Ride for Rule Cordell (19 page)

Only the sky’s pink underbelly signaled a new day. Five riders on four horses and a buckboard were black shapes against a brightening prairie. With Checker leading the way, Rule Cordell, Emmett, Rikor and Morgan Peale rode silently. London Fiss had volunteered to stay behind in town to see what might happen.

A cold wind intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more depressing than it was. Checker was drawn sadly to memories of his best friend and the realization that they didn’t matter anymore.

The old rancher drove his buckboard carrying the wooden casket with the wrapped body of A. J. Bartlett. The casket had been donated by the undertaker. Checker had bought a new suit—and new socks—to bury his friend in. Bartlett’s journal had been placed in the casket as well, along with a book of Tennyson’s poems.

Their destination was a shallow rock pond the two Rangers had discovered when they had ridden from town to help Emmett. The pond was on the eastern corner of Morgan’s land. She had readily agreed to the burial there.

Checker tried to stay focused on what was ahead of them,
instead of letting memories wash away his thinking. As usual, no one disagreed when he said where he wanted Bartlett buried. Rule’s eyes were clouded with his own anguish. Emmett glanced at his son, shook his head and cursed at the awfulness of the day.

As they rounded a patrol of boulders, Checker pointed at a glistening small pool twenty yards ahead, crowded with two cottonwoods, a mesquite tree and a patrol of bushes. The water itself was only a sometime thing, resting on a bed of white and brown rocks. A jackrabbit skirted from the green protection as they approached.

“This hyar be a ri’t purty place, John.” Emmett stopped the wagon and admired the tree-clustered pond. “Too small for herd use.” He rubbed his unshaven chin, as if deliberating his statement, and wrapped the reins around the brake stick.

Morgan smiled thinly and nodded. “Yes, it is. Quiet. Peaceful. I’ve always liked this place. I think A.J. will, too.”

Birds of red, brown and yellow were gathered in the trees, discussing their next meal and where it might come from. As the four men drew close, flapping wings made all of them reach for their guns.

Behind the shallow pond a few feet were three large, flat rocks piled upon each other with a fourth lying next to them. Rikor stared at the rock grouping and thought it was a grave; he sniffed away his runny nose, keeping his face away from the others.

“Rode by here when we were on the way to your place,” Checker said. “A.J. thought it was pretty. Reminded him of his home. As a kid. Back in Ohio.” He swung down and looped his reins around a low mesquite branch.

“Probably quoted Tennyson,” Rule said with a wry smile, reining his horse and dismounting.

“Yeah, something about ‘the white flower of a blameless life.’ ”

Rikor pulled his horse alongside the wagon, jumped down and spun his reins around the wagon’s brake stick.

“Any folks we need to be tellin’?” the young man asked, staring at the casket.

Checker explained there were two brothers and a sister, all back in Ohio. Ranger headquarters had the addresses, he thought. He would get them when he was in Austin. Emmett glanced at Rule, who was tying his reins to a cottonwood branch, but said nothing.

“What about a lady? A wife?” Rule asked without turning.

“No wife. There was a lady he mentioned several times.” Checker twisted his chin and tried to recall the name. “Harriet. Yes, Harriet. I should write to her as well.”

Rule glanced at Emmett and decided this wasn’t the time to ask the Ranger if he knew the woman’s last name—and where she lived. Morgan bit her lower lip and looked away.

“Hand me the shovel,” Rule said.

“I’ll dig the grave.” Checker’s tone was thunder.

Sternly, Emmett told the Ranger that he wanted to share in the work. So did Rikor, almost apologizing. Rule said he did, too. It would be his honor. After a few minutes, they selected a level place between the two oldest cottonwoods. Checker dug for twenty minutes, then handed the shovel to Rule. The tall Ranger was pale and gasping for breath. The four men rotated the digging and completed the task quickly with Rikor doing most of the final dirt removal.

