by Cotton Smith
A slow smile found the black man’s mouth and disappeared. “Too late for a doc. He’s dead.”
Meade tugged on his bowler hat brim. “I’d like to see the body.”
“Why?”
“He was a wanted killer. Sheriff Hangar will want to notify Ranger headquarters, you know. And the other lawmen in the area.”
“I just told you. He’s dead.”
Meade looked down, realized his action might be mistaken for an aggressive move to his gun and expanded his hands to grip both sides of the carriage.
“I know you did, sir, but you know lawmen. They want proof.”
“Tell him to come out an’ see for himself, then.” London Fiss turned to leave.
“I think you should know, sir, Sil Jaudon is the new Ranger captain for the Special Force. Governor Citale appointed him.”
Meade’s words stopped Fiss in midstride.
“The previous captain has been arrested. Some kind of financial matter as I understand the whole of it. Sad, really.”
As he spun around, Fiss’s tightened mouth flickered at the corner. He knew what Meade’s announcement meant to his boss. His words were a snarl.
“Tell the fat Frenchman that he’ll have to come through me, badge or no badge.”
“I believe he looks forward to that…sir.” Meade’s eyes sparkled with challenge.
“So do I,” Fiss stated without emotion, and slammed the door behind him.
Meade looked down at the envelope beside him. He would need to get the black man out again. Oh how he hated doing things he wasn’t hired to do.
Before he could call out, Morgan Peale emerged from the ranch door. Her face was pale, but determined. In her hands was a rifle. He noted it was cocked.
“Tell Sheriff Hangar that we buried Ranger Checker. Under that string of cottonwoods. To the south. Nice an’ shady there.” She paused and added, “You can dig up the body yourself if you want to. But I want him reburied.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Peale, I appreciate the information.”
“I understand you have a letter for me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Here.”
She opened the envelope, read the letter and threw both to the ground. When she looked up, her face was hard. “You tell that woman you work for…to go to hell. I’m not selling to her or anybody else. Now get off my land—and don’t come back!”
She didn’t wait for his response and spun around, heading back inside.
Meade watched the door for a few moments before taking the reins and clicking his horse into trotting away. Minutes later, the gunfighter reined his carriage to a halt beside a freshly dug mound with a small wooden cross placed at one end. He studied it, rubbing his cat’s back, and decided there was no way in the world he was going to dig up the body. Lady Holt would just have to take Mrs. Peale’s word for it. Why would she lie?
He laughed out loud, drowning out the morning’s songbirds, and urged his horse again into a trot. Important news shouldn’t be delayed.
Not long afterward, four riders reined up on the ridge overlooking Morgan Peale’s land. The sun was struggling to gain control of the sky. Vultures hovering in the gray sky saddened them. It was a sign they hadn’t wanted to see. A sign of death.
Spurring their horses forward, A. J. Bartlett, Rule Cordell, Emmett Gardner and Rikor Gardner cleared the ridge and trotted across the grassland. A dark shape became a downed horse. Huge birds and a coyote were enjoying themselves.
Bartlett groaned, pulled his rifle from its scabbard and fired three times. Two birds flopped to the ground and the others fled skyward. The lone coyote yipped and scooted away. Bartlett’s fourth bullet dusted the ground behind the fleeing animal.
“I’m sorry, Rule,” Bartlett said, lowering his rifle. “I—I…well…”
“Don’t apologize,” Rule said. “I would’ve done it, if you hadn’t.”
Their advance to the dead animal was a silent one; their horses were skittish, not wanting to get close to the stench of death.
Rule reined up and pointed. “Was that Checker’s horse?”
“Yes. The right flank had a small white splash.” Bartlett’s face registered the sadness his entire body felt.
“Well, A.J., somebody took away the saddle and bridle. See?” Rule pointed. “And there’s no sign of a body. That’s good, A.J.” His eyes searched the open area for sign. Any sign of a man. Nothing. Yesterday’s rain had taken away all traces of the violence, except the dead animal itself.
Emmett made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. “We ’uns rode ri’t down thatta way. With the wagon an’ all.”
