Outside Caisson, Rule wanted them to wait, near a small grove of pecan trees and a sometime spring. They would be able to see in all directions a long way. It made sense to stay out of town, but all three refused. Bartlett said he had let Checker talk him into staying with the wagon and now his friend was hurt or worse. Emmett agreed. So did Rikor. Rule Cordell understood their concern, but pointed out that their arrival in town would make it more difficult to determine what had happened to the Ranger.
Reluctantly, he agreed Bartlett could go along, but he would have to alter his appearance. He convinced Emmett and Rikor that he needed them to wait, in case they had to make a run for it from town. Splitting their resources made sense. Besides, the old rancher and his son were well known in town; Bartlett wasn’t.
A short ride later, the two entered the south edge of Caisson. Bartlett wore Rikor’s battered chaps and Emmett’s coat and hat. It was a long way from a perfect disguise, but it might do the trick. No one would be expecting the Ranger; that was in their favor. No one knew Rule. At least, not by sight.
Midday activity was brisk. No one seemed to notice the arrival of the twosome, and for that, Rule was grateful. A freighter rumbled beside them with the driver yelling at his mules. He waved, between curses, as his wagon headed out of town and Rule returned the greeting.
They passed the hosteler leaning on a pitchfork at the Howard Livery and Grain.
“Wonder if the fellow with the carriage stopped there?” Rule asked.
The ears of his mustang sprang up to determine if the words were for him.
“Let’s find out.” Bartlett reined his horse.
They swung their mounts around and returned to the livery.
“Howdy. Didn’t happen to rent a carriage this morning, did you? Rode east an’ back this morning,” Rule said, leaning over the saddle. He smiled; his manner was nonchalant.
The bald-headed liveryman studied the former gunfighter for an instant, then looked at Bartlett, trying to place them. He spat a thick brown stream into the worried ground and said, “Why ya askin’? Are ya lawmen?”
Rule laughed. “No, I’m not. This is my friend Bart. Saw the tracks coming in. Been thinking about getting one, a carriage like that—for my wife and me. Thought I’d see if that carriage fellow liked it.”
“Don’t figger a fella like you’d like ridin’ no carriage.” The man rubbed his bald head and looked down at the pitchfork. “There’s a few round, ya know.”
Without a pause, he rattled off six names of men in town who owned carriages; none had used them this morning, including Alex Wilkerson, the town mayor. Rule tried to think of a tactful way to excuse himself as the man continued describing each owner without seeming to take a breath or even spit.
Finally, he said, “Ya might be lookin’ for Eleven Meade, though. He rode in not long ago, left his carriage hyar. Didn’t rent it. It’s his.” He motioned with his free hand toward the stable. “Reckon he wouldn’t care if ya looked it over. It’s a good ’un.” He rolled his eyes. “Strange name. Eleven. Don’t tell him I said so. He’s that, ah, shootist. From over New Mexico way.”
“Oh, I won’t. Sure, I’d appreciate taking a quick look.” Rule swung down and handed the reins to Bartlett. They exchanged looks that indicated their hunch was right.
The gunfighter knew of Meade; he was a ruthless back-shooter who killed easily for money. Rule didn’t care about seeing the carriage, of course, but it made sense to act that way. Bartlett said he would wait outside.
The liveryman followed Rule, eager to point out aspects of the carriage. “See them fancy wheels? Mighty fine. Got a fine top, too.” He spat again and added, “She’s got a crank axle. It’s bent twice…ri’t thar an’ thar. That gives it a low sit, ya know, makes them wheels look even bigger.” He shook his head in support of his statement.
Rule nodded, eyed the white cat resting on the carriage seat and leaned over to examine the underframe. He couldn’t care less, but it made sense to follow through with his story. The bald hosteler kept jabbering, pointing out the dirt board that kept dirt from the axle itself and other structural details.
“That thar drag shoe looks like it needs some work.”
“How’s the ride?” Rule asked, standing again, rubbing his horse’s nose.
