Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Twenty-eight

Wilson Tanner, the well-dressed attorney, strolled toward the courthouse. He and Opat were planning on lunch together, a frequent activity. It was an easy way to exchange information, something Lady Holt considered as important as gold. Both were in Lady Holt’s employ; both were pragmatic about it.

As he walked along the planked sidewalk, he noticed two armed men standing outside the courthouse. A white man in a long black coat and a black man. They were talking quietly to each other while watching passersby. Resting in the black man’s crossed arms was a double-barreled shotgun. He was vaguely familiar to Tanner. Where had he seen him before? Of course. He was Morgan Peale’s hired man.

The other man? The white man. He didn’t know.

Yes, he was certain. The black man was with the woman rancher every time she came to town. Of course, he didn’t go into any of the stores. For a black man, that wasn’t allowed. He just waited. What was he doing there? What were the two of them doing there? If the black man was in town, Morgan Peale would be as well. Was she inside the court? Doing what?

He touched the brim of his hat in greeting to the two passing couples and headed across the street. Sheriff Hangar would know what was going on. He always did. A fast-moving carriage made him stop and wait for its passing. He fumed but held his temper. It was one of his strengths, he told himself. On the far side of the main street, he headed for the lawman’s office.

A glimpse through the window of Hangar’s office warned him again. A man sat behind the sheriff’s desk, drinking coffee. A shotgun lay on top of the desk. It looked as though Hangar’s deputies were each sitting in a cell. He didn’t see Hangar. What the hell was going on? Who was that man?

Tanner continued walking past the closed door and window, trying to think. The man had to be the Ranger who rode with John Checker. Had to be. Yes. Bartlett. What was he doing in town? He was wanted for murder. Was it just a coincidence that he and the Peale hand were in town at the same time, both at key locations?

Hardly.

Something was going on and it wasn’t good. What should he do? He wasn’t carrying a gun. Never did. Three or four Holt gunmen would be in the No. 8 Saloon. It was part of Lady Holt’s strategy to keep pressure on the town. Quick responses, if needed. There wasn’t much she didn’t think of. Caisson was vital to her plans for control. Only three ranches remained in this region. He knew she was already thinking about expansion beyond. Twice he had heard her refer to herself as “Queen of Texas.”

He pulled on his vest to straighten it and headed for the saloon. Once he reported the situation, he was done. Whatever Lady Holt’s men decided to do was fine. He had more than done his job: providing information.

She would pay well for that. Perhaps with herself. He longed for that pleasure. So far it had only been a tease.

The saloon was gray and the wall oil lamps were struggling to provide light to match the outside. He entered slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the darker atmosphere. There shouldn’t be any sense of distress. She never liked panic, or signs of it. She preferred careful, methodical action. So be it. At the back of the room were three men sitting at a table, playing cards. Luke Dimitry saw him and alerted the others.

Minutes later, the three Holt gunmen left the saloon with Tanner’s information ringing in their ears. He moved to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Drinking this early in the day was not his style, but a drink seemed like a good idea. Afterward, he would check the telegraph office for any new wires and ride out to see Lady Holt. She would want to know about this. Of course, he would wait until her gunmen took care of the situation.

Inside the sheriff’s office, A. J. Bartlett stood and headed toward the stove for another cup of coffee. Sheriff Hangar’s two deputies sat in one of the cells. Neither looked up, or spoke, as he passed. When the courtroom hearings were finished, Hangar’s two assistants would be released. Bartlett knew they were employed by the British woman; that was common knowledge. Still, they hadn’t been involved in the attempt to destroy Emmett’s family, so they would be allowed to ride away. Nobody expected them to ride any farther than the Holt Ranch.

Halfway across the busy street, the three Holt gunmen spread out and walked slowly, cutting in and out of passing traffic. After they took over the jail, they would head to the courtroom building. They moved easily. Confidently. Most likely this was some kind of attempt to retake the town. Lady Holt had expected it and ordered them to be especially on guard for strange-appearing actions. The promise of a bonus was added to the direction. It was clear she didn’t have much confidence in Hangar’s ability to handle anything stressful.

