don’t have to bring you in alive. You come after our friend Emmett and you’re going to die.”
Chapter Eight
John Checker rode hard toward Emmett Gardner’s ranch. Behind his bay was a sturdy packhorse carrying a load of supplies and ammunition. The general store owner had been helpful, but careful no one from Lady Holt’s ranch was close when he was. Checker’s mind was whirling with what they must do. Now they didn’t even have the law of Texas riding with them. They were outlaws.
Outlaws. He had been on that side once. A long time ago. When he was a young man riding with the burn of Dodge City in his heart. But that was a long time ago and Texas had held his loyalty—and his gun—since then.
Now? Swirls of childhood memory worked across his mind. His real father had been a gang leader with a disreputable saloon in Dodge, a corrupt man who took what he wanted, when he wanted it. J. D. McCallister had two legitimate sons, Starrett and Blue. The evil man’s blood ran through Checker’s veins even though the man wanted no part of him or his sister. Maybe that’s all Checker was, really. Maybe he was nothing more than McCallister’s blood and the evil man’s temper boiled easily within him.
He shook his head to clear it. He was a Texas Ranger. A good one. A proud one. He would act like one, even if the governor had fired the two Rangers. His mind slid to Lady Holt; she was older than he was, but she was very attractive. To any man. More importantly, she was powerful. Powerful enough to get the governor to have them dismissed as Rangers. Just like that.
Easing his horse into a smooth lope, he followed the narrow stream that led toward Emmett Gardner’s ranch and tried to think of their next strategy. Emmett had been right about the judge—and the sheriff. Still, what the two Rangers had done was the right thing, bringing Jaudon and his men into town to stand trial. That was the way they were trained, use the local law whenever possible.
Would he stand trial for murder?
No. He would not give himself up to Hangar or Opat. Or anyone else under Lady Holt’s control. Not even the governor. Citale was a cheat. A weak man swayed by any sign of power. Or money. But that didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was helping their friend. He was certain Emmett wouldn’t leave his home. The old rancher would choose to stand and fight. Lady Holt would count on that.
“Emmett needs to do what she doesn’t expect,” he muttered to himself, and surveyed the plains ahead.
His horse’s ears twitched to determine if the words had significance to his performance.
“Sorry, boy, I was just jabbering to myself.” Checker patted the horse’s neck and the animal refocused on the trail.
It was good grazing land with long gramma grass. Dark cattle pockmarked the green as far as he could see. It was land worth fighting for—and dying for, if it came to that. Lady Holt had already made it clear she favored the latter—for his friend and anyone else who got in her way. Rumors were sliding across the region that she intended to fence in her land with that new Glidden’s fence; “the Devil’s hatband,” some called it. Barbed wire.
Overhead, the sun was losing its fight with the sky and three brave stars had already slid into the north sky. To his left he could see a small pond shimmering yet from the weakened sunlight. Shadows were gathering around the water to celebrate.
Checker reached into his pocket and felt for the small white stone he knew was there. His fingers curled around it and he smiled. It had been a gift from Stands-In-Thunder. A rock, the old man said, that carried much power. If one listened closely. Checker had always brought tobacco, cloth and a fine hunting knife as gifts when he visited the Fort Sill reservation. The old war chief had proudly given him the white stone, a war club and the medicine pouch Checker wore.
He rubbed the medicine stone with his fingers. “I need you to talk to me.”
After a few seconds, he released his grip. Stands-In-Thunder had told him the stone talked to only a few, and the song came directly to the warrior’s heart. But the more he rode, the more waiting for Jaudon and his men to attack didn’t make sense. Maybe that was the song he sought.
He had bought Emmett some time and they had to use it wisely.
First, with the imprisonment. But that would last only until someone heard them yelling.
Second, his warning would make them wary. Maybe make some of the gunmen decide to ride on. The end result, though, would be a larger force coming at them. Lady Holt would supplement Jaudon’s men with more gunmen or more of her regular cowhands.
What if the governor ordered in Rangers? He wouldn’t put it past him. But that would take time. The closest Rangers, he thought, were working along the border under Captain Temple’s direction. Would their Ranger friends actually take action against them? What if she was able to secure federal troops?
He rode without paying attention to the trail or its surroundings. It was unlike him, but his thoughts were on what they were up against. His mind acknowledged he was lonely and had been since he was forced to flee Dodge City as a boy. A few years ago, he had bought a house for a widow and her two small children because they reminded him of his own childhood. He was not interested in the woman—as a woman. Only as a mother who needed help and he had the means to do so. His fellow Rangers couldn’t figure it out; Bartlett knew without asking.
Maybe his own loneliness made it so important to see Emmett and his boys secure. That and the fact that he hated the kind of corrupt power seeking to consume them. Maybe his loneliness made him a better Ranger. Maybe.
With a shrug of his shoulders, he realized he was closing in on a buckboard ahead. The driver had the two- horse team trotting well. From the looks of the wagon bed, it was nearly filled with supplies. The driver was a young woman with a determined look on her face. Her range clothes couldn’t conceal her figure. A wide-brimmed hat concealed most of her face, except for long brown hair.
His gaze shifted to the older black man riding a paint horse alongside the rear of the wagon. Gray had worked its way into the black hair visible under a weathered hat. He was heavily armed. At the rider’s left hip was a short- barreled Colt, holstered for right-handed use. A longer-barreled revolver rested in a saddle holster in front of his leg. A double-barreled shotgun hung from his saddle horn by a leather strap.
Their eyes met briefly. Checker knew the man from years ago. London Fiss. He’d done a prison term for robbing banks and stagecoaches. Checker had been one of the lawmen who brought him to justice. What was Fiss doing with this young woman? Riding bodyguard? Did she know who he was? Her father might have seen the need for Fiss, especially now. Why did he not want to say her husband saw the need?
Swinging easily around the wagon, Checker pulled alongside the wagon and touched his hand to his hat brim. She glanced at him, dark eyes investigating his hard face, then returning to her horses. Fiss tensed. Checker nodded a greeting and the black gunfighter returned it and almost smiled.
The Ranger galloped on, pulling on the lead rope of the packhorse. His mind returned to the woman for a few moments. She was quite beautiful, in spite of her frown. She must be headed for one of the other small ranches in the area. The wagon turned east and headed down that trail. A string of dust followed. He rode on, watching her.
She turned to look at him and smiled. He returned the smile without looking at the black man.
Who was she? he wondered as he nudged his horse into a hard run.
Chapter Nine
After Checker rode on, the buckboard and its outrider continued in silence for several minutes. Finally, Morgan turned toward the black gunman.
“You know him, don’t you?”
Fiss nodded without looking at her.