Rikor nodded agreement, nudged his horse into a lope and rode out toward the ridge where Checker had gone.
Bartlett’s shoulders rose and fell. “Probably some bastard needed the saddle.”
“Maybe. But there’s no reason for Holt’s men to take the gear. Why would they?” He looked over at the distraught Ranger. “Maybe somebody came to help him. Took the saddle with them—and him.”
Bartlett listened and finally muttered, “Maybe…they took him…to town.”
Rule rode in a wide circle around the area of death, continuing his assessment. “Rain took away all the signs of a fight. But somebody came by this morning. In a carriage. Came and went. From town. Any idea who that might be, Emmett?”
“No, cain’t say as I do. Wilkerson, he drives a carriage. He’s the banker. Mayor, too. Figger he’s owned by Lady Holt. Might be he was headin’ to Peale’s place.” He shook his head. “Holt’s gonna want it, too. An’ Charlie’s.”
“Whoever was in that carriage knew there was a dead animal here.” Rule reined his horse and studied the land.
“What?” Bartlett’s attention was returned.
“Look.” Rule motioned toward the lines in the land. “There’s no pause. No stopping. Just a wide loop around it.”
Bartlett licked his lower lip. “Maybe he thought it was a dead steer.”
Rule waved his hand toward the ridge. “Wouldn’t you be curious if you saw a dead horse? Wouldn’t you want to see if there was someone hurt?”
Bartlett struggled with the reality lying in front of them. It was hard to believe so much had happened so quickly. He and Checker were Rangers one minute and wanted murderers the next. Now his mind was churning and replaying the time when Checker left the wagon. He shouldn’t have let his friend go alone. He shouldn’t have. Was his friend in jail? Wounded? How badly? Where was he? Was he…dead?
“Yeah. Could be. If it was Wilkerson, though, that ol’ boy wouldn’t like bein’ close to no dead animal,” Emmett declared.
“Maybe. It still looks to me like he knew the horse was there. John’s horse.”
“Why don’t we ride into town? Might find out who belongs to that carriage,” Bartlett said. “Maybe those bastards took John to jail.” Bartlett didn’t believe his own statement.
Rikor rode back and reported there were no signs of Checker or anyone else along the ridge. No one had expected any; the rain had done its job in that regard.
Rule pointed in the direction the carriage had been heading. “You say there’s a ranch that way, Emmett?”
“Yes, suh. Morgan Peale’s place ain’t too far from hyar. She’s gonna feel that bitch a’fer long, I reckon. Don’t reckon the black feller’s gonna be able to stop ’em for long.”
Rikor nodded agreement.
“I think we should head for town. This man in the carriage knows something, I think,” Rule said.
“Yu’re a-thinkin’ the doc came to he’p him some?” Emmett asked, staring toward the horizon as if he could see the Peale Ranch. “Ol’ Doc Curtis, he rides a buggy, ya know.”
“Could be. I don’t know. Just seems like we should try there first. What do you think, A.J.?” Rule asked, leaning forward on his saddle horn.
Bartlett swung his horse toward the west, trying hard to clear his mind of the guilt sitting there. “It’s worth it. Let’s go.”
Outside Caiss
on, Rule wanted them to wait, near a small grove of pecan trees and a sometime spring. They would be able to see in all directions a long way. It made sense to stay out of town, but all three refused. Bartlett said he had let Checker talk him into staying with the wagon and now his friend was hurt or worse. Emmett agreed. So did Rikor. Rule Cordell understood their concern, but pointed out that their arrival in town would make it more difficult to determine what had happened to the Ranger.
Reluctantly, he agreed Bartlett could go along, but he would have to alter his appearance. He convinced Emmett and Rikor that he needed them to wait, in case they had to make a run for it from town. Splitting their resources made sense. Besides, the old rancher and his son were well known in town; Bartlett wasn’t.
A short ride later, the two entered the south edge of Caisson. Bartlett wore Rikor’s battered chaps and Emmett’s coat and hat. It was a long way from a perfect disguise, but it might do the trick. No one would be expecting the Ranger; that was in their favor. No one knew Rule. At least, not by sight.
