by Cotton Smith
“Your acumen with arithmetic is most impressive, sir,” Meade answered, biting his lower lip, raised his shaved eyebrows and declared, “Lady Holt will triple whatever she’s paying you. Triple. If you ride away now.”
“Ride on before I unload this scattergun.”
Without another word, Meade turned his carriage around, snapped the reins and the carriage headed away. Behind him, he heard the woman give orders about watching them leave.
Halfway across the open grazing land, Meade met the three riders and told them what had happened. Only Dimitry seemed interested in seeking a closer look, casting a quick look in the direction of Morgan Peale and Fiss, then deciding against the idea.
Meade didn’t look back, smiled and said, “You can forget about John Checker.”
“That him on the ridge earlier?” a bearded gunman asked.
“Yeah—and on the ground back there. He’s dead—or dying.”
“Where are the rest of ’em? Emmett and his boys?” a second gunman asked.
Meade clicked his horse into a walk again, pulled on his bowler brim and said, “That’s your problem. I took care of mine.”
Dimitry laughed. “Ah, it has been your day.”
“Always is.”
“If you have killed the big Ranger, the half of me that’s Indian will sing songs about you.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Governor…Captain Temple of the Rangers is outside. To see you, sir. As ordered.” The stocky assistant stepped into the governor’s office and pushed the thick wave of dark hair from his forehead as he spoke.
“Good. Show him in.” The balding, narrow-faced governor said. “Bring me some coffee. Two spoonfuls of sugar.”
“Two cups, sir?”
“Just one. Captain Temple won’t be staying long.” The gaunt politician brushed his fingers along the neatly trimmed mustache.
The assistant spun on his heel and left, impressed by his own precision.
Governor J. R. Citale grimaced. He had been paid well for this move. Very well. Of course, U.S. Senate campaigns were costly. The incentive had come with the tacit understanding there would also be a sudden Senate seat opening whenever he was ready.
Still, it was a sensitive matter that needed handling well. He was good at that, in spite of what some were saying about him. A newspaper story would be placed tomorrow, positioning the Ranger leader as corrupt and under arrest. A secret bank account in his name would be discovered as proof of his guilt. It was one of Citale’s with the name changed. The whole thing was well planned. In one stroke, Lady Holt would gain part of the law enforcement in Texas.
“You ordered my appearance, Governor,” Captain Harrison Temple said as he strode into the office.
His wide-brimmed Stetson was held in his tanned hands in front of him. A brown coat and vest showed signs of hard riding; his white shirt and paper collar signs of much wear. The governor’s order had not been unexpected, but he thought it would have to do with the charge of murder against two of his best men. The crow’s-feet around his eyes were deep with his focused intent to make it clear they were innocent men. His gun belt had been left on his saddle horn of his tired horse.
“It’s good to see you, Temple,” Governor Citale said without standing. His pale eyes took in the cluttered desk and did not seek the Ranger leader’s face. “I have new orders for you and your men that will require immediate attention. For your full force.”
“We’ll do our duty, sir.”
“I’m counting on it.”
The governor proceeded to tell him that he and his Rangers were to find and arrest former Rangers John Checker and A. J. Bartlett for murder. They were to be brought directly to the governor’s office for a subsequent hearing.
Captain Temple’s face exploded into a rainbow of emotions, from surprise, to annoyance, to frustration and finally, to anger. He had never liked Citale—and never trusted him. Now he knew why.
“That I will not do. Nor will any of my men,” he said through clenched teeth. “Rangers Checker and Bartlett are two of my best. They are lawmen, not murderers.” He pointed his finger at Citale. “How much did Lady Holt pay you for this slimy act?”
A tense silence took over the room.
Without looking at the enraged captain, Citale removed a cigar from his desk humidor and rolled it in his fingers. He bit off the end, spat it toward the floor and lit the cigar.
After a long drag, he studied the cigar again in his hand, letting a ribbon of smoke find the ceiling through his teeth.
“Do I understand it correctly that you are refusing my direct order?” Citale said, glancing up.
