Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Twenty-seven

Judge Opat was conducting a hearing about a leasing disagreement between two businessmen when Morgan Peale entered the small municipal courtroom from the main door. Morning light from the single window sought her maple-colored hair and danced with it.

“Sorry, ma’am, this is a closed courtroom right now. I’m conducting a hearing. You understand.” Opat’s face and manner looked more like a pompous rooster than usual.

The two businessmen barely turned to look at the woman in the doorway. All three men immediately noticed she was wearing a gun belt.

“That can wait. You’re going to handle something more important,” Morgan said, walking down the narrow aisle separating the courtroom’s rows of planked seating.

After a glance at the men, Opat straightened his back. “Ma’am, I thought I made it clear. This is a closed—”

“And I thought I made it clear you have something more important to do,” Morgan demanded, continuing her ascent. Her right hand rested on the handle of her holstered revolver.

“I’ll take care of this, Judge.” The taller businessman with the long sideburns stood.

“That would be a big mistake, mister.” The words halted his attempt to have her leave even before he realized who said them.

From the courtroom’s rear door, John Checker emerged.

“What? Aren’t you John Checker? You’re dead!” Opat almost choked on the words.

“No, I’m not, Opat,” Checker growled. “And these two gentlemen will be happy to stand aside for a few minutes while justice is done.” He looked at the two men. “Won’t you?”

Opat waved his arms and shouted, “You’re not a Ranger anymore, Checker. You’re wanted for murder.”

“No, I’m not a Ranger, Opat. That means I don’t have to abide by the Ranger’s rules. Understand?”

Checker’s stare was too intense for the skinny magistrate. He shook his head, making his odd lock of brown hair shake.

Stepping farther into the anxious courtroom, Checker rested both hands on his gun belt. Sunlight stroked his Roman face, long black hair and hawkish nose.

“That murder charge is one of the things we’re here for, Judge,” Checker declared. “First, though, you’re going to conduct a real hearing on the charge of rustling against Emmett Gardner. Then you’ll do the same with that ridiculous murder charge against my partner and me.”

He stopped and looked at the two businessmen, who were terrified, and asked again, “You boys don’t mind waiting a bit, do you?”

“A-ah, of c-course n-not.”

“N-no. W-we’ll c-come b-back. Later.”

Checker cocked his head. “You sit right there. You can be witnesses.” He glanced at Opat reaching under his walnut bench where he sat. “If you’re reaching for a gavel, that’s fine. If you come up with a gun, it’ll be your last hearing.”

The rooster-haired judge froze. His narrow, curved nose whistled in alarm. Slowly, his hands rose away from the podium.

“Good, Opat. You’re a smarter man than I thought,” Checker said, and motioned toward the main door. “Come on in, Emmett. Bring our guest.”

The grizzled rancher slipped inside. His lopsided grin reached his brightened eyes. With him came the editor of the Claisson Recorder, the town newspaper. Henry Seitmeyer’s bow tie and fresh shirt made him appear more dapper than usual. In his hand was a pad of paper and a pencil. Both hands were stained with old ink, a constant part of the profession.

“Henry, I’m sorry you had to be brought here against your will,” Opat said, trying to appear more confident than he felt. “I’ll get this cleared up.”

The stocky editor hunched his shoulders. “I came of my own free will, Judge. Sounded to me like a good story was going to happen. I’ll just sit here and listen.”

He took a seat near the front, resting his paper on his lap.

Checker smiled and nodded toward Morgan.

She stared at Opat. “Judge, as a rancher in this area, I demand a hearing. Right now. On the rustling charge against Emmett Gardner and the murder charges against John Checker and A. J. Barnett.” She folded her arms. “These are innocent men and you have been a conspirator to the will of Lady Holt. I expect real justice. Here and now.”

Opat pulled on the lapels of his oversized suit coat and glared at her. “I ruled on that matter, the rustling charge, earlier. Mr. Gardner needs to give himself up—and stand trial.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“No, we’re going to have a hearing. A real one. Not that jake leg thing you pulled earlier,” Morgan said, pointing her finger at the surprised judge.

Checker shifted the weight on his boots to keep it from his wounded leg as best he could. His body was stiff and sore. It was far too early to be moving, but he knew it was necessary. He had been shot before. Silently, he had prayed to both the white man’s God—and the Comanche Great Spirit—to help him.

