Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Thirty-two

The lone window rattled with the force of Jaudon’s entry. Lady Holt was already inside, delivering a combined offer and threat to the young publisher.

Henry Seitmeyer stood behind his desk with his arms crossed; his shirt was blotched with black. Neither it nor his bow tie had been changed since the hearings. His expression was easy to read: he didn’t like either Lady Holt’s words or the deliverer of them.

A large, metal printing press stood silently behind him, its job finished for the moment. Seitmeyer had had it shipped from Finsbury, London; it was “an improved Coumbia press.” The small office was cluttered with paste pots, type trays, ink bottles, stacks of paper, a dozen books, two coats, a stack of printed posters and a large ashtray holding a cold pipe. A sack of loose tobacco rested against the tray.

Piles of the latest edition of the Caisson Reporter lay on his desk piled with other exchanges, research papers and ad layouts. The front page headline read COURT DECLARES GARDNER, CHECKER INNOCENT. The subhead was RANGER KILLED IN RELATED INCIDENT.

“You should be ashamed of printing such garbage.” Lady Holt pointed at the newspapers. “Did the outlaws make you do this?”

“Ma’am, freedom of the press is guaranteed. By the Constitution,” Seitmeyer said. “I will publish what I want, when I want.”

“How much for this silly place?” Lady Holt asked, waving her arms.

“The newspaper is not for sale, ma’am. Neither am I.”

She glared at him, but her intensity was more than matched by his own. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Seitmeyer. Progress is coming to Caisson. I am bringing it. Soon this land will be completely under my authority. Behind that will come the railroad and barbed wire. Riches will follow.” She cocked her head. “Some will have the wisdom to see what I bring—and some will not.”

“What happens to that second group?” Seitmeyer growled.

“Oh, nothing, I suppose. Although most likely, they will decide other places are more comfortable.” She reached out and touched the top newspaper with her forefinger, leaving it there.

“You mean like Gardner, Peale and Carlson?”

“No. Those people are guilty of breaking the law. They will be tracked down and punished.” Lady Holt’s mouth curled into a long sneer that made her look more like a sinister man than a woman.

“The court just conducted a hearing on the charges against Emmett Gardner and found him innocent of rustling. The same for the big Ranger, John Checker—and his murdered partner.”

Jaudon walked over to the printing press and studied it. “That was ze illegal court. And John Checker is no longer ze Ranger. He is ze murderer.”

Seitmeyer licked his lower lip. “Jaudon, he’s a lot more of a Ranger than you’ll ever be. So is A. J. Bartlett, who was murdered by your men, Mrs. Holt.” His jaw tightened; a glimmer of fear flickered in his eyes, but he had no intention of backing down. “You can’t try a man for the same thing twice. That’s double jeopardy. That, too, is against the law.”

The Frenchman glanced at Lady Holt, who explained the charges were new ones; new rustling had been discovered—and Checker’s initial murder charge did not cover the killing of a deputy and two more of her men. Morgan Peale and Charlie Carlson were charged with attempting to impede justice.

“You mean Mrs. Peale testifying at the hearing was illegal?” Seitmeyer said; his face was full of disgust. “Mr. Carlson wasn’t even there.” He waved his right arm. “The men you say were murdered by Ranger Checker were actually killed by Ranger Bartlett, who was defending the jail against their assault.”

Lady Holt’s retorts were thorough and completely distorted, but delivered with intense passion. “No, Carlson wasn’t there, but employees of his were, acting on his behalf. The Peale woman was helping the outlaws. And I have it on good authority that it was Checker who did the shooting at the jail. He was attempting to break out and my men tried to help the deputies there.”

“I see. That’s quite a twist of the truth, ma’am.”

Jaudon rubbed his nose. “I need ze poster. Now. It is ze proclamation for ze town to understand.”

“Find someone else.” Seitmeyer rubbed his nose. “I’m too busy.”

Lady Holt motioned Jaudon away and smiled warmly at the editor. “I understand how you feel, Mr. Seitmeyer. You see us as unmerciful—and uncaring.” She waved her finger. “But that is not so, sir. I intend to donate the money to build a church for Caisson. The money will be turned over to the council as soon as this terrible lawlessness, this rustling, the murdering, is ended.”

