Ride for Rule Cordell Page 18

  Into his hand, the black-handled Colt appeared.

  “No, John. A.J. wouldn’t want that.” Rule’s voice was soft, almost a whisper.

  Checker’s shoulders rose and fell. Twice. He shuddered as he struggled to bring his rage under control. Fiss watched him from next to the dead deputy’s cell. His shotgun was held at his side. He was almost motionless; only his cheeks showed movement as he bit them to hold in his feelings.

  “I’m sorry, John,” Fiss said. “He was a man to ride the river with.”

  Checker tried to answer but couldn’t.

  After easing Bartlett’s head back on the floor, Rule closed the Ranger’s unmoving eyes. He stood, saw his own pistols and leaned over to retrieve them, shoving one into its holster and the other into his waistband. He looked at Checker and his eyes asked what the Ranger wanted to do next.

  Checker’s return gaze was full of hurt as he walked toward Bartlett and knelt beside him. “I’ll miss you, my friend. You kept me balanced. You always had my back.” He took a deep breath. “I should’ve had yours.” He bit his lower lip and recited, “ ‘Your strength is as the strength of ten, because your heart is pure.’ ”

  Rule nodded as he realized Checker changed the word my in Tennyson’s “Sir Galahad” to your. A bittersweet tribute.

  Fiss found a blanket in the small storeroom and brought it to Checker. The three men placed it over Bartlett’s body.

  After a few moments of silence, Checker stood. “Rule. London. Would you take care of…this…while I go back?”

  Both men agreed. The tall Ranger made no attempt to explain what he wanted done. It was Fiss who suggested the editor be brought to the jail to see for himself what had happened.

  From the cell, the deputy whined, “I—I’ll leave…an’ not c-come back. H-Hangar d-didn’t say anything about…this…kinda stuff. I…ah, I’m sorry.”

  Rule glanced at him, but said nothing. Checker walked away as if he hadn’t heard the deputy. He stepped across the body of the dead skinny gunman and over the body of the wounded scarred gunman. The gunman shut his eyes and pulled his legs into his stomach.

  As the tall Ranger reached the door again, Rule said, “The deputy said there was only one who got away. Dimitry. Ran south.”

  “As soon as the hearing is over, we’ll find him. I’ll ask Seitmeyer if he wants to come here and see for himself what happened.” He took a deep breath. “He’s a good man, I think. A.J. thought so.”

  “John?”

  Checker paused at his name from Rule. “Yes?”

  “We need this town if we’re going to stop her.”

  “I know that.”

  “Opat and Hangar should be arrested. Not shot.”

  Checker’s eyes darted toward Rule as if they were bullets; then he nodded. “I know that.”

  All eyes were on the tall Ranger as he returned to the courtroom. Morgan Peale ran toward him, hesitated and knew what had happened without asking.

  The blacksmith stood and said, “Is everything all right?”

  “No. No, it’s not. Lady Holt’s men tried to take over the jail. They killed one of Texas’s best Rangers, A. J. Bartlett. He stopped three.”

  Opat watched the tall Ranger and knew this was a particularly dangerous time. John Checker was on edge, feeling the death of his friend, aching to fill the hole in his heart. With anything. Anything.

  The small group of townspeople had grown since Checker left. The room was half-filled with stern-faced men and women. Lady Holt’s fist had driven them into submission for a long time. Now there seemed to be hope. It rested in the tall Ranger and his gunfighter friend.

  “Ah, Ranger, sir, while you were gone, Sheriff Hangar tried to take over.” The blacksmith rubbed his big hands together. His face was streaked with black to match his clothes. He was a small man, but his upper arms and chest would have made it difficult for any man to best him.

  “Had a hideaway gun in his boot,” the blacksmith continued. “Emmett Gardner’s boy came in from the back—and several of us took it from him.”

  For the first time, Checker noticed a subdued Hangar standing in the corner; his hands were lashed together in front of him. His right eye was swollen shut with redness streaking from it. A few feet away stood Rikor with a rifle and a deep frown. On the other side of the tied lawman were the two Triple C cowboys; neither were armed.