“Opat, I don’t think you get it yet,” Checker said. “This Lady Holt is through making the laws around her. There’s a small army of us planning to make it so. Call us Fire. She will know what it means.”

Licking his lips, Opat said, “Well, we’ll need to call witnesses. Sil Jaudon is out of town. He brought the charge—and he’s on the stage, I believe. Coming from Austin.” He twisted his neck, first to the right, then the left. “Mr. Jaudon is a captain of the Rangers now. A worthy appointment, I believe. Of course, he has the details on this case.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll take care of Jaudon separately. He’ll be brought in—again—for attempted murder. By that time, we’ll have a real judge in place,” Checker said. “There’s no way he’s going to stay a Ranger—much less a captain. But that’s for another day, Opat. Nothing you need to worry about. This hearing will move on without him.”

“But there has to be someone for the prosecution present.”

“In your first hearing, you didn’t have the defendant present, so what’s the difference?” Checker’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I’m getting real tired of you, Opat. Do this right, real justice for a change—and you’ll be able to leave town a free man. Do it wrong, well, you get the idea. Either way, you’re leaving.”

“Are you threatening an officer of the court?”

“No. I’m telling a crooked henchman of Lady Holt’s that his time in this town has ended. How he leaves will be his choice,” Checker said. “I’ve been in a lot of courtrooms, but this is the first one I’ve seen with no idea of what justice is all about.” He paused and looked at Emmett. “Is Rule outside?”

“Yep. An’ he’s got him wi’.”

“Good. Have him come in.” Checker returned his stare to Opat. “But you will have your prosecution witness present.”

Rule Cordell pushed Sheriff Hangar inside. The hatless lawman looked half dazed and half scared; his empty holster spoke of an earlier confrontation. His cheek was reddened from a recent blow and his big mustache was pushed out of shape. His shirttails flapped below his coat on the right side.

He saw Opat, then Checker. When he saw the tall Ranger, his jaw dropped and bile slammed its way into his throat.

Swallowing, he managed to gulp. “Wh-hat’s th-this all about?”

“You’re going to be the witness for the prosecution, Hangar.”

“E-Eleven M-Meade said you were d-dead. S-said he shot…at you…in your grave,” Hangar spat. His eyes were wide.

“Sounds like Eleven likes to tell a good story,” Checker said. “Kinda like the rustling whopper you tried to lay on my friend. And that charge of murder on A.J. and me.”

“Th-hat wasn’t my idea.”

For the first time, Hangar realized Emmett Gardner was standing in the courtroom and then saw Seitmeyer. Cursing to himself, he should’ve known the British woman’s ideas about handling the two Rangers—and Rule Cordell—weren’t going to work.

“Sit down, right there, Hangar. You and Opat are through in this town. It’s time the good folks had a choice about these matters,” Checker said. “You’re going to present the cases against Emmett—and me and my partner. That’ll be your last official act here. In Claisson. Do it right and you’ll be able to ride out of here.” He looked at Rule, standing near the doorway. “Is A.J. all right?”

“Sure. He’s with Hangar’s two deputies. They’re having a nice, quiet talk. Figure they’ll be leaving town when this is over.”

“Probably discussing a little Tennyson.” Checker smiled.

“More than a little.”

“Rikor’s outside. Watching the back.”

Rule saluted Checker and left. The Ranger grinned in spite of the situation. The two gunfighters were quickly becoming friends.

Hangar tried to catch Opat’s attention, but the judge had no intention of looking at him. The onetime attorney was trying to think what he should do. He should have known this day was coming. No one would get to Lady Holt; she wouldn’t be touched. It would be her hirelings who would take the brunt of the counterattack. She owned too much land, too much money and enough of the right contacts to withstand any assault.

Even from the likes of John Checker and Rule Cordell.

To avoid looking at Hangar, Opat studied Checker. There was a small circle of fresh blood on the Ranger’s shirt, just above his belt, along his back. So the killer Meade hadn’t totally lied; he had wounded the famous Ranger. Just not enough. Opat looked away. Maybe if he played this straight, the townspeople would let him stay. Would Lady Holt let him, if he bent to what Checker wanted…to do what was right?

Scuffling at the door became Rule Cordell with a handful of Claisson townspeople. The blacksmith, a freighter, a young general store clerk, the woman who ran the dry goods shop, two Triple C cowhands who worked for Charlie Chance Carlson and several others. George Likeman joined them; he was the town undertaker and furniture builder. All had been selected by Morgan and Emmett. They weren’t quite sure why they were asked to come to the courtroom, but there was something about Rule Cordell that made it seem smart to go.

