by Cotton Smith
“Adios,” she said again and recocked both weapons.
“This is crap,” the mustached gunman in the vest said. “We’re Rangers. She’s a whore. A damn Mex whore. Are we gonna let her do this?”
From the shadows of the building between the hotel and the general store, an older man appeared. He held a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, as if it were a pistol. A black eye patch covered his left eye.
He stepped halfway between the mounted Aleta and the alley.
“You bastards aren’t any more Rangers than horse dung,” he growled. “Get your asses back across the street. I’m not as nice as the pretty lady here. I won’t shoot to warn you.” He motioned with the shotgun. “Now. Be gone.” He hesitated and yelled, “No, wait. Don’t any of you move.”
Awkwardly, the four men staggered to a stop, waved their arms, grabbed each other and froze in various positions of retreat. Looks on their faces ranged from fear to anger. Mostly fear.
“You boys leave your iron. Right there. In the street.” He cocked his head to the side. “And take off those Rangers badges. Leave ’em. None of you bastards has any right to be wearin’ something like that. Kinda sacred, they are.”
Frowning, Spencer stared at the shadowed man. “Who are you, mister? This ain’t a town to be tellin’ us what to do. Don’t you know who we work for? Lady Holt, that’s who. Lady Holt. She’s right in there.” He motioned toward the lighted newspaper office.
“Oh, really?” The man with the eye patch fired a barrel of the sawed-off shotgun.
The shot tore into the bearded man’s leg and he fell, groaning.
Smoothly, he popped open the gun, tore out the empty smoking shell and slipped another in its place. His lone eye never left the terrified gunmen.
He cocked both barrels. “Now, which one of you pecker-heads still doesn’t understand?”
Immediately, the youngest gunman with the rifle threw it to the ground and stepped back. The other two unbuckled their gun belts and let them fall. The youngest gunman pulled Spencer’s pistol from its holster and tossed it. Moonlight flickered on badges being yanked off and dropped. They helped the sobbing Spencer to his feet and half carried him back toward the newspaper office. His lower leg was mostly crimson.
Lamplight appeared in the upper window of the apartment above the general store. Window curtains wiggled. Spake glanced in its direction, then back to the street.
“Better let a doc take a look at that real quick,” the eyepatched man hollered. “Hate to see such a fine fella lose his leg.”
Forcefully, the door to the newspaper office opened. Lady Holt slid into the doorway, squinting into the night.
“What’s going on out here? Spencer, is that you? Are you hurt?” she called.
“Yes’m, he’s been shot. Shotgun. By that stranger across the street.” The report came from the youngest gunman. He skipped the part about the Mexican woman riding into town and their attempted quest of her.
“We can’t have challenges to my authority,” she declared. “An insult, that’s what it is. Kill him and be quick about it. Her, too.” She glared at the four men. “Don’t you know I’m creating in here? Leave me alone!”
She slammed shut the door.
Spake Jamison watched the men across the street. Without taking his gaze from them, he said, “Ma’am, I’m Spake Jamison.” He touched the brim of his weathered hat in greeting and yelled, “You heard her, boys. Come an’ get some more.”
He watched the four talking and said quietly to Aleta, “Used to be a Ranger. ’Til that idiot governor—an’ that English lady there—decided to rig up their own brand of law.”
“Muchas gracias, amigo. I have come to find mío husband. I am worried he may be in trouble.”
A wolflike smile took over the gray-haired former Ranger’s wrinkled face. The leathery skin was laced with long lines; many were gathered at the outside edge of his good eye.
“If he’s anything like you, ma’am, not sure trouble would want him. Don’t think you needed my help,” he said. “You handle those fancy guns like they were real friendly.”
It was her turn to chuckle. “I am Aleta Cordell. Rule Cordell ees mío husband.”
“Rule…Cordell? The Texas gunfighter?”
“Mío husband knows how to use ze gun, sí.” She shoved new cartridges into the revolvers as they talked.
He nodded. “I understand your husband—and John Checker—are ridin’ together. Tryin’ to stop this Lady Holt.”
“Sí.”
