“Who are you?” Hires asked.
“I’m Rule Cordell. He’s my friend,” Rule snarled. “Both of us know what’s going on around here—and we don’t like it.”
“I-s he…R-Ranger Bartlett? Ah, A. J. Bartlett?”
“Who’s that?” Rule asked.
“Oh, sorry. I just thought…”
“Are we finished, Mr. Hires?”
“Just about, sir. Just about.”
Rule’s mouth was a narrow strip, barely holding the anger he felt. “Let’s get it done, Mr. Hires. We’re in a hurry.”
After the recording of the transaction was completed, Rule and Bartlett left, swung back into their saddles and headed down the street.
Rule put his hand on the Ranger’s heaving shoulder.
Bartlett looked up and his face was filled with fury. “I’m going to kill that woman. Her and her fat Frenchman. All of them!”
Chapter Twenty-two
Quietly, Rule Cordell let A. J. Bartlett vent. It was needed and the former outlaw knew it. He had lost a stray dog during the end of the war and didn’t think he would recover from the dog’s death. The loss was bad, but his reaction made no sense in light of the fact many fellow cavalrymen were dying around him. Still…
“A.J., when we’re finished here, we’ll find your friend.”
“He’s dead. You heard it.”
“I heard he was reported dead,” Rule said quietly. “I was dead, too, remember? Maybe he’s hurt and needs our help. But I don’t believe he’s dead.” He paused. “We’ve got a little more work to do here. Are you up to it?”
“I am. Thanks. Think Hires’ll go see Hangar?” Bartlett said.
“Oh yeah. Has he left yet?”
Bartlett pulled on his hat brim and glanced back. “Yeah. Looks like some lizard in heat. Yeah, he’s definitely headed for the sheriff’s office.”
“A lizard with a mustache.”
Bartlett tried to smile.
“Let’s go to the saloon and see what’s new. I have a feeling we won’t be without company long.”
“Sure.”
“And deliver some news.” Rule’s face took on the hint of a smile.
“Even better.”
Rule and Bartlett rode down the main street and reined up at the Bar and Billiards Emporium. He shifted his backup gun to his long coat pocket. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but it didn’t seem prudent to be unarmed, even though he planned to appear so.
“Wait a few minutes before you come in,” Rule said. “Stay away from me. In case.”
Bartlett nodded as he swung down. Rule walked inside and the closest handful of customers looked up, several offered greetings, as he headed to the bar.
Hesitating, Bartlett took off his gun belt, hung it over his saddle horn and pulled free the Smith & Wesson revolver. He carefully placed the gun in his coat pocket. Adjustment of the weapon took a few moments until he was satisfied with its placement in Emmett’s coat and followed Rule into the saloon. Walking in Rikor’s battered chaps gave him a forceful stride.
After ordering a beer, Rule deliberately unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on the bar. Bartlett passed him and went to the far end of the bar.
“I’m new to town. What’s going on?” the gunfighter asked casually.
The long-faced bartender delivered the heavy mug with only a hint of foam and told about Mrs. Cunningham’s difficulty with her firstborn, about the coming celebration of the town’s founding and the arrival of a new attorney from somewhere in Ohio.
“Sounds like Caisson is growing,” Rule said. “That’s good. I’m planning on ranching near here. Good-looking land. Hear anything about a railroad coming through here?”
The bartender gave him a look that indicated he wanted to tell him something, then decided not to do so.
“Any trouble with rustling around here?” Rule asked, then took a sip of the beer, holding the mug in his left hand. His right slipped comfortably into his coat pocket.
Next to him, a clerk with lamb chop sideburns and a dirty shirt and paper collar stopped slurping his own beer, glanced at the bartender, then said, “Oh yeah.”
With another gulp for courage, the clerk told about Emmett Gardner being charged with stealing some of Lady Holt’s steers, and two Rangers being charged with murdering some of her men. He shook his head, looked around to see who was listening and decided against making observations about the situation.
The bartender leaned against the bar and quietly told about a wire coming yesterday, alerting lawmen in various towns. The wire said Emmett Gardner was to be arrested if seen and Sheriff Hangar was to be notified. Former Ranger A. J. Bartlett was wanted for murder. The wire had been signed by Texas Ranger Captain Sil Jaudon, now head of the Special Force. A second Ranger, John Checker, also wanted for murder, had been tracked down and killed.
Rule ran a finger along the side of his whiskey glass, trying to keep the emotion of again learning about Checker’s death from showing. “Sil Jaudon, you say? Don’t think I know that name,” Rule said, sipping his beer again. “Thought Temple was the captain. Special Force, right?”
“Yeah, Temple was,” the clerk said. “Some kind of money problem, I hear. Word is the governor kicked him out.” He adjusted his collar. “Jaudon, ah, works for Lady Holt.”
“I see.”
“Probably not, mister. You’re not from around here,” the bartender said softly.
Rule smiled and noticed three men enter the saloon and slide along the far wall. All wore gun belts. He noticed the bartender motion toward the stack of gun belts in the far corner of the back bar.
“Guess it doesn’t really matter,” Rule said casually. “I own the Gardner Ranch now. Bought it from him.”
The look on the faces of the clerk and the bartender was what he expected the news would do.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, mister?” The bartender’s glance behind Rule told the gunfighter what he suspected was coming.
Rule felt a hard grip on his right shoulder. He continued to drink as if the connection hadn’t occurred.
“You insulted my woman, mister. Turn around,” the tall bearded man behind Rule commanded from a foot behind him. His ugly breath snarled against the gunfighter’s neck.
Later, it would be argued by saloon patrons as to what actually happened next. Rule’s movements were one continuous blur. He tossed his beer over his shoulder, making his adversary blink, gasp and drop his hand from Rule’s shoulder. Spinning around, Rule swung the empty mug in his left fist and slammed it against the man’s beer-drenched face.
The would-be assailant crumpled to his knees and fell over like a shoved statue.
Rule’s gun appeared in his right hand and roared. He dropped the mug and yanked free the holstered gun from the unconscious man at his feet.
Standing across the room, the yellow-headed gunman staggered, groaned and buckled over. His dropped gun slid across the card table in front of him, spraying cards, chips and money. The cardplayers yelled and dove for the relative safety of the underside of the table.
“Barkeep, I wouldn’t do anything that would make me use this.” Bartlett swung his revolver onto the bar’s shiny surface and cocked it.