“Is London outside?” Checker asked, motioning for the new people to come forward and take seats.

“He is—and I’m joining him,” Rule said.

“Good. We won’t be interrupted, then.”

Turning his attention to the now-seated townspeople, Checker told them that they were going to be witnesses to a hearing, that although a hearing didn’t require a jury—or even anyone witnessing it—he and his friends had decided the town deserved a look at real justice for a change.

The blacksmith shook his head affirmatively and said loudly, “We do thank ye, Ranger, for trying. Lady Holt, she has men over in the saloon. The No. 8. They’re there every day. Just watching and waiting. They’re over there now.”

“Thanks. We’ll settle with them later.”

The dry goods store owner politely raised her hand. After being recognized by Checker, she asked, “Will this last long? I have a dress promised to Mrs. Haulprin by two.”

Checker smiled. “No, ma’am. It won’t, but you leave whenever you think you need to do so.” He turned to Opat. “Start the proceedings, Opat. You know what to do.”

With a tremor in his voice that wouldn’t go away, Judge opened the proceedings with his usual statement that the purpose of a preliminary hearing was to determine if sufficient evidence existed for the accused to be bound over for formal trial. Licking his lips, he added that the first case to be heard was that of a charge of rustling against Emmett Gardner. The charge had been brought by Lady Holt’s ranch.

He stared at Hangar. “Sheriff, you presented a number of Holt cattle that had their brands changed to Mr. Gardner’s. Is that correct?”

Hangar glared at him. “Of course, you fool.”

“Do you wish to add anything to your testimony at this time?”

“He’s a guilty son of a bitch—and everybody knows it.”

“I see. Will the defense make its statement please?”

Morgan testified she knew Emmett was not involved in such criminal act and only an idiot would think the revised brands would have been done by anyone, other than an attempt to make the rancher look guilty. She pointed out how complicated the rebranding had been and how rigged it looked. Turning toward the seated townspeople, she explained that the Holt brand was a jagged line with an H above it. She said most called it the “fire brand.”

One of the cowboys growled, “We call it the hell brand.”

Nervous laughter followed the remark.

She smiled grimly and continued. “The ‘fire’ had been blurred over with a running iron. Above it was a single line. The H had been turned into Emmett Gardner’s EG with the backward E covering the H as best it could to represent his Bar EG.”

Shaking her head, she declared, “Nobody could look at that mess and think Mr. Gardner did it. And, of course, he didn’t.” Her face became a frown as she glanced at Checker and continued. “Lady Holt wants his ranch. She wants mine. She wants all of them. And she’ll do anything to get them—like buying the judge and sheriff.”

One loud eruption came from the small group, followed by someone declaring that she was right and the judge should be run out of town on a rail. Both cowboys loudly agreed.

Without moving, Checker reminded them that they must be quiet. He looked over at Morgan and smiled. Having her lead the cause for a new hearing was important; she would be perceived in the community as honest.

She smiled.

Opat looked pale. Down the right side of his face rolled a sweat bead bound for his collar. “Any cross-examination, Sheriff?”

“I don’t know. Ah, no. Except I didn’t have anything to do with this.” Hangar looked back at the people sitting behind him. “Honest. As far as I knew, this was just rustling. Really.”

Checker took control of the room. “Since this is a hearing, and not a trial, I don’t see why we can’t have questions from the folks in here. Anyone have a question they want to ask of Mrs. Peale, or Mr. Gardner, or the sheriff here? Or me, for that matter?”

Silence followed as the group stared ahead.

Finally, Henry Seitmeyer raised his hand and said, “I have a question. Well, sort of. I thought you were dead.”

Checker nodded. “Well, a known killer from New Mexico, Eleven Meade, was hired to do that. Holt hired him. He bragged a little too soon, thanks to Mrs. Peale and Mr. Fiss.”

“I see,” Seitmeyer said. “Do you know where this Meade fellow is now?”

Checker grinned. “When I go outside, I’ll look under the first rock I see.”

Without further probing, Checker explained what had happened, that they were moving Emmett’s family to a safe place after the attack by Holt’s men, led by Jaudon. He said six Holt riders were trying to intercept their escape and he rode to stop them. He made the mistake of not watching his back. Meade had tried to kill him at that time.