Midday activity was brisk. No one seemed to notice the arrival of the twosome, and for that, Rule was grateful. A freighter rumbled beside them with the driver yelling at his mules. He waved, between curses, as his wagon headed out of town and Rule returned the greeting.
They passed the hosteler leaning on a pitchfork at the Howard Livery and Grain.
“Wonder if the fellow with the carriage stopped there?” Rule asked.
The ears of his mustang sprang up to determine if the words were for him.
“Let’s find out.” Bartlett reined his horse.
They swung their mounts around and returned to the livery.
“Howdy. Didn’t happen to rent a carriage this morning, did you? Rode east an’ back this morning,” Rule said, leaning over the saddle. He smiled; his manner was nonchalant.
The bald-headed liveryman studied the former gunfighter for an instant, then looked at Bartlett, trying to place them. He spat a thick brown stream into the worried ground and said, “Why ya askin’? Are ya lawmen?”
Rule laughed. “No, I’m not. This is my friend Bart. Saw the tracks coming in. Been thinking about getting one, a carriage like that—for my wife and me. Thought I’d see if that carriage fellow liked it.”
“Don’t figger a fella like you’d like ridin’ no carriage.” The man rubbed his bald head and looked down at the pitchfork. “There’s a few round, ya know.”
Without a pause, he rattled off six names of men in town who owned carriages; none had used them this morning, including Alex Wilkerson, the town mayor. Rule tried to think of a tactful way to excuse himself as the man continued describing each owner without seeming to take a breath or even spit.
Finally, he said, “Ya might be lookin’ for Eleven Meade, though. He rode in not long ago, left his carriage hyar. Didn’t rent it. It’s his.” He motioned with his free hand toward the stable. “Reckon he wouldn’t care if ya looked it over. It’s a good ’un.” He rolled his eyes. “Strange name. Eleven. Don’t tell him I said so. He’s that, ah, shootist. From over New Mexico way.”
“Oh, I won’t. Sure, I’d appreciate taking a quick look.” Rule swung down and handed the reins to Bartlett. They exchanged looks that indicated their hunch was right.
The gunfighter knew of Meade; he was a ruthless back-shooter who killed easily for money. Rule didn’t care about seeing the carriage, of course, but it made sense to act that way. Bartlett said he would wait outside.
The liveryman followed Rule, eager to point out aspects of the carriage. “See them fancy wheels? Mighty fine. Got a fine top, too.” He spat again and added, “She’s got a crank axle. It’s bent twice…ri’t thar an’ thar. That gives it a low sit, ya know, makes them wheels look even bigger.” He shook his head in support of his statement.
Rule nodded, eyed the white cat resting on the carriage seat and leaned over to examine the underframe. He couldn’t care less, but it made sense to follow through with his story. The bald hosteler kept jabbering, pointing out the dirt board that kept dirt from the axle itself and other structural details.
“That thar drag shoe looks like it needs some work.”
“How’s the ride?” Rule asked, standing again, rubbing his horse’s nose.
Cocking his head, the liveryman gave a long answer that basically meant he didn’t know. Without being asked, he said Meade went to the sheriff’s office, but he didn’t know if he was still there or not. He added that Hangar had county authority as well as being the town law.
Rule thanked him and declined the man’s offer to see Meade’s horse. He said he understood when the liveryman told him the cat wasn’t his, that he didn’t let cats sit on his carriages. The offer to order him a carriage was also declined, with Rule saying he would talk with his wife about it. With the liveryman still talking, Rule walked outside and swung back into the saddle. He waved good-bye and loped away.
His mind had already settled on the interesting coincidence of Eleven Meade riding near the dead horse and not pausing to see what had happened. It meant the shootist already knew. Meade had either shot Checker or been involved in the shooting.
A few minutes later, they reined their horses in front of the Hires & Ludlum Land Attorneys and Real Estate Agents office. Rule eased down, flipped the reins around the hitching rack and strode quickly onto the planked boardwalk. His spurs rattled their agreement. Bartlett was a few strides behind, looking at both sides of the street as he moved. Two couples passed with only perfunctory greetings, as were his.