  “We’re gonna take our town back,” the blacksmith announced proudly. “Get ourselves some real law and order. A real judge. A real sheriff. Yes, sir, that’s what we’re gonna do. An’ we thank you for making it so.”

  Morgan completed her advance and hugged the Ranger and he returned the emotion. “I am so sorry, John. So sorry.” Her eyes sought his for comfort and more.

  “I know. It’s awful hard, Morgan. Awful hard. I wish that British woman was a man. I’d know what to do.” Checker’s face twisted with agony.

  “Treat her no differently than anyone else who breaks the law,” Morgan said, and motioned to the sitting townspeople. “A lot happened here, John, and you—and A.J. and Rule—made it happen.” She wiped a tear trying to escape from her eye. “I almost forgot. The murder charges against you and A.J. were dropped.”

  Checker listened without speaking. His gaze indicated he was a long way away. When he first met A. J. Bartlett at Ranger headquarters, the gentle Ranger had greeted him with a Tennyson quote, the one he had said a few minutes ago.

  “So, what are you expecting from me?” Seitmeyer asked as he walked toward the Ranger.

  “Newspapers are supposed to print the truth, aren’t they?”

  “That’s what I try to do.” Seitmeyer’s answer was more confident than he felt.

  “That’s all I want.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly report on the hearings—and their outcome,” the editor said. “You know I can’t go directly accusing Lady Holt—just on your say-so, or anybody else’s,” Seitmeyer questioned, his brow furrrowing. “No offense, but I wouldn’t do that to anyone.”

  “Of course not,” Checker said. “But I also know the town isn’t going to take a stand against her—and her hired guns—unless the truth gives them strength. A town needs a backbone. You can give them a backbone.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Seitmeyer’s face was flushed. “You know the mayor’s her man. Alex Wilkerson. I’m pretty certain she owns the bank.”

  “The truth’ll be plenty.”

  “What are you going to do…with the sheriff—and the judge?” Seitmeyer’s eyes focused on Checker’s hard face.

  “I’m going to make a citizen’s arrest. Of both of them. A real court can take it from there.”

  From his bench, Opat yelled, “You said I could leave!”

  Cocking his head to the side, Checker said, “That was before Lady Holt’s men killed my friend.” His eyes narrowed. “You can thank God that Rule Cordell was there at the jail with me. I was coming back to kill you—and Hangar. He told me my friend wouldn’t want that.”

  Opat looked as if he was going to vomit.

  “You and Hangar have been doing the bidding of Lady Holt ever since you boys hit town,” Checker growled. “That’s why you came to town in the first place, isn’t it, Opat?”

  “Ah, I didn’t have…any choice. I really…didn’t.” Opat’s face went white and he swallowed twice before finding any words.

  “I don’t have any choice, either,” Checker said. “Both of you are under arrest.”

  The dry goods store woman stood and spoke. “Ranger, sir, who will be our sheriff? Our judge? Who’s going to protect us when that awful woman hears about this? She has all kinds of bad men working for her.” She folded her arms over her ample chest.

  “As soon as I bury my friend, we’re going after her,” Checker said. “Pick someone you trust to be the sheriff—and someone to be judge.” He rubbed his chin. “I think you’d make a fine judge, ma’am, but that’s just my opinion.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Ah, I haven’t had
any training.”

  The blacksmith blurted his support. “I think you’d be a good judge, too, Mrs. Loren. A good one.”

  Several voiced similar support.

  “Where are your council members?” Checker asked. “They can make this decision. Unless you don’t trust them.”

  “There’s one I don’t. Wilson Tanner,” the blacksmith said, waving his arms. “He works for Lady Holt. I know it.”

  “Sounds like you need an election. Why don’t you get them in here?” Checker said. “We’ll take Opat and Hangar to jail.”

  “I’ll go get ’em,” the blacksmith said, moving toward the door. “Who’s gonna help me?”

  Three men and a woman jumped from their seats and headed toward him.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It was nightfall before Wilson Tanner rode up to the Holt Ranch. His horse was lathered and streaked with sweat. Even though he hated this kind of riding, he knew she would want to know. He was also excited about his new appointment as the municipal judge.