Wearing an old Navajo coat, Luke Dimitry slid behind a rumbling freight wagon, watching the two men outside the court as he moved. The half-breed knew who they were: London Fiss and Rule Cordell. He had no intention of facing them. That was suicide. Once they had retaken the jail, he would have the deputies go and ask them to move on. While that exchange was going on, he and his two comrades would sneak into the courtroom from the back door. There, they would be able to determine what was happening. Maybe Judge Opat was being forced out by some townsmen.

He didn’t want anyone inside the jail to know they were coming until they hit the door. From what the fancy attorney said, there was only one man inside. The other Ranger, the educated one. They reached the planked sidewalk and Dimitry motioned for the skinny gunman with crossed bullet bandoliers to make his move.

The gunman slipped to the back of the jail as planned. Once there, he stood against the adobe wall and said, “Alex, this is Sonny. Is the Ranger close? Is he watching?”

“Naw. Drinking coffee. By the stove,” the jailed deputy whispered.

“Good. I’m going to push a gun through the bars. You catch it. All right?” the skinny gunman said, glancing around to make sure no one was watching.

“Say when.”

“Here she comes.” He stood on his tiptoes, eased the handle of the revolver between the bars, holding it by the long barrel, and let it go.

“Got it. What’s next?”

Looking around again, the skinny gunman told him to wrap something around the barrel to hold down the noise and wait, that they were coming in the front door in about two minutes. He walked away, stopped and coughed, holding his hand against his mouth to minimize the noise. The other two were waiting in the alley.

“He get it?” Dimitry asked.

“Yeah. He’s ready. Waiting for us.”

“Should’ve got one to Lamon, too.” The gunman with the long scar on his face tugged on the brim of his flattened hat.

The half-breed responded with a curse and said, “Yeah, an’ you might’ve handed off a gun right to that Ranger, too.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“Give me one of those towels.”

The scarred gunman distributed three towels taken from the saloon and each man wrapped one around his gun. Satisfied with their readiness, Dimitry jerked his head for the other two to follow him and went to the sheriff’s locked door.

Knock! Knock!

“Sheriff! There’s trouble in one of the saloons!”

He was certain the call for help would yield an immediate response.

“The sheriff isn’t here. I’m sorry,” Bartlett said from the other side of the door.

“Please, sir. You’re a Ranger. We need your help. Please. It’s Lady Holt’s men.”

“Coming. Hold your horses.” Bartlett grabbed the shotgun from the desk.

“Please hurry. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

The heavy oak door swung open to the office.

Inside, the deputy with the sneaked-in gun fired. Bartlett grimaced and spun toward the cell and fired a barrel of his gun. He twirled back toward the door too slowly as the three gunmen pushed through the opening, pouring bullets into him.

The Ranger fired the second barrel as he fell. The skinny gunman screamed and grabbed his bloody face.

Pulling the smoking towel from his gun, Dimitry stomped on the garment to put out the flames. He shoved the second gunman. “Let’s get outta here! Rule Cordell will be coming fast!”

“Rule Cordell? You’re kidding,” the second gunman said.

“He was standing outside the courtroom. That damn shotgun blast will bring him—and the black man. Do what you want. I’m leaving.” Dimitry turned and headed outside.

“Hey! Let me out!” The deputy looked stunned by the suddenness of the attack and the immediate retreat. He stared at Bartlett and the skinny gunman and the widening circle of blood beneath both of them.

The second gunman hesitated and followed. As he stepped to the opened doorway, a blood-soaked Bartlett groaned and raised his arm, enough to draw his revolver. His hand shook as he fired. The scarred gunman staggered into the sidewalk. Bartlett’s hand couldn’t hold the heavy gun any longer and it thudded to the floor.

