Ride for Rule Cordell

by Cotton Smith

  “I’m as shocked as you are, men. Harrison is a good friend—and, I thought, a good Ranger. I intend to talk with the governor about this. I’m sure there’s a reason we’re not privy to,” Poe declared without looking at Spake.

  “Is the whole Special Force gone—or just us?” the older Ranger asked, heading toward the stove and its waiting coffeepot. Next to it was a short shelf littered with coffee cups, spoons and half-filled ashtrays.

  Poe noticed he was holding a small sack in his left hand. Most likely it was licorice, Spake’s one vice. He didn’t drink or gamble. Supposedly, there was an older woman he kept company with from time to time. His long coat carried three old bullet holes and many trails; it hid a holstered Colt and a bowie knife. His shotgun chaps had seen long wear as well. And he moved like a man who had been in the saddle too long.

  “I have been informed that is so,” Captain Poe said, pointing to a paper on his desk. “Sil Jaudon is the new Special Forces captain—and he has the authority to hire his own Ranger force. He is doing so.”

  “That’s nuts. Just nuts,” the bearded Ranger declared, not moving from the doorway. “Doesn’t that damn governor understand what we do? Who the hell’s this Jaudon fella anyway?”

  Poe returned the pipe to his mouth without answering.

  After pouring a full cup of steaming black coffee, Spake Jamison blew on its surface and tasted the brew. “Got any sugar, Captain?”

  “Over there. In that blue bowl.”

  “Thanks. Didn’t see it.”

  Laying his licorice sack on the shelf, he grabbed the bowl from its corner spot on the shelf. After pouring a short stream directly into the cup, he returned the bowl. He took a sip and asked, “What are ya gonna do about this mess, Captain? You know damn well our cap ain’t playin’ games with money. If’n anybody is, it’s that damn Citale.”

  The chunky lawman shoved both thumbs into his gun belt. “You said you were gonna see the governor. You want us to go with you?”

  “Say, I heard John and A.J. were fired—and charged with murder. That right?” the older Ranger asked, enjoying the sweetened coffee. “Sounds like somebody’s been drinking too much—or smoking too much opium. Reckon the idea is to get rid o’ us.” It was clear the last statement was what he thought.

  Poe placed both hands on his desk and frowned. “I’m afraid what you heard is true. John Checker and A. J. Bartlett have been dismissed from the Rangers—by the governor—and charged with murder. I don’t know any of the details.”

  The older Ranger shook his head. Pointing a finger at the captain, Spake Jamison said, “What the hell’s going on, Captain?”

  “Sadly, I don’t know. That’s why I’m going to see the governor.”

  “What should we do?” the stocky Ranger asked, his face a tanned puzzle.

  “For now, nothing. I don’t need trouble from…Rangers. I need time,” Poe said, sitting down again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish this report—and then go see him.”

  The older Ranger drained the cup, set it down on the shelf, grabbed his sack and headed toward the door. “Well, I’m not waitin’ around to find out. Headin’ for Houston. Always liked that town. Should be able to find work there. Those ranchers’ll be worried about not having anybody around to stop those Mexicans coming across an’ gettin’ their beef.”

  He stopped and held out the sack. “Almost forgot. Have a licorice, Captain. Just bought it. Good ’n fresh.”

  “Ah, no, thanks. I’m just fine.”

  The older Ranger held out the sack for the other two and both took black candy pieces.

  “You’re gettin’ too old to be a Ranger anyway,” the bearded Ranger said, and laughed.

  “Stiff-legged an’ all, I can whip your ass any day. Never forget that, boy.” Spake patted him on the shoulder and continued walking.

  Captain Hershell Poe didn’t look up as the three men left. He drew on his pipe, but it had gone out. A swift pop of a match returned the tobacco to life. He didn’t like this situation at all and wondered if the governor realized what kind of repercussions this move was going to bring. Ranchers along the border would be howling. He knew what Jaudon was going to do, clean out the region for Lady Holt. That was obvious.