Standing around the freshly mounded grave with its wooden cross in place, Checker spoke first, holding his hat in both hands. “A.J., ride easy, my friend. I put your notebook with you. Figured you and St. Peter will have some things to go over. Like you always did with…me. You’re ready to see him…with a new suit…and socks.” He choked back the emotion.” His hands tightened around his hat brim. “You
have my word I won’t stop until this evil woman is finished. Or I join you.”

With that he walked over to his horse and produced a small book of Tennyson poems. He flipped open the pages and read the first three stanzas of “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” “ ‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred… Someone had blunder’d; Theirs not to make reply…Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or die…Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them…Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell…Rode the six hundred.’ ” He put the book down to his side and knew he couldn’t read more.

Silence grabbed the small group until Rikor began to sing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Morgan joined him, then Emmett and Rule. Checker tried, but couldn’t.

When it was finished, Morgan stepped beside the grieving Ranger and took his hand.

Rule glanced at his new friend and said, “Let us pray. O God, our Father, whose very breath gives life to the world and whose voice is heard in the soft breeze of the morning and the great thunder in the evening, whose very touch gives color to the sunset and the birds of the land; hear us now. Our voices are small, but steady, for we mourn the passing of our great friend, A. J. Bartlett.

“He is coming to you now. You will know him by his great brave heart, his love for his friends and his enjoyment of poetry. He comes to you without shame, with clean hands and without fear, but he leaves us with many tears. It was too soon, O Lord. We need your strength and wisdom to understand.

“Direct us to ride in strength. Your strength. Help us learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and every rock. Help us to remain steadfast against those who would destroy us. Ever give us the song of A.J.’s laughter in our hearts. We ask this in Thy name. Amen.”

Morgan’s face was laced with tears as she murmured, “That was beautiful, Rule.”

Checker took her to him and held her. Tightly. Letting his hat drop to the ground. Then he walked over to Rule and hugged him, then the others, patting each on the back. His eyes were filled with wetness.

It was Emmett who finally broke the spell of the moment. “Well, we need to be movin’. A.J. wouldn’t have wanted us a-mopin’ over him. No, he wouldn’t’a.”

Picking up his hat and returning it to his head, Checker said, “You’re right, Emmett. We need to ride.” He walked over to the cross and adjusted it. “Adios, my friend. I will miss you.”

Softly, Morgan said, “Let’s go to my place for some coffee and breakfast. We need it, I think. Mr. Fiss should be rejoining us soon.”

Checker turned and his face was hard. The words from his mouth were Comanche. A commitment to death to his enemies or to his own in trying. Only Rule understood and whispered the same Comanche promise.

Six mules pulled the inbound heavy stagecoach from Austin along the rutted road. It was nearing noon on the day of A. J. Bartlett’s burial.

As the heavy vehicle rocked and bounced like a ship in a stormy sea, Sil Jaudon wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, brushed off dust from his coat sleeve and cursed softly in French. The other passengers had given up trying to keep dust from their clothes and sweat from their faces and had disappeared within themselves. The heavyset man laid his head against the leather-upholstered row with the wall of the carriage and shut his eyes. His third gun, carried in his belt in back, was causing him discomfort no matter how he sat, so he finally withdrew it and laid the gun on his lap, apologizing in French.

On his coat lapel was a Ranger captain’s badge. Already it had brought him much attention and the interest of one of the women passengers. The woman had a birthmark that covered most of her left cheek. She had approached him at the last stage station. He guessed she was a whore headed for Caisson. When he got to Caisson, the first thing he intended to do was eat; then he would take advantage of her offer.

Already he could envision a big steak and potatoes at Lourdeson’s, his favorite restaurant in Caisson. Lady Holt could wait. Besides, he already knew John Checker was dead; Sheriff Hangar’s wire had informed him. Of course, that would make Eleven Meade her favorite for the moment, maybe even more than Tapan Moore, her current lover.

So be it, he told himself.
I am ze Ranger captain and he eez not. When I kill ze bastard, no one will care. Except her
. He smiled.
Maybe I will kill Tapan, too
. He glanced outside, pushing aside the window’s shade. No more than three hours from Caisson.