He gasped and said, “I—I a-am a Ranger.”

From the courtroom building, Rule and Fiss came running. The street had already become empty as people realized the noise from the sheriff’s office meant trouble. In six strides, Rule was ten feet ahead of Fiss, drawing his revolvers as he ran. From the front door of the courthouse, Checker emerged. The look on his face was tense. He, too, knew what the booming sounds from the jail meant.

“Emmett, stay here. Watch Opat and Hangar. Opat, finish this hearing. I’ll be back,” he yelled, and ran after the men halfway down the sidewalk.

The sudden movement made him light-headed and he grabbed his side as new pain struck the wound. His hand came away with fresh blood. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. He had a bad feeling they were too late to help his friend.

Reaching the opened sheriff’s office, Rule wheeled inside with a cocked revolver in each hand. His gaze absorbed the awful results of the Holt attack, then studied the town for signs of movement. The only thing he saw, on this end of main street, were two dogs chasing each other. In the window of the barbershop, three men watched; one turned away as soon as Rule looked in their direction.

Nothing would be gained now looking for whoever escaped. He stepped past the groaning gunman with the scar on his face. The man held both hands to his stomach to hold in the blood that wanted out. Rule walked past the dead, skinny gunman, whose face was a red mask. He sought A. J. Bartlett.

“Oh, A.J.,” he muttered, and hurried to the still, bloody body.

Laying his guns on the floor, Rule knelt beside the dying Ranger and cradled him in his arms. “My God, they set you up. From front and back—and you still managed to get three of them,” he said. His next words were a whispered prayer to God to welcome the Ranger’s soul.

Behind him, a frozen deputy finally managed to speak. “I—I d-didn’t have anything t-to…do with th-this. H-honest, I d-didn’t.”

Rule’s face was a hot snarl. “You mean your friends didn’t have time to get you out. How many got away? One? Two? Don’t lie to me.”

“Ah…just one. It was one. Dimitry. Luke Dimitry. H-he works for L-Lady Holt.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I—I d-don’t know. H-he ran…south.”

Rule’s attention was drawn to Bartlett. The dying Ranger’s eyes fluttered open and he tried to speak.

“Rest easy, old friend. We’ll have the doctor in here.”

Bartlett shook his head. “No. I-t’s too late. T-tell John…I’m s-sorry I…c-can’t stay around. I—I sure…would’ve liked to.”

“Hang on, A.J. Hang on.”

“Did you g-get the h-hearings d-done? I-s…Emmett s-still w-wanted…for r-rustling?” Bartlett grabbed Rule’s arm.

Swallowing, Rule told him the hearings were over, that the charge against Emmett was dropped—and so were the charges against Checker and Bartlett. Then he added they had just received a wire and both men had been reinstated as Rangers. It was a lie, but one he wanted to say. Needed to say.

Bartlett patted his arm weakly. “P-pray for me…will you?”

Rule started to tell him that he already had, but realized Bartlett was dead. At the doorway, Fiss appeared, holding his shotgun.

The black man shook his head and stared at the various guns on the floor, all wrapped in towels. One was still smoking.

“Well, they figured on shooting whoever was here—and we wouldn’t have known it until it was too late. A.J…” Fiss didn’t finish the statement.

Through the doorway came John Checker, almost out of breath. His dark eyes took in the scene and locked on to Bartlett in Rule’s arms. “Is he?”

“Yes. Died in my arms. Told me to tell you that he was sorry he couldn’t stay.” Rule lowered his head. “Only wanted to know if Emmett’s charge was dropped.” The gunfighter looked up at the tall Ranger. “Told him it was—and I told him he was a Ranger…again.”

Checker’s mouth was a slit. He stared down at the wounded gunman and kicked him in the stomach. “Get that gun of yours, you bastard. You can forget the towel.” He spat; his eyes were hard. “Let’s see how good you are when you’re facing a Ranger.” He kicked him again. “Get up—or I’ll shoot you right there.”

