Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Thirty-one

Six mules pulled the inbound heavy stagecoach from Austin along the rutted road. It was nearing noon on the day of A. J. Bartlett’s burial.

As the heavy vehicle rocked and bounced like a ship in a stormy sea, Sil Jaudon wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, brushed off dust from his coat sleeve and cursed softly in French. The other passengers had given up trying to keep dust from their clothes and sweat from their faces and had disappeared within themselves. The heavyset man laid his head against the leather-upholstered row with the wall of the carriage and shut his eyes. His third gun, carried in his belt in back, was causing him discomfort no matter how he sat, so he finally withdrew it and laid the gun on his lap, apologizing in French.

On his coat lapel was a Ranger captain’s badge. Already it had brought him much attention and the interest of one of the women passengers. The woman had a birthmark that covered most of her left cheek. She had approached him at the last stage station. He guessed she was a whore headed for Caisson. When he got to Caisson, the first thing he intended to do was eat; then he would take advantage of her offer.

Already he could envision a big steak and potatoes at Lourdeson’s, his favorite restaurant in Caisson. Lady Holt could wait. Besides, he already knew John Checker was dead; Sheriff Hangar’s wire had informed him. Of course, that would make Eleven Meade her favorite for the moment, maybe even more than Tapan Moore, her current lover.

So be it, he told himself. I am ze Ranger captain and he eez not. When I kill ze bastard, no one will care. Except her. He smiled. Maybe I will kill Tapan, too. He glanced outside, pushing aside the window’s shade. No more than three hours from Caisson.

Above the thunder of the road, the driver’s shouts to his team—and the crack of the nine-foot whip—were a constant reminder of the stage line’s emphasis on speed. When climbing aboard, Jaudon had noticed the stage was carrying express freight and mail, along with passenger luggage. Only three men passengers had been allowed to sit on top; there was no room for more.

Concerned, the driver and guard were exchanging thoughts about what they were seeing ahead. He caught part of the conversation. “Looks like a bunch of them. They carryin’ a flag. Never seen the like before.”

“Do you know ’em?”

“They ain’t soldiers.”

“It’s wide-open country, Buster. Nobody’s gonna try to hold us up here.”

“Maybe.”

“ ’Sides, I ain’t takin’ on no army. Must be twenty or so.”

“You just keep that scattergun pointed at that fella with the flag. I don’t like this.”

“You’re getting jumpy in your old age.”

“I’m a-gonna keep them mules a-goin’.” The driver snapped his long whip over the top of the team to reinforce his intent.

Gripping his hideout gun, Jaudon leaned out the window and saw one silhouette coming closer to the coach.

For the dramatic impact of the passengers, Jaudon flipped back his coat to reveal the two additional ivory-handled, gold-plated pistols carried in formfitting holsters at his waist. But he knew immediately it was Tapan Moore, Lady Holt’s curly-haired gunman with the toothy smile and square jaw. He was leading a band of Holt gunmen. As if leading a cavalry unit, he held a red flag bearing the design of a phoenix. The banner fluttered as they neared the coach.

Jaudon leaned out as far as he could and yelled to the driver, “Arreter! Stop ze coach. Stop ze coach. Those are my men.”

“Hold up, mister. No need for trouble,” Tapan said, grinning. “We’re here to escort Ranger Captain Jaudon to the Holt Ranch.”

A second rider emerged from the pack. Dressed in city clothes and obviously uncomfortable, Wilson Tanner declared, “I am the new municipal judge of Caisson. We have an emergency in town that will require Ranger Captain Jaudon’s immediate attention.”

“Well, that’s where we’re a-headed,” the driver said. “What kinda trouble?”

The stage jerked and bounced as the driver pulled the mules to a stop.

“Do what he says,” the shotgun guard said. “This ain’t no holdup.”

“Hey, Jaudon. They wanna take you to Lady Holt’s. Instead of going on to town. Says there’s trouble there. Sound all right?” The driver’s voice was gruff but worried.

Jaudon took a deep breath. “Oui…ah, yah. That is bien. Ah, good.”

He leaned out again, but could only see part of Tapan, who touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Good to see you, Sil.”

“Bonjour, Tapan. What is going on?”

Jaudon liked the young gunman, even if Tapan was currently Lady Holt’s favorite. He had seen them come and go. His own involvement with the British leader was strictly financial—and that’s the way he wanted it. They had made an agreement in Houston when he met her.

“Lots going on. John Checker’s alive—and riding with Rule Cordell. The other Ranger’s dead. Hangar’s out as sheriff. The blacksmith’s wearing his badge. For now. Opat’s out as judge. Tanner’s in,” Tapan said, looked up at the driver and smiled widely. “Your stage isn’t in any danger, mister. It’s political stuff.”

