by Cotton Smith
“You come lookeeng for mío husband.” Aleta’s words were a meanacing challenge.
Taking a deep breath, Meade introduced himself as a horse buyer from Austin.
“Do you always look from ze hidden place?”
Licking his lips, Meade took off his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know how it must look. But I like to be careful. Found it’s easier to look at a man’s horses…when he isn’t standing right there, telling me how good they are. You know…” His voice trailed off.
“Is eet so important to carry so many guns when you do thees…thees horse buying?”
“Well, I’ve found it’s better to be safe than sorry,” Meade said, avoiding her eyes.
Actually he found her to be more fearsome than the silent man holding his rifle. There was something about her that made him shiver. He noticed the vaquero had not cocked the rifle in his hands. That was good. Very good.
“I’ve a letter from your husband. About selling me horses,” Meade said. “Let me show it to you. I represent a large rancher there. He wants only the best mounts.”
Without asking, he reached into his coat, smoothly drew the short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver from its shoulder holster and brought it forward with his coat hiding his real intent.
This would be easy. After all, he was “Eleven,” the chosen one. Eleven was a master number in astrology and numerology, he had been told by his parents. Others looked to those who were “Eleven” for inspiration.
He would kill her first, then the foolish man who had told on him. The gun had been named “Illumination” in honor of his special presence. The black nose of the pearl-handled gun with its strange markings and a left-handed loading gate cleared his coat.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The impact of Aleta’s bullets drove him backward. His bowler spun from his head as if it had its own life. He staggered and tried to fire his own gun. His eyes were blurring. What was wrong? No one could stop Eleven. He had known this since he was a child. His gun finally exploded, missing the woman before him.
Two more bullets, one from each gun in her hands, smashed into his chest, inches from the first three.
He staggered backward. His gun was too heavy and slipped from his fingers and thudded on the ground. Blood slipped from his mouth and he collapsed.
“I—I—I…a-am…E—Eleven. I—I am…L-Light…B-Bea…”
His eyes stared unseeing at the midday sky.
Aleta walked over to him, keeping her guns pointed at the unmoving body. She pulled his second revolver from its hip holster and tossed it. “You ees a murderer. It does not matter what number you ees.” She stepped back. “Mío husband has never written a letter to anyone in Austin.”
She spun on her heel and thanked the hard-looking Mexican in Spanish. He said again Rule had told him to keep a lookout for any strangers coming to town asking about him. She nodded and said they would go to the town marshal to report the attempt on her life. A wire to Rule would inform him of what had happened.
“What do you think he meant by saying he ees ‘eleven’?” she asked.
“No comprende.”
Aleta stared at the carriage. “We weel need to see if someone in town wants a cat.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Judge Opat was conducting a hearing about a leasing disagreement between two businessmen when Morgan Peale entered the small municipal courtroom from the main door. Morning light from the single window sought her maple-colored hair and danced with it.
“Sorry, ma’am, this is a closed courtroom right now. I’m conducting a hearing. You understand.” Opat’s face and manner looked more like a pompous rooster than usual.
The two businessmen barely turned to look at the woman in the doorway. All three men immediately noticed she was wearing a gun belt.
“That can wait. You’re going to handle something more important,” Morgan said, walking down the narrow aisle separating the courtroom’s rows of planked seating.
After a glance at the men, Opat straightened his back. “Ma’am, I thought I made it clear. This is a closed—”
“And I thought I made it clear you have something more important to do,” Morgan demanded, continuing her ascent. Her right hand rested on the handle of her holstered revolver.
“I’ll take care of this, Judge.” The taller businessman with the long sideburns stood.
“That would be a big mistake, mister.” The words halted his attempt to have her leave even before he realized who said them.
From the courtroom’s rear door, John Checker emerged.
“What? Aren’t you John Checker? You’re dead!” Opat almost choked on the words.
“No, I’m not, Opat,” Checker growled. “And these two gentlemen will be happy to stand aside for a few minutes while justice is done.” He looked at the two men. “Won’t you?”