  At least, John Checker was charged with murder and wasn’t nearby to cause more trouble. He didn’t know the famed Ranger well, but respected his fierceness. The thought of Spake Jamison and John Checker being teamed up made him shiver. A. J. Bartlett was a good Ranger, but nothing like either of these fierce warriors.

  Straightening his string tie, he recalled hearing about a battle Checker and Spake had fought against a band of twenty Chiricahua Apaches three years ago at a stage station. The two Rangers were en route to El Paso and were riding to the station to get a meal. Three women and five men were riding to Santa Fe; one woman had three small children with her. The Apaches killed the stage guard and the station keeper before the two Rangers got there. Checker and Spake drove off the Indians, killing eight, then took the stage and its passengers safely to the next station.

  He shook his head and shivered. There was no way he could have done that. But things were changing. Fencing was coming to Texas. Slowly, but it was coming. Already several big ranches in the Pandhandle were exploring cost-effective ways to control their lands and end free grazing. He had it on good authority, the governor’s, that Lady Holt’s empire would eventually be fenced as well.

  He smiled and wished he had invested in one of the fencing companies popping up. Maybe there was still time. First, though, he had to assure the governor that he was with him in this latest decision. He fingered the pipe bowl, pushing in the tobacco shreds to make them fit better. It was a process he enjoyed, almost as much as the smoking. He relit the pipe and returned to the report he was finishing when the three Rangers interrupted. It was too bad, he thought, but one couldn’t always stand in the way of change. At least not and have a job.

  Chapter Eighteen

  An hour later, Captain Hershell Poe eased out of his carriage at the governor’s office, told the driver to wait and walked in.

  “Governor…Captain Hershell Poe of the Rangers is outside. He requests a brief meeting, sir.” The stocky assistant tried to keep his forelock in place as he entered, but failed as usual.

  Governor J. R. Citale looked up from his desk. “What kind of mood is Captain Poe in?”

  Turning his head to the side, the assistant replied the captain seemed in a good mood, but he wasn’t a good judge of such things.

  “Excellent. Show him in,” Citale said, and raised his hand. “Get a new box of cigars and bring them. You can interrupt us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The balding politican knew there would be repercussions from his firing of the Special Force. If Captain Poe objected, he had already decided to replace him. Only this replacement would be a political friend. He looked upon the expected uproar of ranchers along the border as a marvelous opportunity to raise more funds for his planned Senate race. He would point out to them how someone like Lady Holt was helped when one was helpful in return.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Governor. I appreciate it very much.” Captain Poe bowed slightly, his narrow-brimmed hat in his hand. “I just wanted you to know that I support your decision…concerning Captain Temple and his men—and will do whatever is needed to make the transition to Captain Jaudon a smooth one.”

  “I was hoping I could count on your loyalty.”

  “You can, indeed. Thought you’d like to know I’ve also been notified of John Checker’s death.”

  “That’s a shame.” Citale blinked his eyes three times.

  Captain Poe shook his head. “Oh, he was too violent for my taste. But my reason for coming…I have some ideas to minimize the reaction from, ah, the ousted Rangers,” he said, smiling. “In fact, I have it on good authority that Spake Jamison is heading for Houston. To find work there. Made me think.”

  “Glad to hear about Jamison. Let’s hear
your ideas.”

  Licking his lower lip, Captain Poe paused. “Well, you’re going to get some hollering from ranchers, down on the border. They want Rangers to control those Mexican rustlers. And you’ve got out-of-work Rangers angry as hell.”

  Governor Citale cocked his head.

  “Maybe you should contact the big ranchers along the border—and send them their own ex-Rangers. Might solve two problems at once.” He motioned with one hand to suggest a wide group. “Offer to pay the ex-Rangers’ salaries. For a few months.”

  “I like that.” The governor frowned. “But don’t you think these ranchers…ah, should pay for this service? Instead of the state?”

  “Oh, you’re right. You’re right, Governor.”

  Citale’s assistant entered with the box of cigars.

  The governor nodded. “Excellent, Jeffrey. Captain Poe, would you care for a good smoke?”