Jamison pushed the hat back on his forehead. “Sounds like we’re headin’ for the same war, ma’am.”
Returning her reloaded guns to their holsters, she glanced at the sidewalk in front of the newspaper office. The four men had disappeared. Their absence didn’t seem to bother the old lawman.
“Don’t worry about them, ma’am. They’ve gone somewhere to get some courage. An’ get away from her.”
He chuckled and said he had just arrived in town with the plan on finding out what was going on.
“I was headin’ for the livery when I saw those clowns,” he said. “There are thirty Rangers waitin’ for me. Outside of town. Real ones. Or they were.” He pushed the quiver back farther on his shoulder. “Just found out that phony Ranger captain…ah, Sil Jaudon…rode out with his gang. They were headin’ for one of the small ranches left. Only three, I reckon. Don’t sound like it would be hard to find. Looks like the Brit woman wants to get this over with.”
His shoulders rose and fell. “Reckon us Rangers’ll head that way. Come back for her later.”
Her tired eyes brightened; then a film of worry dulled them. She told about sending a wire telling Rule about Eleven Meade’s death and that her husband hadn’t responded. Friends of theirs were watching their two children—and Emmett Gardner’s two boys. She explained why the latter were at their house.
“Can’t tell you anything about any telegrams,” Spake said, shaking his head. “This town has been hit real hard by this English lady and her thugs.” He pointed in the direction of the dark telegraph office. “There’s where it be. You can go there in the mornin’ and see if your man has been in. Bet he hasn’t, ma’am. Bet he an’ Checker are ri’t where that gang’s headed.”
He returned the shotgun to the quiver on his shoulder and started walking again. “A bunch o’ us came to help some friends. They were Rangers, too. A. J. Bartlett an’ John Checker.”
Rubbing his unshaved chin, he said, “Story we got in Austin was this killer name of Eleven Meade had killed John. Heard tell in that saloon just now…that he was alive—and A.J.’s dead.” He shook his head. “Had me a hunch Checker wasn’t dead. Bastard’s too tough. No back-shooter like Meade’s gonna make it happen. Mighty sorry about A.J., though. He was a good’un. Loved talkin’ poetry, ya know.”
Swinging her horse to walk alongside the sidewalk as Spake headed toward the livery, Aleta explained Meade was the one who was dead and that she had killed him.
The old Ranger chuckled. “Them four idiots had no idea of what they had tangled with. Glad to hear Meade’s dead. He was a sick one. Real sick. All that eleven mumbo jumbo.” He looked at her for a moment and asked, “If I remember rightly a good-lookin’ woman used to ride with an outlaw name of Johnny Cat Carlson. Right after the war.”
“Sí, there was such a senorita. I weel ride weeth you. Mío Rule weel be there. I can feel eet. He and thees John Checker.”
“Well, that’ll be a pair to draw to.” Spake hesitated. “Sure. Come on. You’d better switch hosses at the livery. That fella’s too good to run into the ground. An’ he’s looking mighty tired. No offense, ma’am.”
“Sí. I push heem. More than I should. He ees bueno hoss.”
“Well, let’s go. There’ll be hot coffee at the camp. Johnson makes it good ’n hard. Puts an egg in it. Says it’s Swedish.” He withdrew a sack from his coat pocket. “Would you like some licorice? It’s mighty tasty.”
Chapter Forty
; John Checker and Rule Cordell rode hard toward Caisson, keeping mostly off the main road, along the surrounding ridges, through narrow arroyos and across hushed open land. Night air helped lower their fierceness to allow them to think about their next actions. Riding down the main street of Caisson would only get them killed. They had to assume Jaudon and his men returned there.
They cleared a spongy stretch of bottomland, stubbled with grass and flanked by thickets of mesquite, ash, walnuts and persimmons. Crossing a wandering creek, the reason for the lower land’s wetness, they reined up to let their horses drink and rest. Around them stray cattle were in search of grass. In the distance, coyotes were attempting to communicate with the moon.
Both men were weary and trying hard to concentrate.
