Ride for Rule Cordell (10 page)

He recalled a strange Indian woman, Eagle Mary, telling him, “You are thunder. You are lightning. You are the storm to clean the land.
Nanisuwukaiyu
. Moon is watching over you.”

He shook his head to clear away the awful cobwebs.

After putting on his riding coat, he grabbed a Winchester from the rifles, then stopped. Laying it against the wall, he went to his drawer and withdrew a small stone earring.

A medicine stone from Moon. A piece of Mother Moon herself, the old man had said.

He slipped the leather thong over his ear and let the stone settle beneath it. Nodding approval to himself, he left the room. The tiny symbol had gotten him safely through the war, the anguish of postwar Texas and his earlier fight with the Regulators. He had only spent one day with the dying Comanche shaman, but it was enough to give him much to remember. God was everywhere and in everything. Seeing miracles in everyday things. Resurrection was not uncommon; a man just had to look for it. Just as every man could be his own priest. The highest calling was to care about others.

In that strange encounter, they had become as father and son.

Without thinking about it, he touched the small medicine pouch under his shirt; the shaman told him that it carried the medicine of the owl, the moon’s messenger. Yes, Moon had watched over him.

Aleta was waiting in the main room; the others were outside, selecting new mounts.

“
Hasta luego, mío
love,” she said. “I know you must do thees. Eet ees family. Hurry back to us.”

“I will.”

“I see you wear the strength of Moon.” She glanced at the stone earring. “That ees good.”

“Yeah. I thought it would help bring me back quicker.”

They kissed and held each other tightly.

She stepped back and her hand touched his cheek. Her words were of war. “You must geet them off balance. Attack where they don’t expect eet. You must become a son of thunder. Again.”

From her pocket, she withdrew a slim stem of what had once been a rose. Without asking, she pinned it to his long coat lapel. “Theez weel bring you back
pronto
.”

The rose stem had long ago been a rose given by the widow of General Jeb Stuart to his officers at his funeral. He had worn it through the rest of the war and into his nightmare in Texas, refusing to take it off long after the petals had fallen away.

“I didn’t know you had this. Where—?”

“Adios
, mío
love. Ride hard and come back to us soon.”

Ranger Captain Hershell Poe sat behind his desk in Ranger headquarters and reread the governor’s directive. It was the sixth time he had read about the firing and arresting of Captain Harrison Temple, the subsequent release of the entire Special Force of forty Rangers and the appointment of Sil Jaudon as the new captain with the authority to hire his own Rangers for that group.

He and Temple were equals, although some perceived Poe to be the superior officer. Temple was a fighter leading a squad of fighters; Poe was a politician managing a squad of fighters. A considerable difference. Temple never did understand the need to pay attention to the winds of politics. Or the newspapers. He attracted men like John Checker and Spake Jamison, who would rather charge than discuss.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “I should have seen it coming.” He knew Governor Citale was easily encouraged by money. So it was only a matter of time.

“But the entire Special Force?”

He looked around for his pipe, filled the bowl from a small leather pouch and lit it. Smoke slid from his clenched teeth and toward the ceiling.

The Special Force was the unit charged with protecting the border from rustlers, bandits and Indians. His own force, the larger one, was charged with protecting the rest of the state; his men were spread out in all corners of Texas. He was good at keeping them where they needed to be. At least most of the time. Texas was a huge place and no one could be everywhere at once. He had done a good job of securing credit for their efforts; most often with him making the statements.

Puffing on his pipe helped him think. Should he inform his own men of this abrupt change? Regular wires kept his Rangers moving on their assignments—and their return telegrams kept him informed of their progress. What would they think? He knew what they would think and didn’t like it.

“Temple should have known better than to send Rangers into Lady Holt’s territory,” he declared. “And John Checker no less. Damn.”

He hadn’t seen any of Temple’s Rangers since the word went out. Nor had he seen Temple waiting in jail for a hearing. Without knowing the details, he understood the charge against Temple was false. If anyone could be trusted with public money, it was Temple. The charge had to be political, an easy way to get rid of him so this Sil Jaudon could take over. He didn’t know Jaudon but knew who he worked for. It wasn’t hard to figure out where this whole mess had come from. Lady Holt. She was scary. There were whispers that her empire might even become greater than the huge King Ranch one day.

Still, Captain Poe worked for the governor and at the governor’s request.

What should he do? He pushed himself away from his desk and went for more coffee. No one was in Ranger headquarters today, except him. There were rarely a handful at
any given time. A majority were on the trail somewhere, bringing justice. He liked it that way. A good time to catch up on paperwork and redirect his forces. He had no illusions about his job; it, too, was political. So far, he had been able to keep it in spite of two governors. The trick was to compliment the leader every chance he got—and to keep him informed of things happening around the state. It wasn’t really his job, but it made good sense.