“That’s a very generous offer, Mrs. Holt.”

“Yes, it is, but I am a very generous person. And caring. When I take hold of this entire region, many will benefit,” she said. “Certainly the Caisson Reporter will grow and prosper.”

Without responding, the editor walked over to the table next to the wall. It was stacked with papers, books and envelopes. He shuffled through one stack, then another.

Finally, he found what he was looking for and yanked the newspaper clipping free of the others.

“I wrote this last year. You should read it, Mrs. Holt.” He handed the crumpled paper to her. “I haven’t changed my mind—and won’t, no matter how many churches you pay for.”

She took the clipping, looked at it and crumpled the paper in her fist. The headline read Holt plans to control entire region by any means necessary. Her face transformed into purple hate.

“You stupid little man. I will squash you like this piece of paper.” Lady Holt looked over at the Frenchman and nodded.

Returning the subtle directive with a grin, Jaudon stepped closer to Seitmeyer.

“I want you two out of here. There’s no outlawry in Caisson—except for you. Get out.” The editor shoved the bigger Jaudon away.

“Oui, vous are through.” The Frenchman drew a revolver and raised it

Seitmeyer’s hands rose too slowly to stop the barrel slamming against his head. “No…” he gasped, fell against the printing press and collapsed on the floor. A thin trail of blood eased from his head and slid along the wood planks.

Without examining the downed editor, Lady Holt ordered Jaudon to send a rider to bring Elliott. The black servant would know how to set type, she was certain. Her men were to work through town, picking up every issue of the latest Caisson Reporter they could find. She intended to publish a new edition immediately.

After her band of gunmen were finished with retrieval, she wanted them to make a swing through the remaining ranches, burning all the buildings, stampeding the herds and killing anyone they found.

“I’m sick and tired of this,” she snarled. “This is my land. My land.”

Jaudon returned his gun to its holster, straightened his coat lapels, wanting to ask if he could get something to eat first.

“Vous want Tapan to lead this—or me?” he asked, keeping his hunger to himself.

Stepping toward the door, Lady Holt smiled. “Get yourself something to eat. I know you’re starved. I want you good and ready to lead the men. You’re the Ranger captain—and they’re the Rangers. We want that cover of legitimacy.”

“Bien. How about Dimitry and Tapan going with us? We could use their guns if we run into Checker and Cordell.”

“That is fine. Tapan is the new sheriff and, logically, should be with you,” she said.

“Sacre blue! It is too bad we don’t have Meade with us. We could use his gun. Who is this ‘A’?”

“I don’t know and right now I don’t have time to worry about him—or Meade.”

Jaudon frowned. He didn’t like things he couldn’t control any more than she did. “Too bad. We could have used him.” Jaudon glanced at his holstered revolvers. “I vould like ze bastard’s guns. They very nice, vous know.”

“Bull. He lied about killing the big Ranger. I don’t like people lying to me.” Her face contorted into a scowl. “Tapan wired the marshal there—to get my money back,” she said, glancing out the window at the street where a black man was helping an older woman to her feet.

“Vous think this A is helping Gardner—and them?” Jaudon’s large belly rose and released.

Running her finger across her lips, she replied, “I have no idea. What does one man matter?”

“Speaking of ze one man, what do vous want with him?” Jaudon motioned with his head toward the unconscious editor.

“If he’s dead, get the undertaker. If he’s not, get the doctor.” She smiled and grabbed the doorknob. “There’s a black man outside. Looks like some old woman fell down.”

Chuckling, Jaudon explained about the owner coming from the sewing store and yelling at him—and Tapan running at her with his horse. Realizing who the woman was, she told him the woman had been considered as Opat’s replacement for municipal judge.

“Cela va sans dire…ah, of course.”

From the alley, London Fiss ran to the knocked-down woman. He laid his long-barreled saddle revolver on the ground as he knelt beside her and slowly helped her to stand.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” she said, patting him on the arm as she gathered her feet. “I’m all right. Knocked the wind out of me.” She took a deep breath. “You work for Mrs. Peale, don’t you? You’d better get out of here. They want all of you.” She patted his arm again. “I appreciate your kindness. There weren’t any white men who were brave enough to help me. But please go.”

