Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Forty

John Checker and Rule Cordell rode hard toward Caisson, keeping mostly off the main road, along the surrounding ridges, through narrow arroyos and across hushed open land. Night air helped lower their fierceness to allow them to think about their next actions. Riding down the main street of Caisson would only get them killed. They had to assume Jaudon and his men returned there.

They cleared a spongy stretch of bottomland, stubbled with grass and flanked by thickets of mesquite, ash, walnuts and persimmons. Crossing a wandering creek, the reason for the lower land’s wetness, they reined up to let their horses drink and rest. Around them stray cattle were in search of grass. In the distance, coyotes were attempting to communicate with the moon.

Both men were weary and trying hard to concentrate.

“Right about now, A.J. would up and recite,” Checker said. “He loved his Tennyson. Seems real strange not to have him riding with me.” He glanced at the gunfighter. “No offense, Rule. That didn’t come out quite right. I’m proud—and thankful—to have you with me. You know that.”

“I understand. You’ll always have the memories,” Rule said. “I lost my best friend a few years ago. Grew up together. Went to war together. I have those memories. They’re good ones.”

Checker nodded and his shoulders shivered. Rule glanced at the Ranger’s side and saw streaks of blood, old and new.

Rule changed the subject, withdrawing his boots from his stirrups and straightening his legs. “You know, John, we’re likely to be facing men we could’ve killed earlier tonight.”

“Yes, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

Checker studied a narrow path heading up an embankment to the left. Definitely an Indian pony trail.

“We could move along that trail for a while. What do you think?” He pointed at the barely visible pathway. “Keep us out of sight as we get closer to town, in case Jaudon left any snipers behind.”

“Makes good sense. Looks like an Indian trail. Ever see any man ride better than a Comanche?” Rule asked, twisting his head back and forth for relief.

Checker smiled. “No. You look at a Comanche walking—and here’s this short, slow, awkward-looking man. Get him on a horse and he’s awesome. Like some Greek god.”

“What if Tapan had told you to take out the backup gun?” Rule asked without looking at Checker.

“Not sure. Probably tried to stumble. Something, anything to give us an opening.”

“Did you know I still had a gun?”

Checker smiled again. “I can count.”

Rule nodded. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They swung their horses toward the bank, up and onto the pony path. Slowly, they began to discuss what they would do when they reached Caisson. Their horses picked easily along the path, but neither man chose to urge them beyond a trot. An unseen hole would mean a broken leg and change every thing. Both took turns napping in the saddle as they rode. After a mile zigzagging along the ridge on the packed-earth pathway, largely bare of grass or weeds, they swung down onto a grassy swale, cradled by the same creek on the right and by a line of trees on the left. Six Holt steers looked up as they passed.

They weren’t more than a mile from town and had decided on a plan. When they reached Caisson, they would split up and enter from different directions. It was simple. Risky. Mostly, it depended on Lady Holt’s men not expecting such a bold move. The two gunfighters would find where Lady Holt was staying, get her on a horse and out of town before Jaudon and her men realized what had happened. Checker would get fresh horses for the three of them at the livery; Rule was going to the telegraph office and see if Ale-ta’s wire was there. They would take Lady Holt to Clark Springs and hold her until a circuit judge could get there. A real judge.

If they weren’t lucky, it was going to be a long, hard day.

Both rode almost mechanically, badly needing sleep, but not daring to nap anymore. Rule’s mind crisscrossed through memories, pausing to hear his father tell him that he hoped the young man would rot in hell, to the frozen battlefields of Virginia and onto the dusty Texas plains where his father had told the weeping child that the reason their black colt had died was the boy’s sinfulness, to preaching his first sermon about loving the land as the Reverend James Rule Langford, to the Sons of Thunder. He shook off the darkness in his mind and touched the rose stem on his coat collar and thought of Aleta and their children. He missed them so. It seemed like forever since he had left their home. Forever.

Beside him, Checker was telling himself again that life was more than riding and fighting. His thoughts slid to a month ago when he let the outlaw Cole Dillon escape. He wasn’t certain why. But the man had just lost his wife to sickness. The Ranger had tracked him across the windswept Staked Plains and caught up to him standing over her grave. Cole had not asked for leniency; Checker had just given it. Something in the outlaw’s broken face told him the man was about to change. Something said they were more alike than different.

“Thank you, Ranger. I’m going to be the man she wanted me to be. Cole Dillon is dead.” Cole had galloped away, swearing he was going to change. Checker reported Cole Dillon as dead to Ranger headquarters. It made him feel good; he hoped the man would take advantage of the opportunity. But not all men could ride a new trail. Could he? Should he?