“Oh. Well, if’n you’re sure. Don’t want to be takin’ these folks into some kind of shootin’ trouble.”

“You won’t.”

Jaudon sat back in the seat and straightened his cravat. His mind made no attempt to settle on Tapan’s news, except for Checker being alive. Damn, that fool Meade’s a bald-faced liar! he muttered. Just like that bitch to make me come directly to ze ranch. Wonder if she’ll have anything good to eat.

From outside again came Tapan’s voice, more urgent this time. “Come on, Jaudon. Lady Holt’s waiting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

“Oui. Oui. I am coming. I am coming.”

The heavyset Frenchman slowly opened the coach door and stepped outside, shoving his hideout gun into his back waistband. He glanced back at the blotchy-faced woman, arched his shaved eyebrows and smiled. The doorway clipped his hat with the pinned brim and sent it spinning.

“What about your luggage?” the driver asked. “It’ll take a while to clear it from the others.”

“Non. Non. Merci beaucoup, monsieur. I vill get it later. At ze station in Caisson.” Jaudon picked up his hat and shoved it back on his head.

“Good enough.”

The shotgun guard sat with his weapon on his lap and studied Tapan Moore. “Don’t I know you from somewhere, mister? The war, maybe? I rode with Longstreet.”

“Could be. Were a lot of us in that awful thing.” Tapan grinned without answering directly.

“Yeah. Sure ’nuff,” the guard responded, and rubbed his thick mustache.

A bearded gunman brought forward a saddled, riderless horse. Tapan took the reins and waited for Jaudon, leading the horse beside a large rock. Awkwardly, the fat man pulled himself into the saddle, using the rock as a stepstool. Tapan waved at the driver and guard, swung his horse around and kicked it into a gallop without waiting for the Frenchman. The band of gunmen followed.

Annoyed at the suddenness of it all, Jaudon stared after them, then kicked his horse into following.

“I know who that was, Buster,” the guard said. “Just came to me.”

“Yeah, who?” The driver snapped the reins and yelled at his team to start moving again.

“That was Tapan Moore.”

“Tapan Moore? The gunfighter from down around El Paso?”

“That’s the one. Hear tell he’s a bit crazy in the head.”

The shotgun guard shifted his weight as the driver restarted the team. “He is. That’s where I remember him from. He was yelling and screaming. In a Rebel army hospital. In Tennessee, it was. During the war.”

“Sorry to see he’s working for that Holt woman.”

“Reckon she’s the only one hiring guns. They say she brought in that half-breed…ah, Dimitry.”

“Damn. He’s a bad one. Heard tell somethin’ about Eleven Meade comin’ this way, too.” The driver snapped the reins again.

“Heard that.” The shotgun guard settled back against the coach frame. “Don’t understand how that Frenchman got to be a Ranger captain, do you?”

The driver yelled again, snapped the reins again and said, “No. I don’t wanna know, either. Stay as far away from that Holt woman as you can. She’s pure devil, boy. Pure devil.”

“Didn’t he say those boys were Rangers?” The guard frowned.

“Yeah, guess he did.”

“Guess that means Tapan Moore’s a Ranger.”

“Damn.”

As the stage bounced over the ridge, Tapan, Tanner and the other Holt man eased their horses to a walk to wait for Jaudon. Already the Frenchman’s horse was laboring under the man’s weight.

“What’s going on?” Jaudon demanded as he caught up. “Do vous have nourriture… ah, any food? I am starving.” His horse, thankful for the rest, spotted some blades of grass that looked interesting and began to nibble on them.

”You’ll have to wait, Sil.” Tapan fiddled with the flagpole resting in a special saddle sheath and pointed toward the closest ridge.

From over the rolling land came another rider, riding sidesaddle on a black horse. Lady Holt’s long red hair danced on her shoulders. She was dressed in a dark red riding suit with a matching hat highlighted by a crimson feather. Black boots, decorated with beading around the top, reached past her knees. In her black-gloved hands was a coiled whip.

“Bonjour, Madame Holt. Tres heureux de voux,” Jaudon declared loudly, removed his hat and bowed from the saddle.

She nodded in return. She loved the sound of French and knew he had said he was delighted to see her.

The pig-faced Frenchman in the dust-laced, three-piece suit opened his mouth, shut it and finally asked, “Comment allez-vous?”

“Assez bien, merci,” she responsed to his polite question of how she was doing.

Tapan’s face reddened with jealousy, but he kept telling himself that she was interested in the fat man only for business.

“Let us ride, Sil,” Lady Holt said. “I’ll tell you on the way. The rest of your men are waiting outside town.”

“I thought we were going to, ah, your place,” Jaudon said.

