by Cotton Smith
Stretching out behind a large rock, Rule adjusted his Winchester into position and said, “Lots of parallels. Only the Indians think every step on the earth is a prayer. They see miracles every day. Silence is a prayer. I like that.”
Overhead, an owl drifted past in search of an evening snack.
Rule looked up. “The Comanche think owls are reincarnated souls, you know.”
Checker nodded.
“Did you know some believe in a group of small, evil men who come out only at night? Nanapi. They’re supposed to kill every time they shoot with their tiny bows and arrows,” Rule said, making motions of shooting a bow and arrow.
“Hadn’t heard that one,” Checker said. “Hope those boys’ll be on our side.”
“I do, too. I’ll see you later.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Checker completed the return to his site, twenty feet lower. Sounds of the land were welcome to his apprehensive mind. Just like music. Following a long drink from his canteen, he looked for a good place to wait.
There was nothing to do now, except that. Checker propped himself against a crooked mesquite tree and stared at the silent ridge behind him. Young green plants were ganged up trying to act big as well. Darkness hid their true color and twisted their shapes. He hated waiting.
Loneliness came and sat beside the tall Ranger. Everything in him wanted to climb the rocks and be with Morgan.
Wind had intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more desolate than it was. Ahead of him was a well-used road from town; behind him and on the other side of the road were ridges that helped create the short walls of the valley. Waiting was the only thing that made sense—and the hardest to do. Attacking was always easier. For him.
Tired of sitting, he stretched out behind a huge yellow boulder, rechecked the loads in his rifle and laid it next to him along with a box of cartridges. He felt his side and knew that he was bleeding again, but not too much, he decided. He was so tired. So tired. He shouldn’t rest, but it would feel so good. The night sounds would warn him, he rationalized, and knew he couldn’t do so. To keep himself active, he pushed the cartridge box into his gun belt. It wasn’t just idle activity; he might have to move and shoot fast, and carrying a box would hamper his use of the rifle.
Scattered fragments of the past days were resting on the border between his conscious and unconscious mind. One fragment kept blossoming whenever he let go of the troubling news from town and what might lay ahead for his friends. And that was Morgan Peale. Morgan.
The owl hooted once more as if responding to his thoughts. It seemed as though his whole life was going to be spent this way—riding, waiting, fighting.
Why couldn’t he live as other men did? Why was he the one who rode alone to help people he didn’t even know? He hadn’t recognized the truth of the assertion until now. Stands-In-Thunder, in his wisdom, said it would be this way, that the grandfathers would gradually reopen his soul—when he was ready for it—to let caring back into his life.
A long streak of lightning and a boom of thunder off to the south reminded Checker again of his late Comanche friend, Stands-in-Thunder. Among his tribe, thunder was considered a spirit god, like other natural forces, and few men would have dared to stand outside during such a storm. His late friend had, indeed, been a highly respected leader. Checker missed him and his distinctive wisdom. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the small white stone.
“Wish you’d sing to me. Tell what’s ahead. What we should be doing,” he whispered, staring at the stone. “You know I can’t kill those men without warning. I can’t. That’s still murder. You know that. I’m still a Ranger.” He held the stone tightly and returned it to his pocket.
Maybe he could climb and see Morgan. Just for a few minutes. Oh, how he wanted to hold her in his arms.
Tiredness lay upon Checker and sleep was flirting with his eyes, but he dared not let the temptation overtake him. His fingers pressed gently against his closed eyes to ease their strain. Then he must be ready. He hoped the Holt gang would be riding in a tight group; a spaced group of riflemen would be more difficult to scare and track. If he and his friends were to have any chance tonight, it would come in the creation of immediate fear in the minds of the attackers. If they didn’t run after the opening barrage of gunfire, if they dug in instead, it would mean his friends would need to get away quickly. Hopefully, they would be able to do so.
