Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Thirty-nine

“Hey, lady! We’d like some company. Come on over,” one of the Holt gunmen yelled from the sidewalk.

A disappointed Tanner stepped outside as the four hooted at the passing woman.

“Who is she?” he asked, admiring her shape as she rode toward the hotel.

“Who knows? Never seen her before,” the tallest gunman in a derby hat said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Probably a new whore.” The heavily sideburned gunman licked his lips.

“Let’s go over an’ welcome her to Caisson,” the third gunman with a thin mustache and a calfskin vest said, and laughed. “Get a free sample or two.”

The four men shook off the hours of boredom and focused on the newest distraction.

“Yeah, let’s do. I got firsts,” the sideburned gunman declared.

The mustached gunman in the vest said, “The hell you do, Charlie. I’m in charge here. I’ll decide who goes when.”

The tallest gunman moved closer. “Who says you’re in charge?”

Turning toward him with a thick sneer on his face, the gunman in the vest said, “Tapan, pecker-head. You wanna challenge him?”

“What will Lady Holt think?” the youngest gunman asked, slowly standing from his slumped position against the building wall.

“She won’t care. Not if we stay close. We can do it in the alley.” The sideburned gunman was already headed into the street.

Tanner started to object, hiccupped and decided it didn’t matter. He went the other direction, toward the closest saloon without looking back. The laughing and jeering grew louder as the four gunmen crossed the street and hurried toward her. In the lead was the gunman with the massive sideburns, boasting of what he was going to do with her.

“Hold up there, missy. We’re Rangers. We’re the law,” he commanded.

The others laughed and reinforced his claim.

“Look at our badges!”

“Yeah, they’re made of silver. Real silver.”

“You’re under arrest, lady,” the youngest gunman yelled, waving a Winchester in the air. He was the only one with a rifle; the other long guns had been left propped against the newspaper building.

The others yipped agreement and the sideburned gunman, in the lead, repeated the command. “Lady, you’re under arrest. Stay right where you are.”

Without paying attention to the advancing foursome, the Mexican woman pulled her horse to the hitching rack outside the hotel. Slowly, she flipped back the trail serape worn over her clothes. Revealed was a bullet belt with two holstered pearl-handled, silver-plated revolvers. She turned toward the advancing foursome and drew one of the guns.

Its distinctive click-click was a shocking sound in the quiet night.

The sideburned gunman skidded to a stop. “Hey, lady. I said we’re the law. You don’t want to get yourself in trouble, now, do you? Put that away and climb down. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Without moving, Aleta Cordell said, “Eet would not be ze smart thing for you hombres to come closer. I have ridden ze long way. I am tired. Go back to whatever you were doing. Adios.”

From behind the sideburned gunman, the tall gunman pushed his derby hat forward on his head and urged his companion forward. “Come on, Spencer. She’s bluffing.”

Nodding agreement, the sideburned Spencer resumed his advance.

A bullet spat into the street in front of his boots.

“Ze next bullet ees for your head. Comprende?” She recocked the gun and aimed it at him.

Fearful, Spencer stopped again. The tall man behind him kept moving and collided into him. Both stumbled forward into the street. The derby hat floated in the air for a few feet, dropped and skidded to a stop in the street. She drew her second revolver with her left hand and pointed them at the four men. The last two were helping the first two get back up. The youngest retrieved the derby and handed it to the tall gunman.

She fired the left-hand gun and its lead spat a few feet in front of the foursome.

“Adios,” she said again and recocked both weapons.

“This is crap,” the mustached gunman in the vest said. “We’re Rangers. She’s a whore. A damn Mex whore. Are we gonna let her do this?”

From the shadows of the building between the hotel and the general store, an older man appeared. He held a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, as if it were a pistol. A black eye patch covered his left eye.

He stepped halfway between the mounted Aleta and the alley.

“You bastards aren’t any more Rangers than horse dung,” he growled. “Get your asses back across the street. I’m not as nice as the pretty lady here. I won’t shoot to warn you.” He motioned with the shotgun. “Now. Be gone.” He hesitated and yelled, “No, wait. Don’t any of you move.”

Awkwardly, the four men staggered to a stop, waved their arms, grabbed each other and froze in various positions of retreat. Looks on their faces ranged from fear to anger. Mostly fear.

“You boys leave your iron. Right there. In the street.” He cocked his head to the side. “And take off those Rangers badges. Leave ’em. None of you bastards has any right to be wearin’ something like that. Kinda sacred, they are.”

Frowning, Spencer stared at the shadowed man. “Who are you, mister? This ain’t a town to be tellin’ us what to do. Don’t you know who we work for? Lady Holt, that’s who. Lady Holt. She’s right in there.” He motioned toward the lighted newspaper office.

“Oh, really?” The man with the eye patch fired a barrel of the sawed-off shotgun.

The shot tore into the bearded man’s leg and he fell, groaning.

Smoothly, he popped open the gun, tore out the empty smoking shell and slipped another in its place. His lone eye never left the terrified gunmen.

He cocked both barrels. “Now, which one of you pecker-heads still doesn’t understand?”

Immediately, the youngest gunman with the rifle threw it to the ground and stepped back. The other two unbuckled their gun belts and let them fall. The youngest gunman pulled Spencer’s pistol from its holster and tossed it. Moonlight flickered on badges being yanked off and dropped. They helped the sobbing Spencer to his feet and half carried him back toward the newspaper office. His lower leg was mostly crimson.

