“I like it.”
Checker looked at Bartlett, then back to the two Gardner sons. “Got an idea of how we might get close. Maybe even inside. But it will take being very brave.”
“What do you want me to do?” Hans blurted, and crossed his arms.
Chapter Two
Minutes later, Checker walked with the boy toward the house. The tall Ranger had switched hats and pulled down the brim of the derby taken from the downed gunman to help keep his face covered. His rifle was cocked and ready, carrying at his side one-handed.
Bartlett and Rikor were headed for the back door, using the same approach with Bartlett appearing to bring in the oldest Gardner son. Rikor’s pistol, taken from the gunman earlier, was stuffed into his back waistband, so it wouldn’t be seen.
Checker straightened, lowered his rifle to his side, and pulled again on the brim of his adopted hat. He needed to get close. Pretending to be one of Jaudon’s men made the most sense. He hoped. He didn’t like using the boy for bait, but couldn’t think of a better way.
“Well, well, lookee here,” a yellow-haired gunman with a scrawny mustache and a leather vest greeted them at the door of the house. He stepped onto the porch to get a better view of the shadowed man advancing with the boy.
Checker kept walking, easing Hans to his left, so he could step in front of him if necessary.
“Hard to find a little bastard like that. Where’s the big one?”
“Don’t know.” Checker’s voice was little more than a hoarse growl. “Got any smokes? I’m all out.”
“You bet.” The yellow-haired gunman reached for his shirt pocket.
Checker drew closer, passing Hans.
“Keep your hands right there.”
Grim-faced John Checker shoved his rifle into the man’s belly. Moonlight shivered, for an instant, along its barrel.
“Wh-what? Who are you?”
“I’m Ranger John Checker and I don’t like what’s going on here.” Checker pulled the man’s revolver from its holster. “Turn around.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Ask another stupid question and I’ll go ahead without you.” The arrowhead-shaped scar on Checker’s cheek flamed with his anger.
“You’re buttin’ into somethin’ you shouldn’t, mister. This is Lady Holt’s business.” The yellow-haired gunman pushed out his chin and straightened his back.
“When I see her, I’ll tell her you were clear about that. Turn around.”
Slowly, the man turned. Checker handed the gun to the boy and told him to empty out the cartridges. He pushed against the gunman’s back with his Winchester as he waited. Hans completed the task and held out the gun. In his other small hand were the cartridges. The tall Ranger took the handgun and shoved it back into the man’s holster, then received the handful of cartridges and put them in his pocket.
“Now lower your hands and walk inside. You’re going to tell your boss that the boy’s been found. Say it wrong and you won’t know what happens this night.”
The house consisted of four rooms: a living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms. Pine floors were freshly swept; Checker had been here several times, as had Bartlett. The house had the feel of a woman’s care, even though Gardner had been a widower for nearly six years. Framed pictures of the family sat atop a cabinet in the corner, along with a kerosene lamp. The stone fireplace was the centerpiece of the main room; a small fire was mostly ashes.
Emmett Gardner stood near the fireplace, his face hard and drawn. Hands at his sides, both clenched into fists. A blooded gash on the side of his head spoke silently of an earlier attempt to fight back. On the other side of the fireplace a white-faced boy of fourteen stood. Beside him an ugly brown dog waited for instructions.
Sitting at a large brown sofa that was pushed against the north wall was a half-breed gunman drinking coffee. His wide, moon eyes never left the old rancher. The half-breed grinned a mouthful of missing teeth, bright against his skin, in response to a joke only he knew. A torn spot on the side of the sofa looked as though someone had tried to sew it together unsuccessfully. The half-breed’s face was a constant smirk. It pleased Checker to see that the sofa-seated gunman wasn’t holding a gun. A rifle lay at his feet; a holstered handgun was barely visible under his worn Navajo coat. Checker knew the gunman. Luke Dimitry. Some said he had killed twenty men.
At an adjacent table, a large, pig-faced man in a three-piece suit sat in one of the four unmatched wooden chairs. His hat brim was pinned to its crown in the style favored by some Civil War officers. He was holding two gold-plated revolvers with ivory handles, both aimed at the old rancher. His eyebrows were plucked clean like a Cheyenne warrior’s, giving him an even more sinister appearance.
Checker guessed this was Sil Jaudon, the transplanted Frenchman who led Lady Holt’s gang, according to Ranger reports. Jaudon had supposedly come from New Orleans, where he had been involved in a number of killings.
“B-boss, h-he found the b-boy,” the yellow-haired gunman announced stiffly as they entered and motioned toward Checker and the boy behind him.
Wagging its tail, the dog trotted across the room to greet Hans.
Jaudon’s face became a smile and the guns returned to their position of aiming at Emmett. “
The tall Ranger stepped forward from the shadows, pushing the guard to the side, and swung his Winchester toward Jaudon.
“Drop your guns. Do it now.” Checker pointed at Jaudon, then spoke to the gunman in the sofa. “Dimitry, don’t move. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“S-sorry, boss. He got the drop on me. He’s a R-Ranger,” the guard said, his shoulders slumping in shame.
Grinning savagely, Sil Jaudon kept his revolvers directed at the old rancher. “
“I’ve taken lead before, Checker,” Emmett growled, and straightened his shoulders.
Checker raised his gun to fire. “A shot to the head usually stops such a reaction. Let’s find out.”
Jaudon hesitated, as if waiting for something or someone.
Emmett waved his arm toward the kitchen. “There’s another o’ them bastards outside the back door.”
“He’s got a rifle,” Andrew, the fourteen-year-old son, volunteered, pointing in the same direction.
Bartlett and Rikor stepped through the small kitchen into the main room, almost on cue. In front of them was a disarmed gunman with eyebrows that sought to live together. His pockmarked face was more yellow than tan and he wore a long red silk scarf around his neck; its silk ends dangled near his belt.
“There isn’t any more,” Bartlett said. “Wilson’s down, too. But you already knew that, didn’t you, Frenchie.”
“You all right, Pa?” Rikor asked, and knelt to pat the dog. “How about you, Andrew?” He looked down at the animal. “And you, Hammer, how are you?”
“I be fine, son. Jes’ fine. Now. So’s Hammer.”
“Yeah,” Andrew said, then hurried to hold his father.
Shaking his head, Jaudon muttered something in French, released the hammers on his guns, and laid them on