“Not now. We have work to do.”

The Frenchman’s stomach growled.

Late afternoon brought new fear to Caisson.

Riding down the main street of town came Lady Holt with thirty-two armed riders strung out behind her. Beside her was Sil Jaudon. Behind him rode Tapan Moore holding the red flag. They rode slowly down the street like a cavalry unit taking a predeteremined position.

People stopped and stared. Word sped through the stores and offices. Lady Holt had come to town. Traffic in the street disappeared magically. A stray mongrel dog dared to bark and was shooed into silence by three men.

No one noticed Wilson Tanner returning to the livery a few minutes later. He shook his head, watching the Holt army take control of Caisson just by entering it.

In front of the telegraph office, Lady Holt reined her horse and swung down from her sidesaddle rig and handed the reins to Tapan. Jaudon dismounted in awkward stages and handed the reins to Tapan as well.

She stood, letting the drama of her appearance be absorbed by the townspeople. She enjoyed the effect and decided she must do it more often. She commanded Tapan to hold the men in the center of the street until they returned. With that, she went inside the telegraph office with Jaudon a few steps behind. The telegraph operator almost stumbled, attempting to greet them. He was shaking from nervousness.

“A-afternoon, L-Lady Holt. Ah, C-Captain Jaudon. H-how may I help you today?” The greasy-haired operator rubbed his sweaty hands on his wrinkled pants.

“He needs to send a wire to the governor. Now.”

“Of course. Of course. I’ll get you some paper—ah, and a pencil,” the operator declared, turning around and banging into his own desk.

“I have no need of either. Here.” She held out a folded piece of paper. “Send this.”

“I—I certainly w-will, ma’am. H-hope you are d-doing well today,” he said, his hands shaking. “W-we don’t have the h-honor of your presence…in town…often enough.”

Her smile was one of disdain. “Send the wire.”

Methodically, he unfolded the paper.

TO GOVERNOR CITALE:

RETURNED TO FIND ANARCHY IN CAIS-SON. SHERIFF AND JUDGE HELD. OUTLAWS IN CONTROL. DEMAND FULL AUTHORITY TO RETURN ORDER. AWAIT YOUR ORDER. CAPTAIN JAUDON

She watched him read the message and snapped, “What’s the matter?”

“Ah, nothing, I guess.” The operator sniffed nervously.

“Do you disagree with this assessment?”

“Ah, no. No. Of course not. Glad Captain Jaudon is here to…help.”

“Send it.”

Jaudon sneared as the operator sniffed again, unlocked the telegraph key and began sending the message.

“I know Morse code.” She folded her arms and one eyebrow arched triumphantly.

He nodded and ignored the sweat bead rolling down from his forehead and finding the end of his nose.

On the corner of the operator’s table was a folded paper, a message received but not delivered. Jaudon looked closer. Rule Cordell’s name was written in the upper corner. Without asking, he picked it up, unfolded the paper and read:

ELEVEN MEADE DEAD…STOP…TRIED TO AMBUSH US…STOP…HE DID NOT SUCCEED…STOP…ALL WELL…STOP…LOVE, A

He handed the paper to Lady Holt, who read and returned it to the fat Frenchman, who laid it back on the table. If the operator noticed, he didn’t say.

“At least that explains why he didn’t wire me,” she said. “I thought he had run off with the money I paid him.” She paused and her eyelashes flitted as if out of control. “Where is that money now? I want it back.”

Turning toward Jaudon, she told him to wire the Clark Springs marshal and follow up. He should claim the money was stolen. Without waiting for his response, she took a sheet of paper from the desk, wrote a short note about retrieving the “stolen” money and laid it beside the operator tapping out the initial message. He would know who to send it to in Clark Springs. On top of the sheet, she left several coins.

Minutes later, Lady Holt emerged from the telegraph office. Jaudon came behind her, waving the return message.

“I am authorized to take ze control,” he yelled to his men. “Vous know what to do.” He waved the paper again for emphasis.

Tapan nudged his horse forward and led the Holt men to the sheriff’s office. All of them drew rifles from their saddle scabbards, cocked and aimed them at the sheriff’s door. The blacksmith-turned-sheriff emerged, holding a cocked Winchester. Scared, but determined, he stood in the doorway as the armed riders lined up in front of him. Muscles in his arms twitched with nervous energy.

“Wh-hat can I d-do for you, gentlemen?” he said in his best voice, hoping to keep the fear from bubbling over.

“The governor has just given Captain Jaudon military control of this town,” Tapan declared, and pointed at Jaudon standing beside Lady Holt outside the telegraph office.

He pushed the flagpole forward in its leather holster. “We have been deputized as Rangers.” He pointed to the badge on his shirt and grinned.