“I am refusing to bring in two innocent and fine men,” Temple said, barely containing himself. “Two of Texas’s best. And you know it.” His jaw pushed forward and his fist curled around the hat brim.
Governor Citale cocked his head to the side and grinned. “You, sir, are no longer a Ranger—or one of its captains.” He leaned forward on the desk, pushing papers aside. Two sheets fluttered and fell to the floor. He pointed his finger to a small opened area. “Leave your badge. Right here. Now.” He returned the cigar to his mouth.
“You son of a bitch.”
“Maybe so. Leave the badge.”
Stunned, Temple pulled the Ranger badge from his vest and tossed it on the desk. The star shape bounced and slid off.
“I will appoint a new captain immediately,” Citale announced, leaning back in his chair and drawing on the cigar.
“My Rangers won’t ride for one of your…appointments.”
“Your men will be notified their services as Rangers are no longer needed, either.”
Slamming his hat on his head, Temple declared, “You won’t get away with this, Citale. You and that Holt woman.”
Governor Citale stroked his mustache again. A confident smile slowly took its place under the hair as he removed the cigar from his mouth. “You, sir, are under arrest.”
From a side door, Sil Jaudon sauntered into the room and pointed a gold-plated revolver at the former Ranger leader. It was a preplanned move.
“Take him away…Ranger Captain Jaudon,” Citale spat.
“Qui, my Governor. It shall be done.”
Temple folded his arms. “This is ridiculous. What’s the charge? Putting on a hat in the governor’s office?”
The fat Jaudon’s smile matched that of the governor’s. “Je regrette, but it is much more than that. You are accused of doing ze bad things with Ranger money.”
“That’s ridiculous, you fat bastard.”
“Ah…but it is true,” Jaudon said, reached inside the captain’s coat and yanked the Colt from his shoulder holster.
Chapter Fifteen
Inside her magnificent and sprawling ranch house, Lady Holt impatiently awaited word on the tactical moves she had put into place: the governor’s appointment, Eleven Meade’s ambush and the gunmen sent to pin down Emmett Gardner and the Rangers. To help keep her nerves from taking control, she undertook her daily ritual earlier than usual, standing in front of a large crimson bird figurine.
“Glorious Phoenix, you ever are my guide. Lead me to your Father, the Sun. As it dies each eve and is reborn each morn, so you direct me to become invincible,” she intoned, and continued in a mixture of Spanish and English ritualistic phrases.
The statuary was an odd combination of an eagle, a heron and a pheasant, carved from cottonwood and adorned with paint and feathers. At its base smoked a small mixture of aromatic herbs settled in a gold dish.
A knock at the door with its walls of red snapped her from the ceremony. She jumped up from her chair. Her eyes were dark with fury. Her servants knew she didn’t like being disturbed when she was in the Phoenix Room.
But the knocking continued.
She walked across the red-and-gold Mexican rug to the door and opened it, prepared to give the servant a severe tongue-lashing.
Blinking widened eyes, the black man stuttered, “M-essenger c-came from t-town,
Lady Holt. Y-ya be sayin’ ya wants ta know. R-right away. Ab inconvenienti.” His occasional use of Latin phrases had endeared him to her, even when he didn’t always use them correctly.
“Of course, Elliott.”
He handed her the telegram just delivered by a messenger from town.
“Have you paid him?” she asked.
“Yes, m’lady. From the money’s bowl. Veritas odit moras.”
She smiled at his use of the Latin phrase “Truth hates delay.”
He bowed.
“Excellent. You may leave me now.”
“Yes’um.”
She returned to the Room of the Phoenix, sat in her chair, unfolded the paper and began to read.
AM NOW CAPTAIN…STOP…TEMPLE CHARGED WITH FRAUD…STOP…ALL AS PLANNED…STOP…AWAIT YOUR COMMAND…J
Her gleeful laugh bounced around the crimson room, creating its own echo.
“Iva Lee, we’ve done it! We’ve done it.” She laughed again, letting the sound join her first outburst. “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. That fool Citale. Beautiful.” She turned toward the large bird statue. “Thank you, Great Phoenix. Thank you.”
