Rikor, keep your eye on the shed and the trees around it. All right?” Checker said quietly. “I’ve got the front.”

“Got it.”

“A.J., there were men around the barn earlier,” Checker cautioned. “Most will be coming from that direction, I think. I’ve got the front. Two are there, for sure.”

Bartlett’s response was lengthy as usual, pointing out the difficulty of seeing anyone in the shadows around the barn, and wondering if the gunmen Checker had knocked out would be found. Before Bartlett could continue with a meandering speech, Checker told him to watch for movement in the darkness.

“All right, Jaudon, call in your boys,” Checker said. “If you say anything I don’t understand, I’ll assume it’s ordering an attack. Make sure nobody is slow coming. If one lags behind, you won’t like what happens.”

Jaudon’s shoulders straightened. “
Vous
are through, Gardner,” he finally blurted without looking at him. “Wait an’
vous
vill see. I vill watch
votre
…your sorry ass hang. I vill be the one pissin’ on
votre
face.”

“Emmett, stand behind Jaudon. You know what to do if his men don’t come in quietlike.”

“Be my pleasure,” the old rancher growled. “Got these two fine pistols cocked an’ ready.”

Remembering his medicine pouch, Checker touched the small lump under his shirt and tunic. Somewhere a wolf cry haunted the land, as if his touch had brought the response. His rational mind told him it was just a coincidence. They had been hearing wolves off and on all day.

Jostling his shoulders to rid the nerves taking over, the
Frenchman called out, “
Venir
…come in! Come in!
Venir
! Ve haff them. Ve haff them. Come in. Now. Ve haff much to do.” His voice was packed with anger, but he made no attempt to start anything. His fat face was like a red pumpkin.

Across the darkened ranch yard, voices carried Jaudon’s relayed command. So far, the others hadn’t discovered any of their downed associates. Checker told himself the darkness was helping, but he had dragged them out of the way, too.

Jaudon muttered something French under his breath.

“Remember, I want English when they get closer, Jaudon,” Checker said.

Emmett chuckled.

“Keep those pistols out of sight, Emmett.”

“They’ll be behind me back. A-waitin’.”

“Good.”

Supportive grunts and calls popped through the night. Dark shapes began to emerge from the blackness and head toward the house. Checker’s dark eyes assessed the advancing twosome. “I think the yellow-haired fellow is Whitey Wesson. He’s wanted in El Paso. Murder.”

“I did not know this,” Jaudon volunteered.

“Of course you didn’t. You were just hiring boys who were good with ropes, right?”

“Hey, boss! Vince’s been coldcocked. Over here, behind this shed!” The cry came from the area where Checker had dragged the unconscious gunman earlier.

Checker froze. He should have expected the reaction. “Jaudon, tell him it’s all right. You’ve got work to do.” He jabbed the fat man in the stomach with the butt of his rifle for emphasis.

“Rikor, keep a close watch,” Checker cautioned.

“I have him. There is only one.”

“Leave heem. Ve vill care for heem later,” Jaudon yelled loudly. “It is
bien.
Come on. Ve haff work to do.”

“B-but he’s hurt. Head’s bleeding real bad.”

“I said come.” Jaudon’s voice bit hard into the night.

“Yeah, yeah.”

From the other side of the ranch yard, two well-armed men appeared from near the corral and strolled toward the porch. The shorter gunman with an oversized handlebar mustache stopped and squinted.

“Wait, Tapan. That man with the boss. I know him,” the gunman gushed. “Saw him in El Paso. Last year, it was. That’s John Checker, the Ranger.”

“John Checker, damn! What’s he doin’ here?” Tapan Moore said, his breath coming in short bursts.

“Well, it ain’t to help us. Let’s get closer and then take him,” the short gunman declared softly, “before he knows we’re on to him. Remember that sonvabitch is a heller with a gun. Saw him in action in El Paso. Never saw the like. Maybe better’n you—or Luke. Be careful, though. The boss is standing right next to him.”

“All right. I’ll take Checker an’ you get ol’ man Gardner. He must be carryin’, I reckon.” A toothy smile from Tapan Moore followed.

