Moonlight shivered on the dark water that fed upon most of his pants. He laid his Winchester against the edge of the creek itself. Hidden from the gunmen until they got close. Swiftly, he lifted the thong from the hammer of his short-barreled Colt carried in a reverse holster on a double-rowed cartridge belt. His hand gripped the black handles, carrying an embedded elk-bone circle on each side, and drew the fine revolver.
If they saw him, the short gun would be faster to bring into action. He froze in place as they came closer. He was certain they hadn’t seen him. A shooting encounter now might prove fatal for his old friend, Emmett Gardner. The smarter move was to determine what exactly was going on and where.
He and fellow Ranger A. J. Bartlett had come as soon as they received the wire from the gray-haired rancher. The two Rangers had hit town and learned from a loose-lipped cowboy that Lady Holt riders would descend on Gardner’s ranch tonight. They stayed only long enough to get fresh horses.
Right now, Bartlett was somewhere on the other side of the ranch yard, waiting for Checker’s signal to close in. If he wasn’t fussing with his new socks; things like that mattered greatly to his partner. He even kept a detailed journal of recipes of meals that could be prepared on the trail. Probably the result of growing up with schoolteacher parents.
So far, there had been no shooting. Most likely, this meant the old rancher and his sons had been surprised and subdued. Or it could signify something worse. A lone light in the ranch house gave no clue to what was happening inside, but Checker thought it was encouraging. He wasn’t certain how many gunmen were at the ranch, but guessed it was ten to twelve. Bartlett was uncomfortable with any estimate, especially one like that; Checker reminded him they wouldn’t know for certain until the attack was over.
The two gunmen finally stopped and stood above him on the grassy bank. Their rifles were carried casually in crossed arms. Both were looking back toward the ranch house. It appeared their only objective was to stay out of the way of others.
Checker dared not lift his head enough to see them any better. He had learned well from Stands-In-Thunder how a man could remain unseen by his enemies when actually in plain sight. No movement was the first requirement.
Courage was the second.
Third was to avoid staring directly at the person; such eye contact would often make the man realize he was being watched.
Ranger reports indicated Lady Holt had forty gunmen in her employ, including the notorious Tapan Moore and the half-breed Luke Dimitry. Were they all here? He didn’t think anything near that, but wasn’t certain. So far, his first guess of ten to twelve seemed right. Forty gunmen didn’t count all the regular cowboys who handled her vast herds. There was little in this part of Texas the English woman didn’t own—or control. There was talk of her employing the new devil’s rope to stop open grazing. Barbed wire would change everything, most agreed—and few liked the idea.
The two gunmen’s conversation was casual in the tense darkness.
“Looks like the ol’ lady’s gonna get her wish. Gardner’s spread’ll make it just about complete. The ol’ man’s got some fine water. Grazin’ land ain’t bad, neither. Sil said he’s gonna make him sign over his place—or start hangin’ his sons.”
“I was kinda hopin’ we’d just hang ’em all an’ get it over with. Hazel’s waitin’ for me in town. Damn, don’t know what Sil’s waiting for.”
“Lady Holt wants it this way. Nice an’ legal. Heard Sil’s gonna give him a thousand dollars for the ranch.” The taller man rubbed his chin. “ ’Sides, Hazel ain’t waitin’ for ya. She’d spin anybody who’s got silver.”
The shorter man flinched, but didn’t respond. Checker heard a match strike and saw the glow against the tall man’s face as he lit a cigarette. Tobacco smoke drifted down to him.
“Damn it to hell, you’re right about Hazel.”
“ ’Course I am. You oughta try that new blonde-haired gal.” The tall gunman grinned; white teeth gleamed in the night.
“Good idea. Thanks.”
“Say, how’d Rikor—and the kid—get away?”
“Wilson’s fault. Let ’em go piss—an’ Rikor jumped him. Took his guns.”
“Rikor any good with a gun?”
“Doubt it. Figger he’s a cowman. Like his pa. But so far, he’s been real quiet. Smart, I’d say.”
“Hey, Charlie’s got some who-shot-John in his saddlebags. Saw it. What say we go back an’ have at it? Nothin’s gonna happen around here. We can tell Sil we were checking on some noise. Thought it was Rikor.”
“I like the way you think.”
Neither heard the swift movement behind them. Checker’s gun barrel cracked hard against the taller man’s head and he shivered and crumpled. The shorter man spun toward Checker, trying to swing his rifle toward the Ranger. Too late. Checker backhanded him in the face with his Colt and he staggered backward and collapsed. The tall Ranger hit the stunned gunman again in the head; his hat bounced from his head. A soft groan was the only response.
With a quick look for assurance, Checker holstered his Colt and yanked the two unmoving bodies down into the creek bed. He threw their weapons into the night, grabbed his own Winchester and began crawling slowly through the creek bed. Where the creek turned sharply to the south, he climbed out and looked around. At least, he now knew why gunmen were stalking through the night around the ranch. Gardner’s oldest son, Rikor—and his youngest, Hans—had somehow escaped. Emmett Gardner and his middle son, Andrew, were being held in the ranch house, as he suspected.
Only the dark shapes of trees and rocks greeted him. Yet the darkness could easily hide armed men. His reputation for tracking outlaws at night was well-known. His visual intensity grew with the darkness. It had always been so. Seeing color and measuring distances were the only things that he could not do well at night. Several outlaws had been surprised by his sudden appearance at their nighttime camp.
He slid into the dark. All of the night sounds had disappeared. All of this was definitely a confirmation of Emmett Gardner’s wire for help. The two Rangers had been riding hard since the old rancher described a massive land grab under way with small ranchers being squeezed out or overrun. County law was worse than useless; the sheriff was in Lady Holt’s employ. Emmett said he feared his ranch was the next target.
It made good sense. This was fine cow country with lots of water—creeks and ponds born of a fat river—and hilly with fine stretches of grazing land in between. Along the waterways, oaks of every kind, cottonwoods, and large pecan and walnut trees were in charge.
Captain Harrison Temple readily agreed to their going. He was growing suspicious of the activity in the region. There was little in this part of Texas not under the control of Lady Holt, an extraordinarily wealthy rancher. There were even rumors of the notorious New Mexico hired killer, Eleven Meade, being in the area.
On top of that, Captain Temple worried about the rumors of her alliance with Governor J. R. Citale. The governor was a corrupt man, pushed easily by money. The rumors seemed to coincide with the growing gap between Captain Temple and the governor.
Checker touched the small buckskin pouch hanging from a leather strip under his shirt. A gift of wolf medicine from Stands-In-Thunder. The old war chief, then on a reservation, said the Comanche warriors called Checker
According to the Comanche, the mysterious beast gave him courage and was the reason Checker could see well in the night. Inside the small pouch, according to the old war leader, was strong
To his far left, gray shadows along the dark trio of cottonwoods introduced more gunmen. John Checker took a deep breath, drawing in the velvety cool air, and flattened himself with his rifle aimed in their direction. He wiped each hand on his pants, as if to help him pierce the darkness to determine how many were there. Less than fifty yards away from his position, the shadows were moving. Moonlight washed stingily across them. Six. Yes, six. They were obviously searching for the two Gardner sons. Shadows told him more men were searching on the other side of the ranch. His estmate was too low; there must be closer to twenty gunmen.