Elrod Hires looked up from his cluttered desk as Rule stepped inside. In the uneven light of his small office, he examined the stranger, wondering what he wanted. That the man was armed was evident by the bulges under his long black coat. It was against the law to carry weapons in town, but Hires didn’t intend to bring up the matter.
His eyebrows arched haughtily as he looked up from his desk. A half-finished cup of coffee, a partially eaten donut on a saucer and a stack of papers occupied the polished walnut desktop. The desk itself was the only thing in the crowded room that spoke of quality. A gift of appreciation from Lady Holt.
Rule folded his arms. “Am I speaking to Hires—or Ludlum?” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew the contract.
“Elrod Hires, sir. How may I help?” The businessman with the wide mustache made no attempt to stand or hold out his hand in greeting.
“Bought the Emmett Gardner Ranch and I want to register the ownership,” Rule said, stepping forward and laying the paper on Hire’s desk. “You’ll find it’s been witnessed by Lawson Docher. You may know him. He’s the land agent over in Clark Springs.”
The businessman stared down at the papers, then lifted them, acting surprised at what he saw. He shivered, dropped the paper and picked it up again. He saw the second stranger come inside, nearly close the door, then stand beside it, looking out through the crack at the street.
Taking a deep breath, Hires bit his lip, pulled on his right ear nervously and said, “I believe I should inform you that Mr. Gardner is suspected of rustling. A warrant is out for his arrest.” He forced himself to look up into Rule’s face. “You would be doing your duty to inform Sheriff Hangar of his whereabouts.”
“What I do after registering this purchase is my business, Mr. Hires,” Rule said without raising his voice.
“Y-yes, of course. Of course it is.” Everything about the manner of this stranger bothered Hires. He didn’t like surprises, to begin with. Who was he? The stranger’s long black coat added to an ominous look. Did he know this man? He didn’t think so, yet there was something familiar about him. Who was his companion?
Rule folded his arms. “Mr. Gardner was riding on. Headed for Nebraska. Had his family with him. Told me about the problem with what’s-her-name? Holter?”
“Oh, that would be H-Holt. Lady Holt, sir.”
“Never heard of her.”
Hires straightened his collar and said a wire, from Ranger Captain Sil Jaudon, had com
e to the sheriff and the town council yesterday. In a self-serving style, he pointed out he was a member of the council. The message said Jaudon and his fellow Rangers would be coming from Austin to rid the area of lawlessness. The wire said Emmett Gardner, John Checker and A. J. Bartlett were wanted dead or alive.
“Of course, the Checker fellow is already dead. He was shot yesterday, resisting arrest,” Hires added.
At the window, Bartlett jerked in reaction to the awful news and spun around. “John killed? Oh my God!” he blurted. “He stopped all those Holt gunmen with his life. Oh my God!”
The rest of the statement caught up with him.
“Captain…Sil Jaudon?” he asked. “How the hell could that happen? He works for that witch Holt.” He shook his head and his shoulders shuddered. “Reckon they’ve got us coming and going.” His face was torn with agony.
“Who are you?” Hires asked.
“I’m Rule Cordell. He’s my friend,” Rule snarled. “Both of us know what’s going on around here—and we don’t like it.”
“I-s he…R-Ranger Bartlett? Ah, A. J. Bartlett?”
“Who’s that?” Rule asked.
“Oh, sorry. I just thought…”
“Are we finished, Mr. Hires?”
“Just about, sir. Just about.”
Rule’s mouth was a narrow strip, barely holding the anger he felt. “Let’s get it done, Mr. Hires. We’re in a hurry.”
After the recording of the transaction was completed, Rule and Bartlett left, swung back into their saddles and headed down the street.
Rule put his hand on the Ranger’s heaving shoulder.
Bartlett looked up and his face was filled with fury. “I’m going to kill that woman. Her and her fat Frenchman. All of them!”
Chapter Twenty-two
Quietly, Rule Cordell let A. J. Bartlett vent. It was needed and the former outlaw knew it. He had lost a stray dog during the end of the war and didn’t think he would recover from the dog’s death. The loss was bad, but his reaction made no sense in light of the fact many fellow cavalrymen were dying around him. Still…
