As Hangar and Meade straightened, a pearl-handled gun appeared in the shootist’s fist. “No, I’m going to shoot you, Rule Cordell.”
Taking time to announce his intention was a mistake. Rule’s left hand was a blur that shoved the gun hand sideways. A bullet smashed into the far wall. Rule’s right fist was an eyeblink behind, slamming into Meade’s face and sending blood onto both of them. The shootist’s gun thudded on the floor.
From behind them, Bartlett hurried across the room, shifting the shotgun to his left and drawing Rule’s pistol with his freed right fist.
“Give me a reason, Hangar,” he bellowed.
The sheriff backed up, holding his hands away from his side.
Meanwhile, Rule drove his left into the gunman’s stomach. Meade bent over in agony, trying to find breath. A right uppercut sent the gunman flying backward. Unconscious, he slid on his back and stopped with his head against the door.
“When he wakes up, tell him to run—and run hard.” Rule turned toward Hangar and shook his fist to rid it of the pain. “I don’t like people who shoot people in the back.”
Hangar’s face was a snarl.
“And tell this Holt woman that the fire has come to town—and she isn’t going to rise. She’ll just be another fried bird, if she doesn’t stop.”
Rule yanked Hangar’s gun from its holster and pointed it at him. “You aren’t going to like the fire, either. Neither is Opat.”
Hangar glanced down at the groaning Meade as Rule took the shootist’s handguns and shoved them into his waistband beside Hangar’s. Swallowing, the sheriff managed to say, “Cordell, you and Bartlett will be sorry when Lady Holt hears this. She’ll come after you with all of hell. You have no idea what’s going to happen. I don’t know why you’re here, or why you bought that old man’s ranch, but it was a big mistake.”
Returning to the far side of the saloon, Bartlett retrieved the weapons of the standing gunman and the wounded one. He quietly told the young gunman that it would be wise for him to get out of the region. He walked over to the wounded gunman, lying like a child on the floor. Wimpering. A patron squatting behind the upturned table motioned toward the gunman’s revolver a few feet away.
Bartlett thanked him, picked up the gun and checked the wounded man for any hideaway weapons. After removing a second Colt from the man’s back waistband, Bartlett shoved it into his own with the others and strode toward Rule. Everything in him wanted to kill Meade. The bastard had killed his friend. Killed John Checker!
“Leave this piece of scum, A.J. Justice will get all of them.” Rule stepped past the dazed Meade to the door, recognizing the feelings of the Ranger.
Halfway through the door, he stopped and turned back toward the inside of the saloon.
“Gentlemen, tell your friends justice is coming to Caisson. Tell them Lady Holt isn’t going to run things anymore.”
Tossing the retrieved guns into the street, Rule Cordell and A. J. Bartlett rode hard until they cleared the town, both taking turns at checking behind them as they galloped out onto the prairie. Satisfied they were safe for the moment, the two eased their horses into a walk.
Shaking his head, Bartlett said, “Well, that’s one way of letting folks know.” He chuckled. “Why did you put your guns away?”
“It wasn’t my smartest move. I didn’t think Meade had the nerve to pull on me. I knew Hangar didn’t.”
“You wanted him to, didn’t you?”
Rule rode without speaking for a few heartbeats. “I guess I did. It gave me an excuse to hit him.”
“We’d better get your hands into some water. They’ll swell.”
“There’s a spring where Emmett and Rikor are waiting.”
Bartlett held his hand to his forehead and studied the horizon. “What’ll Lady Holt do…when she hears?”
Rule patted the neck of his horse. “She has to send Jaudon and his men after us. I’m guessing he’s coming from Austin.”
“That’ll be more than a handful. What are we going to do?”
“First, we’re going to ride to this Morgan Peale’s ranch and find out what happened to your friend,” Rule said, glancing back over his shoulder. “Then I think we should pay a visit to this lady.”
Bartlett adjusted his gun belt because it didn’t feel right.
“Then we need to see the governor.”
Bartlett’s shoulders rose and fell. “You mean, kill him?”
“No, I mean…get him to resign,” Rule said. “Something’s happened to your captain, too. We need to find out what.”
“I forgot about Captain Temple.” Bartlett licked his lower lip and stared at the land ahead.
Minutes later, they reunited with the two Gardners and shared the news with them. With Bartlett’s reminder, Rule soaked his hands in the cooling spring water. Emmett Gardner was visibly upset and slammed his fist against his thigh; Rikor walked away for a moment to hide his feelings. They agreed to ride for the Peale Ranch and see what had really happened to Checker.
Chapter Twenty-three
Eight well-armed men burst into Ranger headquarters. Captain Poe jumped in his seat.
“Mornin’, Captain. We need to see you.” The gray-haired man’s mouth was loaded with licorice “Got any coffee, boy?”
Without waiting, Spake Jamison walked over to the stove, grabbed a cup from the shelf and poured a cupful.
“What can I do for you men?” Captain Poe asked, sitting down again, glad he had worn a dark suit today as it hid the wetness around his groin.
“We’re headed for Caisson.” Spake poured sugar into his coffee.
The other seven men spread out in the room. One was also eating licorice. The shortest Ranger walked over to the stove and helped himself to coffee as well.
“Caisson? Oh, going to work for Lady Holt, huh?” Captain Poe asked. “I’m a little surprised, but I’m sure she pays well.” He pointed to his desk. “Been working on getting jobs for all of you Special Forces men. You know, with ranches along the border. It’ll take a few days, but you’ll like the pay, I’m certain. Better than Texas pays, that’s for sure.”
Spake walked over to the desk, swallowing the licorice before washing it down with coffee. “Wrong. Again, Poe. We’re headed to Caisson to help A.J. and those little ranchers. Gonna stop that damn woman.”
Captain Poe wasn’t sure how to react. He looked over at the other former Rangers; each man stared at him. None smiled. The shortest man stirred his coffee with his finger.
“Reckon you didn’t have much of a meetin’ with Citale.” Spake reached inside his shirt with his free hand and pulled out a wrinkled sack of candy. “Licorice, boy?”
The Ranger captain shook his head. “No…ah, no, thank you.” He rubbed his cheek. “I thought my meeting with the governor went quite well.”
Spake grinned; his single eye glared at the lawman. “So you got our jobs back—and Temple’s our boss again.”
“What?”
“You know. Our jobs? As Rangers? You just said the meeting went well,” the older Ranger said. “Maybe you define ‘well’ different than we do.” He cocked his head to the side. “That’s how I’d describe getting our captain out of jail—and his and all of our jobs back. How would you define it?”
The other Rangers supported his comment with strong grunted agreement. Another walked over to the stove for coffee. Captain Poe didn’t like where this was going at all. He didn’t like Spake’s insubordination. Spake didn’t understand how difficult it was to stay on top in Austin. He remembered the old warrior mentioning he was headed for Houston the last time they talked.
