Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Twenty-four

“Do not talk to thunder and lightning. Do not challenge thunder and lightning. There is no pity, no caring, no understanding. I do so as a young man only because my vision showed me the Thunder Beings were there to guide me, not hurt me. Few are so chosen,” Stands-In-Thunder said to John Checker in the dark dream that engulfed the Ranger’s wounded body.

In the world of dreams, the old man told Checker part of the war chief’s spiritual connection included never to eat any raw meat, to sing a special song during all storms, always to carry white stones and a hard ball from the buffalo’s stomach into battle and to paint his face and body with lightning bolts and hail marks. His medicine also came from the Sky Beings—and the great Thunderbird itself. Few Comanches would ever challenge the Thunderbird as the old war chief had done.

Suddenly the dream turned ugly and one of the Indians standing beside the old war chief pulled a gun from his robes and began shooting at Checker. Then another pulled a gun from a pipe bag and fired at him, too.

“Tuwikaa, the raven, no longer tells us where the buffalo have gone,” Stands-In-Thunder pronounced as if nothing were happening. “White soldiers have burned our lodges, and killed our women and our children. You are a white man. You are to blame.”

In his dream, Checker pleaded with the old man as the other Indians began to shoot at him. “I buried you, my father. With your best horse and your finest weapons. I prayed and sang for your spirit passage. I watched your spirit ride toward the great valley of wonder and youth.”

From somewhere came an old brown horse. Someone pushed a sack of food and a silver dollar into his hand and told him to run. Once again, his sister was beside him, wanting to go with him, tears filling her pale face. He promised to return when he could. She wanted something of his, a tangible thing to be his promise.

“Wait, Johnny…please,” Amelia said, her face wet with despair, her eyes bright with fear. “I want something of yours. To hold. Please.”

Grabbing his shirt, she pulled free a button from it. But this time it wouldn’t release and she was swept away into the shadows. Even in his dream, her face was a mere blur now. The only place he could actually see her—or their mother—again was in the small photograph pushed in the lid of his pocket watch.

Over his shoulder, a dark shadow appeared. It wore a bowler hat and held a rifle. Beside the looming shape was a carriage and a single horse breathing fire through its nostrils. The horse burst into flames and became a giant bird.

Checker was suddenly awake.

Where was he? Where were his guns? He shook his head and the ache came back. He was in some kind of sleeping clothes and his wounds were cleaned and wrapped in bandages. He heard voices in the other room. Was it A.J.? Had the Gardners made it safely to Rule Cordell’s house? How long had he been here?

He looked at himself and remembered getting shot and trying to escape. What happened? His body was weak and pounding with pain. He looked down at himself again and was comforted to see he was wearing Stands-In-Thunder’s medicine pouch.

Lying back on the bed, he drifted again into another tortured dream. His sister was gone, as were his father and his two sons. Only Stands-In-Thunder remained. Checker touched his hand to his cheek and mumbled, “Yes. We fight in…Llano Estacado. It was many years back. Don’t you remember?” He used the Spanish name for the Staked Plains where the Comanches once were the lords. The rest of his words were nonsense only his sleeping mind heard.

In the other room, Rule, Bartlett, Emmett and Rikor were talking at the same time, almost delirious about discovering John Checker was not dead but wounded. Emmett had introduced Rule and Bartlett; Morgan had introduced them to London Fiss. Morgan and Fiss explained they thought it was the only way to protect Checker; they didn’t know exactly what had happened or where the Gardners had gone. All of the group were thankful for their help and their smart decision.

The Peale Ranch house was small, but sturdily built from a combination of rough-hewn logs, adobe bricks and flat boards. Two bedrooms were in the main house; London Fiss slept in a room built out from the barn even when Checker wasn’t there. Inside the main house the feeling was warm—and definitely a woman’s.

Fiss studied Rule as the group described what had happened on the trail and in town. Finally, the black man said, “Believe I know you, sir. Or of you.”

The other conversation stopped.

“My cousin, Alexander Morrison. Lives over your way. He told me about you and your wife helping…us. Teaching our children. You stopped one of those awful clans that killed Suitcase…Mr. Eliason.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fiss. Suitcase was a good friend,” Rule responded. “My Aleta enjoyed her time with the children. She said they were bright and eager to learn.”

“It was very much appreciated,” Fiss said, “and please call me London.”

“I’d like that. My name is Rule.”

Rule shared that Eleven Meade said he had dug up Checker’s grave and shot at the body. The gunfighter cocked his head slightly and added that he didn’t think the killer had done so, because it would have taken some serious work.

With a wistful smile, Fiss said, “I was watching him through my field glasses. If he had started digging, I would have killed him.”

The statement was matter-of-fact.

“John Checker saved my life a few years back. I owed him that,” the black man continued, and motioned toward Morgan. “Mrs. Peale, she gave me a chance. I owed her, too.”