“No, we’d better both take Checker.”

“Oh, all right. But I don’t like that ol’ man.”

“You can have him next.”

“Sure.”

They walked toward the porch, trying to act nonchalant, as the other Jaudon gunmen did the same. Neither saw Bartlett slip behind them at a comfortable distance and check out the barn to determine there were no gunmen waiting. Satisfied, he turned his attention to following the two gunmen.

At the porch, Checker focused on the gunmen sidling
toward them from the cottonwoods. He was glad they didn’t look around while they were standing there. The creek where he had dragged the two men earlier was only fifteen feet behind them.

Halting twenty feet from the porch, the gunmen from the barn swung their rifles into position.

“Drop ’em, boys.” Bartlett’s command was like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky.

Tapan Moore dropped his rifle, jerking his arms into the air as if they were being pulled by unseen strings. The shorter man hesitated, then swung his gun toward Bartlett.

The Ranger’s rifle barked twice and the gunman yipped, dropped his gun and went to his knees. The exchange surprised the two gunmen coming from the front and both swung their guns into firing position. Checker’s Winchester roared into the night. Three times. Answering fire clipped the porch and one bullet thudded into Checker’s left thigh.

Jaudon flinched as Emmett Gardner drove the nose of a revolver into his back. “Better hope this gits dun quick an’ ri’t, Frenchie.”

Waving arms, Jaudon yelled out, “
S’arrete
! Stop this! Stop this! Come in. These are Rangers. They vill kill me.” His face indicated he believed the statement.

From inside the house came Andrew’s scared voice. “Pa, there’s someone at the back door!” Hans’s voice was right behind his older brother’s. “Shoot him, Andrew!” Hammer growled as if he were much bigger than he was.

Emmett spun toward the door as two shots cracked into the night. He entered the house to see Rikor standing in the back doorway.

“It’s all right, Pa. Rikor got him,” Hans said, appearing calmer than his brother.

Andrew’s gun was in his hand at his side. It hadn’t been fired. He was shaking and close to crying. Both younger sons stood near the tied gunmen, whose expressions were unreadable.

On the floor in front of a grim Rikor was an unmoving body.

The older rancher’s shoulders heaved with relief.

“That’s the guy who was yellin’ from our shed, Pa,” Rikor declared, holding his smoking Winchester with both hands. “Watched him curl back to the house—an’ followed him. He was the only one over on this side. Where do you want me to go?”

Emmett motioned toward the front window and returned to the porch.

“Did ya miss me, Frenchie?” he growled, jamming Jaudon’s pistols into the fat man’s back. “John, Rikor got the bastard tryin’ to come in our house. Nobody’s on that side now. He’s at the window. To my right.”

“It was his bullets we heard?” Checker said without turning his focus from the ranch yard.

“Yep. Rikor don’t miss much.”

Slowly, the remaining gunmen came to the porch, all realizing the situation had changed. One of the two gunmen coming from the front was down and not moving; the other held his arm. The curly-headed gunman from the barn left his companion and hurried toward the porch. Bartlett stopped and disarmed the short gunman, telling him in detail that he wasn’t hurt badly, that it only was painful.

Checker was bleeding from the upper thigh of his left leg. He recognized the advancing gunman. It was Tapan Moore. The Ranger report had been correct.

The old rancher was the first to notice. “You’ve been hit, John.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’re bleedin’, man.”

For a vicious moment, Checker saw his father’s face in the one of the man advancing. He always realized, without wanting to admit it, that his own face carried much of the same look. Anger snarled within him as the memory barreled through his mind. J. D. McCallister was slapping his mother as she fought to keep him from the tent where they lived.

Once more he saw himself as a small boy diving into this man who was his father, but never admitted it, to save his mother and be beaten bloody himself. The evil man never came to their tent again. Ever. His mother’s health deteriorated steadily after the beating and she died from whooping cough a few years later. A fourteen-year-old John Checker blamed his father, the man who never recognized him or his sister as his.