Fights had always brought a change within him. He was aware of the transformation now, but he hadn’t been as a younger man. A cold intensity took over his actions. Everything was enlarged, as if under field glasses. And in slow motion. There was something that hadn’t changed; only he was more aware of it. As if a thick moss had grown over his heart. It had been necessary to carry on after leaving his sister, his only family, behind. A clinging moss keeping out all feelings, all fears, all life.
Until now and Morgan.
Oh, he knew a bullet could be his sometime, somewhere. No one lived a charmed life; bullets didn’t mind who they struck or why. He had seen too many good men, like A.J., die for no reason at all to believe he was invincible.
It was more as though he didn’t care. Not a death wish, nothing like that. Or maybe it was, deep down inside where he never allowed himself ever to probe. Probably for fear of what he would find there. Something was lodged within him that hadn’t been there before he realized his mother’s situation. And his. Was his sister still alive? Would she even remember him?
Like a stone skipping across water, Checker’s mind skipped back to Stands-In-Thunder, his late friend. How good it would be to see him again. To smoke a pipe and share the world from the old man’s perspective. There was a mental cleansing just in the remembrance. Maybe the old war chief would have some suggestions about what Checker should do against Lady Holt and her many advantages. Maybe he should walk away from the reputation of a “deadly man” when this was over.
One long sad inhaling of the night’s grayness returned him to the danger yet to come this quiet evening. Would one of his friends die? Would he? Right here in these rocks? He couldn’t bring the question of Morgan dying even to his lips.
Stands-In-Thunder said the greatest warriors gave when no one would ever find out. And the greatest warriors fought alone against many to protect a friend who didn’t even know he was in trouble. No matter the cost. That was the way it should be. That was the way it would be for him. No matter the cost.
After this was all over, if he was alive, Checker would ride away from this part of the country, from being a Ranger. Go where no one knew him, a place where he could start over. Where there were no nightmares chasing him. Would Morgan go with him? What did he have to offer? Nothing. Except weapons and the skill to use them. She could do so much better.
Night sounds disappeared into an eerie silent tension. A strange, yet familiar, chill rolled up Checker’s back and settled in his head. He was alert. Gray shadows along the dark valley entrance introduced the coming of night riders.
Checker took a deep breath, drawing in the velvet cool air. In a low, hoarse voice, he reassured his friends to wait.
“Here they come. Wait for my shots.”
He wasn’t sure they could hear him, but it felt good to say it. Poised like a wolf, he lay flat on the slope, his rifle aimed in the direction of slowly advancing shadows. He wiped each hand on his pants, as if to help him pierce the night to determine the size of the approaching enemy.
What was that? Muffled sounds across the road. Emmett—or Rikor—must be moving to a new position. He wished they wouldn’t. But he didn’t dare call out. Not now. Everything grew quiet again.
Less than fifty yards away from his position, shadows were moving through the trees, fanning out as they rode to surround the ranch. Twenty-five riders. No, more. Twenty-eight. They were talking quietly among themselves. An occasional laugh punctuated their easy ride. Checker could tell the riders had exchanged bridles for rope hackamores. They weren’t wearin
g spurs, either. There would be no jingling of a bit, or a spur, to give them away.
Moonlight washed stingily across the riders; purchased Ranger authority gave them a cloak of legality. Dry air crackled with tension. Two men were riding out front, twenty yards or so. Sil Jaudon led the force with a rider beside him carrying the strange phoenix flag. He didn’t see Tapan Moore, or Luke Dimitry, or Eleven Meade. Checker’s scalp curled. Where were they? In Caisson? Coming from another direction? He forced himself to wait for all of the riders to move into the middle of the valley and alongside them.
Satisfied the gang were as close as he dared to let them, he called out, “Drop your guns and ride out. You are surrounded by Rangers.”
From Rule’s site above him came the gunfighter’s supporting challenge. “Jaudon, you have a chance to live. Turn around—and don’t try to attack these ranches again.”
Neither expected the gang to disarm themselves, but they hoped the unexpected challenge would force a turnaround.
