children died years ago from pneumonia.
Under his coat in a shoulder holster, also set for left-handed use, was a second revolver, a short-barreled Smith & Wesson. It, too, was pearl-handled with similar strange markings and a left-handed loading gate. He had named the gun “Illumination.”
His lean face was reddened, partly from the sun, but mostly from a condition that left it that way most of the time. Light blue eyes were accented by his skin color and a well-groomed mustache. His face and hands were as delicate as a city woman’s. Blond hair washed along his thin shoulders. Across the bridge of his carrot-shaped nose was a scar, the result of a whiplash.
It wouldn’t be hard to track Checker—or his horse—in his condition. He expected to see the Ranger lying on the plains. Or staggering ahead on foot. Certainly his horse had wounds that would stop the animal soon. Jaudon’s men could find their own way back to town or recapture their mounts by themselves. They weren’t his problem. John Checker was.
He smiled and patted the rifle beside him. The same markings seen on his pistols were engraved into the rifle stock. It, too, had a name, “Master Vibration,” but there had been no loading modification.
“You will die today, John Checker,” he declared, patted the white cat lying on the carriage seat and snapped the reins of his horse. “You will die.”
His chuckle was drowned out by the clatter of carriage wheels.
Chapter Thirteen
Clearing the ridge, Eleven Meade saw nothing, except cattle, on the grasslands ahead. He shrugged and eased horse and carriage down the rocky slope. Going around would be much easier, but would take too long. He wanted to see John Checker die, not find him dead.
He hated this kind of endeavor, preferring the excitement of towns. Waco and Denver were his favorites, followed by Santa Fe. However, the law in New Mexico had made his life there uncomfortable, to say the least. Lady Holt’s offer had been both timely and generous.
Staying at Lady Holt’s magnificent ranch headquarters was a pleasant surprise, however, enjoying her excellent French wines, Cuban cigars and meals prepared by superb Italian cooks and a polite waiting staff. On those matters, he agreed completely with Lady Holt’s right-hand man. However, Sil Jaudon was no match with a gun—and the fat man knew it. About Tapan Moore, he wasn’t so sure.
Trotting across the rich grazing land, he spotted two silhouettes against the horizon, partially blocked by steers working their way through breakfast. The sight confused him. Had some of Jaudon’s men recaptured their horses and gotten in front of him? Couldn’t be. More likely, it was Emmett Gardner and one of his sons. How nice, he thought. Lady Holt would pay well to have this problem removed as well.
The shapes ahead of him began to form into people and horses as he neared. He moved the Evans rifle to his lap and cocked it. A black man and a woman. The black man seemed vaguely familiar to him. He assumed the woman was Morgan Peale. He had been told this was her land. Beside them, a horse was down and unmoving, presumably Checker’s animal, dead or nearly so. She was kneeling beside a man. Beside John Checker, he figured.
Alertly, the attractive woman with a leather vest stood and turned toward the incoming carriage. In her hands was a cocked Henry rifle. She said something to the black man that Meade couldn’t hear. She took the reins of their horses and held them as the older man spun smoothly to meet Meade’s advance. In the black man’s hands was a double-barreled shotgun.
At that moment, Meade made the decision not to reach for his own rifle. John Checker might choose to go against six guns, but he had no intention of attacking a man with a shotgun. That’s how a man got killed. Like the Ranger.
“Mister, you’ve come far enough,” she said. “Turn around and ride away. Do it now.”
Meade reined in his carriage horse, keeping his hands in full sight. The horse stutter-stepped to comply. His cat meowed its discomfort at the sudden change. The shootist was confident they couldn’t see the rifle on his lap from this distance.
“I don’t understand, ma’am,” Meade said. “I am taking a morning ride. With my cat. What is the problem?”
“Take your ride—and your cat—somewhere else. I’m Morgan Peale and this is my land—and I don’t want you, or your kind, on it.” Her voice was hard and thick. “You work for Holt. She buys your gun.”
Meade shrugged his shoulders. “I shall leave. I shall leave.” He motioned toward the downed Checker. “Is that man hurt? Is he dead? Is he a friend?”
“He is a Ranger, but you already know. That’s why you and your friends shot him. He’s everybody’s friend who obeys the law.” Morgan cocked her rifle. “But you wouldn’t understand, would you, Eleven Meade?”
The well-known shootist was mildly surprised to see he was identified. And pleased.
“You look familiar, sir,” Meade said.
“I’ve heard that,” Fiss growled. “Don’t all black men look alike?”
Meade chuckled. “I meant, have we met, sir?”
“No.”
Meade cocked his head and decided not to pursue his curiosity further.
From over the ridge, three Holt riders appeared, mounted on recaptured horses. One was Dimitry. Meade glanced in their direction and turned back.
“You are outnumbered, sir,” Meade declared.
“Ever see what nine slugs does to a man? And that’s just one barrel,” London Fiss replied. “You will die first. Mrs. Peale will get at least one of your friends. We’ll put lead in the other two before we go down. How’s that for numbers?”
“Your acumen with arithmetic is most impressive, sir,” Meade answered, biting his lower lip, raised his shaved eyebrows and declared, “Lady Holt will triple whatever she’s paying you. Triple. If you ride away now.”
“Ride on before I unload this scattergun.”
Without another word, Meade turned his carriage around, snapped the reins and the carriage headed away. Behind him, he heard the woman give orders about watching them leave.
Halfway across the open grazing land, Meade met the three riders and told them what had happened. Only Dimitry seemed interested in seeking a closer look, casting a quick look in the direction of Morgan Peale and Fiss, then deciding against the idea.
Meade didn’t look back, smiled and said, “You can forget about John Checker.”
“That him on the ridge earlier?” a bearded gunman asked.
“Yeah—and on the ground back there. He’s dead—or dying.”
“Where are the rest of ’em? Emmett and his boys?” a second gunman asked.
Meade clicked his horse into a walk again, pulled on his bowler brim and said, “That’s your problem. I took care of mine.”
Dimitry laughed. “Ah, it has been your day.”
“Always is.”
“If you have killed the big Ranger, the half of me that’s Indian will sing songs about you.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Governor…Captain Temple of the Rangers is outside. To see you, sir. As ordered.” The stocky assistant stepped into the governor’s office and pushed the thick wave of dark hair from his forehead as he spoke.
“Good. Show him in.” The balding, narrow-faced governor said. “Bring me some coffee. Two spoonfuls of