Opat waved his arms and shouted, “You’re not a Ranger anymore, Checker. You’re wanted for murder.”
“No, I’m not a Ranger, Opat. That means I don’t have to abide by the Ranger’s rules. Understand?”
Checker’s stare was too intense for the skinny magistrate. He shook his head, making his odd lock of brown hair shake.
Stepping farther into the anxious courtroom, Checker rested both hands on his gun belt. Sunlight stroked his Roman face, long black hair and hawkish nose.
“That murder charge is one of the things we’re here for, Judge,” Checker declared. “First, though, you’re going to conduct a real hearing on the charge of rustling against Emmett Gardner. Then you’ll do the same with that ridiculous murder charge against my partner and me.”
He stopped and looked at the two businessmen, who were terrified, and asked again, “You boys don’t mind waiting a bit, do you?”
“A-ah, of c-course n-not.”
“N-no. W-we’ll c-come b-back. Later.”
Checker cocked his head. “You sit right there. You can be witnesses.” He glanced at Opat reaching under his walnut bench where he sat. “If you’re reaching for a gavel, that’s fine. If you come up with a gun, it’ll be your last hearing.”
The rooster-haired judge froze. His narrow, curved nose whistled in alarm. Slowly, his hands rose away from the podium.
“Good, Opat. You’re a smarter man than I thought,” Checker said, and motioned toward the main door. “Come on in, Emmett. Bring our guest.”
The grizzled rancher slipped inside. His lopsided grin reached his brightened eyes. With him came the editor of the Claisson Recorder, the town newspaper. Henry Seitmeyer’s bow tie and fresh shirt made him appear more dapper than usual. In his hand was a pad of paper and a pencil. Both hands were stained with old ink, a constant part of the profession.
“Henry, I’m sorry you had to be brought here against your will,” Opat said, trying to appear more confident than he felt. “I’ll get this cleared up.”
The stocky editor hunched his shoulders. “I came of my own free will, Judge. Sounded to me like a good story was going to happen. I’ll just sit here and listen.”
He took a seat near the front, resting his paper on his lap.
Checker smiled and nodded toward Morgan.
She stared at Opat. “Judge, as a rancher in this area, I demand a hearing. Right now. On the rustling charge against Emmett Gardner and the murder charges against John Checker and A. J. Barnett.” She folded her arms. “These are innocent men and you have been a conspirator to the will of Lady Holt. I expect real justice. Here and now.”
Opat pulled on the lapels of his oversized suit coat and glared at her. “I ruled on that matter, the rustling charge, earlier. Mr. Gardner needs to give himself up—and stand trial.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“No, we’re going to have a hearing. A real one. Not that jake leg thing you pulled earlier,” Morgan said, pointing her finger at the surprised judge.
Checker shifted the weight on his boots to keep it from his wounded leg as best he could. His body was stiff and sore. It was far too early
to be moving, but he knew it was necessary. He had been shot before. Silently, he had prayed to both the white man’s God—and the Comanche Great Spirit—to help him.
“Opat, I don’t think you get it yet,” Checker said. “This Lady Holt is through making the laws around her. There’s a small army of us planning to make it so. Call us Fire. She will know what it means.”
Licking his lips, Opat said, “Well, we’ll need to call witnesses. Sil Jaudon is out of town. He brought the charge—and he’s on the stage, I believe. Coming from Austin.” He twisted his neck, first to the right, then the left. “Mr. Jaudon is a captain of the Rangers now. A worthy appointment, I believe. Of course, he has the details on this case.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll take care of Jaudon separately. He’ll be brought in—again—for attempted murder. By that time, we’ll have a real judge in place,” Checker said. “There’s no way he’s going to stay a Ranger—much less a captain. But that’s for another day, Opat. Nothing you need to worry about. This hearing will move on without him.”
“But there has to be someone for the prosecution present.”