“Right about now, A.J. would up and recite,” Checker said. “He loved his Tennyson. Seems real strange not to have him riding with me.” He glanced at the gunfighter. “No offense, Rule. That didn’t come out quite right. I’m proud—and thankful—to have you with me. You know that.”
“I understand. You’ll always have the memories,” Rule said. “I lost my best friend a few years ago. Grew up together. Went to war together. I have those memories. They’re good ones.”
Checker nodded and his shoulders shivered. Rule glanced at the Ranger’s side and saw streaks of blood, old and new.
Rule changed the subject, withdrawing his boots from his stirrups and straightening his legs. “You know, John, we’re likely to be facing men we could’ve killed earlier tonight.”
“Yes, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Guess it doesn’t matter now.”
Checker studied a narrow path heading up an embankment to the left. Definitely an Indian pony trail.
“We could move along that trail for a while. What do you think?” He pointed at the barely visible pathway. “Keep us out of sight as we get closer to town, in case Jaudon left any snipers behind.”
“Makes good sense. Looks like an Indian trail. Ever see any man ride better than a Comanche?” Rule asked, twisting his head back and forth for relief.
Checker smiled. “No. You look at a Comanche walking—and here’s this short, slow, awkward-looking man. Get him on a horse and he’s awesome. Like some Greek god.”
“What if Tapan had told you to take out the backup gun?” Rule asked without looking at Checker.
“Not sure. Probably tried to stumble. Something, anything to give us an opening.”
“Did you know I still had a gun?”
Checker smiled again. “I can count.”
Rule nodded. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
They swung their horses toward the bank, up and onto the pony path. Slowly, they began to discuss what they would do when they reached Caisson. Their horses picked easily along the path, but neither man chose to urge them beyond a trot. An unseen hole would mean a broken leg and change every thing. Both took turns napping in the saddle as they rode. After a mile zigzagging along the ridge on the packed-earth pathway, largely bare of grass or weeds, they swung down onto a grassy swale, cradled by the same creek on the right and by a line of trees on the left. Six Holt steers looked up as they passed.
They weren’t more than a mile from town and had decided on a plan. When they reached Caisson, they would split up and enter from different directions. It was simple. Risky. Mostly, it depended on Lady Holt’s men not expecting such a bold move. The two gunfighters would find where Lady Holt was staying, get her on a horse and out of town before Jaudon and her men realized what had happened. Checker would get fresh horses for the three of them at the livery; Rule was going to the telegraph office and see if Ale-ta’s wire was there. They would take Lady Holt to Clark Springs and hold her until a circuit judge could get there. A real judge.
If they weren’t lucky, it was going to be a long, hard day.
Both rode almost mechanically, badly needing sleep, but not daring to nap anymore. Rule’s mind crisscrossed through memories, pausing to hear his father tell him that he hoped the young man would rot in hell, to the frozen battlefields of Virginia and onto the dusty Texas plains where his father had told the weeping child that the reason their black colt had died was the boy’s sinfulness, to preaching his first sermon about loving the land as the Reverend James Rule Langford, to the Sons of Thunder. He shook off the darkness in his mind and touched the rose stem on his coat collar and thought of Aleta and their children. He missed them so. It seemed like forever since he had left their home. Forever.
Beside him, Checker was telling himself again that life was more than riding and fighting. His thoughts slid to a month ago when he let the outlaw Cole Dillon escape. He wasn’t certain why. But the man had just lost his wife to sickness. The Ranger had tracked him across the windswept Staked Plains and caught up to him standing over her grave. Cole had not asked for leniency; Checker had just given it. Something in the outlaw’s broken face told him the man was about to change. Something said they were more alike than different.
“Thank you, Ranger. I’m going to be the man she wanted me to be. Cole Dillon is dead.” Cole had galloped away, swearing he was going to change. Checker reported Cole Dillon as dead to Ranger headquarters. It made him feel good; he hoped the man would take advantage of the opportunity. But not all men could ride a new trail. Could he? Should he?
They passed a dry creek bed, one that escaped from the main branch of water, only to die. A company of mesquites were joined by scrubby oaks to watch over the empty stream. They rode with their rifles cocked. Checker held his rifle in his right hand, resting the butt on his thigh. Rule’s rifle lay across his saddle, his right hand holding it for quick use.