Her entire body was warm, so warm she ripped off her clothes, walked over to the small walnut desk and sat naked on the ornate chair. She took a piece of paper emblazoned with a small phoenix crest at the top and began to write with a grand flourish. Her pencil broke from the intensity of her effort and she cursed, took another from the red glass holding fifty sharpened pencils. Her ritual was forgotten for the moment.
Shoulders heaving, she read again what she had written, decided it was wrong, wadded up the paper and threw it. A second note was more calmly written and more succinct:
To Mr. Sil Jaudon, Hotel Blake, Austin, Texas
Good work. Newspaper here will carry story. My job. You stay. Make sure Captain notice sent to Hangar and Opat. Nowhere else. I do not think Poe will react. He is a political man. See Temple arrested. Keep me informed about Poe. I have a plan. H.
After completing the telegram message, she wrote a succinct offer to buy the Morgan Peale Ranch, another to buy the Charlie Carlson Ranch and a third to buy the Gardner Ranch. All four messages were folded, placed in separate envelopes and sealed. She stood and shook her freed hair, letting it sway on her shoulders. Slowly she redressed as if it were an everyday occurrence. Leaving the room and locking it behind her, she found Elliott and told him to find Tapan Moore and have him come to her immediately.
While she waited, Lady Holt strolled over to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a small glass of brandy. It was, indeed, a day to celebrate.
It wasn’t long before the curly-haired gunfighter strolled into the main room. A toothy smile brightened his square-jawed face. His confident walk told everything about him. He was as good with a gun as he was as a lover. Lady Holt’s current lover.
“Mornin’, m’lady,” he said cheerfully, and smiled.
“And to you, Tapan.” She laid her glass on the cabinet shelf and studied his handsome face. “I have an assignment for you.”
His face showed disappointment. Their private times had always been in the crimson room.
“Whatever you wish. I shall do.”
She smiled, ran her fingers through her long hair and told him what he was to do. First, he was to deliver the message to the telegraph office for transmission and wait for a reply. Afterward, he was to go to Judge Opat and show him the three letters, then ride to each ranch and present them.
“You think they’re going to sell?” he asked, taking the envelopes.
“Of course not. But I want to be on record having offered.”
“Sure. Makes good sense,” Tapan Moore said, backing toward the door. “Should I stay with the boys…guarding Gardner’s place?”
“No. Come back when you’re finished.” She licked her lower lip. “So we can celebrate.” She pulled him toward her, kissed his lips gently and smiled. “Oh, by the way, you’re now a Texas Ranger. Jaudon’s captain of the Special Force. When he returns, we’ll take that old sonvabitch’s place by force.”
Moore shook his head and whistled.
“Yes, ma’am!” He grinned and spun around, closing the door behind him as he left.
Slowly, she returned to the phoenix display and sat down. Another knock on the door brought a smile this time, instead of anger. Probably Tapan wanting another kiss before he left.
“Oh, all right. Just one more. Come on in—” She opened the door and stopped midway through her sentence as she realized Eleven Meade was standing there, not Tapan Moore.
His light blue eyes sparkled from realizing whom she had expected. He had passed the young paramour in the hallway; her affair with Tapan Moore was well known on the ranch. Meade touched his mustache with his delicate fingers. As he removed his bowler, blond hair washed over his shoulders.
Physically, he resembled his father; both looked like blond scarecrows. His stern manner, like his mother’s, made him a difficult man to like, but he didn’t care. Any sense of humor he might have was kept well in check. As did his mother. As if to show a smile was to reveal a weakness of character.
“I came for my money,” he said with no thought of apologizing for his interruption. “John Checker is dead.”
She bit her lip again, not believing her wondrous luck this day. “John…Checker…dead? Come in. Come in. I want to hear all about it. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
She poured him a brandy and another for herself. Contemptuously, he recounted the unexpected opportunity, first making it clear the men she had sent to keep Emmett Gardner’s family and the two Rangers surrounded had failed, that they had escaped during the night, headed west.