“In your first hearing, you didn’t have the defendant present, so what’s the difference?” Checker’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I’m getting real tired of you, Opat. Do this right, real justice for a change—and you’ll be able to leave town a free man. Do it wrong, well, you get the idea. Either way, you’re leaving.”
“Are you threatening an officer of the court?”
“No. I’m telling a crooked henchman of Lady Holt’s that his time in this town has ended. How he leaves will be his choice,” Checker said. “I’ve been in a lot of courtrooms, but this is the first one I’ve seen with no idea of what justice is all about.” He paused and looked at Emmett. “Is Rule outside?”
“Yep. An’ he’s got him wi’.”
“Good. Have him come in.” Checker returned his stare to Opat. “But you will have your prosecution witness present.”
Rule Cordell pushed Sheriff Hangar inside. The hatless lawman looked half dazed and half scared; his empty holster spoke of an earlier confrontation. His cheek was reddened from a recent blow and his big mustache was pushed out of shape. His shirttails flapped below his coat on the right side.
He saw Opat, then Checker. When he saw the tall Ranger, his jaw dropped and bile slammed its way into his throat.
Swallowing, he managed to gulp. “Wh-hat’s th-this all about?”
“You’re going to be the witness for the prosecution, Hangar.”
“E-Eleven M-Meade said you were d-dead. S-said he shot…at you…in your grave,” Hangar spat. His eyes were wide.
“Sounds like Eleven likes to tell a good story,” Checker said. “Kinda like the rustling whopper you tried to lay on my friend. And that charge of murder on A.J. and me.”
“Th-hat wasn’t my idea.”
For the first time, Hangar realized Emmett Gardner was standing in the courtroom and then saw Seitmeyer. Cursing to himself, he should’ve known the British woman’s ideas about handling the two Rangers—and Rule Cordell—weren’t going to work.
“Sit down, right there, Hangar. You and Opat are through in this town. It’s time the good folks had a choice about these matters,” Checker said. “You’re going to present the cases against Emmett—and me and my partner. That’ll be your last official act here. In Claisson. Do it right and you’ll be able to ride out of here.” He looked at Rule, standing near the doorway. “Is A.J. all right?”
“Sure. He’s with Hangar’s two deputies. They’re having a nice, quiet talk. Figure they’ll be leaving town when this is over.”
“Probably discussing a little Tennyson.” Checker smiled.
“More than a little.”
“Rikor’s outside. Watching the back.”
Rule saluted Checker and left. The Ranger grinned in spite of the situation. The two gunfighters were quickly becoming friends.
Hangar tried to catch Opat’s attention, but the judge had no intention of looking at him. The onetime attorney was trying to think what he should do. He should have known this day was coming. No one would get to Lady Holt; she wouldn’t be touched. It would be her hirelings who would take the brunt of the counterattack. She owned too much land, too much money and enough of the right contacts to withstand any assault.
Even from the likes of John Checker and Rule Cordell.
To avoid looking at Hangar, Opat studied Checker. There was a small circle of fresh blood on the Ranger’s shirt, just above his belt, along his back. So the killer Meade hadn’t totally lied; he had wounded the famous Ranger. Just not enough. Opat looked away. Maybe if he played this straight, the townspeople would let him stay. Would Lady Holt let him, if he bent to what Checker wanted…to do what was right?
Scuffling at the door became Rule Cordell with a handful of Claisson townspeople. The blacksmith, a freighter, a young general store clerk, the woman who ran the dry goods shop, two Triple C cowhands who worked for Charlie Chance Carlson and several others. George Likeman joined them; he was the town undertaker and furniture builder. All had been selected by Morgan and Emmett. They weren’t quite sure why they were asked to come to the courtroom, but there was something about Rule Cordell that made it seem smart to go.
“Is London outside?” Checker asked, motioning for the new people to come forward and take seats.
“He is—and I’m joining him,” Rule said.
“Good. We won’t be interrupted, then.”