Cocking his head, the liveryman gave a long answer that basically meant he didn’t know. Without being asked, he said Meade went to the sheriff’s office, but he didn’t know if he was still there or not. He added that Hangar had county authority as well as being the town law.
Rule thanked him and declined the man’s offer to see Meade’s horse. He said he understood when the liveryman told him the cat wasn’t his, that he didn’t let cats sit on his carriages. The offer to order him a carriage was also declined, with Rule saying he would talk with his wife about it. With the liveryman still talking, Rule walked outside and swung back into the saddle. He waved good-bye and loped away.
His mind had already settled on the interesting coincidence of Eleven Meade riding near the dead horse and not pausing to see what had happened. It meant the shootist already knew. Meade had either shot Checker or been involved in the shooting.
A few minutes later, they reined their horses in front of the Hires & Ludlum Land Attorneys and Real Estate Agents office. Rule eased down, flipped the reins around the hitching rack and strode quickly onto the planked boardwalk. His spurs rattled their agreement. Bartlett was a few strides behind, looking at both sides of the street as he moved. Two couples passed with only perfunctory greetings, as were his.
Elrod Hires looked up from his cluttered desk as Rule stepped inside. In the uneven light of his small office, he examined the stranger, wondering what he wanted. That the man was armed was evident by the bulges under his long black coat. It was against the law to carry weapons in town, but Hires didn’t intend to bring up the matter.
His eyebrows arched haughtily as he looked up from his desk. A half-finished cup of coffee, a partially eaten donut on a saucer and a stack of papers occupied the polished walnut desktop. The desk itself was the only thing in the crowded room that spoke of quality. A gift of appreciation from Lady Holt.
Rule folded his arms. “Am I speaking to Hires—or Ludlum?” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew the contract.
“Elrod Hires, sir. How may I help?” The businessman with the wide mustache made no attempt to stand or hold out his hand in greeting.
“Bought the Emmett Gardner Ranch and I want to register the ownership,” Rule said, stepping forward and laying the paper on Hire’s desk. “You’ll find it’s been witnessed by Lawson Docher. You may know him. He’s the land agent over in Clark Springs.”
The businessman stared down at the papers, then lifted them, acting surprised at what he saw. He shivered, dropped the paper and picked it up again. He saw the second stranger come inside, nearly close the door, then stand beside it, looking out through the crack at the street.
Taking a deep breath, Hires bit his lip, pulled on his right ear nervously and said, “I believe I should inform you that Mr. Gardner is suspected of rustling. A warrant is out for his arrest.” He forced himself to look up into Rule’s face. “You would be doing your duty to inform Sheriff Hangar of his whereabouts.”
“What I do after registering this purchase is my business, Mr. Hires,” Rule said without raising his voice.
“Y-yes, of course. Of course it is.” Everything about the manner of this stranger bothered Hires. He didn’t like surprises, to begin with. Who was he? The stranger’s long black coat added to an ominous look. Did he know this man? He didn’t think so, yet there was something familiar about him. Who was his companion?
Rule folded his arms. “Mr. Gardner was riding on. Headed for Nebraska. Had his family with him. Told me about the problem with what’s-her-name? Holter?”
“Oh, that would be H-Holt. Lady Holt, sir.”
“Never heard of her.”
Hires straightened his collar and said a wire, from Ranger Captain Sil Jaudon, had come to the sheriff and the town council yesterday. In a self-serving style, he pointed out he was a member of the council. The message said Jaudon and his fellow Rangers would be coming from Austin to rid the area of lawlessness. The wire said Emmett Gardner, John Checker and A. J. Bartlett were wanted dead or alive.
“Of course, the Checker fellow is already dead. He was shot yesterday, resisting arrest,” Hires added.
At the window, Bartlett jerked in reaction to the awful news and spun around. “John killed? Oh my God!” he blurted. “He stopped all those Holt gunmen with his life. Oh my God!”
The rest of the statement caught up with him.
“Captain…Sil Jaudon?” he asked. “How the hell could that happen? He works for that witch Holt.” He shook his head and his shoulders shuddered. “Reckon they’ve got us coming and going.” His face was torn with agony.
