Ride for Rule Cordell

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.”

Rule smiled. “I heard he tracked Mexican bandits right to the Rio Grande. They were crossing, so he threw down his badge and went after them. Killed two in the river. Brought the others back for trial. All wounded.”

“Yes, sir. That’s sure true. Several of us were only a few hours behind.” Bartlett crossed his arms. “I can tell you the one about bringing in the Trimmel Gang by himself was true. I was there when he brought them. The three he hauled in were glad to be away from him, I’ll tell you for sure. The other three tried to shoot it out. They lost.”

Rule shook his head in amazement. “Heard he made Clay Allison back down.”

“Don’t know about that. Heard the same about you.”

“Never met Mr. Allison.”

“There you go.” Bartlett cocked his head. “I’ll tell you one story about him that most folks don’t know—or those that do, don’t understand. He bought a small house. For a widow with two children. Didn’t know her real well—and wasn’t interested in her, you know. He just said she reminded him of his mother.” He added that Checker was the bastard son of a Dodge City gang leader and that his mother died when he was fourteen.

“The way I heard it, John tried to kill the man—his father—after his ma died. From the way he treated her. Beating on her and all. Had to leave Dodge fast and leave his little sister behind. With an aunt and uncle or something. Hasn’t seen her since. Kinda grew up the hard way. Fast.”

Rule shifted his feet. “The way of the gun is a lonely way.”

With prompting from the Ranger, Rule shared his own upbringing, about his evil minister father and his mother, who ran away when he was young. His mother now lived in Clark Springs; he had no idea what had happened to his father, but had a feeling he was dead. He told about his new life as a minister and the confrontation in the church with his father and the state police.

Bartlett looked at him. “No offense, but you’ve been lucky. Most gunfighters end up with a bullet. Somewhere. Nobody caring.”

“None taken. I didn’t seek the reputation, A.J. Tried to avoid it, in fact,” Rule said quietly. “But I don’t think men can stand by and let others take away the homes of their friends. Or their lives. My guns will come out for that.”

Laying his rifle against the closest rock, he yanked free the revolver from its holster, removed the cartridges and began wiping it clear of dust.

“You and John will get along real fine.”

For the first time, the Ranger noticed Rule was wearing a stone earring, a small thong held it in a loop for his ear. He wanted to ask about the item but didn’t. Instead, he told about the time Checker and Spake Jamison fought off a band of Apaches trying to take a stage station. He added that Jamison was a hard-nosed Ranger, a lot older than most.

“I look forward to meeting John.”

Neither said what he thought, that it might be too late.

“Say, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you come by the name…Rule?” Bartlett asked, then adjusted the boot closer to him, sensing an imaginary difference in their alignment.

Rule chuckled and said his mother wanted her son to become nobility. His father hated the name, which made him like it more.

Bartlett nodded and smiled.

“Well, Ranger, while we’re at it, what does ‘A.J.’ stand for?”

Bartlett shook his head. “Not many know. It’s Augor Josiah. Supposed to be a name of one of my kin. Always thought my ma wanted to tag me with something different just to be ornery. She was a real whip of a gal.”

Rule studied the moon for a moment, then changed the subject. “Did John give you any idea of what he thought you should do, after Emmett’s boys were safe?” Rule leaned against the rock and studied the night sky. A handful of stars were gleaming proudly.

Bartlett folded his arms. “Yes, make enough trouble that real justice is brought in.” He paused. “Lady Holt herself would have to be arrested. Ah, John always likes to be attacking.”

Rolling his shoulders, Rule nodded agreement.

“While I’m thinking about it, I want to thank you. For stalling Humphrey’s Two. At the end. Of that awful war,” Bartlett said, changing the subject in his mind.

Rule frowned and looked up from his cleaning.

“I was with Hill’s Third. We would’ve never seen them coming ’til it was too late.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Like yesterday. To me. In some ways,” Bartlett said. “Marshal Spake Jamison, he rode with Hood. Still doesn’t think the South should’ve quit. Lost an eye to shrapnel. Mean as a cold day. One of our best deputies.”

Rule shook his head. “Understand his feelings. Took me a long time to come to grips with losing.” He returned the revolver to its holster and drew the short-barreled Colt from his waistband and started the same cleaning ritual.

Bartlett shifted his weight against the rock and recited, “ ‘Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.’ ”

“I don’t know that. Tennyson, I presume.”

“Yes. From ‘The Princess.’ One of my favorites.”

Bartlett licked his lower lip. “Guess I’m not like you—and John. Or ol’ Spake, for that matter. You boys would charge hell…and bring back Satan in handcuffs.”

Rule smiled. “I think you misread the value of attacking. Can’t speak for the Rangers…but most of the time, the advantage goes to the attacker.”

“Well, maybe. Sounds like something John would say. Or Spake. He’s a tough old rooster,” Bartlett said.

Rule smiled. “Heard of him. Like John Checker.” He shifted his boots and looked at Bartlett. “John Checker is alive, A.J.”

“Well, maybe.”

Both were quiet again, retreating to yesterday in the shadows of their thoughts.

