Ride for Rule Cordell Page 11

  Rule smiled. “I heard he tracked Mexican bandits right to the Rio Grande. They were crossing, so he threw down his badge and went after them. Killed two in the river. Brought the others back for trial. All wounded.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s sure true. Several of us were only a few hours behind.” Bartlett crossed his arms. “I can tell you the one about bringing in the Trimmel Gang by himself was true. I was there when he brought them. The three he hauled in were glad to be away from him, I’ll tell you for sure. The other three tried to shoot it out. They lost.”

  Rule shook his head in amazement. “Heard he made Clay Allison back down.”

  “Don’t know about that. Heard the same about you.”

  “Never met Mr. Allison.”

  “There you go.” Bartlett cocked his head. “I’ll tell you one story about him that most folks don’t know—or those that do, don’t understand. He bought a small house. For a widow with two children. Didn’t know her real well—and wasn’t interested in her, you know. He just said she reminded him of his mother.” He added that Checker was the bastard son of a Dodge City gang leader and that his mother died when he was fourteen.

  “The way I heard it, John tried to kill the man—his father—after his ma died. From the way he treated her. Beating on her and all. Had to leave Dodge fast and leave his little sister behind. With an aunt and uncle or something. Hasn’t seen her since. Kinda grew up the hard way. Fast.”

  Rule shifted his feet. “The way of the gun is a lonely way.”

  With prompting from the Ranger, Rule shared his own upbringing, about his evil minister father and his mother, who ran away when he was young. His mother now lived in Clark Springs; he had no idea what had happened to his father, but had a feeling he was dead. He told about his new life as a minister and the confrontation in the church with his father and the state police.

  Bartlett looked at him. “No offense, but you’ve been lucky. Most gunfighters end up with a bullet. Somewhere. Nobody caring.”

  “None taken. I didn’t seek the reputation, A.J. Tried to avoid it, in fact,” Rule said quietly. “But I don’t think men can stand by and let others take away the homes of their friends. Or their lives. My guns will come out for that.”

  Laying his rifle against the closest rock, he yanked free the revolver from its holster, removed the cartridges and began wiping it clear of dust.

  “You and John will get along real fine.”

  For the first time, the Ranger noticed Rule was wearing a stone earring, a small thong held it in a loop for his ear. He wanted to ask about the item but didn’t. Instead, he told about the time Checker and Spake Jamison fought off a band of Apaches trying to take a stage station. He added that Jamison was a hard-nosed Ranger, a lot older than most.

  “I look forward to meeting John.”

  Neither said what he thought, that it might be too late.

  “Say, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you come by the name…Rule?” Bartlett asked, then adjusted the boot closer to him, sensing an imaginary difference in their alignment.

  Rule chuckled and said his mother wanted her son to become nobility. His father hated the name, which made him like it more.

  Bartlett nodded and smiled.

  “Well, Ranger, while we’re at it, what does ‘A.J.’ stand for?”

  Bartlett shook his head. “Not many know. It’s Augor Josiah. Supposed to be a name of one of my kin. Always thought my ma wanted to tag me with something different just to be ornery. She was a real whip of a gal.”

  Rule studied the moon for a moment, then changed the subject. “Did John give you any idea of what he thought you should do, after Emmett’s boys were safe?” Rule leaned against the rock and studied the night sky. A handful of stars were gleaming proudly.

  Bartlett folded his arms. “Yes, make enough trouble that real justice is brought in.” He paused. “Lady Holt herself would have to be arrested. Ah, John always likes to be attacking.”

  Rolling his shoulders, Rule nodded agreement.

  “While I’m thinking about it, I want to thank you. For stalling Humphrey’s Two. At the end. Of that awful war,” Bartlett said, changing the subject in his mind.

  Rule frowned and looked up from his cleaning.

  “I was with Hill’s Third. We would’ve never seen them coming ’til it was too late.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Like yesterday. To me. In some ways,” Bartlett said. “Marshal Spake Jamison, he rode with Hood. Still doesn’t think the South should’ve quit. Lost an eye to shrapnel. Mean as a cold day. One of our best deputies.”

  Rule shook his head. “Understand his feelings. Took me a long time to come to grips with losing.” He returned the revolver to its holster and drew the short-barreled Colt from his waistband and started the same cleaning ritual.

  Bartlett shifted his weight against the rock and recited, “ ‘Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.’ ”

  “I don’t know that. Tennyson, I presume.”

  “Yes. From ‘The Princess.’ One of my favorites.”

  Bartlett licked his lower lip. “Guess I’m not like you—and John. Or ol’ Spake, for that matter. You boys would charge hell…and bring back Satan in handcuffs.”

  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. Rul
e 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.”

  Chapter Twenty

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  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?”