  Yes, Caisson was alive with change!

  Opat and Hangar were in jail; the remaining deputy had been relieved of duty and allowed to leave; he was last seen riding south. The blacksmith had accepted the job as sheriff until a countywide election could be held. Tanner had been asked to become the municipal judge to replace Opat, primarily because he was the only other attorney in town.

  Initially, sentiment for Margaret Loren, the dry goods store owner, to become the judge had run strong, but the town council decided to seek help elsewhere. It helped that Mrs. Loren told them that she really didn’t want the responsibility. His mind kept rehearsing the need to not sound sarcastic about the silliness of a woman becoming a judge. Lady Holt would not take kindly to that, to put it mildly. The owner of the No. 8 Saloon was advised to leave by an armed committee when it was discovered Lady Holt actually owned the establishment. As far as Tanner knew, no one objected to Alex Wilkerson’s position as mayor, even though it was well known she owned the bank. Two council members resigned on their own accord, each stating that he didn’t want to be seen lining up against Lady Holt and touting her importance to the region.

  A tired, but exuberant, Tanner was greeted at the door by Elliott, who bowed graciously and invited him in.

  “Welcome, Mr. Tanner. Madame will join you shortly. She is…occupied at the moment,” the black servant declared, and motioned for the attorney to wait in the library.

  “Sure. Sure. This is important or I wouldn’t have come. Took it out on my horse.”

  “I’ll see your mount is cared for. Maximus in minimis.”

  “Thanks. I could use a whiskey if you’ve got one.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Elliott took the attorney’s hat and placed it carefully on a hat rack next to the door.

  “Tennessee, if you have it.”

  “We do, sir.”

  Inside the library, Tanner paced back and forth, barely noticing the three walls of bookshelves lined with books. He had been in this room several times, but not recently. The fourth wall of adobe featured a huge wood carving of a phoenix. Soft gaslights on the wall, above the carving, gave the room a golden glow and happy shadows. Another lamp rested on a shiny walnut table along with a stack of magazines and newspapers.

  He knew well of Lady Holt’s fixation on the legend; at some point, he thought it might be used to his advantage. Sometime. Not now, though. Now he had information, important information. It had been a wild day, a strange one, to say the least.

  The only good things about the day he could think of were that none of his railroad clients were in town—and no one suspected him of a connection to her. He walked over to the carving and ran his forefinger along its edges. Primitive, he thought. Something a Mexican peasant had done.

  Elliott returned with a crystal glass half-filled with brown liquid.

  “It is Tennessee,” he declared proudly, and handed it to Tanner.

  “That will be fine. Thank you, Elliott.”

  “You are welcome, sir. Please make yourself comfortable.” The servant spun and retreated from the room.

  Sipping the whiskey, Tanner tried to make himself relax. The situation was not bad, actually; she had lost a foothold in Caisson, but it could be corrected when Jaudon returned. Or whenever she decided to send her gunmen there. As an aside, his railroad clients might like the idea of dealing with a magistrate who could expedite matters.

  He smiled and took another drink. The hot liquid slid down easily. Yes, this thing could turn out quite fine. For him.

  Walking over to one of the tables, the attorney picked up a magazine. Harper’s Bazaar. He flipped through the pages, stopping at an article about Texas gunfighters. Rule Cordell was one of the featured names. He shivered. The gunfighter was apparently paired up with John Checker. Why he didn’t know, yet. Ah yes, John Checker. Alive. He smiled savagely. Eleven Meade was full of it.

  A few minutes later, Lady Holt entered with her own glass of whiskey. Her hair was disheveled and her blouse was buttoned incorrectly, as if put on hurriedly.

  “I trust this is damn important.” She stood in the doorway.

  “John Checker is alive,” Tanner said, returning the magazine to the table and responding without any greeting. “He and Rule Cordell are working together.”

  She sipped the whiskey, used her forefinger to stir the brown liquid and asked, “And you know this how?”

  Tanner explained what had happened in town: the hearings, the shootings, the new appointees, John Checker’s appearance—and his appointment as the town’s judge.

  “So one Ranger is definitely dead.”