Seitmeyer scribbled in his notebook, looked up and said, “I trust you are all right, Ranger Checker.”

“I’m all right.”

“That’s good. For all of us, sir. Your reputation is known—and respected,” Seitmeyer said. “I have a question for the sheriff, if you don’t mind.”

“Please go ahead. I’m sure Sheriff Hangar will be happy to help.”

“This morning you told me Rule Cordell was an outlaw and was part of Emmett Gardner’s rustling operation. You insisted I write a story about it.” He paused and added, “You said Lady Holt wanted it done. Did I miss anything?”

Snickering followed and the closest cowboy whooped, slapped his thigh and apologized for the reaction.

Hangar turned white and waved his hands urgent. “I—I didn’t have all the facts.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” the editor said. “So, you don’t want me to run a story about Rule Cordell being an outlaw—and a part of the Emmett Gardner rustling operation—is that correct?”

Laughter spat through the room and Hangar winced.

Opat shifted in the chair behind the bench. He glanced at the dry goods store woman and smiled his best smile. She ignored the attempt at connection, choosing the moment to say something to the blacksmith sitting beside her. He nodded and looked at Opat.

Damn, the judge thought. Why did he let Lady Holt talk him into coming to Caisson? He had built a nice legal practice in Austin. A profitable one. She had come to see him, paid for the visit and told him of her plans. When first hearing them, he wanted to laugh. King was building a cattle empire in middle Texas and this British woman wanted to make him look like a two-bit farmer. The opportunity was there, he saw that in her plan. For the right person with the right instincts—and the ability to destroy anyone in the way. Still, a woman? A woman from En gland, no less?

What finally convinced him to go with Lady Holt was the revelation of her relationship with Governor Citale. He knew the man was weak—and crooked. But she planned to turn him into a weapon. Opat’s own checking supported her claim. He had come to Claisson, opened a practice and was immediately recommended for the open municipal judge position. Judge Diales had been shot and killed two weeks earlier. No one knew who or why.

Hangar had joined the conspiracy a month later. Opat seemed to be the only one in town who knew he was wanted for fraud in Tennessee.

It had been a good run, he told himself. If he was lucky, the Ranger would let him leave. That’s what Checker had said. He didn’t seem like a man who made promises lightly. John Checker was known throughout Texas. Fearless. Honest. Driven by something no one quite knew. And sometimes, he was violent. Opat had heard the stories. Who hadn’t? Some said he was better with a gun than anyone in Texas. Better than Allison. Than Harding. The only gun warrior who might be as good—or better—was Rule Cordell. And he was working with Checker.

Opat shivered and wished the killer Meade had done what he bragged he had accomplished. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to concentrate on Morgan’s ending testimony.

“…if a fellow was going to steal beef, he’d do it with mine. There’s just me and a good friend helping me. Everybody around knows Holt has gunmen…everywhere. Nobody’s going to be stupid enough to steal from her. Nobody. And you know it, Judge.”

Hunching his shoulders, Opat said, “Anything further from the prosecution?” He didn’t wait for Hangar to respond. “Hearing none, I rule in favor of the defendant. There is no basis for the rustling charge against Mr. Gardner. I declare this matter dismissed.”

From the back of the room, Emmett grinned and said, “ ’Bout time we got some justice outta the bastard.”

Several in the audience turned to congratulate him; loudest were the two Triple C cowboys.

“When we’re finished here,” Checker said, “we’ll go to Hangar’s office and pick up the wanted posters—and burn them.”

One of the cowboys yelled, “We’ll help ya tear down the ones they put up. Charlie’ll be real happy to hear ’bout this.”

“Wires will go out to surrounding towns. From you, Judge. And you, Hangar,” Checker added.

Hangar nodded and leaned down to scratch his right leg. The movement reminded Opat that the crooked lawman carried a short-barreled Scofield revolver in a special holster built into his boot. Did they check him for hideaways? Should he tell Checker about the gun? The questions popped into Opat’s mind. No one would expect him to know of such a weapon, so he wouldn’t say anything. If Hangar got lucky and shot Checker, everything would change. At least until Rule came back.

The roosterlike judge banged his gavel and announced, “This court will now hear evidence concerning the deaths of…ah, three Holt…ah, cowhands. Accused of their deaths are John Checker and…ah, Bartlett…A. J. Bartlett.” He leaned forward. “This court will now hear the prosecution’s statement—and evidence. Sheriff Hangar, please proceed.”