Ride for Rule Cordell Page 5

  “We are, son.”

  “Got a wire for you from a Captain Temple. Said it was urgent you get it.”

  Checker reached into his pocket and handed the boy a coin. “Thanks, son, appreciate the fast delivery.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what Mr. McGraffin insists on.”

  “Give him our thanks, too.”

  Checker unfolded the telegram, read it and handed it to Bartlett.

  The older Ranger gulped and stammered, “Wh-hat is this? Th-this cannot be. It cannot be.”

  Tugging on his hat, Checker read the wire again:

  RANGERS CHECKER AND BARTLETT…STOP…GOVERNOR HAS ORDERED ME TO REMOVE YOU AS RANGERS…STOP…HE IS NOTIFYING CITIES ACROSS TEXAS OF HIS DECISION…STOP…DOES NOT LOOK LIKE WE CAN STOP THIS MOVE…STOP…TOO MUCH POWER…STOP…APPEARS LADY HOLT BEHIND THIS…STOP…SHE CLAIMS YOU EXCEEDED YOUR AUTHORITY AND ARE PROTECTING RUSTLERS…STOP…WATCH YOURSELVES…STOP…EXPECT LOCAL LAW TO TRY TO ARREST YOU…STOP…REGRETFULLY CAPTAIN TEMPLE

  “That lady makes things happen, doesn’t she?” Bartlett said, shaking his head. “Wonder if the sheriff—and the judge—know this yet?”

  “Of course they do.”

  Checker’s hands went to his gun belt. “We still need to warn Emmett. You ride. I’ll try to delay Hangar and his posse.”

  “You think there won’t be a hearing?”

  “Not one that’s going to help.”

  Bartlett patted his gun belt. “You want to take ’em right here?”

  “No. We’ve got to let them have the first move. They are the law. It won’t help anything to challenge that right now,” Checker said.

  After seeing his friend ride off from the livery where their horses were stabled, Checker saddled his own mount, in case he had to leave town in a hurry. He expected the sheriff, with the judge’s support, to release Jaudon and his men—and deputize them to bring in Emmett Gardner. What should he do? What could he do? He was certain the two local authorities would already know the Rangers had been dismissed.

  What would Stands-In-Thunder do? The aging Comanche war chief had become the father he had never known and the great warrior saw him as a son to replace those lost in war. They had met two years ago when Checker was trying to find a half-breed accused of robbing a bank and suspected of hiding on the Fort Sill reservation. He found the old man, but not the half-breed, and a strong friendship began. Whenever possible, Checker went to visit the old man, both enjoying the company of the other.

  Stands-In-Thunder would attack, he told himself. Attack.

  He rolled his shoulders, took a Colt from his saddlebags and shoved it into his back waistband. Then he pulled the Winchester from its sheath on his saddle. He hurried along the planked sidewalk toward the jail, passing several couples and one whiskered gentleman smoking a pipe, who stopped to watch him after he passed. Coming from the other direction was a harried Sheriff Hangar. Checker guessed he had just left the judge’s office.

  “Where are you headed, Hangar?” Checker barked.

  Checker’s voice jolted the lawman from his focused destination. He shuffled his feet and stopped. His hand began an instinctive move toward his belted handgun; then his mind rejected the idea.

  “Well, well, look who’s here,” Sheriff Hangar snorted. “You’re just in time to help me let Mr. Jaudon and his men go. Judge Opat ruled they’re innocent.” His smile indicated a return of his confidence. “Oh, and I’ve been authorized to deputize them. Your buddy, Emmett Gardner, is wanted for rustling Lady Holt’s beef.”

  “Since when does a judge have a hearing without the prosecution present?” Checker barked, closing the gap between them.

  Hangar forced a laugh. “Guess he didn’t think it was needed. You see that bunch of steers come in? They’re all Lady Holt’s animals your friend stole an’ stuck his brand on.”

  “You know that’s a lie, Hangar.” Checker’s statement was a bullet.

  “You callin’ me a liar?” Hangar’s eyes reddened and his cheeks flinched.

  “What do you think I’m calling you?”

  Hangar hesitated, unsure of what to do or say. He was certain that to move for his gun was to die.