  Her response surprised him. He thought she would be excited about his new position. He managed to respond, “Definitely.”

  She took another sip. “And the town has a new judge.” Her eyes flashed.

  He knew she would like that news. Then she fooled him by asking about Margaret Loren.

  “Well, she owns a small dry goods shop. Makes dresses for—”

  “Have her make six for me. You pick the colors—and the fabrics.”

  Tanner took a deep breath. “Ah, she’ll need your…ah, specifi cations.”

  Lady Holt’s glare was more than he wanted and he glanced down at the magazine.

  “Sometimes I’m surprised at what your railroad friends see in you. Can’t you tell what you need by looking? At me.”

  He cocked his head and said, “I deliver information—and results.”

  Downing the rest of her whiskey, she yelled for Elliott to bring more and asked Tanner what Checker and Rule were doing when he left town. He told her they were mourning Bartlett’s death and were in the undertaker’s office when he left. He didn’t know where they intended to bury the dead Ranger.

  “Here’s what I want you to do. Get that fool telegrapher out of bed. The one with the awful breath.” She walked over to the phoenix wall carving and stared at it. “I want a wire sent to Citale. Tonight. From you, as the new judge and town council member.” She stopped and looked back at him. “You are still on the council, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yes, the others looked to me.”

  “How wise of them.”

  He wasn’t sure if her remark was an insult or a compliment, but decided the latter was a smarter choice for him.

  She rattled off what she wanted the statement to the governor to say. The town had been taken over by an outlaw gang led by Checker and Cordell, the sheriff and judge were being held against their will and that Ranger Captain Jaudon would need wide authority to subdue the situation as soon as he arrived by stage.

  Tanner didn’t like the idea and told her so. The whole town would know he was part of her effort and that wouldn’t set well with him as the new judge. Besides, the telegraph was closed down for the night. He added that Jaudon could act as needed without such direction. If she felt such a wire was needed, it should come from Wilkerson as mayor.

  Spinning toward him, she licked her lower lip, enjoying the tast
e of the whiskey there. He braced himself for her rage at being told she wasn’t correct.

  Her response was surprisingly mild. “You’re right, Wilson. You’re right. I like that in a man. Brings good information—and good counsel.

  “Let’s try this instead,” she continued. “We’ll lull those silly little people into thinking their stupid little town is doing well. As soon as Jaudon arrives, he can lead a force of Rangers in there and clean things up.” She smiled. “And then we can get back to getting the rest of my land.” She turned her head to the side. “Did you say that Peale woman was in town, too? With Checker and Cordell?”

  “Oh yes. She testified on Emmett Gardner’s behalf…on the rustling charge,” Tanner said. “At least, that’s what I heard. I wasn’t in the courtroom—until later. They made the council meet right there. Right after the shooting at the jail.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  Tanner blinked. He hated her when she did this, challenging each word, each nuance. “ ‘They’ is the group of people who sat through the hearings. Townspeople. From what I heard, it was a handpicked group.”

  “Handpicked by whom?”

  He smiled. Should’ve seen that one coming, he thought. “By the people who forced the hearings. Checker and Cordell.”

  She walked across the room and straightened a book on the fourth row. “How did they know who the right people were?”

  He explained Emmett Gardner and Morgan Peale did the selecting, or so he thought.

  “Of course.” She straightened another book. “Ever read The Odyssey?”

  He was surprised by the question. “Ah…Odyssey? Ah, no. Ah, should I?”

  “Never mind. The written word is powerful, isn’t it?” It wasn’t really a question. “I want to buy the Caisson newspaper. Is this Seitmeyer open to being bought—one way or the other?”

  “I don’t think so. He seems like a man hell-bent on goodness and mercy,” Tanner said. “Understand he really went after Hangar in the hearings. Did you ask Hangar to get a story published about Rule Cordell being an outlaw—and involved in Gardner’s rustling?”

  “I did. Hangar never was very good at that sort of thing. Maybe Seitmeyer doesn’t understand how good and merciful I can be—once I take over the region,” Lady Holt said, and turned to the side. “We will take it, won’t we, Iva Lee?”