  “That’s very gracious of you. Certainly, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emmett Gardner and Rule Cordell rode silently from Clark Springs, both lost in their own thoughts. Rule carried the signed and witnessed bill of sale to Emmett’s ranch as planned. Emmett carried another signed bill of sale, returning the ranch to his possession. The precaution was Rule’s idea in case something happened to him before they could act.

  Weary, but reenergized from the action taken in town, Emmett rubbed his unshaven chin and rolled his head to relieve the fatigue. To ease the tiredness, he rode with his boots hanging free of the stirrups. It gave some relief to his legs. His mind raced from his children sleeping at Rule’s house and wondering what would happen to them if he was arrested and hanged as Lady Holt planned, to the ranch he’d worked so hard to build, to his late wife, to wondering about John Checker, to wondering what would happen when Rule presented the new bill of sale.

  Rule’s thoughts were more focused. Determining what had happened to Checker was first; then establishing some kind of surprise in Caisson was next. It was time to put this evil woman on the defensive for a change. At least for the moment. Surprise was the only significant weapon against a superior force.

  As the sun bled into the horizon, they caught up with Bartlett and Rikor at the agreed-upon site. It was a good camp for the night. They had brought Checker’s packhorse with more food added.

  Slightly elevated, the flat prairie ran into a steep bluff cutting north and south for two hundred yards before disappearing into rocks and shale. A creek with a reputation for occasional water staggered past, flirting its wetness with the land. No one could approach from three directions without being seen from a considerable distance—and coming slightly uphill as they did. The bluff itself ensured that there would be no threat from behind. Especially since they would camp close to its steep sides.

  Rikor was asleep. Their horses were picketed next to the three mesquite trees clustered a few yards from the bluff itself. Bartlett had made a small cooking fire that was virtually unseen until they rode close. Boulders had been pushed around the tiny flames to further keep it hidden. Smokeless wood had been carefully gathered. A coffeepot was gurgling at its edges. Several more large rocks had been rolled into position farther away to provide better firing positions if they were attacked. Rule noted the protective action to himself, acknowledging Bartlett’s thoroughness.

  “Good to see you boys,” Bartlett said, looking up from the fire. His Winchester lay on the ground a few feet away. “I’ll get some bacon on. And some potatoes. Aleta packed us some fine grub.”

  Without being asked, the high-strung Ranger explained there were no tracks left of Emmett’s wagon. The rain had taken care of that concern. The last time Holt men could have seen the Gardner family they would have been traveling east, toward Austin. A feint Checker had advised Bartlett to take, before going after the gunmen.

  Bartlett’s pained face told the story before he did. There were no signs of Checker, but he had not ridden as far as this ridge when they last saw him. Bartlett had searched this part of the region for as long as daylight allowed, looking for places where a man might hide. He hadn’t seen any Holt riders, either.

  “Couldn’t see out there any longer,” Bartlett mumbled. “John’s the one who can see in the night. Like some Apache. More than a handful of outlaws have been real surprised to have him come up to their night camp. Really something.” He reached for a potato and began carving off the skin.

  Rikor stirred, then jumped up, grabbing for his rifle.

  “It’s fine, son. It’s your pa—and your uncle,” Bartlett said. “You go ahead and rest. I’ll wake you when supper’s ready.”

  The young Gardner stood, cradling his rifle. “N-No…I’m…ah, I’m…just fine. Evenin’, Pa. Uncle Rule.”

  Both men returned the greeting as they unsaddled their horses.

  “Quite the animal you gave me to ride.” Bartlett pointed at the grazing buckskin with the knife he was using on the potatoes. “Could’ve gone a lot longer. Runs real smooth, too.”

  “Well, thanks,” Rule answered, standing his saddle on its end and pulling free his rifle. “Aleta does the last rides on all of them.” He held out his hand to take the reins from the tired rancher. “Emmett, I’ll walk your horse—with mine—over to the stream. You find yourself a good sittin’ spot.”

  “Thank you, son. I’m gonna do jes’ that.”

  A sadness swept onto Bartlett’s face. “John’s hurt bad, isn’t he? I should’ve been there. I should’ve.” He looked away, dropping his knife and the half-skinned potato.

