Ride for Rule Cordell

Chapter Four

An hour later, all of the Jaudon gunmen were tied with Emmett, Rikor and the younger sons standing guard over them in the ranch yard. Even the three gunmen from inside the house were led outside. Moonlight washed across the strange gathering as the captured men muttered and swore. Before going inside, Bartlett pointed out the two most dangerous, Luke Dimitry and Tapan Moore. Both grinned as Emmett agreed.

Only Jaudon was completely silent.

Inside the house, Bartlett brought a surgeon’s tool from his saddlebags and began probing Checker’s leg for the bullet. The tall Ranger had been reluctant to have the wound cared for, but his partner had assured him that it was necessary they do so now.

A bright orange fire in the fireplace heated the foot-long instrument. It had been used many times over the years, whenever a doctor wasn’t close. With Checker stretched out on the kitchen table and his bloody pants pulled down, Bartlett began to probe and root for the embedded piece of lead in his leg. Checker had refused any whiskey, believing he needed to stay alert. Instead, he bit down on a stick while his friend sought the bullet.

Trying to keep from thinking about the jabbing pain, Checker took his watch from his pocket. He popped open the lid and sought the memories within its tiny, cracked photograph of his mother with her two small children. Bartlett glanced up once and smiled grimly; he knew of Checker’s sad childhood in Kansas. Taking a deep breath, the gentle lawman squinted and began to probe the bloody cut in Checker’s thigh. He had seen this reverie before.

Checker remembered his mother being so proud as she guided them into the photographer’s studio. It took a long time for him to accept the fact that she had probably paid for the expensive session with her body. It didn’t matter, he told himself. It was the only record that such a family ever existed. Except in his heart. And maybe Amelia’s, wherever she was. He let his mind wander again to the awful parting of Amelia, his little sister, and himself. There was no other choice; neighbors were willing to take the girl, but not him. Not with McCallister and his men seeking his head. As the two children said their tearful good-byes, Amelia had sought his promise to return. The neighbors had given him an old brown horse, a sack of food and a silver dollar.

From a jammed-away corner of his mind, his sister came running with tears washing across her face.

“I—I—I want to go with you, Johnny!”

Trying to act stronger than he felt, the boy said, “You can’t, sis. But I’ll come back for you.”

After her insistence, he promised to return for her.

“Say you promise.”

“I promise.”

As he turned to leave, Amelia asked that he give her something of his to keep until he returned. He had nothing, except the knife in his belt. She had grabbed his shirt and pulled free a button.

That was the last time he saw her.

His trail had taken him east and then south, through all manner of jobs including making money fistfighting, until his skill with a gun took precedence. A short stint as a Yankee sharpshooter. He had even ridden the outlaw trail for a short while before becoming a Ranger. His promise to return to his sister had faded into the place where other broken promises went.

It hurt too much to think long about what might have happened to her.

The pain from Bartlett’s probing jerked him back to the table. Checker bit hard on the stick, nearly breaking it, and his Ranger partner held up the piece of lead triumphantly.

“Got it! Got it. John, it didn’t hit anything bad, but you’ll not be riding for a while—until it heals,” Bartlett said, wiping his bloody hands on a towel from his saddlebags.

“No, I’ll ride now, A.J. We need to get that bunch to town.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine.”

Running into the house, Hans brought Checker’s wide-brimmed hat, at his father’s suggestion. The boy beamed proudly as the tall Ranger thanked him and returned it to his head. The derby remained on the kitchen counter where he put it.

In spite of Bartlett’s concern, the two Rangers were soon riding to town. In front of them were Jaudon and his remaining men mounted on their horses. Their hands were tied behind them and each man’s saddle horn was connected to the next with rope. Two other men with bloody kerchiefs around their heads rode silently; another had one arm bound in a makeshift sling, but his hands were still tied together. Bartlett had tended to them somewhat. Behind Bartlett and Checker were three horses, each carrying a dead gunman.

Dawn was flirting with their alertness as the Rangers and their prisoners rode into Caisson, Texas. The growing town showed few signs of waking. Except for a well-dressed lawman who immediately left his office and confronted them in the street. It was Sheriff Allison Hangar, who served as the law in both the county and the town.

“What is all this?” Sheriff Hangar demanded.

In his crossed arms was a double-barreled shotgun. His pale, narrow face looked as if it were cut in two by the oversized mustache. His clothes were freshly pressed and his shirt collar looked new, holding in place a dark silk cravat. Unseen, but obvious, was a gun belt. He was hatless with closely cropped hair.

“These are our prisoners, Sheriff,” Checker said, forcing himself to be more alert than he felt. “They are under arrest for the attempted murder of Emmett Gardner and his family.”

“Oh, that can’t be,” Hangar growled.

“Sheriff, we’ve been riding most of the night,” Checker said. “If my partner and I hadn’t been there, the Gardners would all be dead by now. Are you questioning my statement—or our authority?”

Sheriff Hangar glanced at Jaudon, who nodded slightly. Checker caught the exchange, but let it go.

“Neither, I reckon,” Hangar replied. “There’s a drunk in my jail now. I’ll let him go an’ you can pour this bunch in.” He paused. “Guess I’d better fetch Doc—and George, George Likeman, he’s the undertaker. Well, he’s that and the town cabinetmaker an’ a few other things.”

Checker motioned toward the two wounded gunmen. “They’ve already been treated by my partner. But you’re welcome to bring the doctor if you wish. The state of Texas will pay for the burials.” He rubbed his chin. “But I reckon bounty money is there for, at least, Dimitry and Moore.”

At the jail, Bartlett watched his friend dismount. As usual, Checker’s face was unreadable. Bartlett knew his friend was hurting from the wound. Had to be. Checker had struggled with himself about dealing with evil; something within him wanted the evil to go away and leave him with a normal family. And it wouldn’t. Evil had a way of transforming everything.

Bartlett unlashed the ropes connecting the riders and began ordering them to dismount, one by one. He liked the precision of the order.

Across the street, a small gathering of townspeople had stopped to watch, uncertain of what had transpired. A well-dressed man in a charcoal-gray suit and a slightly tilted, short-brimmed hat announced they should go over and arrest the two strangers, certainly the town didn’t need their kind around, that Jaudon worked for Lady Holt and was a fine, upstanding citizen.

Murmurs of agreement followed, interspersed with brash comments, but no one moved. Especially not the well-dressed man. A frail-looking woman with snow-white hair harrumphed and crossed the street to ask what was happening. Her face went as white as her hair when Checker informed her of the situation. Her chin rose in defiance and she spun to return to the group and relate the details.

The tall Ranger wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or concerned.

As she retreated, the sound of peeing reached Checker’s ears. In the alley between the jail and a saloon, a silhouette weaved as he attempted to relieve himself. The tall Ranger returned his attention to the arrested men. His leg was throbbing and forcing pain throughout his body. Reacting to it would have to wait; sleep would have to wait. Until Jaudon and his men were safely behind bars. He barely heard the sheriff say they would have to cram the gunmen into the five cells, but Jaudon would have one by himself.

“We’re not through, Checker,” Tapan Moore yelled, and flashed a wide, toothy smile.

“Another time. Another time.”

Standing next to him, the half-breed Dimitry made a slicing motion across his neck with his hand.