The bartender froze and slowly lifted his hands. Along the bar, the string of customers snapped from watching Rule to realizing there might be a closer problem. The three standing closest to Bartlett spun away with their drinks untouched and headed for the back door.
The remaining gunman’s face turned white. He was young and full of himself. But this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Word had come from Hires immediately after Rule had left. A sweat bead slid from his forehead down to his chin and dangled there for an instant before dropping. The stranger hadn’t reacted as he was supposed to. Sheriff Hangar told Vincent to get Rule Cordell into a fight and the other Holt gunmen would kill him.
It would be easy, over with in seconds. The infamous Rule Cordell would be dead and the immediate ruling, by Hangar, would be self-defense. He had been thinking to himself how he would tell the others at the Holt Ranch how well he had handled himself.
Now he shivered and hoped he wouldn’t die. Not here. Not today.
“Drop your gun,” Rule growled, “or use it.”
The young man swallowed. He didn’t dare look down at his groin where his pants were turning wet. He unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop.
“There’s more.” Rule’s eyes tore into the terrified man.
A Colt appeared from the man’s back waistband and was discarded as if it were hot.
Four businessmen broke for the back door and disappeared to safety. A drunken cowboy yelled a tribute to the Confederacy. Most of the remaining patrons were hiding behind overturned tables; a few remained seated as if nothing had happened.
Noise at the doorway became Sheriff Hangar. The look on Hangar’s face was shock, then annoyance, as he entered. He had expected to see a dead Cordell.
“What’s going on here?” the lawman demanded, waving his hands. “You’re under arrest.”
Both of Rule’s handguns swung toward him and Hangar was unsure of his next move. He looked around the room for signs of support and saw only frightened faces. He regretted not bringing a shotgun, fully expecting the three men to have eliminated this new owner and what he meant.
“No, Hangar. Not today. Go play Lady Holt’s game somewhere else,” Rule said.
“We know who you are. You’re Rule Cordell. No wonder you’re mixed up with Emmett Gardner and his damn rustling,” Hangar said, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. He wanted to draw his holstered gun, but it didn’t seem like a wise thing to do and managed to fold his arms.
“Yes, I am Rule Cordell.”
Hangar frowned at the admission. “Rule Cordell is an outlaw. You’re under arrest.”
“Better check your facts. I got a pardon from the governor. A long time ago,” Rule snarled. “I’m a rancher. Just bought Emmett Gardner’s place.” His stare made Hangar look down at his boots.
“A rancher who doesn’t want any of Lady Holt’s nonsense about rustling,” he continued. “Do you really think there’s a real man in town who believes Emmett Gardner rustled any of her beef?” He waved the gun in his right hand for emphasis. “Did you see any of those rebranded steers, Hangar? Did you? Do you think a savvy ol’ rancher would do something so goofy looking? Why would he?”
Rule Cordell’s face tightened. “No, he’s a man of honor…like Ranger John Checker and Ranger A. J. Bartlett. You wouldn’t know much about those kind, would you, Hangar? Everybody knows they saved the Gardner family from being murdered by Jaudon and his bunch. You do, too.”
“Gardner has the right to a trial. Tell him to come in.” Hangar found a little courage and lowered his hands slowly to his sides and stared at Bartlett. “You, you’re Ranger Bartlett, aren’t you, mister? You can give yourself up, too.”
“I’ll wait for a real judge,” Bartlett barked.
“Don’t tell us about justice, Hangar. You don’t have any idea what it means,” Rule said. “But you will. And you won’t like it. Neither will Opat or Jaudon—or that woman you all work for.”
The room jingled with murmurs of concern.
Sauntering into the saloon came Eleven Meade, his long blond hair swishing along his collar. Rule guessed the man’s appearance wasn’t planned, judging by the look on Hangar’s face—and the amused expression on Meade’s. The New Mexico hired killer stopped beside Hangar and, in a stage whisper, asked the sheriff if the man at the bar was Rule Cordell.
The sheriff nodded his head, then grimaced.
Meade’s toothy grin reminded Rule of a mountain lion seeing an easy prey. Rule didn’t know the well-dressed man, but recognized the slight bulge under his coat, at his hip, was a gun. It looked as though another bulge would be a shoulder-holstered weapon. Who was he? Surely not a deputy. Most likely, one of Lady Holt’s gunmen in town for some reason.
Bartlett knew and stated his recognition clearly. “Well, well, Eleven Meade. I see Lady Holt is paying well for her guns these days—or did the New Mexico law finally chase you out of there?”
Any noise in the room was sucked away by the challenge. Another table was overturned and four men scrambled to huddle behind it. Somewhere a man was trying to sing “Nearer My God to Thee.”
Meade studied Rule as if trying to determine where they might have met. His grin transformed into a cruel sneer.
Bartlett demanded Rule’s gun belt from the bartender, slipped it over his shoulder and stepped away from the bar. It was a smart move, Rule thought, separating the two of them if shooting started. Rule’s only interest in Meade was his hands. Right now they were at his sides.
“Well, who’d you come to shoot in the back, Meade?” Bartlett yelled as he stopped beside one of the overturned tables. “Emmett Gardner? Morgan Peale? Charlie Carlson? Someone in this room? Who did Lady Holt pay you to kill?”
On the other side of the table, one man prayed and another told him to be quiet.
Smiling evilly, Meade patted his coat where the gun rested. “I came to kill John Checker—and I did.” His cackle rattled around the intense saloon. “He tried to escape from me, but I am too good.”
It was Rule who responded first, but both guns remained pointed at Hangar. “No, you’re known for shooting opponents in the back. You ambushed the Ranger while he was fighting Holt gunmen to keep them away from Emmett Gardner and his family. There’s no way a piece of scum like you could face him. No way.”
“He was wanted, dead or alive. For murder.” Another cackle followed Meade’s first.
Two cowboys slipped out the back door; one hesitated and looked back before going on.
Sheriff Hangar nodded. “That’s right. Now he’s worm meat. Morgan Peale—an’ that black shooter of hers— took his body an’ buried it.” He avoided matching Rule’s hard stare.
“I dug it up just to make sure,” Meade giggled, and waved both arms. “He was bloody and full of holes. I added another. Just for the hell of it. Right between his eyes.” The giggle became a hearty laugh that surprised even Hangar.
Unable to hold back his anger any longer, Bartlett screamed from across the room, “You bastard! John Checker was the best Ranger Texas ever had. You murdered him—and all of Texas will know it.” His eyes were wide and hot. His gun swung toward Hangar and Meade.
For an instant, Rule thought the distraught Ranger was going to shoot.
So did Hangar, who flinched and ducked.
So did Meade, who stepped behind Hangar and slipped his right hand inside his coat.
Blinking, Bartlett caught his fury and turned it aside. Rule glanced at him and was proud of his new friend’s determination. Killing the two men now would only complicate their task, not ease it. Lady Holt had the upper hand and they needed to leave without more violence. Their appearance—and the news of the new Emmett Gardner Ranch ownership—would rattle the region.
The handful of men remaining in the saloon would tell everyone what they saw and heard. It was enough for now.
Swiftly, Rule shoved both guns in his pockets and moved toward the bent-over Hangar and Meade to block Bartlett’s view, in case he decided to fire after all.
Stopping within two feet of the shootist, he folded his arms. “You’re a really tough man, Meade, aren’t you? Next, maybe you can shoot one of the kids outside. Of course, you’ll need help from Hangar here. Maybe he can rig up some kind of phony rustling charge. Better yet, a phony murder charge. Ask Judge Opat to help. He’ll be glad to.”