Above the thunder of the road, the driver’s shouts to his team—and the crack of the nine-foot whip—were a constant reminder of the stage line’s emphasis on speed. When climbing aboard, Jaudon had noticed the stage was carrying express freight and mail, along with passenger luggage. Only three men passengers had been allowed to sit on top; there was no room for more.

Concerned, the driver and guard were exchanging thoughts about what they were seeing ahead. He caught part of the conversation. “Looks like a bunch of them. They carryin’ a flag. Never seen the like before.”

“Do you know ’em?”

“They ain’t soldiers.”

“It’s wide-open country, Buster. Nobody’s gonna try to hold us up here.”

“Maybe.”

“ ’Sides, I ain’t takin’ on no army. Must be twenty or so.”

“You just keep that scattergun pointed at that fella with the flag. I don’t like this.”

“You’re getting jumpy in your old age.”

“I’m a-gonna keep them mules a-goin’.” The driver snapped his long whip over the top of the team to reinforce his intent.

Gripping his hideout gun, Jaudon leaned out the window and saw one silhouette coming closer to the coach.

For the dramatic impact of the passengers, Jaudon flipped back his coat to reveal the two additional ivory-handled, gold-plated pistols carried in formfitting holsters at his waist. But he knew immediately it was Tapan Moore, Lady Holt’s curly-haired gunman with the toothy smile and square jaw. He was leading a band of Holt gunmen. As if leading a cavalry unit, he held a red flag bearing the design of a phoenix. The banner fluttered as they neared the coach.

Jaudon leaned out as far as he could and yelled to the driver, “
Arreter!
Stop ze coach. Stop ze coach. Those are my men.”

“Hold up, mister. No need for trouble,” Tapan said, grinning. “We’re here to escort Ranger Captain Jaudon to the Holt Ranch.”

A second rider emerged from the pack. Dressed in city clothes and obviously uncomfortable, Wilson Tanner declared, “I am the new municipal judge of Caisson. We have an emergency in town that will require Ranger Captain Jaudon’s immediate attention.”

“Well, that’s where we’re a-headed,” the driver said. “What kinda trouble?”

The stage jerked and bounced as the driver pulled the mules to a stop.

“Do what he says,” the shotgun guard said. “This ain’t no holdup.”

“Hey, Jaudon. They wanna take you to Lady Holt’s. Instead of going on to town. Says there’s trouble there. Sound all right?” The driver’s voice was gruff but worried.

Jaudon took a deep breath. “
Oui
…ah, yah. That is
bien
. Ah, good.”

He leaned out again, but could only see part of Tapan, who touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Good to see you, Sil.”

“
Bonjour
, Tapan. What is going on?”

Jaudon liked the young gunman, even if Tapan was currently Lady Holt’s favorite. He had seen them come and go. His own involvement with the British leader was strictly financial—and that’s the way he wanted it. They had made an agreement in Houston when he met her.

“Lots going on. John Checker’s alive—and riding with Rule Cordell. The other Ranger’s dead. Hangar’s out as sheriff. The blacksmith’s wearing his badge. For now. Opat’s out as judge. Tanner’s in,” Tapan said, looked up at the driver and smiled widely. “Your stage isn’t in any danger, mister. It’s political stuff.”

“Oh. Well, if’n you’re sure. Don’t want to be takin’ these folks into some kind of shootin’ trouble.”

“You won’t.”

Jaudon sat back in the seat and straightened his cravat. His mind made no attempt to settle on Tapan’s news, except for Checker being alive.
Damn, that fool Meade’s a bald-faced liar!
he muttered.
Just like that bitch to make me come directly to ze ranch. Wonder if she’ll have anything good to eat.

From outside again came Tapan’s voice, more urgent this time. “Come on, Jaudon. Lady Holt’s waiting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

“
Oui
.
Oui
. I am coming. I am coming.”