The door to the small office opened and three Rangers stepped inside. All three were Temple’s men. Each had just received a wire notifying of his immediate release.

“What’s going on?” the chunky lawman yelled, and waved the wire over his head.

“I just heard Captain Temple’s been arrested,” the bearded Ranger said.

The third Ranger, a lanky man with mostly gray in his close-cropped hair, rubbed his unshaved chin and shoved his wide-brimmed hat back on his forehead. His left eye was covered with a black patch, a result of the war.

“This is Citale’s doin’, ain’t it?” he asked without expecting an answer. “Somebody’s shoving gold into his pocket real deep this time. That no-good sonvabitch.”

Captain Poe stood and removed the pipe from his mouth. He didn’t like this Ranger. Spake Jamison was a hard man and a longtime Ranger. A tough older breed of lawman. A lot like an older John Checker. Honest and no-nonsense. An eight-gauge, sawed-off shotgun was carried in a quiver over his shoulder to go with his belt gun.

“I’m as shocked as you are, men. Harrison is a good friend—and, I thought, a good Ranger. I intend to talk with the governor about this. I’m sure there’s a reason we’re not privy to,” Poe declared without looking at Spake.

“Is the whole Special Force gone—or just us?” the older Ranger asked, heading toward the stove and its waiting coffeepot.
Next to it was a short shelf littered with coffee cups, spoons and half-filled ashtrays.

Poe noticed he was holding a small sack in his left hand. Most likely it was licorice, Spake’s one vice. He didn’t drink or gamble. Supposedly, there was an older woman he kept company with from time to time. His long coat carried three old bullet holes and many trails; it hid a holstered Colt and a bowie knife. His shotgun chaps had seen long wear as well. And he moved like a man who had been in the saddle too long.

“I have been informed that is so,” Captain Poe said, pointing to a paper on his desk. “Sil Jaudon is the new Special Forces captain—and he has the authority to hire his own Ranger force. He is doing so.”

“That’s nuts. Just nuts,” the bearded Ranger declared, not moving from the doorway. “Doesn’t that damn governor understand what we do? Who the hell’s this Jaudon fella anyway?”

Poe returned the pipe to his mouth without answering.

After pouring a full cup of steaming black coffee, Spake Jamison blew on its surface and tasted the brew. “Got any sugar, Captain?”

“Over there. In that blue bowl.”

“Thanks. Didn’t see it.”

Laying his licorice sack on the shelf, he grabbed the bowl from its corner spot on the shelf. After pouring a short stream directly into the cup, he returned the bowl. He took a sip and asked, “What are ya gonna do about this mess, Captain? You know damn well our cap ain’t playin’ games with money. If’n anybody is, it’s that damn Citale.”

The chunky lawman shoved both thumbs into his gun belt. “You said you were gonna see the governor. You want us to go with you?”

“Say, I heard John and A.J. were fired—and charged with
murder. That right?” the older Ranger asked, enjoying the sweetened coffee. “Sounds like somebody’s been drinking too much—or smoking too much opium. Reckon the idea is to get rid o’ us.” It was clear the last statement was what he thought.

Poe placed both hands on his desk and frowned. “I’m afraid what you heard is true. John Checker and A. J. Bartlett have been dismissed from the Rangers—by the governor—and charged with murder. I don’t know any of the details.”

The older Ranger shook his head. Pointing a finger at the captain, Spake Jamison said, “What the hell’s going on, Captain?”

“Sadly, I don’t know. That’s why I’m going to see the governor.”

“What should we do?” the stocky Ranger asked, his face a tanned puzzle.

“For now, nothing. I don’t need trouble from…Rangers. I need time,” Poe said, sitting down again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish this report—and then go see him.”

The older Ranger drained the cup, set it down on the shelf, grabbed his sack and headed toward the door. “Well, I’m not waitin’ around to find out. Headin’ for Houston. Always liked that town. Should be able to find work there. Those ranchers’ll be worried about not having anybody around to stop those Mexicans coming across an’ gettin’ their beef.”

He stopped and held out the sack. “Almost forgot. Have a licorice, Captain. Just bought it. Good ’n fresh.”

“Ah, no, thanks. I’m just fine.”

The older Ranger held out the sack for the other two and both took black candy pieces.

“You’re gettin’ too old to be a Ranger anyway,” the bearded Ranger said, and laughed.