His attempt to kill J. D. McCallister at his saloon resulted in his being chased out of town by McCallister’s men, after Checker wounded one with a knife. A sympathetic prostitute had helped him escape. Neighbors took in his eight-year-old sister and raised her. They hadn’t seen each other since; he wasn’t certain she even lived in Dodge anymore.

The hole in his heart had been filled with hardening as the young man fought his way through life, becoming one of the Rangers’ best men, dangerous and fierce.

“John…you all right, boy? John?” Emmett’s concern and the touch of his hand to Checker’s shoulder broke him out of the momentary nightmare.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m all right,” Checker said, flinching slightly from the rancher’s concern. “That fellow out there, that’s Tapan Moore. Heard about him down in El Paso. He’s a bad one, Emmett.”

Bartlett yelled orders, standing near the fallen short gunman, “Drop your rifles. Unbuckle your handguns. Get rid of those hideaways—before we do it for you. We’re Rangers and you’re all under arrest.”

An hour later, all of the Jaudon gunmen were tied with Emmett, Rikor and the younger sons standing guard over them in the ranch yard. Even the three gunmen from inside the house were led outside. Moonlight washed across the strange gathering as the captured men muttered and swore. Before going inside, Bartlett pointed out the two most dangerous, Luke Dimitry and Tapan Moore. Both grinned as Emmett agreed.

Only Jaudon was completely silent.

Inside the house, Bartlett brought a surgeon’s tool from his saddlebags and began probing Checker’s leg for the bullet. The tall Ranger had been reluctant to have the wound cared for, but his partner had assured him that it was necessary they do so now.

A bright orange fire in the fireplace heated the foot-long instrument. It had been used many times over the years, whenever a doctor wasn’t close. With Checker stretched out on the kitchen table and his bloody pants pulled down, Bartlett began to probe and root for the embedded piece of lead in his leg. Checker had refused any whiskey, believing he needed to stay alert. Instead, he bit down on a stick while his friend sought the bullet.

Trying to keep from thinking about the jabbing pain, Checker took his watch from his pocket. He popped open the lid and sought the memories within its tiny, cracked photograph of his mother with her two small children. Bartlett glanced up once and smiled grimly; he knew of Checker’s sad childhood in Kansas. Taking a deep breath, the gentle lawman squinted and began to probe the bloody cut in Checker’s thigh. He had seen this reverie before.

Checker remembered his mother being so proud as she guided them into the photographer’s studio. It took a long time for him to accept the fact that she had probably paid for the expensive session with her body. It didn’t matter, he told himself. It was the only record that such a family ever existed. Except in his heart. And maybe Amelia’s, wherever she was. He let his mind wander again to the awful parting of Amelia, his little sister, and himself. There was no other choice; neighbors were willing to take the girl, but not him. Not with McCallister and his men seeking his head. As the two children said their tearful good-byes, Amelia had sought his promise to return. The neighbors had given him an old brown horse, a sack of food and a silver dollar.

From a jammed-away corner of his mind, his sister came running with tears washing across her face.

“I—I—I want to go with you, Johnny!”

Trying to act stronger than he felt, the boy said, “You can’t, sis. But I’ll come back for you.”

After her insistence, he promised to return for her.

“Say you promise.”

“I promise.”

As he turned to leave, Amelia asked that he give her something of his to keep until he returned. He had nothing, except the knife in his belt. She had grabbed his shirt and pulled free a button.

That was the last time he saw her.

His trail had taken him east and then south, through all manner of jobs including making money fistfighting, until his skill with a gun took precedence. A short stint as a Yankee sharpshooter. He had even ridden the outlaw trail for a short while before becoming a Ranger. His promise to return to his sister had faded into the place where other broken promises went.

It hurt too much to think long about what might have happened to her.

The pain from Bartlett’s probing jerked him back to the table. Checker bit hard on the stick, nearly breaking it, and his Ranger partner held up the piece of lead triumphantly.

“Got it! Got it. John, it didn’t hit anything bad, but you’ll not be riding for a while—until it heals,” Bartlett said, wiping his bloody hands on a towel from his saddlebags.

“No, I’ll ride now, A.J. We need to get that bunch to town.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine.”