“What the hell?” Jaudon snorted, and drew one of his gold-plated revolvers and yelled something in French.
Without waiting for more response, three times Checker’s rifle cut through the night. White flowers of smoke broke the raiders’ unspoken confidence. Both advance riders flew from the frightened horses, driven by Checker’s bullets at the horses’ hooves. His fourth shot missed Jaudon completely, ripping only shadow.
As the others opened fire from their different positions, Checker fired at one rider attempting to shoot and dashed for the rope’s end and its multiple-gun surprise.
Again, he yelled, “Spake, move your men over there. Cut them off!”
Rule answered, “I’ve got them covered. They can run—or die.”
Without pausing, he knew the appearance of more guns had to be terrifying, probably looking like twenty. He yanked the rope and the guns roared in unison. Shotgun slugs sounded as if they had torn into the opposite ridge. The Sharps slug ricocheted and ran off into the night.
Behind the first blast of multiple guns came the second from Emmett and Rikor, roaring as loudly as the first. Above him, he could hear Morgan firing. To the raiders trying to control spinning, wild-eyed horses, it had to look as if they had run into hell. Or so Checker hoped. If they regained their poise, this fight would be over in a hurry.
With his rifle in one hand, he crawled swiftly to the battery of silent guns. Reloading where necessary, he fired each weapon as he came to it, without trying to aim. With his left hand, he also fired his rifle. Hearing the awesome boom of the big Sharps carbine again had to be the breaking point, if there was to be one.
Like a covey of flushed quail, the raiders began leaving, yelling at each other. A few riders fired wildly toward the hillside where Checker and his friends had launched their special ambush. From below, Rule’s rifle silenced one of the shooters and the others fled. He could hear Jaudon cursing in French at his men to stand. Scrambling to a new position, Checker fired as he moved and another of Holt’s gunmen spun from his horse, firing in the air.
Gunshots from Emmett and Rikor were steady and over the heads of the fleeing riders. He didn’t hear any shooting from Morgan.
Checker couldn’t resist the temptation and yelled out, “Sil Jaudon! You’re a dead man if you try this again.”
Only the disappearing rhythm of fleeing horses answered his challenge. He had no idea whether the fat Frenchman heard him or not. But the shouted threat felt good just the same. Alive with shadowy movement of its own, the opposite hillside indicated Emmett and the others were trying to make sense of the retreat and whether it meant the battle was over or just beginning.
Standing up beside a downed tree that was resting its soul against the hillside’s gravel and ironweed, Checker shrugged his shoulders in a slow celebration of the successful moment. He joined Rule at the fake battery.
“Well, John, I think it worked.”
“Looks like it. Some would say we left them to fight again,” Checker said.
“We did the right thing.” Rule said, producing a pocket knife. “They’ve got to be worried now about who’s helping Emmett and Morgan.” He opened the blade and added, “We didn’t kill anyone who wasn’t facing us, either.”
Gathering the tied-up battery was done swiftly. Rule cut the leather strips holding the various triggers, letting the remaining tied end tangle from the triggers. The weapons would be unknotted later. Checker shoved two of the handguns into his waistband, above his gun belt and the box of cartridges held there, and took the Sharps and his Winchester, one in each hand. Rule recoiled the lariat and placed it over his shoulder. Then he pushed the remaining two handguns into his belt, picked up his own rifle and the shotgun.
“Looks like Emmett and Rikor are ahead of us,” Checker said, looking across the road.
“Good. That uncle of mine moves fast for his age. You and I should be so lucky,” Rule replied, and grinned.
“Another line of work would help.”
“Or fewer bastards trying to do in our friends.”
Quietly, they climbed the darkened hill toward Morgan.
“Good. She’s gone on to the horses,” Checker said as they neared her shooting site.
Rule agreed. “That’s quite a woman, John. She’d make a fine wife.”
“What kind of woman would marry me?”
