Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Twenty

Spake Jamison walked into the large jail and slammed the door behind him.

“I want to see Captain Temple.” His graying eyebrows arched in held anger.

The intense arrival startled the deputy in charge. He jumped and his hand reached out for the shotgun on the desk. His arm cuffed his coffee mug and spilled hot liquid over the desk.

“Ah…sure. I guess. Aren’t you a Ranger?”

“Was. Here are my guns, boy.” Jamison shoved the sawed-off shotgun and his belt gun on the desk. Chuckling, he added, “You need to write down my name, boy. You can clean up that spill later. It ain’t going nowhere.”

The round-faced deputy glanced at the spilled coffee, then at the entry log. It was, luckily, spared from the splatter.

“It’s Spake Jamison. One m.”

“Ah, sure. Jamison.”

“Where do you want me to sign?” Spake said.

The deputy pointed beside where he had written Spake’s name. The old Ranger took a pencil resting in the middle of the log, stuck the lead point in his mouth and wrote an X where the deputy had pointed. Regaining his poise, the deputy stood and told Spake to follow him. He unlocked the outer steel frame and they walked past a second fuzzy-whiskered guard sitting on a straight-back chair, cradling a double-barreled shotgun.

“Hey, Spake! Shoot anybody lately?” a gritty voice called from the third cell.

Without pausing, Spake said, “Should’a shot you, Henry.”

Over his shoulder, the deputy asked, “How do you know Henry Nawell?”

“Brought him in two weeks ago. He killed a family in Waco. Mother, father and two little kids. Hanging’s too good for the sonvabitch.”

“Oh.”

They walked in silence down the row of cells; most were unoccupied. At the next-to-last cell was Captain Harrison Temple. Spake saw the tired man before Temple saw him. Temple looked weary, sitting on his cell bed.

“Afternoon, Captain.”

Temple looked up and a thin smile entered his face. “It’s good to see you, Spake. They fire all you boys?”

“Oh yeah. Couldn’t wait to get rid of us.”

Temple shook his head, stood and held out his hand through the cell bars and Spake shook it warmly.

“You’ve got five minutes, Jamison,” the deputy said, walking away.

Spake turned toward the departing guard. “When I’m ready, I’ll come. Not before, boy. Don’t press it.”

The deputy bristled, but kept walking.

Spake’s questions triggered a terse recital from Temple. His hearing had been conducted in private and he was being held for trial. The evidence against him was so phony the judge had had difficulty with the charge. It looked as though someone had changed the governor’s name on a bank account and inserted his. The governor’s direct plea had secured a trial.

“Doesn’t really matter,” Temple added. “All they want is time.”

“I’m gettin’ too old, Captain. What is all this crap?”

“Lady Holt.”

“Damn. Women are gonna be the death of us.” Spake grinned wolfishly.

Temple explained the situation, how he had sent Checker and Bartlett to protect Emmett Gardner, a small rancher, from the Holt attempt to take his land. He rattled off the incidents that had occurred since then.

“Poe said John’s dead.”

Temple’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, but no words would come. He stumbled back to his cot and sat. Finally, a rush of “Oh my God” found a strained voice.

“Nobody’s immune to a bullet, Captain. Not even John Checker.” Spake’s own face was taut. “A.J.’s wanted for murder. That woman works fast.”

“I heard.”

The grizzled Ranger glanced at the seated guard down the hallway, then back to Temple, who was struggling with his emotions. The old Ranger stepped next to the cell bars and leaned his face into the cell.

“Captain, we can get you outta here. Piece of cake.”

Shaking his head negatively, the Ranger captain told Spake he didn’t want that. At least not yet.

“All right, what do you want us to do?” Spake asked. “About a dozen of us are in town. Or close. More coming in, I hear.” He stepped back.

“Don’t worry about me, Spake,” Temple said. “I can handle the court. I think.” He paused. “Anyway, there’s no time to do both.” He stood again and walked to the front of the cell. “I want…no, I can’t say that, I’d like you to ride for A.J.—and Emmett Gardner—and those other little ranchers. Before it’s too late.”

“You’re still our captain.”

“You’ll be riding outlaw.”

“Done that before. But let’s see how big an asshole Poe really is.”

Spake Jamison turned and headed back down the hallway. As he passed the seating guard, he growled, “Anything happens to that man down there—an’ I’ll find your silly little ass an’ kill you with my bare hands. You understand, boy?”

The long-faced guard jerked in the chair and started to raise his shotgun.

Spake spun, grabbed the gun and yanked it from the startled guard. The old Ranger stared at him.

“Didn’t like your reaction, boy. Want to try again?” Jamison said, holding the shotgun at his side. “I asked you a question. I want an answer.”

The guard’s eyes were plates. “A-ah…I’m s-sorry. I’ll make s-sure nothing happens to…Captain Temple. I—I p-promise.”

“Good boy.” Spake handed back the shotgun and left.