When he finished, her face was stone. “So my men let that old fool get away? How can that be? They had their orders. My God, doesn’t anybody know how to do anything right?” Her fists were clenched at her sides. Madness slid into her eyes.
“Don’t know about that. I followed their tracks from Gardner’s and Checker had them pinned down. Never saw the family. That’s when I killed him. You’ll have to wait for their report,” he said. “My guess is that they lost them in the rain. That was Checker’s objective. To give the rancher time to get away.”
“Don’t guess. I don’t like guesses.” She cocked her head. “Speaking of guesses, you didn’t get close…to Checker’s body, I take it.”
“Well, no, I didn’t. That colored fella would’ve cut me in two with his scattergun.” He twirled the bowler in his hands. “But I didn’t need to. John Checker is dead. He must have five or six bullets in him. Mine. And a couple of your…men hit him, too.”
“I suggest you return to the Peale Ranch and find out, Eleven. For certain. I don’t pay for ‘maybes.’ Or ‘guesses.’ ” She drained her glass. “Oh, and find Tapan. He has an envelope for Mrs. Peale. You can take it instead.”
Chapter Sixteen
By the time Emmett Gardner and his family got to Clark Springs, the day was well past noon. Rain had delivered on its threat and soaked them thoroughly through the morning and midday. All, except Emmett, had nodded off a few times in the saddle, napping for a few minutes at a time.
In the distance was a well-built, adobe-and-timber house. Nearby were a sturdy barn, a windmill, a blacksmithing shack and three corrals. Horses of brown, black and tan milled about the enclosures. Rain caught their backs and made them glisten. A large brown-and-white dog barked his warning.
Reining up the wagon, Emmett yelled through the thickening rain, “Rule! Aleta! It’s me, Emmett. Me an’ my boys. We got trouble.”
In the shadowed doorway of the front porch stood a familiar figure with a chiseled face and a lithe frame. Dark eyes studied the scene. Long brown hair touched his shirt.
“That’s all right, Two. It’s all right. They’re family,” Rule Cordell said, and whistled at the dog. “Come here, boy. Here, Two.”
With his tongue hanging out, the dog hurried to the porch and stood beside Rule. He leaned
over to scratch the animal behind its ears. A silver cross tangled free of his opened shirt from a leather cord around his neck. Under his shirt was a second symbol of spiritual attention, a small medicine pouch also hung from a leather cord. It was a gift of an aging Comanche shaman named Moon before Rule left for the war.
Both tributes to spiritualism he usually wore.
His days as a preacher were over now; he had declined the town’s offer to become the full-time minister. His experience in fighting the Regulators had convinced him that his calling was in raising and training horses. Moon had told him a man could serve the Great Spirit in many ways. Mostly, if he was doing what he really wanted to do. His feelings for God were better expressed in working with a fine horse, he thought, and being outside in His creation than bottled up in some building. Regardless of how beautiful the structure might be. That kind of spiritual guidance was best left to someone else.
The revolver in his fist lowered as he turned toward the inside of the house and said, “Aleta, it’s Emmett—and his boys. Come quick. Something’s wrong.”
At Rule Cordell’s side soon appeared a stunning, doe-eyed Mexican woman with long black hair. She, too, had ridden with Johnny Cat Carlson after the war—until she met Rule.
A boy and a smaller girl appeared at her side; the older boy looked like his mother, the younger girl more like her father. Their eyes lit up when they saw the Gardner boys climb from the wagon. The older boy said something to his younger sister and they ran out to meet their cousins. The dog followed.
In minutes, the Cordells had welcomed the soaking-wet riders into their house, helped the Gardner boys shed their wet slickers and guided them to stand in front of the stone fireplace. A fire warmed and brightened the main room. The Cordell children and the Gardner children began talking and laughing as if it were a summer picnic. Wagging its shaggy tail, the dog joined them, licking an occasional face or hand of the four. Strutting carefully, the yellow cat also joined the group, but chose to make himself comfortable near the fire. Andrew’s frog sprang from his hands as he tried to show his special friend.