After retrieving his weapon, Fiss glanced down the street and saw Tapan wheel his horse away from the saloon hitching rack. He had gone there after knocking down the dry goods owner with the intention of joining the other men.

“Ma’am, step away. Trouble is coming,” the black man said.

She hesitated, saw the horseman galloping toward them and hurried to the sidewalk, knowing it was too late to tell him to leave. Running now would only get him shot in the back.

Fiss didn’t move. Tapan shot and missed. The black man raised his gun and fired. Twice. Tapan’s horse squealed and stumbled. Tapan flew over the horse’s neck as the animal skidded and collapsed. Still holding the reins in his left hand and his pistol in the other, the gunman hit the street, bounced once and didn’t move. Only his gun bounced a second time from his opened hand.

Fiss looked at the older woman, touched the brim of his hat and spun back toward the alley.

The gunshots outside made Lady Holt jump.

“What the hell?” she said.

“Stay here!” Jaudon ran toward the door, yanking free his revolver again, shifting it to his left hand and drawing the second with his right. His thick stomach wobbled with the fury of his movement.

He opened the door just far enough to see the street in front of them. Holt gunmen were pouring from the No. 8 Saloon. Tapan lay unmoving in the street, not far from his dead horse.

The black man drew his holstered second gun as he ran toward the alley.

Jaudon fired through the crack with both guns.

Fiss jerked and his left arm twitched as one of Jaudon’s bullets tore into it. The gun in his left hand popped free. He half turned and shot at Jaudon. His bullet thudded into the building wall a few inches from the opened door. Jaudon jumped back. Fiss fired again at the oncoming horde of gunmen up the street. A stunned Margaret Loren screamed for him to run.

At the far end of the alley, London Fiss jumped on his waiting horse and spurred it into a hard run. He had left the animal there, readied, just in case. He hadn’t planned on getting involved at all, but he couldn’t just let that poor woman lie in the street. He raced into the open plains, leaving the town behind him. There was a possibility some of Holt’s men might follow, so he wouldn’t ride directly to the Morgan Peale Ranch. Or go near the small pond where they were going to bury the dead Ranger, either. He would make it look as if he were leaving. For good. He swung his smooth-running horse to the south, running across soft ground wherever he could find it.

“Tapan! Tapan?” Jaudon finally stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk.

The handsome gunfighter didn’t move.

Four Holt gunmen caught up with Jaudon and three more moved to check on Tapan.

“What’s going on?” Lady Holt yelled from inside.

“I do not know, m’lady. Tapan is down,” Jaudon yelled back.

“My God! Is he shot?” she screamed.

“I do not know. Yet.”

“Get the bastards!”

“C’est ca.” He caught himself. “Right. There is only one. He is gone. Up ze alley. Had ze horse waiting.”

Lady Holt screamed, “I want him hanged.”

Jaudon holstered his guns and yelled for his men to ride after the escaping Fiss. He turned back to Lady Holt, who was clearly distraught. “Oui, it vas ze darkie working for ze Peale woman.”

“I want him hanged. Let all the bastards see it—and know the rage of…me.” Lady Holt stamped out onto the sidewalk.

“No! No, you will not.”

The challenge stopped Jaudon and his men. They turned to look at Margaret Loren. “He didn’t do anything except help me get up—after your man tried to run over me with his horse. That awful man in the street there. He came after him, too. Shooting.”

“Hell, lady, it’s just a darkie,” one of the Holt gunmen said.

That brought chuckles from the rest.

“Tapan’s coming around,” another said.

Jaudon looked back at Lady Holt for direction. If she wanted this bothersome woman killed, so be it. The cattle baroness licked her lips and turned her head slightly to the right.

“What, Iva Lee? Let the woman go? Why? Oh, sure.”

Jaudon and his men weren’t sure what they were hearing. He motioned for his men to get their horses. Margaret walked down the sidewalk to Lady Holt.

Lady Holt stared at her as if not seeing. Her face paled, then turned red, then normal again. She pointed at Tapan, who was now sitting with Jaudon talking to him.

“Get a doctor for him. And for this man…inside. He fell down and hurt himself.” She spun and went inside the editor’s office without waiting for Margaret to reach her.

The dry goods store owner grabbed the doorknob. From inside, Lady Holt screamed, “I’ll kill you if you come inside. Me an’ Iva Lee.”