Into his hand, the black-handled Colt appeared.

“No, John. A.J. wouldn’t want that.” Rule’s voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Checker’s shoulders rose and fell. Twice. He shuddered as he struggled to bring his rage under control. Fiss watched him from next to the dead deputy’s cell. His shotgun was held at his side. He was almost motionless; only his cheeks showed movement as he bit them to hold in his feelings.

“I’m sorry, John,” Fiss said. “He was a man to ride the river with.”

Checker tried to answer but couldn’t.

After easing Bartlett’s head back on the floor, Rule closed the Ranger’s unmoving eyes. He stood, saw his own pistols and leaned over to retrieve them, shoving one into its holster and the other into his waistband. He looked at Checker and his eyes asked what the Ranger wanted to do next.

Checker’s return gaze was full of hurt as he walked toward Bartlett and knelt beside him. “I’ll miss you, my friend. You kept me balanced. You always had my back.” He took a deep breath. “I should’ve had yours.” He bit his lower lip and recited, “ ‘Your strength is as the strength of ten, because your heart is pure.’ ”

Rule nodded as he realized Checker changed the word my in Tennyson’s “Sir Galahad” to your. A bittersweet tribute.

Fiss found a blanket in the small storeroom and brought it to Checker. The three men placed it over Bartlett’s body.

After a few moments of silence, Checker stood. “Rule. London. Would you take care of…this…while I go back?”

Both men agreed. The tall Ranger made no attempt to explain what he wanted done. It was Fiss who suggested the editor be brought to the jail to see for himself what had happened.

From the cell, the deputy whined, “I—I’ll leave…an’ not c-come back. H-Hangar d-didn’t say anything about…this…kinda stuff. I…ah, I’m sorry.”

Rule glanced at him, but said nothing. Checker walked away as if he hadn’t heard the deputy. He stepped across the body of the dead skinny gunman and over the body of the wounded scarred gunman. The gunman shut his eyes and pulled his legs into his stomach.

As the tall Ranger reached the door again, Rule said, “The deputy said there was only one who got away. Dimitry. Ran south.”

“As soon as the hearing is over, we’ll find him. I’ll ask Seitmeyer if he wants to come here and see for himself what happened.” He took a deep breath. “He’s a good man, I think. A.J. thought so.”

“John?”

Checker paused at his name from Rule. “Yes?”

“We need this town if we’re going to stop her.”

“I know that.”

“Opat and Hangar should be arrested. Not shot.”

Checker’s eyes darted toward Rule as if they were bullets; then he nodded. “I know that.”

All eyes were on the tall Ranger as he returned to the courtroom. Morgan Peale ran toward him, hesitated and knew what had happened without asking.

The blacksmith stood and said, “Is everything all right?”

“No. No, it’s not. Lady Holt’s men tried to take over the jail. They killed one of Texas’s best Rangers, A. J. Bartlett. He stopped three.”

Opat watched the tall Ranger and knew this was a particularly dangerous time. John Checker was on edge, feeling the death of his friend, aching to fill the hole in his heart. With anything. Anything.

The small group of townspeople had grown since Checker left. The room was half-filled with stern-faced men and women. Lady Holt’s fist had driven them into submission for a long time. Now there seemed to be hope. It rested in the tall Ranger and his gunfighter friend.

“Ah, Ranger, sir, while you were gone, Sheriff Hangar tried to take over.” The blacksmith rubbed his big hands together. His face was streaked with black to match his clothes. He was a small man, but his upper arms and chest would have made it difficult for any man to best him.

“Had a hideaway gun in his boot,” the blacksmith continued. “Emmett Gardner’s boy came in from the back—and several of us took it from him.”

For the first time, Checker noticed a subdued Hangar standing in the corner; his hands were lashed together in front of him. His right eye was swollen shut with redness streaking from it. A few feet away stood Rikor with a rifle and a deep frown. On the other side of the tied lawman were the two Triple C cowboys; neither were armed.