Conversation among the group grew once more, mostly about Lady Holt and what was happening. They avoided the subject of Checker’s condition.

“Can we see him?” Bartlett finally asked. His face was years younger in its relief to know his friend was alive.

Morgan frowned. “I don’t know. He’s been asleep since we found him. Or nearly so. Woke up briefly last night. Said something about Apaches. Then a woman…ah, named Amelia, I think. I couldn’t make out the rest.”

“Amelia, that’s his sister’s name,” Bartlett said. “Hasn’t seen her since they were little. Awful tale.”

Morgan smiled at hearing the woman was Checker’s sister and said, “Mr. Fiss has been treating him with some family remedies. We were afraid to ride for the doctor.”

The black man nodded. “Good remedies, they are. Especially with bullet wounds.” He paused and added, “The only lead in him was in his lower back. The rest were scrapes and burns. Really lucky. None caught anything vital. Got a wound in his left leg. Not from this gunfight. Looks like it’s been treated. Before.” He grimaced. “He’s got some old bullet scars. Not the first time he’s been hit.”

Emmett nodded. “Yeah. Got that hole in his leg fightin’ off Jaudon’s bunch. At my place.”

“The bullet in his back was a short .44.” Fiss put his hand against the lower left corner of his own back. “You don’t see many like that.”

“Eleven Meade.” Rule’s declaration had an ominous ring.

“Yes. I saw one of those Evans rifles in his carriage.” Fiss added, “Shoots a short .44. Shoots a lot of them.”

“How long before John can ride…again?” Bartlett asked.

Fiss looked at Morgan before responding. “He’s a tough man. You know that. But he lost a lot of blood. Awful weak.”

Almost crying, Morgan blurted, “He needs to sleep. To rest.”

“We owe both of you a lot,” Bartlett said. “How can we ever thank you?”

Morgan smiled gently. “Win this war against Lady Holt. Or we all go down.” She told about Eleven Meade delivering a letter from Lady Holt offering to buy her ranch for a cheap price. “I imagine that’s so she can tell others that she tried to buy it…before we got wiped out. I figure Charlie Carlson got the same letter. Got one for you, too.” She swung her fist in the air and grimaced.

Before anyone could respond, she invited them into her small kitchen for coffee and freshly baked donuts. Rikor was particularly pleased with the offering and had to be reminded by his father to only take one.

Morgan heard the whispered direction and said, “Rikor, there are plenty. Please help yourself. I would feel insulted if you didn’t.”

Glancing at his father for approval, Rikor thanked her and immediately took two donuts.

As they enjoyed the refreshment, Rule turned to Fiss and Morgan with a response to her earlier statement. “A few minutes ago, you said we needed to win. I agree. But that’s going to be more easily said than done, ma’am. We’re going to have to do what she doesn’t expect—and do it swiftly. And we’re going to have to be lucky.”

“What do you have in mind?” she said, putting her coffee mug down on the table.

Rikor sneaked another donut while the others were concentrating on Rule.

“As soon as this Jaudon returns from Austin, she’ll send him and his men on a sweep through here. Emmett’s place. Yours. Carlson’s. She’ll figure this Ranger setup won’t last long—so she’ll strike and strike hard,” Rule said softly.

No one spoke.

Emmett downed the last of his coffee and declared, “Why don’t we jes’ go an’ see that damn governor an’ send him skedaddlin’ out o’ Texas?”

After taking a bite of his donut, Rule responded, “Uncle Emmett, I think that’s a good idea.”

“Ya do?”

“Yes, I do.” Rule took another bite. “But we need to do some changes in Caisson first. Get those arrest warrants changed. Get Captain Temple back in charge of his Ranger force so we’ve got some men to go against hers.”

“I imagine there’s a good bunch of former Rangers all spitting and fuming right now,” Bartlett said. “Maybe they’ve already started something.”

“Maybe so. We’re going to need them.” Rule took a long swig of coffee and pushed his hat back on his forehead. He wanted to say they were going to need John Checker but didn’t.

Morgan licked her lower lip and looked away. “I don’t see how that’s going to happen. Governor Citale is dug in deep. His alliance with Holt has made him a rich man. Others, too. Railroad men mostly.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Rule said. “But if we stay here, or at Emmett’s, her men will eventually overrun us. Our only weapon is movement and surprise.”

“Doesn’t sound like we’ve got much of a chance,” Emmett growled. “I’d jes’ like to wring…”

He didn’t finish the statement.

“All right, I’m in.” Morgan folded her arms. “Tell me what to do.”

Fiss walked over beside her. “I ride for Mrs. Peale.”

“Mr. Fiss, I don’t expect you…”

“I know you don’t, but I must.”