Running into the house, Hans brought Checker’s wide-brimmed hat, at his father’s suggestion. The boy beamed proudly as the tall Ranger thanked him and returned it to his head. The derby remained on the kitchen counter where he put it.

In spite of Bartlett’s concern, the two Rangers were soon riding to town. In front of them were Jaudon and his remaining men mounted on their horses. Their hands were tied behind them and each man’s saddle horn was connected to the next with rope. Two other men with bloody kerchiefs around their heads rode silently; another had one arm bound in a makeshift sling, but his hands were still tied together. Bartlett had tended to them somewhat. Behind Bartlett and Checker were three horses, each carrying a dead gunman.

Dawn was flirting with their alertness as the Rangers and their prisoners rode into Caisson, Texas. The growing town showed few signs of waking. Except for a well-dressed lawman who immediately left his office and confronted them in the street. It was Sheriff Allison Hangar, who served as the law in both the county and the town.

“What is all this?” Sheriff Hangar demanded.

In his crossed arms was a double-barreled shotgun. His pale, narrow face looked as if it were cut in two by the oversized mustache. His clothes were freshly pressed and his shirt collar looked new, holding in place a dark silk cravat. Unseen, but obvious, was a gun belt. He was hatless with closely cropped hair.

“These are our prisoners, Sheriff,” Checker said, forcing himself to be more alert than he felt. “They are under arrest for the attempted murder of Emmett Gardner and his family.”

“Oh, that can’t be,” Hangar growled.

“Sheriff, we’ve been riding most of the night,” Checker said. “If my partner and I hadn’t been there, the Gardners would all be dead by now. Are you questioning my statement—or our authority?”

Sheriff Hangar glanced at Jaudon, who nodded slightly. Checker caught the exchange, but let it go.

“Neither, I reckon,” Hangar replied. “There’s a drunk in my jail now. I’ll let him go an’ you can pour this bunch in.” He paused. “Guess I’d better fetch Doc—and George, George Likeman, he’s the undertaker. Well, he’s that and the town cabinetmaker an’ a few other things.”

Checker motioned toward the two wounded gunmen. “They’ve already been treated by my partner. But you’re welcome to bring the doctor if you wish. The state of Texas will pay for the burials.” He rubbed his chin. “But I reckon bounty money is there for, at least, Dimitry and Moore.”

At the jail, Bartlett watched his friend dismount. As
usual, Checker’s face was unreadable. Bartlett knew his friend was hurting from the wound. Had to be. Checker had struggled with himself about dealing with evil; something within him wanted the evil to go away and leave him with a normal family. And it wouldn’t. Evil had a way of transforming everything.

Bartlett unlashed the ropes connecting the riders and began ordering them to dismount, one by one. He liked the precision of the order.

Across the street, a small gathering of townspeople had stopped to watch, uncertain of what had transpired. A well-dressed man in a charcoal-gray suit and a slightly tilted, short-brimmed hat announced they should go over and arrest the two strangers, certainly the town didn’t need their kind around, that Jaudon worked for Lady Holt and was a fine, upstanding citizen.

Murmurs of agreement followed, interspersed with brash comments, but no one moved. Especially not the well-dressed man. A frail-looking woman with snow-white hair harrumphed and crossed the street to ask what was happening. Her face went as white as her hair when Checker informed her of the situation. Her chin rose in defiance and she spun to return to the group and relate the details.

The tall Ranger wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or concerned.

As she retreated, the sound of peeing reached Checker’s ears. In the alley between the jail and a saloon, a silhouette weaved as he attempted to relieve himself. The tall Ranger returned his attention to the arrested men. His leg was throbbing and forcing pain throughout his body. Reacting to it would have to wait; sleep would have to wait. Until Jaudon and his men were safely behind bars. He barely heard the sheriff say they would have to cram the gunmen into the five cells, but Jaudon would have one by himself.

“We’re not through, Checker,” Tapan Moore yelled, and flashed a wide, toothy smile.

“Another time. Another time.”

Standing next to him, the half-breed Dimitry made a slicing motion across his neck with his hand.