The heavyset Frenchman slowly opened the coach door and stepped outside, shoving his hideout gun into his back waistband. He glanced back at the blotchy-faced woman, arched his shaved eyebrows and smiled. The doorway clipped his hat with the pinned brim and sent it spinning.

“What about your luggage?” the driver asked. “It’ll take a while to clear it from the others.”

“
Non
.
Non
.
Merci beaucoup
,
monsieur
. I vill get it later. At ze station in Caisson.” Jaudon picked up his hat and shoved it back on his head.

“Good enough.”

The shotgun guard sat with his weapon on his lap and studied Tapan Moore. “Don’t I know you from somewhere, mister? The war, maybe? I rode with Longstreet.”

“Could be. Were a lot of us in that awful thing.” Tapan grinned without answering directly.

“Yeah. Sure ’nuff,” the guard responded, and rubbed his thick mustache.

A bearded gunman brought forward a saddled, riderless horse. Tapan took the reins and waited for Jaudon, leading the horse beside a large rock. Awkwardly, the fat man pulled himself into the saddle, using the rock as a stepstool. Tapan waved at the driver and guard, swung his horse around and kicked it into a gallop without waiting for the Frenchman. The band of gunmen followed.

Annoyed at the suddenness of it all, Jaudon stared after them, then kicked his horse into following.

“I know who that was, Buster,” the guard said. “Just came to me.”

“Yeah, who?” The driver snapped the reins and yelled at his team to start moving again.

“That was Tapan Moore.”

“Tapan Moore? The gunfighter from down around El Paso?”

“That’s the one. Hear tell he’s a bit crazy in the head.”

The shotgun guard shifted his weight as the driver restarted the team. “He is. That’s where I remember him from. He was yelling and screaming. In a Rebel army hospital. In Tennessee, it was. During the war.”

“Sorry to see he’s working for that Holt woman.”

“Reckon she’s the only one hiring guns. They say she brought in that half-breed…ah, Dimitry.”

“Damn. He’s a bad one. Heard tell somethin’ about Eleven Meade comin’ this way, too.” The driver snapped the reins again.

“Heard that.” The shotgun guard settled back against the coach frame. “Don’t understand how that Frenchman got to be a Ranger captain, do you?”

The driver yelled again, snapped the reins again and said, “No. I don’t wanna know, either. Stay as far away from that Holt woman as you can. She’s pure devil, boy. Pure devil.”

“Didn’t he say those boys were Rangers?” The guard frowned.

“Yeah, guess he did.”

“Guess that means Tapan Moore’s a Ranger.”

“Damn.”

As the stage bounced over the ridge, Tapan, Tanner and the other Holt man eased their horses to a walk to wait for Jaudon. Already the Frenchman’s horse was laboring under the man’s weight.

“What’s going on?” Jaudon demanded as he caught up. “Do
vous
have
nourriture…
ah, any food? I am starving.” His horse, thankful for the rest, spotted some blades of grass that looked interesting and began to nibble on them.

”You’ll have to wait, Sil.” Tapan fiddled with the flagpole resting in a special saddle sheath and pointed toward the closest ridge.

From over the rolling land came another rider, riding sidesaddle on a black horse. Lady Holt’s long red hair danced on her shoulders. She was dressed in a dark red riding suit with a matching hat highlighted by a crimson feather. Black boots, decorated with beading around the top, reached past her knees. In her black-gloved hands was a coiled whip.

“
Bonjour
, Madame Holt.
Tres heureux de voux
,” Jaudon declared loudly, removed his hat and bowed from the saddle.

She nodded in return. She loved the sound of French and knew he had said he was delighted to see her.

The pig-faced Frenchman in the dust-laced, three-piece suit opened his mouth, shut it and finally asked, “
Comment allez-vous
?”

“
Assez bien
,
merci
,” she responsed to his polite question of how she was doing.

Tapan’s face reddened with jealousy, but he kept telling himself that she was interested in the fat man only for business.