Rule frowned and sipped his coffee. “You know they might burn your place, Mrs. Peale. And make you an outlaw again, London.”

A noise in the other room stopped the conversation.

“What’s that?” Bartlett said, and spun toward the unseen disturbance.

“It came from John’s room!” Morgan headed in that direction before the statement was completely out of her mouth.

Everyone hurried toward the bedroom where John Checker had been sleeping. Rikor hesitated and grabbed another donut before leaving the kitchen. In the narrow room, Checker, already in his pants and boots, was putting on a shirt. His medicine pouch, dangling from his neck, bounced against his chest. His Comanche war tunic lay folded at the top of an old dresser, along with his rifle, gun belt and hat.

“John, what in the hell are you doing!” Bartlett said, and hurried into the room, passing Morgan. “You’ve got no business being up.”

Checker stared at him and frowned. “A.J., it’s mighty good to see you, too. I’m all right. A little stiff, that’s all. Where am I?”

“You’re in my home.” Morgan rushed past Bartlett and stood beside the wounded Ranger. “John Checker, you get back in bed.” She touched Checker’s arm and left it there.

Smiling weakly at her, he continued to put on his shirt.

“He gonna be all right?” Rikor asked, poking his head into the room and munching another donut.

“Guess that’s gonna be up to the good Lord—and Mrs. Morgan an’ Mr. Fiss hyar,” Emmett said.

Ignoring Morgan’s concerns as well, Fiss told Checker what had happened, including the news of Sil Jaudon being named a captain of the Rangers and of Captain Temple being dismissed and arrested—and the faking of the Ranger’s death to give them some time for him to heal.

Waving her arms in frustration, Morgan told him again to lie down and rest.

Stepping into the room and standing next to his father, Rikor grinned awkwardly and mumbled Checker wouldn’t get any donuts if he didn’t do what she said.

Shaking her head, Morgan took a step closer. “You need to rest, John Checker.”

“No, I need a horse. Mine’s dead. I remember that. I can pay.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re lucky to be alive. You look like you’ve got a fever.” She reached up to touch his forehead, but his smile stopped her.

Edging closer, the black man explained how Rule expected Lady Holt to send her men to check out the Peale Ranch, that she wouldn’t take Meade’s word for his death. He thought they would move on Emmett’s ranch and take control of it.

“Meade? Eleven Meade? The New Mexico gunman?”

“Yes, that’s the one. He even came to Mrs. Peale’s ranch and delivered a letter from Lady Holt. An offer to buy her place. An insulting one, of course,” Fiss said. “He also wanted to know about you.”

Checker asked, “He’s the one…who got behind me…isn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s the one. Quite proud of telling people in Caisson that he killed you. Sheriff Hangar backed him up, saying you were wanted dead or alive.”

Checker tucked his shirttails into his waistband. “Where are my guns?”

Fiss pointed at them.

Stepping toward his weapons, the Ranger stopped. “Instead of asking questions, I should be thanking you—and Mrs. Peale. You saved my life.”

Morgan turned toward him and smiled. “That’s not necessary. You Rangers are trying to save all of us from that awful woman.”

“I’m not a Ranger. I’m an outlaw.”

Her mouth opened, but she didn’t know how to respond.

Checker buckled on his gun belt, shoved his second gun into his back waistband and looked over at Rule Cordell, who was standing quietly, with his arms crossed, in the doorway.

“You must be Rule Cordell,” Checker said.

“I am, John Checker. Been looking forward to meeting you.”

Rule held out his hand and Checker shook it.

After putting on his Comanche tunic and grabbing his hat, Checker turned to the exasperated ranch woman. “Mrs. Peale, I can’t thank you—and London—enough for what you did. You made yourselves a big enemy in Lady Holt. But I reckon you know that—and that you already were.” Removing the bandage tied around his forehead, he returned his hat to his head.

“Only a fool wouldn’t want to stay here and be waited on by such a beautiful woman,” he continued, “but I’ve got work to do.”

He patted Rule on the shoulder and they walked together into the next room. As they did, Rule touched the medicine pouch under Checker’s shirt and then his own medicine pouch under his shirt. He said something no one understood. Strange words.

Bartlett thought it was a Comanche blessing, but the only two words he knew for sure were muea, Comanche for “moon” and rami, Comanche for “brother.” He heard Checker repeat the message.

As he followed the two gunfighters to the doorway, Rikor turned toward Bartlett and, through a mouth of donut, asked him what they had just said to each other. The Ranger explained it was a Comanche warrior blessing he had heard a long time ago. It connects the power of the moon to a man’s heart and makes it strong, he said.

Rikor stared at the gunfighters as if not believing, but not daring to challenge the statement.

Fiss watched him and shook his head. “I don’t think that En glishwoman has any idea of what she’s stirred up. John Checker and Rule Cordell.”