Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Twenty-six

It was midmorning when Eleven Meade pulled up in front of the first saloon he saw upon entering the town of Clark Springs. He was tired and dirty. He couldn’t remember when he last drove so long in such a short time. Something about Lady Holt made a man do things he didn’t want to do. Ah, but the money was good. Very good.

A drink, something to eat and a bath were his priorities. After that, he would check into finding Rule Cordell’s home. He didn’t think it would be hard to do. A nap would also be wonderful, but he wouldn’t allow himself that pleasure. Not yet.

Unlike Lady Holt, he didn’t expect to find much there. Anything, actually. He figured Emmett Gardner had taken his sons and gone on, probably heading toward New Mexico. Santa Fe, likely. And not Nebraska as the fool Hires had reported. He smiled. If Lady Holt wanted him to do so, he could return there and find them.

His apartment in Santa Fe wasn’t much, but it was home when he wasn’t working. Like now. He wrapped the reins of his tired horse around the hitching rack and strolled inside, telling his cat to remain in the carriage. The happy noise of the saloon always pleased him. Comforting.

An open table caught his eye and he moved to it, slid into a chair and let his body relax. Soon a Mexican waitress came to find out what he wanted; she was also offering herself in the back. He snorted and said he was too tired and just wanted a drink and something to eat. Then he changed his mind.

“Say, I’m looking for Rule Cordell. He’s an old friend. Heard he lived here. In Clark Springs. Do you know him?” He handed her a coin and she took it, slipping it between her breasts visible above the wrinkled peasant blouse.

“Sí, senor. All know of ze great Rule Cordell. He ees a pistolero. He ees a preacher. Ah, he ees, what you call eet…a hoss man,” she said, tossing her long black hair as she spoke.

He handed her another coin. “Good. That’s good. Do you know where he lives?”

She thought for a moment and said she needed to check with someone. After talking with a hard-looking vaquero in the far corner of the long bar, she returned and told him where to find the Cordell house. He paid her again and asked for a bottle and whatever they were serving for food.

After eating, he left, found the town public bath, a service in the back of the barbershop, and bathed. Completing his initial self-prescribed tasks, he returned to his horse and carriage. The animal looked tired, so Meade headed to the livery and exchanged horses, paying in advance for the stable manager to feed and water his horse.

There was no hurry. Lady Holt would be wired after he went to the Cordell house and found it empty. Of that, he was certain.

The directions were easy to follow and he soon found himself overlooking a small house with three corrals, a windmill and several outbuildings. He reined the horse within a narrow crease in a mile-long ridge that yo-yoed across the prairie. Viewing the entire ranch yard would be excellent from here, he decided.

After laying out a saddle blanket carefully on the ground, he straightened it several times and stretched out on the blue-and-green fabric. He withdrew his two pistols and positioned himself to study the ranch and its empty yard through his field glasses. The guns were placed at his side to allow for more comfort as he lay.

No Rule Cordell. At least not in sight.

In his mind, he began drafting the wire he would send to Lady Holt. After an hour, he decided he had watched long enough. Only a few children had ever emerged from the house to play hide-and-seek. If the former outlaw was in the house, he was apparently not coming out. The only thing to do was to ride down there and find out.

He would present himself as a horse buyer from Austin. If Cordell was there, he would return here and wait to kill him. That would definitely please Lady Holt. The price would be fair, even though the act was done before she told him to do it. If he didn’t get the chance—or Cordell wasn’t there—he would drive back to town and wire her what he knew and ask for orders.

After returning his revolvers to their holsters, he stood and wiped imaginary dust from his coat and sleeves. He straightened his cravat and his hat. When this was over, he would go back to the saloon and have a nice time with that Mexican waitress. He deserved it. Grabbing the blanket and folding it carefully, he carried it back to the carriage and laid the garment on the carriage floor.

Where was his rifle? He left it in the carriage with his cat, he was certain. He looked at the ground on all sides of the stationary vehicle. This didn’t make sense.

From behind a large boulder stepped a handsome woman with snapping black eyes and black hair pulled back into a single mane on her back. In her hands were two pistols. Silver-plated and pearl-handled. A few steps behind her came the vaquero from the saloon, holding the Evans rifle in his hands.

“You come lookeeng for mío husband.” Aleta’s words were a meanacing challenge.

Taking a deep breath, Meade introduced himself as a horse buyer from Austin.

“Do you always look from ze hidden place?”

Licking his lips, Meade took off his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know how it must look. But I like to be careful. Found it’s easier to look at a man’s horses…when he isn’t standing right there, telling me how good they are. You know…” His voice trailed off.

“Is eet so important to carry so many guns when you do thees…thees horse buying?”

“Well, I’ve found it’s better to be safe than sorry,” Meade said, avoiding her eyes.

Actually he found her to be more fearsome than the silent man holding his rifle. There was something about her that made him shiver. He noticed the vaquero had not cocked the rifle in his hands. That was good. Very good.

“I’ve a letter from your husband. About selling me horses,” Meade said. “Let me show it to you. I represent a large rancher there. He wants only the best mounts.”

Without asking, he reached into his coat, smoothly drew the short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver from its shoulder holster and brought it forward with his coat hiding his real intent.

This would be easy. After all, he was “Eleven,” the chosen one. Eleven was a master number in astrology and numerology, he had been told by his parents. Others looked to those who were “Eleven” for inspiration.

He would kill her first, then the foolish man who had told on him. The gun had been named “Illumination” in honor of his special presence. The black nose of the pearl-handled gun with its strange markings and a left-handed loading gate cleared his coat.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The impact of Aleta’s bullets drove him backward. His bowler spun from his head as if it had its own life. He staggered and tried to fire his own gun. His eyes were blurring. What was wrong? No one could stop Eleven. He had known this since he was a child. His gun finally exploded, missing the woman before him.

Two more bullets, one from each gun in her hands, smashed into his chest, inches from the first three.

He staggered backward. His gun was too heavy and slipped from his fingers and thudded on the ground. Blood slipped from his mouth and he collapsed.

“I—I—I…a-am…E—Eleven. I—I am…L-Light…B-Bea…”

His eyes stared unseeing at the midday sky.

Aleta walked over to him, keeping her guns pointed at the unmoving body. She pulled his second revolver from its hip holster and tossed it. “You ees a murderer. It does not matter what number you ees.” She stepped back. “Mío husband has never written a letter to anyone in Austin.”

She spun on her heel and thanked the hard-looking Mexican in Spanish. He said again Rule had told him to keep a lookout for any strangers coming to town asking about him. She nodded and said they would go to the town marshal to report the attempt on her life. A wire to Rule would inform him of what had happened.

“What do you think he meant by saying he ees ‘eleven’?” she asked.

“No comprende.”

Aleta stared at the carriage. “We weel need to see if someone in town wants a cat.”