  Rule stopped with reins in each hand. “Your friend knew what he was doing. It was a smart strategy. You achieved what he asked you to do, get Emmett and his sons through. Safely. You did well, A.J.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say Checker was not hurt. It was likely he was.

  “Thank you. Doesn’t help much, though.” Bartlett shook his head, picked up the fallen potato and rubbed off the bit of mud that had attached itself, then resumed his trimming.

  Rule couldn’t think of anything else to say and began walking the horses to water again. Emmett took a tin cup from his saddlebags, strode over to the fire and poured himself a cup of steaming coffee. Steam plastered the cool air. He tasted the coffee and decided it was too hot. The smell of bacon frying filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply. Bartlett was cutting up the potato and an onion, letting the pieces fall into the sizzling pan.

  “Cain’t second-guess yourse’f. Ain’t useful.” He tried the coffee again. “ ’Sides, Rikor an’ me could’ve stopped jes’ as much as you’n. Ya ain’t the only one a-worryin’. But if’n anybody’s all right, it’s John Checker.” He swung his free left arm. “Damn that awful woman! She needs killin’.” He shoved his tongue into the side of his cheek. “Don’t think I said that ’bout anybody a’fer.” He shook his head. “I believe I’d do it myse’f.”

  Supper was a mostly silent meal. Aleta had packed fresh biscuits and jam to go with the bacon and potatoes. In town, Emmett had bought cans of beans and peaches; they decided to share a can of the fruit. After eating, they put the fire out with handfuls of dirt and most of a canteen. Emmett and Rikor were quickly asleep; Bartlett was very tired but too tense to sleep. Rule offered to keep watch until two o’clock. He assured them that his horse, a mustang, would warn them if anyone came near.

  Sitting down beside Bartlett, who was cleaning the dishes with ashes from the dead fire, Rule asked, “What kind of man is John Checker?”

  “Known John a long time,” the lawman began. “A hard man, I suppose you’d say.” He stared into the darkness. “But he cares real deep. About a lot of things.” He fingered the spur on his right boot, adjusting it slightly. “Like he was friends with an old Comanche war chief. Stands-In-Thunder was his name, I think. Yeah, Stands-In-Thunder, that’s it.” He told about Checker’s relationship with an aging Comanche war chief who lived on the Fort Sill reservation and that they had met when several Rangers were chasing a half-breed murderer trying to hide in the
reservation.

  Rule was immediately interested, shifting his rifle in his lap.

  “All of us Rangers were real surprised,” Bartlett said. “You know, John wears a Comanche tunic. Took it off a dead warrior. After they fought. Hand-to-hand. Don’t remember that fellow’s name.” Bartlett pulled on one of his boots to remove it. “The old war chief told John it was right for him to wear the tunic. A ‘remembered fight,’ he called it.”

  He completed the removal of the first boot and started on the second. “John said he told the old war chief that was where he got the scar on his cheek.” The second boot came off quicker. “When the old man died, John got permission from the army to bury him the Comanche way. Out in the hills somewhere. Nobody knew where. Not even me.”

  Rubbing his chin, he added, “John wears a little pouch. Around his neck. Like yours, Rule. At least, I suppose it is. That old war chief gave it to him. All kinds of thunder medicine inside, he said.”

  Bartlett placed his boots carefully side by side. “Oh yeah, he told me the old man gave him a white stone once. Said it sang to the right man. Don’t recall John ever saying if it sang to him or not. I think he still carries it.” His shoulders rose and fell. “Most of the time, though, they just talked and laughed. Smoked cigars and drank the whiskey John brought to him.” He shook his head and massaged his socked feet. “John knew some Comanche. The old man could handle some English. They got along fine. Real fine.”

  Touching the pouch hanging from his neck, Rule asked if all the stories about the famous Ranger were true. He checked his Winchester, wiping dust from the brass with the corner of his coat. After cocking it, he eased the trigger down so the gun was ready, but wouldn’t go off if it fell over.

  “Can’t say for sure,” Bartlett said, blinking his eyes to push away the desire for sleep. “But I suppose they’d match up with the ones about you. For truth—and for stretching.”