They passed a dry creek bed, one that escaped from the main branch of water, only to die. A company of mesquites were joined by scrubby oaks to watch over the empty stream. They rode with their rifles cocked. Checker held his rifle in his right hand, resting the butt on his thigh. Rule’s rifle lay across his saddle, his right hand holding it for quick use.

Gunshots ahead brought the two gunfighters to an alertness they hadn’t felt since leaving.

“It’s on the road.” Checker pointed. “Do you think it’s Jaudon?”

“That doesn’t make any sense, John.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Checker motioned with his hand toward a tree-lined bank. “Let’s move up there and get closer.” He reined his horse toward the trees.

They rode in silence for two hundred yards, blending with the trees and brush. Finally, they cleared the broken ridge through a crease. Ahead of them, a shadowy mass of men and horses milled in the open spoon of grassland. Here and there a body lay on the flattened ground.

At first, Checker could only make out one man. “That’s Jaudon. He’s got his hands up. There, in the middle. Standing.”

“Well, this can’t be all bad, John.”

They reined up to study the situation, and a wide smile hit Checker’s face.

“Well, I’ll be damned. That’s Spake Jamison down there. And…Rangers. Real Rangers. Damn. Where’d they come from?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Rule said, “I don’t care. They’ve got Jaudon and his bunch surrounded. It’s over, John.”

“Wait a minute, Rule. There’s a woman with them. Over there. See?” Checker pointed.

“Aleta!”

Checker looked at his friend. “Your wife’s down there?”

“She sure is. Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head.

The tall Ranger was still savoring the scene when he realized Rule was already loping toward them.

“Spake! It’s Checker—and Rule Cordell. We’re coming in,” Checker yelled, and kicked his horse into a downhill lope, trailing Rule’s advance.

Minutes later, Checker was shaking hands with Ranger friends who were guarding the surrendered Holt gang. Rule was holding Aleta close; both were dismounted and holding their horses’ reins.

Spake grinned. “Thought you boys could use a hand. You must’ve spooked this bunch something awful. They were runnin’ like the Devil himself was chasin’ them. Said a bunch of Rangers ambushed ’em.” He shook his head. “Ran right into us. Didn’t have much fight left in ’em.” He motioned toward the downed bodies. “Reckon they didn’t know how real Rangers act.”

After a short exchange about Captain Temple’s arrest, the governor’s involvement with Lady Holt and the mass Ranger firing, Checker told him about the fake gun barrage, that Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry were dead—and their murder of London Fiss. He told them the Gardners and Morgan Peale had taken his body back to her ranch.

“Been a hard ride for you, I hear. Sorry about A.J. Gonna miss that ol’ boy—and his poems.” Spake’s hard face softened.

Checker nodded, excused himself and rode over to a disgruntled Jaudon, standing with two mounted Rangers holding rifles on him.

Swinging from the saddle, Checker handed his reins to the red-haired Ranger beside him. “Hold these a minute, will you, Sawyer? Got something that needs doing.”

Checker strode toward the fat Frenchman. “Jaudon, you and your men killed two good men. Good friends of mine.”

Hunching his shoulders, Jaudon spat a French curse and glanced at his three gold-plated revolvers lying on the ground a few feet away.

As he stepped next to Jaudon, Checker slammed his right fist into the fat man’s stomach. The blow’s power was driven by pent-up fury and sorrow. Jaudon doubled over, gasping for breath that had disappeared into the night. He gagged and vomited on his own guns.

Stunned by Checker’s sudden action, the Rangers and the arrested gang members watched in silence.

Stepping out of the way of the projected vomit, Checker delivered a wicked uppercut to Jaudon’s chin that lifted the Frenchman off his feet and stumbling backward. The fat man collapsed on the ground. Checker grabbed his shirt with his left hand and yanked the stunned gang leader back on his feet. A right cross slammed into Jaudon’s face, spewing blood and spinning his head sideways. A long cut opened along the Frenchman’s right cheek.

Wild-eyed and desparate, Jaudon threw a windmill punch Checker stopped with his left arm and drove an uppercut into the Frenchman’s already throbbing belly. Jaudon wobbled; his legs wouldn’t hold him up. Grabbing him before he could fall, Checker held the half-conscious man by his bloody shirt, smashed a short jab into Jaudon’s face and cocked his fist to strike again.

“No, John. Let him go. A.J. wouldn’t like that. Neither would London.” Rule’s voice was clear.

Not even Spake Jamison added a word.

Checker stared at the blurry-eyed Jaudon and released him. The Frenchman crumpled to the ground. A whimper followed. The tall Ranger turned and asked for his reins.

“Better get those hands into water, John. They’ll swell on you,” the redheaded Ranger said quietly, as if advising someone to wash his hands for supper.

Almost without understanding, Checker looked at his raw and bloody knuckles.

He looked over at Rule. “I haven’t met your wife.”