  “Turn around,” Checker ordered, “and bring the judge here. Do it now.”

  Biting his lip, Hangar spun and retreated his steps, yelling over his shoulder, “Won’t change nothin’.”

  Checker watched him go, then strode the remaining yards to the sheriff’s office and stepped inside.

  “Sacre Bleu! What the hell? Where is Hangar?” Sil Jaudon snorted, his heavy jowls shaking with the words.

  Without speaking, Checker strolled over to the growling stove where a blackened coffeepot gurgled. He leaned his rifle against the wall, took a cup from the gathering of mismatched cups on the adjacent counter. Looking around, he spotted a rag that had been used as a handle buffer. He poured himself a cupful; a thin line of steam sought freedom. Sipping the hot liquid, he returned to the marshal’s desk and leaned against the corner of the well-worn surface as if no one else were in the jail.

  “Vous vill die, Ranger Checker,” Jaudon said. “Vous an’ that stupid Emmett Gardner. An’ that other Ranger.”

  The men in the other cells watched mostly in silence. Even Jaudon seemed mesmerized by Checker’s nonchalant style. Only the curly-headed gunman was unimpressed.

  “Hey, Checker, what are you going to do when the judge lets all of us go?” Tapan Moore said, grabbing the cell bars. “All of us. Think you can stop us? We’re gonna pour so much lead into you that you’ll draw magnets from the general store.” He looked over at Dimitry. “Then this half-breed’s gonna scalp you. How ’bout that, Ranger?”

  Without responding, Checker drank his coffee, then took out the silver watch from his pocket and flipped open the case lid. On the inside lid was the tiny cracked photograph of a young woman with two small children, a boy and a girl. He shook his head. That was a long time ago. His sister might not even be alive now.

  Banter began to come from the other men as their courage propped their words. Finally, Sheriff Hangar banged open the door with Judge Opat a few steps behind him. Checker’s rifle was pointed casually at the lawman as he entered.

  “Here you go, Checker. Here’s the judge.”

  “Come on, Hangar, get us outta here! You heard the judge before,” Tapan commanded.

  Other voices joined his declaration.

  “What is this crap?” Judge Opat snarled. “I already ruled on this. They’re innocent, protecting their own property. I issued a warrant for Emmett Gardner’s arrest. For rustling.”

  Checker thought the skinny magistrate looked like a rooster with his narrow, curved nose. A lock of brown hair even perched on his head like a rooster’s comb. His too-big suit coat made his thin frame look more so.

  The tall Ranger kept his rifle pointed at Hangar, but his attention moved to the judge. “Interesting decision, Judge. You didn’t hear the testimony of the two lawmen who brought them in. How convenient.”

  “Didn’t need to. I saw them steers. Outside in the corral,” Opat declared, raising his chin defiantly.

  Checker described the rebranding. The original Lady Holt brand was a symbolic fire, a jagged line with an H above it. Most called it the “fire brand.” In quiet circles, it was referred to as the “hell brand.” The rebranding to look like Emmett’s mark was as good as possible. The “fire” had been blurred over. Above it was a single line. The H had been turned into the EG with the backward E covering the H as best it could to represent Gardner’s Bar EG.

  “In the first place, did you ask Mr. Gardner if he had a bill of sale for those animals?” Checker asked.

  “No, I—”

  “Wouldn’t a real judge do that? Did you look at the brands at all? Do you think anyone could see those altered brands and think they weren’t changed? Did you ask where these steers were found? Were they bunched together? Do you think it makes any sense that a small rancher would take on the most powerful rancher in
the region? Why did Holt’s men take this long to bring those cattle in? Why didn’t they come to the sheriff here first?” Checker’s questions were strung together like a Gatling gun in full fire.

  “A sorry excuse for a judge you are, Opat,” Checker concluded.

  “You don’t have any authority, Checker,” Opat shouted. “Or haven’t you heard? Governor Citale just had you and your partner dropped as Rangers. Good riddance, I’d say.”

  “All the authority I need is in this gun.”

  Hangar froze.

  Opat licked his lips and folded his arms. His face narrowed and his eyes sought Checker’s. “Matter of fact, you’re under arrest, Checker. For the murder of three innocent men last night. You an’ that partner of yours.”