Turning his attention to the now-seated townspeople, Checker told them that they were going to be witnesses to a hearing, that although a hearing didn’t require a jury—or even anyone witnessing it—he and his friends had decided the town deserved a look at real justice for a change.
The blacksmith shook his head affirmatively and said loudly, “We do thank ye, Ranger, for trying. Lady Holt, she has men over in the saloon. The No. 8. They’re there every day. Just watching and waiting. They’re over there now.”
“Thanks. We’ll settle with them later.”
The dry goods store owner politely raised her hand. After being recognized by Checker, she asked, “Will this last long? I have a dress promised to Mrs. Haulprin by two.”
Checker smiled. “No, ma’am. It won’t, but you leave whenever you think you need to do so.” He turned to Opat. “Start the proceedings, Opat. You know what to do.”
With a tremor in his voice that wouldn’t go away, Judge opened the proceedings with his usual statement that the purpose of a preliminary hearing was to determine if sufficient evidence existed for the accused to be bound over for formal trial. Licking his lips, he added that the first case to be heard was that of a charge of rustling against Emmett Gardner. The charge had been brought by Lady Holt’s ranch.
He stared at Hangar. “Sheriff, you presented a number of Holt cattle that had their brands changed to Mr. Gardner’s. Is that correct?”
Hangar glared at him. “Of course, you fool.”
“Do you wish to add anything to your testimony at this time?”
“He’s a guilty son of a bitch—and everybody knows it.”
“I see. Will the defense make its statement please?”
Morgan testified she knew Emmett was not involved in such criminal act and only an idiot would think the revised brands would have been done by anyone, other than an attempt to make the rancher look guilty. She pointed out how complicated the rebranding had been and how rigged it looked. Turning toward the seated townspeople, she explained that the Holt brand was a jagged line with an H above it. She said most called it the “fire brand.”
One of the cowboys growled, “We call it the hell brand.”
Nervous laughter followed the remark.
She smiled grimly and continued. “The ‘fire’ had been blurred over with a running iron. Above it was a single line. The H had been turned into Emmett Gardner’s EG with the backward E covering the H as best it could to represent his Bar EG.”
Shaking her head, she declared, “Nobody could look at that mess and think Mr. Gardner did it. And, of course, he didn’t.” Her face became a frown as she glanced at Checker and continued. “Lady Holt wants his ranch. She wants mine. She wants all of them. And she’ll do anything to get them—like buying the judge and sheriff.”
One loud eruption came from the small group, followed by someone declaring that she was right and the judge should be run out of town on a rail. Both cowboys loudly agreed.
Without moving, Checker reminded them that they must be quiet. He looked over at Morgan and smiled. Having her lead the cause for a new hearing was important; she would be perceived in the community as honest.
She smiled.
Opat looked pale. Down the right side of his face rolled a sweat bead bound for his collar. “Any cross-examination, Sheriff?”
“I don’t know. Ah, no. Except I didn’t have anything to do with this.” Hangar looked back at the people sitting behind him. “Honest. As far as I knew, this was just rustling. Really.”
Checker took control of the room. “Since this is a hearing, and not a trial, I don’t see why we can’t have questions from the folks in here. Anyone have a question they want to ask of Mrs. Peale, or Mr. Gardner, or the sheriff here? Or me, for that matter?”
Silence followed as the group stared ahead.
Finally, Henry Seitmeyer raised his hand and said, “I have a question. Well, sort of. I thought you were dead.”
Checker nodded. “Well, a known killer from New Mexico, Eleven Meade, was hired to do that. Holt hired him. He bragged a little too soon, thanks to Mrs. Peale and Mr. Fiss.”
“I see,” Seitmeyer said. “Do you know where this Meade fellow is now?”
Checker grinned. “When I go outside, I’ll look under the first rock I see.”
Without further probing, Checker explained what had happened, that they were moving Emmett’s family to a safe place after the attack by Holt’s men, led by Jaudon. He said six Holt riders were trying to intercept their escape and he rode to stop them. He made the mistake of not watching his back. Meade had tried to kill him at that time.