“Stiff-legged an’ all, I can whip your ass any day. Never forget that, boy.” Spake patted him on the shoulder and continued walking.

Captain Hershell Poe didn’t look up as the three men left. He drew on his pipe, but it had gone out. A swift pop of a match returned the tobacco to life. He didn’t like this situation at all and wondered if the governor realized what kind of repercussions this move was going to bring. Ranchers along the border would be howling. He knew what Jaudon was going to do, clean out the region for Lady Holt. That was obvious.

At least, John Checker was charged with murder and wasn’t nearby to cause more trouble. He didn’t know the famed Ranger well, but respected his fierceness. The thought of Spake Jamison and John Checker being teamed up made him shiver. A. J. Bartlett was a good Ranger, but nothing like either of these fierce warriors.

Straightening his string tie, he recalled hearing about a battle Checker and Spake had fought against a band of twenty Chiricahua Apaches three years ago at a stage station. The two Rangers were en route to El Paso and were riding to the station to get a meal. Three women and five men were riding to Santa Fe; one woman had three small children with her. The Apaches killed the stage guard and the station keeper before the two Rangers got there. Checker and Spake drove off the Indians, killing eight, then took the stage and its passengers safely to the next station.

He shook his head and shivered. There was no way he could have done that. But things were changing. Fencing was coming to Texas. Slowly, but it was coming. Already several big ranches in the Pandhandle were exploring cost-effective ways to control their lands and end free grazing. He had it on good authority, the governor’s, that Lady Holt’s empire would eventually be fenced as well.

He smiled and wished he had invested in one of the fencing companies popping up. Maybe there was still time. First, though, he had to assure the governor that he was with him in this latest decision. He fingered the pipe bowl, pushing in the tobacco shreds to make them fit better. It was a process he enjoyed, almost as much as the smoking. He relit the pipe and returned to the report he was finishing when the three Rangers interrupted. It was too bad, he thought, but one couldn’t always stand in the way of change. At least not and have a job.

An hour later, Captain Hershell Poe eased out of his carriage at the governor’s office, told the driver to wait and walked in.

“Governor…Captain Hershell Poe of the Rangers is outside. He requests a brief meeting, sir.” The stocky assistant tried to keep his forelock in place as he entered, but failed as usual.

Governor J. R. Citale looked up from his desk. “What kind of mood is Captain Poe in?”

Turning his head to the side, the assistant replied the captain seemed in a good mood, but he wasn’t a good judge of such things.

“Excellent. Show him in,” Citale said, and raised his hand. “Get a new box of cigars and bring them. You can interrupt us.”

“Yes, sir.”

The balding politican knew there would be repercussions from his firing of the Special Force. If Captain Poe objected, he had already decided to replace him. Only this replacement would be a political friend. He looked upon the expected uproar of ranchers along the border as a marvelous opportunity to raise more funds for his planned Senate race.
He would point out to them how someone like Lady Holt was helped when one was helpful in return.

“Thank you for seeing me, Governor. I appreciate it very much.” Captain Poe bowed slightly, his narrow-brimmed hat in his hand. “I just wanted you to know that I support your decision…concerning Captain Temple and his men—and will do whatever is needed to make the transition to Captain Jaudon a smooth one.”

“I was hoping I could count on your loyalty.”

“You can, indeed. Thought you’d like to know I’ve also been notified of John Checker’s death.”

“That’s a shame.” Citale blinked his eyes three times.

Captain Poe shook his head. “Oh, he was too violent for my taste. But my reason for coming…I have some ideas to minimize the reaction from, ah, the ousted Rangers,” he said, smiling. “In fact, I have it on good authority that Spake Jamison is heading for Houston. To find work there. Made me think.”

“Glad to hear about Jamison. Let’s hear your ideas.”

Licking his lower lip, Captain Poe paused. “Well, you’re going to get some hollering from ranchers, down on the border. They want Rangers to control those Mexican rustlers. And you’ve got out-of-work Rangers angry as hell.”

Governor Citale cocked his head.

“Maybe you should contact the big ranchers along the border—and send them their own ex-Rangers. Might solve two problems at once.” He motioned with one hand to suggest a wide group. “Offer to pay the ex-Rangers’ salaries. For a few months.”

“I like that.” The governor frowned. “But don’t you think these ranchers…ah, should pay for this service? Instead of the state?”

“Oh, you’re right. You’re right, Governor.”

Citale’s assistant entered with the box of cigars.

The governor nodded. “Excellent, Jeffrey. Captain Poe, would you care for a good smoke?”

“That’s very gracious of you. Certainly, sir.”