“I d-don’t u-understand.”

“Understand this, then. Resign as sheriff now or die…now.”

The blacksmith choked back the fear climbing in his throat. A wet spot appeared at his groin, bringing chuckles from the string of riders facing him. He wasn’t certain he could even walk. Finally, his hands let the Winchester drop and it thudded on the planked sidewalk, barely missing his boots.

“The hell with this. I—I r-resign.” He yanked the badge from his soot-covered shirt and dropped it. Without looking at them, he walked away.

“Smoky. Ben. Go inside and bring out Hangar and Opat,” Tapan commanded. His half smile was confident and cruel. When this was all over, Lady Holt might make him her number-one man, instead of Jaudon. Or her husband. He smiled and muttered, “Lord of Texas has a nice ring to it.”

No one appeared on the street. It was as if the entire town had become an oil painting. The bravado built from the hearings had evaporated like a wisp of smoke. Smoky and Ben reappeared a few minutes later with a smiling Hangar and a tentative Opat. Both gunmen quickly remounted.

“Thanks, boys. We were in a bad fix!” Hangar yelled. “That damn John Checker—and Rule Cordell—sneaked up on us. The bastards! Meade lied about killin’ the Ranger!”

Tapan glanced at Jaudon and Lady Holt, then back to the two released men. “You two failed. Lady Holt doesn’t like failure.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Hangar held out his hands.

Opat shook his head and bowed it.

A stream of rifle shots tore through Caisson. Both Hangar and Opat crumpled to the ground.

“Smoky, get the undertaker,” Tapan yelled, examining the aftermath of their firing. “Tell him the state of Texas is paying. For the boxes an’ the diggin’. I want those bodies out of here. Quick.”

He liked the feeling that came with leadership. Would Jaudon be a problem now that he had returned with his captaincy? He knew there was no romantic interest between the Frenchman and the English duchess. Maybe Jaudon’s responsibilities as Ranger captain would take him away.

“Drinks are on the boss at No. 8,” Tapan yelled. “Cause trouble in town and you’re fired. Same if you’re too drunk to ride when we leave.”

Grunts of approval and statements of agreement followed as the Holt gunmen wheeled and galloped toward the saloon. They vanished inside in seconds. Tapan looked around and saw Jaudon and Lady Holt standing in the middle of the street. He swung his mount toward her and took a position at her right, holding the flag of the phoenix upright. Jaudon looked at him and Tapan produced one of his best smiles.

The fat Frenchman actually giggled as he began a loud pronouncement to the quaking town. His horse snorted and shook its head. Jaudon yanked hard on the reins.

“Ze citizens of Caisson, hear me,” he yelled. “Ze governor has given me, as ze Ranger captain, ze complete authority to bring law and order to ze region. He is very concerned about ze outlaws attempting to take control of zee town. Bien entendu…” Jaudon caught his lapse and continued. “Ah, certainly, ze governor has ze need to be so concerned. But I—and mon fellow Rangers here with me—will change theez bad thing.”

He stared in both directions of the quiet main street. A boy on a bicycle went by, not paying any attention. He didn’t notice the black man watching from the alley. The speech was exactly as Lady Holt had written. He had promised to leave out any French words or she would have Tapan deliver it.

Loudly, he began again, explaining Hangar and Opat had been executed because they were found to be working with the outlaws. The mayor and town council would be disbanded until order was reestablished. Tanner would remain the municipal judge and Tapan Moore would be the acting sheriff until an election could be held.

Tapan held up the sheriff’s badge and put it on, just under the Ranger badge on his leather vest.

Warrants would be issued for John Checker, Emmett and Rikor Gardner, Morgan Peale, London Fiss, Charlie Carlson and Rule Cordell. Rewards would be established for each, dead or alive. He finished his proclamation with the statement that it would be printed up and placed on display throughout the area.

Hearing his declaration, Margaret Loren rushed from her dry goods store and hurried toward them. Her face red with anger, she screamed at him. “This is insane! That Holt woman is trying to ruin our town! Our town!” She looked both ways. “Come out! Come out! We don’t have to take this nonsense. Come on!”

Jaudon moved his hands toward his holstered revolvers, laughed and told Tapan to take care of the matter. He spun his horse and headed toward the newspaper office, where Lady Holt was already waiting.

Margaret followed him, screaming for others to come and help her.

Holding the flag in its saddle boot, Tapan swung his horse toward her, kicked it into a gallop and rammed the running animal into the woman before she had a chance to get out of the way. The horse’s shoulder hit the side of her face as she stumbled and fell.

He rode past her without looking back.

She lay in the street. Unmoving. From the alley across the street, the black man came running.

Jaudon shook his head, stepped inside the newspaper office and slammed the door behind him.