“A good kind. The kind that stands beside you, not behind you,” Rule said as they continued climbing the ridge. “The kind that understands this fight. And supports your involvement in it. A woman like my Aleta.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
They reached the top of the ridge and saw the dark shapes of horses ahead of them as planned. No one called out, but Checker thought that was smart. At this point, they couldn’t be certain if the entire gang had fled or not.
Wind had intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more desolate than it was. The top of the ridge flattened out into a large spoon of quiet land. They passed a shallow pond. A struggling cottonwood stood not far from its life-giving water. Nearby was a squatty bowl of land where buffalo once rolled. Rule stared at it and remembered playing in something like that as a child. His best friend jumped into mind. Ian Taullary. They had protected each other growing up and fought beside each other during the war. Sadly, Taullary had gotten caught up in the wrong things in life, but had died trying to protect him. Again. He reminded himself that it was important to remember his friend’s good ways, their good times together.
He was tired and knew Checker had to be. Once a fight was over, energy left quickly, leaving the body drained. He glanced at the Ranger, but Checker was studying the silhouettes ahead of them. Ahead, their horses were grouped around three trees. Shapes of men were knotted against the dark sky.
Checker said, “Something’s wrong, Rule.”
An invisible voice was cruel and demanding. “Come on, Checker. You, too, Cordell. Walk easy toward us. Don’t try anything funny. Or the Peale woman and these two Gardners die.”
Without saying anything, Rule and Checker separated and walked toward the horses.
“Drop those rifles. Do it now.”
Both men let the long guns in their hands slip to the hard earth. The thuds of weapons hitting against the ground were four heartbeats. They dropped their hands to their sides, standing mostly in shadow.
The gray shapes in front of them became four Holt men. Luke Dimitry. Tapan Moore. And two men Checker didn’t know.
Tapan had his arm around Morgan’s neck, holding her close to him. In his hand was a cocked revolver. Dimitry stood, nonchalantly, pointing a rifle on Emmett and Rikor. The other two gunmen stood near the horses, holding rifles. Beside them, Checker saw the motionless body of London Fiss.
“Come on in, boys. The party’s just getting started,” Tapan said, motioning with his gun. “That was a good stunt you pulled on the Frenchman. What a stupid sonvabitch! Lady Holt should’ve had me become
the Ranger captain, not him.” Tapan laughed. “Reckon he won’t stop running ’til he hits town. Him an’ his men.”
Checker and Rule stood with their arms at their sides.
Tapan’s eyes brightened. “I see you boys brought along all your big toys.” His smile reached only half of his mouth. “Luke an’ I had a hunch you might try something. So we went a different route.”
Dimitry glanced at the dead Fiss. “Ran into that colored boy and figured we’d just sit tight an’ see who came along. Lo and behold, all kinds of folks Lady Holt wants to see dead came wandering in.”
“Didn’t want to do that before we had a chance to talk with you two. Besides, you would’ve heard the shots,” Tapan explained. “That colored boy wasn’t so lucky. He got his while you all were firing up a storm.”
The curly-headed gunman smiled widely, his white teeth glistening in the moonlight, and continued, “Fact is, we would’ve shot you two when you came up the hill…but we wanted to know something.”
Morgan struggled against his tightened arm and he shoved his gun into her side.
“Stand still, lady. Or I’ll shoot you first.”
“Sorry, John, we done jes’ walked ri’t into this,” Emmett said, waving his arms in frustration.
Rikor’s expression was impossible to read. Was it anger or fear?
“I see you boys are carrying lots of iron. Ready for a war, huh?” Tapan motioned with his gun. “Unbuckle the gun belts. All of it. Real easy, now.”
Checker unbuckled his double-rowed cartridge belt and let it slide down his legs. The cartridge box tumbled ahead of it. Without being asked, he drew Bartlett’s pistol from his waistband and tossed it on the ground. The leather string attached to the trigger fluttered in the air. He drew the other revolver used in the fake barrage with his fingers holding the butt and dropped it as well.
At the same time, Rule unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall. Both of his barrage handguns followed; one had been the backup Colt carried in his front waistband.