“Let us ride, Sil,” Lady Holt said. “I’ll tell you on the way. The rest of your men are waiting outside town.”

“I thought we were going to, ah, your place,” Jaudon said.

“Not now. We have work to do.”

The Frenchman’s stomach growled.

Late afternoon brought new fear to Caisson.

Riding down the main street of town came Lady Holt with thirty-two armed riders strung out behind her. Beside her was Sil Jaudon. Behind him rode Tapan Moore holding the red flag. They rode slowly down the street like a cavalry unit taking a predeteremined position.

People stopped and stared. Word sped through the stores and offices. Lady Holt had come to town. Traffic in the street disappeared magically. A stray mongrel dog dared to bark and was shooed into silence by three men.

No one noticed Wilson Tanner returning to the livery a few minutes later. He shook his head, watching the Holt army take control of Caisson just by entering it.

In front of the telegraph office, Lady Holt reined her horse and swung down from her sidesaddle rig and handed the reins to Tapan. Jaudon dismounted in awkward stages and handed the reins to Tapan as well.

She stood, letting the drama of her appearance be absorbed by the townspeople. She enjoyed the effect and decided
she must do it more often. She commanded Tapan to hold the men in the center of the street until they returned. With that, she went inside the telegraph office with Jaudon a few steps behind. The telegraph operator almost stumbled, attempting to greet them. He was shaking from nervousness.

“A-afternoon, L-Lady Holt. Ah, C-Captain Jaudon. H-how may I help you today?” The greasy-haired operator rubbed his sweaty hands on his wrinkled pants.

“He needs to send a wire to the governor. Now.”

“Of course. Of course. I’ll get you some paper—ah, and a pencil,” the operator declared, turning around and banging into his own desk.

“I have no need of either. Here.” She held out a folded piece of paper. “Send this.”

“I—I certainly w-will, ma’am. H-hope you are d-doing well today,” he said, his hands shaking. “W-we don’t have the h-honor of your presence…in town…often enough.”

Her smile was one of disdain. “Send the wire.”

Methodically, he unfolded the paper.

TO GOVERNOR CITALE:

RETURNED TO FIND ANARCHY IN CAIS-SON. SHERIFF AND JUDGE HELD. OUTLAWS IN CONTROL. DEMAND FULL AUTHORITY TO RETURN ORDER. AWAIT YOUR ORDER. CAPTAIN JAUDON

She watched him read the message and snapped, “What’s the matter?”

“Ah, nothing, I guess.” The operator sniffed nervously.

“Do you disagree with this assessment?”

“Ah, no. No. Of course not. Glad Captain Jaudon is here to…help.”

“Send it.”

Jaudon sneared as the operator sniffed again, unlocked the telegraph key and began sending the message.

“I know Morse code.” She folded her arms and one eyebrow arched triumphantly.

He nodded and ignored the sweat bead rolling down from his forehead and finding the end of his nose.

On the corner of the operator’s table was a folded paper, a message received but not delivered. Jaudon looked closer. Rule Cordell’s name was written in the upper corner. Without asking, he picked it up, unfolded the paper and read:

ELEVEN MEADE DEAD…STOP…TRIED TO AMBUSH US…STOP…HE DID NOT SUCCEED…STOP…ALL WELL…STOP…LOVE, A

He handed the paper to Lady Holt, who read and returned it to the fat Frenchman, who laid it back on the table. If the operator noticed, he didn’t say.

“At least that explains why he didn’t wire me,” she said. “I thought he had run off with the money I paid him.” She paused and her eyelashes flitted as if out of control. “Where is that money now? I want it back.”

Turning toward Jaudon, she told him to wire the Clark Springs marshal and follow up. He should claim the money was stolen. Without waiting for his response, she took a sheet of paper from the desk, wrote a short note about retrieving the “stolen” money and laid it beside the operator tapping out the initial message. He would know who to send it to in Clark Springs. On top of the sheet, she left several coins.