  From the cells came an outburst of laughter.

  “Au revoir, John Checker,” Jaudon spat. “I cut out votre eyes when I see vous next.”

  Checker said, “You bring in real law an’ we’ll give ourselves up to him. But not to you. Or Hangar.” He stared at Jaudon. “Jaudon, you talk better than you do. I’d be careful of that.” He motioned with his gun toward the far cell. “I want both of you in there. Hangar, get rid of your gun belt. Judge, take that derringer out of your pocket.”

  “What! How’d you? You can’t do this. I’m the law in this town,” Opat snorted, and withdrew the small gun and laid it on the desk. “Me an’ Hangar.”

  “No, you’re not. Lady Holt is—and you’re dancing to any tune she happens to play. I feel sorry for you, Opat,” Checker said, watching Hangar unbuckle his gun belt and let it slide to the floor.

  At the doorway, Checker turned back to the cells. “Now you listen. All of you. We’re no longer Rangers, so we don’t have to bring you in alive. You come after our friend Emmett and you’re going to die.”

  Chapter Eight

  John Checker rode hard toward Emmett Gardner’s ranch. Behind his bay was a sturdy packhorse carrying a load of supplies and ammunition. The general store owner had been helpful, but careful no one from Lady Holt’s ranch was close when he was. Checker’s mind was whirling with what they must do. Now they didn’t even have the law of Texas riding with them. They were outlaws.

  Outlaws. He had been on that side once. A long time ago. When he was a young man riding with the burn of Dodge City in his heart. But that was a long time ago and Texas had held his loyalty—and his gun—since then.

  Now? Swirls of childhood memory worked across his mind. His real father had been a gang leader with a disreputable saloon in Dodge, a corrupt man who took what he wanted, when he wanted it. J. D. McCallister had two legitimate sons, Starrett and Blue. The evil man’s blood ran through Checker’s veins even though the man wanted no part of him or his sister. Maybe that’s all Checker was, really. Maybe he was nothing more than McCallister’s blood and the evil man’s temper boiled easily within him.

  He shook his head to clear it. He was a Texas Ranger. A good one. A proud one. He would act like one, even if the governor had fired the two Rangers. His mind slid to Lady Holt; she was older than he was, but she was very attractive. To any man. More importantly, she was powerful. Powerful enough to get the governor to have them dismissed as Rangers. Just like that.

  Easing his horse into a smooth lope, he followed the narrow stream that led toward Emmett Gardner’s ranch and tried to think of their next strategy. Emmett had been right about the judge—and the sheriff. Still, what the two Rangers had done was the right thing, bringing Jaudon and his men into town to stand trial. That was the way they were trained, use the local law whenever possible.

  Would he stand trial for murder?

  No. He would not give himself up to Hangar or Opat. Or anyone else under Lady Holt’s control. Not even the governor. Citale was a cheat. A weak man swayed by any sign of power. Or money. But that didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was helping their friend. He was certain Emmett wouldn’t leave his home. The old rancher would choose to stand and fight. Lady Holt would count on that.

  “Emmett needs to do what she doesn’t expect,” he muttered to himself, and surveyed the plains ahead.

  His horse’s ears twitched to determine if the words had significance to his performance.

  “Sorry, boy, I was just jabbering to myself.” Checker patted the horse’s neck and the animal refocused on the trail.

  It was good grazing land with long gramma grass. Dark cattle pockmarked the green as far as he could see. It was land worth fighting for—and dying for, if it came to that. Lady Holt had already made it clear she favored the latter—for his friend and anyone else who got in her way. Rumors were sliding across the region that she intended to fence in her land with that new Glidden’s fence; “the Devil’s hatband,” some called it. Barbed wire.

  Overhead, the sun was losing its fight with the sky and three brave stars had already slid into the north sky. To his left he could see a small pond shimmering yet from the weakened sunlight. Shadows were gathering around the water to celebrate.