“Was John in the war?” Rule spun the gun in his hand and was satisfied with its handling, then began reloading it.

“Not like you or me. Younger than us to begin with.” Bartlett rubbed his stockinged feet. “Boy, there’s nothing like a good pair of socks, is there?’

Rule grinned, ignoring the break in thought.

Movement among their horses brought both men to alertness. Rule jumped to his feet and walked over. The sounds weren’t those of his mustang trying to warn him of someone coming; rather they were nervous sounds. Maybe a wolf or a mountain lion prowling.

A few minutes later, Rule returned, guessing there was a lion around. He suggested they move closer to the horses. Grabbing his boots and rifle, Bartlett walked over to the mesquite trees where Rule was already sitting. The famed gunfighter had already returned the Colt to his waistband and withdrawn the Dean & Adams revolver from his belt in back.

“Almost forgot what I was telling you about,” Bartlett said as he squatted beside the middle tree, set his boots carefully beside him and explained Checker had been in a squad of Union sharpshooters but didn’t like taking orders from officers he didn’t respect. After his tour of duty was over, he left.

“Had plenty of those on both sides.”

“Yeah, that’s sure the truth.”

Bartlett rubbed his feet again, brushing off pieces of dirt and sticks that had attached themselves to his socks when he walked over. Checker had run with a bad bunch for a while, with the outlaw Sam Lane before he straightened himself out and became a Ranger. He wanted to compare it to Rule’s time with Johnny Cat Carlson but didn’t.

“ ‘Howe’er it be, it seems to me, ’tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.’ ” Bartlett recited another Tennyson line and shifted his rifle to a more comfortable position on his lap.

“Easier said than done, my friend.”

They talked a few minutes longer with the Ranger sharing the fact that Lady Holt was fascinated with the myth of the phoenix. He thought it was something she had learned while she was in England. Rule listened and mouthed “fire.” Bartlett yawned and apologized. Rule told him to get some sleep; tomorrow would likely be a long day.

“Say a prayer for John, will you, Rule?” Bartlett said. “Figure you’re a might closer to the right fellow than I am.”

“I will do so, A.J.—but not for that reason. He listens to everyone the same. Give it a try.”

Bartlett blinked his eyes. “I will, Rule. Thanks.”

After a few more minutes of discussion about the phoenix myth, Lady Holt and the governor, Bartlett said he had better get some sleep. Soon the Ranger was stretched out on the ground under his blanket, using his saddle for a pillow. Next to him were his weapons. He was snoring softly.

Rule stood among the trees, letting their trunks provide additional cover. Here he was. The former, intense Confederate warrior. His name alone had brought fear to many Texans after the War, expecially Union soldiers and sympathizers. He watched a half-moon take ownership of the dark sky. In his thoughts, he was riding again in the Virginia woods. It was a cold February in 1865 and the collapse of the South was near. He was scouting alone and suddenly heard a Union battalion marching ahead of him along the Boydon Plank Road.

Behind that piece of yesterday came the Sunday morning when he challenged the Regulators and the “Sons of Thunder” came alive to stand with him. Men and women of his parish refusing to bow to their evil tyranny. Of course, the name itself had been a fake one he had used to make the state police think there was a whole band of guerrillas after them, when it was only one. Well, actually two. A traveling peddler had helped him greatly. Caleb Shank. Now a good friend. Folks called him “the Russian,” even though he wasn’t.

He jerked his head to send the memory into the shadows of his mind. Tomorrow they would have a better idea of what they were up against.

“I am a son of Thunder,” he muttered into the night.

Rule studied the dark land, glad to hear night sounds that should be there. Whatever was bothering the horses earlier had left. For the time being anyway. Their horses were standing three-legged and quiet. Another good sign. If anything was to come close, they would warn him. Moon had told him silence was sacred, a time when man listened to the Great Spirit talking to him.

A strange contentment was settling within him, a feeling he tried to ignore. He had felt the first sensation soon after Emmett and his family arrived. It was the contentment a warrior felt in battle or on the eve of it. Being a preacher had been an important transition in his life. A time for him and Aleta to begin their life together. A time to show his soul that his maniacal father was wrong. A time to put the wildness of the postwar years behind him.

Yet something was missing. He wasn’t meant for the pulpit. Or training horses. Not really.

He felt a certain rightness within when he undertook bringing the Regulators down to save friends.

He was good with a gun. Very good. Few could match him, especially in battle. The life of a gunfighter was not something he sought. He didn’t see himself as that. Rather, it was a strange sense God had placed him here—and now—to help those who couldn’t help themselves. War and its aftermath had sharpened him, but not hardened him, to caring about others. He hated the likes of the old Regulators, the former state police, who ran roughshod over Texas after the great war. He hated the likes of Lady Holt—and Governor Citale—who sought power and riches through the destruction of others.

Yes, this was what he was born for. He was a man of the time, a man of the gun. A Son of Thunder. Aleta knew it better than he did. She had encouraged his participation in Emmett’s battle.

“Yes, I am a Son of Thunder,” he said softly, and added, “And, Lady Holt, I am the fire you should fear. A fire you won’t rise from.”