Ride for Rule Cordell

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, A.J. If they get past me, your gun will be needed,” Checker said, and turned in the saddle toward the wagon. “Emmett, push through the Holt land fast. We don’t want to get boxed in there.”

“We won’t, John,” Emmett said, licked his lower lip and added, “You be careful.”

“Sure.”

Checker spun his horse and rode first to Rikor to inform him, then galloped toward the ridge. He wasn’t certain what he would do at this point. All he knew for sure was that he needed to delay them. At least until they crossed Lady Holt’s land. If he could turn them around or put them afoot, that would be perfect. He pulled his Winchester free of its special saddle horn sheath and cocked it. There was a reassurance in the click- click.

If he was right, the riders had come to the house, discovered it empty and begun trailing them. It wouldn’t have been difficult, even at night.

Ahead was a long ridge composed of boulders, trees and weary buffalo grass. On its far side was a stream that stayed strong most of the year. He guessed the riders would follow the stream and attempt to get in front of Emmett’s family before showing themselves. Getting close enough would require his being skylined for a minute when he crossed the top, but he didn’t see any other way.

He nudged his horse into a lope over and down the other side and onto an Indian pony crossing, narrow but defined, separating the higher bank to his right from loose gravel and rocks to his left. Nearby a mockingbird made fun of the world. In the uneven morning light, he could make out six riders ahead. They were concentrating on the trail in front of him and didn’t see his approach. None looked like Sil Jaudon. Or Tapan Moore. Checker guessed the fat man wouldn’t care too much for riding a horse—or the horse, either, for that matter. He didn’t have any idea why Tapan wasn’t with them.

Luke Dimitry! He was one of the six. The wild half-breed was riding on the farthest side of the group, probably acting as the scout.

They were following the stream and the ridge toward where they assumed Emmett and his family were headed. He reined up, kicked his right leg over the saddle and eased to the uneven ground. Pain shot through his left leg and he knew it would be difficult to run. Getting too close would only expose him to six against one. A large rock outcropping with two hearty pines guarding the projection would serve well to cover his horse.

He tied the reins to a low branch using a one-pull hitch. A swift getaway would be likely, especially when he wasn’t likely to get there fast. Clucking its annoyance, a prairie sparrow scurried away from the thick brush around the trees. A shoot-out against six gunmen wasn’t anybody’s idea of a good time. But he needed to delay them and give Emmett and the others time to push across Holt land.

He was counting on the fact that they wouldn’t be expecting anyone to be trailing them. Studying the ground near and below him, he decided on three moves to give the illusion of multiple shooters in the grayness of the new day. But he had to take into account that his wounded leg was stiff and unlikely to respond well.

Adjusting himself into position behind a bump in the ridge, he kept his leg straightened to help silence the painful throbbing. His first three shots with his Winchester intentionally cleared their heads by several feet; a fourth spat at a boulder ten feet from the first rider. Their reaction was what he had hoped for; they jumped from their horses and sought cover among the ridge’s welcoming boulders.

Overhead storm clouds were waiting for an opportunity to take over the sky. He guessed rain was only hours away. It would mean Emmett and his sons would be caught out in it, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. However, if he was lucky, he could stop the six riders from reaching them. Or at least delay them long enough; it wouldn’t matter.

Now he would shoot to stop them. They had been sufficiently warned. One of the hidden riders groaned as his exposed arm and shoulder became Checker’s target. Another stood to fire and Checker’s bullet stopped his intent. The Ranger decided to shift to his next position, about twenty feet higher, and try to get their horses running. Likely, one of the riders was holding the reins of all of the mounts. It was a typical cavalry tactic. Crouching, he ran as best he could to the fairly secure position behind a large cottonwood. His leg ached, but he ignored it. The new angle was what he had hoped for. He could see enough of the rider holding the horses to get a good shot at him.

Four shooters were concentrating their bullets on where he had been. He shoved new loads into his rifle, took aim and levered five quick shots. The first caught the man holding the horses in the arm; he yipped and grabbed it, letting go of the collected reins. The second pushed him to the ground and the third caught the saddle horn of the closest horse.

The fourth and fifth spat at the ground around the six animals. The horses snorted and reared.

Dimitry spun toward the wild-eyed horses, but Checker’s clipped shots returned him to cover as the animals shook themselves and ran. The other gunmen were silent, keeping out of sight.

Time to move again.

He looked down at the crumbling rock shale beneath his boots. Assessing his footing. His next position would be closer to his own horse, then away. A first step didn’t hold and he slid a foot in the loose rock. A rifle shot sang over the top of his left shoulder. Instant pain grabbed his lower back and he almost dropped his Winchester from his left hand.

From behind him! The shots came from behind him!

A shot, from the direction of the riders, grazed his arm as he scrambled to return to his horse. He was caught in a cross fire. How foolish to assume all the riders were together.

If he stopped, he was dead.

He half ran, half stumbled back, firing his pistol with his right hand wildly in the direction of the new shooter. Enough to give him some time. He didn’t dare hesitate long enough to fire his rifle.

The Lady Holt gunmen realized what had happened and began to fire at the fleeing figure. Bullets bit the ground and snapped at rocks and boulders. The only things saving him were the trees and the uneven light. And his own movement.

His horse’s ears were up and the animal was frightened and skittish. He forced himself to swing into the saddle as bullets sought them from both directions. It took every bit of his strength. There was time for only one attempt. Yanking on the reins to free them, he kicked the animal hard, but it was already running all out. Neither boot was in a stirrup as they bounded across the top of the ridge.

John Checker was dizzy from the loss of blood, but knew if he fell off now, he would be dead. He might be anyway. With bullets seeking them, horse and rider galloped up over the ridge and disappeared.

At a well-hidden position twenty-five yards away, Eleven Meade fired his special Evans lever-action repeating rifle once more and cursed. How lucky could one man be? Behind him was his carriage with its black horse; reins tied to a tree. Resting on the carriage seat was his white cat. He stood and brushed the dust off his gray frock coat with its velvet collar. Gray-striped breeches shoved into knee-length boots were complemented by an evergreen embroidered vest and a matching silk cravat.

He levered a fresh round into the gun and patted it; he liked the unusual weapon that used a short .44 cartridge and had a huge magazine of thirty-four rounds in the butt. The gun was too delicate for most, besides requiring an uncommon bullet. The company had gone under a few years ago for that reason; Meade had long since been making his own ammunition. He enjoyed the solitary precision of the task as well as the nightly ritual of cleaning his guns.

John Checker had been hit. Of that, he was certain. Hard, he thought. But a man like John Checker didn’t die easily. Of that, he was also certain. He hadn’t planned on following Jaudon’s riders after they discovered the Emmett Gardner Ranch was deserted. He wasn’t paid to chase after them. At the last minute, he decided to follow along, to get a better idea of what was happening.

Meade pulled on the brim of his black bowler as he climbed back into the carriage, pushed his cat over and carefully laid his rifle on the seat next to him. He didn’t hurry. That was for amateurs. Hidden by his coat, a pearl- handled Colt, with strange red markings in the grip, was carried in a form holster with the butt forward, readied for a left-handed draw. The gun itself had been modified with a left-handed loading gate. He had named it “Light- Bearer,” a designation related to meanings given the number eleven.

It was his real name. He was the eleventh child and last of a high priest and priestess of a small religious sect built mostly on astrology The other children were similarly named, one through ten. Both parents and six of the