“We’re gonna take our town back,” the blacksmith announced proudly. “Get ourselves some real law and order. A real judge. A real sheriff. Yes, sir, that’s what we’re gonna do. An’ we thank you for making it so.”

Morgan completed her advance and hugged the Ranger and he returned the emotion. “I am so sorry, John. So sorry.” Her eyes sought his for comfort and more.

“I know. It’s awful hard, Morgan. Awful hard. I wish that British woman was a man. I’d know what to do.” Checker’s face twisted with agony.

“Treat her no differently than anyone else who breaks the law,” Morgan said, and motioned to the sitting townspeople. “A lot happened here, John, and you—and A.J. and Rule—made it happen.” She wiped a tear trying to escape from her eye. “I almost forgot. The murder charges against you and A.J. were dropped.”

Checker listened without speaking. His gaze indicated he was a long way away. When he first met A. J. Bartlett at Ranger headquarters, the gentle Ranger had greeted him with a Tennyson quote, the one he had said a few minutes ago.

“So, what are you expecting from me?” Seitmeyer asked as he walked toward the Ranger.

“Newspapers are supposed to print the truth, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I try to do.” Seitmeyer’s answer was more confident than he felt.

“That’s all I want.”

“Well, I’ll certainly report on the hearings—and their outcome,” the editor said. “You know I can’t go directly accusing Lady Holt—just on your say-so, or anybody else’s,” Seitmeyer questioned, his brow furrrowing. “No offense, but I wouldn’t do that to anyone.”

“Of course not,” Checker said. “But I also know the town isn’t going to take a stand against her—and her hired guns—unless the truth gives them strength. A town needs a backbone. You can give them a backbone.”

“I’ll do my best.” Seitmeyer’s face was flushed. “You know the mayor’s her man. Alex Wilkerson. I’m pretty certain she owns the bank.”

“The truth’ll be plenty.”

“What are you going to do…with the sheriff—and the judge?” Seitmeyer’s eyes focused on Checker’s hard face.

“I’m going to make a citizen’s arrest. Of both of them. A real court can take it from there.”

From his bench, Opat yelled, “You said I could leave!”

Cocking his head to the side, Checker said, “That was before Lady Holt’s men killed my friend.” His eyes narrowed. “You can thank God that Rule Cordell was there at the jail with me. I was coming back to kill you—and Hangar. He told me my friend wouldn’t want that.”

Opat looked as if he was going to vomit.

“You and Hangar have been doing the bidding of Lady Holt ever since you boys hit town,” Checker growled. “That’s why you came to town in the first place, isn’t it, Opat?”

“Ah, I didn’t have…any choice. I really…didn’t.” Opat’s face went white and he swallowed twice before finding any words.

“I don’t have any choice, either,” Checker said. “Both of you are under arrest.”

The dry goods store woman stood and spoke. “Ranger, sir, who will be our sheriff? Our judge? Who’s going to protect us when that awful woman hears about this? She has all kinds of bad men working for her.” She folded her arms over her ample chest.

“As soon as I bury my friend, we’re going after her,” Checker said. “Pick someone you trust to be the sheriff—and someone to be judge.” He rubbed his chin. “I think you’d make a fine judge, ma’am, but that’s just my opinion.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Ah, I haven’t had any training.”

The blacksmith blurted his support. “I think you’d be a good judge, too, Mrs. Loren. A good one.”

Several voiced similar support.

“Where are your council members?” Checker asked. “They can make this decision. Unless you don’t trust them.”

“There’s one I don’t. Wilson Tanner,” the blacksmith said, waving his arms. “He works for Lady Holt. I know it.”

“Sounds like you need an election. Why don’t you get them in here?” Checker said. “We’ll take Opat and Hangar to jail.”

“I’ll go get ’em,” the blacksmith said, moving toward the door. “Who’s gonna help me?”

Three men and a woman jumped from their seats and headed toward him.