Lamplight appeared in the upper window of the apartment above the general store. Window curtains wiggled. Spake glanced in its direction, then back to the street.

“Better let a doc take a look at that real quick,” the eyepatched man hollered. “Hate to see such a fine fella lose his leg.”

Forcefully, the door to the newspaper office opened. Lady Holt slid into the doorway, squinting into the night.

“What’s going on out here? Spencer, is that you? Are you hurt?” she called.

“Yes’m, he’s been shot. Shotgun. By that stranger across the street.” The report came from the youngest gunman. He skipped the part about the Mexican woman riding into town and their attempted quest of her.

“We can’t have challenges to my authority,” she declared. “An insult, that’s what it is. Kill him and be quick about it. Her, too.” She glared at the four men. “Don’t you know I’m creating in here? Leave me alone!”

She slammed shut the door.

Spake Jamison watched the men across the street. Without taking his gaze from them, he said, “Ma’am, I’m Spake Jamison.” He touched the brim of his weathered hat in greeting and yelled, “You heard her, boys. Come an’ get some more.”

He watched the four talking and said quietly to Aleta, “Used to be a Ranger. ’Til that idiot governor—an’ that English lady there—decided to rig up their own brand of law.”

“Muchas gracias, amigo. I have come to find mío husband. I am worried he may be in trouble.”

A wolflike smile took over the gray-haired former Ranger’s wrinkled face. The leathery skin was laced with long lines; many were gathered at the outside edge of his good eye.

“If he’s anything like you, ma’am, not sure trouble would want him. Don’t think you needed my help,” he said. “You handle those fancy guns like they were real friendly.”

It was her turn to chuckle. “I am Aleta Cordell. Rule Cordell ees mío husband.”

“Rule…Cordell? The Texas gunfighter?”

“Mío husband knows how to use ze gun, sí.” She shoved new cartridges into the revolvers as they talked.

He nodded. “I understand your husband—and John Checker—are ridin’ together. Tryin’ to stop this Lady Holt.”

“Sí.”

Jamison pushed the hat back on his forehead. “Sounds like we’re headin’ for the same war, ma’am.”

Returning her reloaded guns to their holsters, she glanced at the sidewalk in front of the newspaper office. The four men had disappeared. Their absence didn’t seem to bother the old lawman.

“Don’t worry about them, ma’am. They’ve gone somewhere to get some courage. An’ get away from her.”

He chuckled and said he had just arrived in town with the plan on finding out what was going on.

“I was headin’ for the livery when I saw those clowns,” he said. “There are thirty Rangers waitin’ for me. Outside of town. Real ones. Or they were.” He pushed the quiver back farther on his shoulder. “Just found out that phony Ranger captain…ah, Sil Jaudon…rode out with his gang. They were headin’ for one of the small ranches left. Only three, I reckon. Don’t sound like it would be hard to find. Looks like the Brit woman wants to get this over with.”

His shoulders rose and fell. “Reckon us Rangers’ll head that way. Come back for her later.”

Her tired eyes brightened; then a film of worry dulled them. She told about sending a wire telling Rule about Eleven Meade’s death and that her husband hadn’t responded. Friends of theirs were watching their two children—and Emmett Gardner’s two boys. She explained why the latter were at their house.

“Can’t tell you anything about any telegrams,” Spake said, shaking his head. “This town has been hit real hard by this English lady and her thugs.” He pointed in the direction of the dark telegraph office. “There’s where it be. You can go there in the mornin’ and see if your man has been in. Bet he hasn’t, ma’am. Bet he an’ Checker are ri’t where that gang’s headed.”

He returned the shotgun to the quiver on his shoulder and started walking again. “A bunch o’ us came to help some friends. They were Rangers, too. A. J. Bartlett an’ John Checker.”

Rubbing his unshaved chin, he said, “Story we got in Austin was this killer name of Eleven Meade had killed John. Heard tell in that saloon just now…that he was alive—and A.J.’s dead.” He shook his head. “Had me a hunch Checker wasn’t dead. Bastard’s too tough. No back-shooter like Meade’s gonna make it happen. Mighty sorry about A.J., though. He was a good’un. Loved talkin’ poetry, ya know.”

Swinging her horse to walk alongside the sidewalk as Spake headed toward the livery, Aleta explained Meade was the one who was dead and that she had killed him.

The old Ranger chuckled. “Them four idiots had no idea of what they had tangled with. Glad to hear Meade’s dead. He was a sick one. Real sick. All that eleven mumbo jumbo.” He looked at her for a moment and asked, “If I remember rightly a good-lookin’ woman used to ride with an outlaw name of Johnny Cat Carlson. Right after the war.”

“Sí, there was such a senorita. I weel ride weeth you. Mío Rule weel be there. I can feel eet. He and thees John Checker.”

“Well, that’ll be a pair to draw to.” Spake hesitated. “Sure. Come on. You’d better switch hosses at the livery. That fella’s too good to run into the ground. An’ he’s looking mighty tired. No offense, ma’am.”

“Sí. I push heem. More than I should. He ees bueno hoss.”

“Well, let’s go. There’ll be hot coffee at the camp. Johnson makes it good ’n hard. Puts an egg in it. Says it’s Swedish.” He withdrew a sack from his coat pocket. “Would you like some licorice? It’s mighty tasty.”