  Checker reached into his pocket and felt for the small white stone he knew was there. His fingers curled around it and he smiled. It had been a gift from Stands-In-Thunder. A rock, the old man said, that carried much power. If one listened closely. Checker had always brought tobacco, cloth and a fine hunting knife as gifts when he visited the Fort Sill reservation. The old war chief had proudly given him the white stone, a war club and the medicine pouch Checker wore.

  He rubbed the medicine stone with his fingers. “I need you to talk to me.”

  After a few seconds, he released his grip. Stands-In-Thunder had told him the stone talked to only a few, and the song came directly to the warrior’s heart. But the more he rode, the more waiting for Jaudon and his men to attack didn’t make sense. Maybe that was the song he sought.

  He had bought Emmett some time and they had to use it wisely.

  First, with the imprisonment. But that would last only until someone heard them yelling.

  Second, his warning would make them wary. Maybe make some of the gunmen decide to ride on. The end result, though, would be a larger force coming at them. Lady Holt would supplement Jaudon’s men with more gunmen or more of her regular cowhands.

  What if the governor ordered in Rangers? He wouldn’t put it past him. But that would take time. The closest Rangers, he thought, were working along the border under Captain Temple’s direction. Would their Ranger friends actually take action against them? What if she was able to secure federal troops?

  He rode without paying attention to the trail or its surroundings. It was unlike him, but his thoughts were on what they were up against. His mind acknowledged he was lonely and had been since he was forced to flee Dodge City as a boy. A few years ago, he had bought a house for a widow and her two small children because they reminded him of his own childhood. He was not interested in the woman—as a woman. Only as a mother who needed help and he had the means to do so. His fellow Rangers couldn’t figure it out; Bartlett knew without asking.

  Maybe his own loneliness made it so important to see Emmett and his boys secure. That and the fact that he hated the kind of corrupt power seeking to consume them. Maybe his loneliness made him a better Ranger. Maybe.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, he realized he was closing in on a buckboard ahead. The driver had the two-horse team trotting well. From the looks of the wagon bed, it was nearly filled with supplies. The driver was a young woman with a determined look on her face. Her range clothes couldn’t conceal her figure. A wide-brimmed hat concealed most of her face, except for long brown hair.

  His gaze shifted to the older black man riding a paint horse alongside the rear of the wagon. Gray had worked its way into the black hair visible under a weathered hat. He was heavily armed. At the rider’s left hip was a short-barreled Colt, holstered for right-handed use. A longer-barreled revolver rested in a saddle holster in front of his leg. A double-barreled shotgun hung from his saddle horn by a leather strap.

  Their eyes met briefly. Ch
ecker knew the man from years ago. London Fiss. He’d done a prison term for robbing banks and stagecoaches. Checker had been one of the lawmen who brought him to justice. What was Fiss doing with this young woman? Riding bodyguard? Did she know who he was? Her father might have seen the need for Fiss, especially now. Why did he not want to say her husband saw the need?

  Swinging easily around the wagon, Checker pulled alongside the wagon and touched his hand to his hat brim. She glanced at him, dark eyes investigating his hard face, then returning to her horses. Fiss tensed. Checker nodded a greeting and the black gunfighter returned it and almost smiled.

  The Ranger galloped on, pulling on the lead rope of the packhorse. His mind returned to the woman for a few moments. She was quite beautiful, in spite of her frown. She must be headed for one of the other small ranches in the area. The wagon turned east and headed down that trail. A string of dust followed. He rode on, watching her.

  She turned to look at him and smiled. He returned the smile without looking at the black man.

  Who was she? he wondered as he nudged his horse into a hard run.

  Chapter Nine

  After Checker rode on, the buckboard and its outrider continued in silence for several minutes. Finally, Morgan turned toward the black gunman.

  “You know him, don’t you?”

  Fiss nodded without looking at her.

  She wasn’t satisfied and reined the wagon to an abrupt halt. Fading sunlight sought her face; bright eyes sought the black man’s face.

  He grinned and knew they weren’t going any farther until he shared more. He eased his horse alongside the wagon seat and reined it to a stop. She had hired him only after he made clear she knew of his past. As the problems with Lady Holt had increased, Morgan relied on his protection more and more—and sought his counsel often as well. Her husband had been killed from a kick in the head by a horse he was breaking. She had held the ranch together by sheer grit.