Gunshots ahead brought the two gunfighters to an alertness they hadn’t felt since leaving.
“It’s on the road.” Checker pointed. “Do you think it’s Jaudon?”
“That doesn’t make any sense, John.”
“No. It doesn’t.” Checker motioned with his hand toward a tree-lined bank. “Let’s move up there and get closer.” He reined his horse toward the trees.
They rode in silence for two hundred yards, blending with the trees and brush. Finally, they cleared the broken ridge through a crease. Ahead of them, a shadowy mass of men and horses milled in the open spoon of grassland. Here and there a body lay on the flattened ground.
At first, Checker could only make out one man. “That’s Jaudon. He’s got his hands up. There, in the middle. Standing.”
“Well, this can’t be all bad, John.”
They reined up to study the situation, and a wide smile hit Checker’s face.
“Well, I’ll be damned. That’s Spake Jamison down there. And…Rangers. Real Rangers. Damn. Where’d they come from?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Rule said, “I don’t care. They’ve got Jaudon and his bunch surrounded. It’s over, John.”
“Wait a minute, Rule. There’s a woman with them. Over there. See?” Checker pointed.
“Aleta!”
Checker looked at his friend. “Your wife’s down there?”
“She sure is. Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head.
The tall Ranger was still savoring the scene when he realized Rule was already loping toward them.
“Spake! It’s Checker—and Rule Cordell. We’re coming in,” Checker yelled, and kicked his horse into a downhill lope, trailing Rule’s advance.
Minutes later, Checker was shaking hands with Ranger friends who were guarding the surrendered Holt gang. Rule was holding Aleta close; both were dismounted and holding their horses’ reins.
Spake grinned. “Thought you boys could use a hand. You must’ve spooked this bunch something awful. They were runnin’ like the Devil himself was chasin’ them. Said a bunch of Rangers ambushed ’em.” He shook his head. “Ran right into us. Didn’t have much fight left in ’em.” He motioned toward the downed bodies. “Reckon they didn’t know how real Rangers a
ct.”
After a short exchange about Captain Temple’s arrest, the governor’s involvement with Lady Holt and the mass Ranger firing, Checker told him about the fake gun barrage, that Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry were dead—and their murder of London Fiss. He told them the Gardners and Morgan Peale had taken his body back to her ranch.
“Been a hard ride for you, I hear. Sorry about A.J. Gonna miss that ol’ boy—and his poems.” Spake’s hard face softened.
Checker nodded, excused himself and rode over to a disgruntled Jaudon, standing with two mounted Rangers holding rifles on him.
Swinging from the saddle, Checker handed his reins to the red-haired Ranger beside him. “Hold these a minute, will you, Sawyer? Got something that needs doing.”
Checker strode toward the fat Frenchman. “Jaudon, you and your men killed two good men. Good friends of mine.”
Hunching his shoulders, Jaudon spat a French curse and glanced at his three gold-plated revolvers lying on the ground a few feet away.
As he stepped next to Jaudon, Checker slammed his right fist into the fat man’s stomach. The blow’s power was driven by pent-up fury and sorrow. Jaudon doubled over, gasping for breath that had disappeared into the night. He gagged and vomited on his own guns.
Stunned by Checker’s sudden action, the Rangers and the arrested gang members watched in silence.
Stepping out of the way of the projected vomit, Checker delivered a wicked uppercut to Jaudon’s chin that lifted the Frenchman off his feet and stumbling backward. The fat man collapsed on the ground. Checker grabbed his shirt with his left hand and yanked the stunned gang leader back on his feet. A right cross slammed into Jaudon’s face, spewing blood and spinning his head sideways. A long cut opened along the Frenchman’s right cheek.
Wild-eyed and desparate, Jaudon threw a windmill punch Checker stopped with his left arm and drove an uppercut into the Frenchman’s already throbbing belly. Jaudon wobbled; his legs wouldn’t hold him up. Grabbing him before he could fall, Checker held the half-conscious man by his bloody shirt, smashed a short jab into Jaudon’s face and cocked his fist to strike again.
