Ride for Rule Cordell

“Thought you were headed for Houston, Spake?”

He hadn’t answered Spake’s question, but this might get him off the subject.

“Changed my mind.” Spake took a piece of licorice from the sack and tossed it toward the bearded Ranger. “I asked you a question, boy. I don’t like folks not answering my questions. I always have the feeling they’ve got something to hide.”

“Is that a threat, Jamison?”

Scratching his chest through his shirt, the old Ranger thought a moment. “That was a statement of fact, Poe.” He adjusted the shotgun quiver strap on his shoulder.

Trying to deflect the intensity of the older man, Captain Poe turned in his chair toward the other former Rangers. “Well, how’d you men like the idea of getting good pay?”

“Poe, let’s quit dancing here. We came for one reason. So you could make us Rangers. Again,” Spake said. “Like I told you, we’re heading for Caisson. So let’s do it. We’ve got some hard riding to do.”

Frowning, Poe threw up his arms. “Make you Rangers? I can’t do that. I’ve already got my full battalion. You know that.”

“No. We don’t.”

“I—I don’t have that kind of bud get. The state of Texas isn’t very generous, I’m afraid.”

“You aren’t listening, boy. We want our badges, not money.”

Captain Poe stood, pushing back his chair. His hands trembled so much he held them behind his back. This was idiocy. Didn’t these men realize how things worked? Didn’t they realize no one could just do what they wanted when they wanted? A grim smile reached his mouth and vanished. Maybe someone like Lady Holt could. But not ordinary men and women.

“Look, men. If I did what you ask, I would be directly insulting the governor.” Captain Poe reinforced the statement with a wave of his right hand and quickly returned it to his back to rejoin the other.

“Harrison Temple refused a direct order from the governor. He was insubordinate and had to be removed,” he continued. “That was before all this money fraud stuff surfaced. Understand?”

Without thinking about it, he brought both hands forward and waved them wildly. “I am not about to be removed by the governor. You and I don’t know that Jaudon might be a fine Ranger captain with an excellent force of men. We don’t know that.”

He stopped and took a deep breath; most of his fear left with the following exhalation. “I am sorry Jaudon didn’t see fit to ask you to stay on. But that happens. Men are hired—and fired every day. Please. I am trying to find jobs for you on ranches that need protection. It’s the best I can do.”

With another deep breath, he sat in his chair and looked down at his desk. He didn’t look up again until he heard the door slam. They were gone.

Chapter Twenty-four

“Do not talk to thunder and lightning. Do not challenge thunder and lightning. There is no pity, no caring, no understanding. I do so as a young man only because my vision showed me the Thunder Beings were there to guide me, not hurt me. Few are so chosen,” Stands-In-Thunder said to John Checker in the dark dream that engulfed the Ranger’s wounded body.

In the world of dreams, the old man told Checker part of the war chief’s spiritual connection included never to eat any raw meat, to sing a special song during all storms, always to carry white stones and a hard ball from the buffalo’s stomach into battle and to paint his face and body with lightning bolts and hail marks. His medicine also came from the Sky Beings—and the great Thunderbird itself. Few Comanches would ever challenge the Thunderbird as the old war chief had done.

Suddenly the dream turned ugly and one of the Indians standing beside the old war chief pulled a gun from his robes and began shooting at Checker. Then another pulled a gun from a pipe bag and fired at him, too.

“Tuwikaa, the raven, no longer tells us where the buffalo have gone,” Stands-In- Thunder pronounced as if nothing were happening. “White soldiers have burned our lodges, and killed our women and our children. You are a white man. You are to blame.”

In his dream, Checker pleaded with the old man as the other Indians began to shoot at him. “I buried you, my father. With your best horse and your finest weapons. I prayed and sang for your spirit passage. I watched your spirit ride toward the great valley of wonder and youth.”

From somewhere came an old brown horse. Someone pushed a sack of food and a silver dollar into his hand and told him to run. Once again, his sister was beside him, wanting to go with him, tears filling her pale face. He promised to return when he could. She wanted something of his, a tangible thing to be his promise.

“Wait, Johnny…please,” Amelia said, her face wet with despair, her eyes bright with fear. “I want something of yours. To hold. Please.”

Grabbing his shirt, she pulled free a button from it. But this time it wouldn’t release and she was swept away into the shadows. Even in his dream, her face was a mere blur now. The only place he could actually see her—or their mother—again was in the small photograph pushed in the lid of his pocket watch.

Over his shoulder, a dark shadow appeared. It wore a bowler hat and held a rifle. Beside the looming shape was a carriage and a single horse breathing fire through its nostrils. The horse burst into flames and became a giant bird.

Checker was suddenly awake.

Where was he? Where were his guns? He shook his head and the ache came back. He was in some kind of sleeping clothes and his wounds were cleaned and wrapped in bandages. He heard voices in the other room. Was it A.J.? Had the Gardners made it safely to Rule Cordell’s house? How long had he been here?

He looked at himself and remembered getting shot and trying to escape. What happened? His body was weak and pounding with pain. He looked down at himself again and was comforted to see he was wearing Stands-In- Thunder’s medicine pouch.

Lying back on the bed, he drifted again into another tortured dream. His sister was gone, as were his father and his two sons. Only Stands-In-Thunder remained. Checker touched his hand to his cheek and mumbled, “Yes. We fight in…Llano Estacado. It was many years back. Don’t you remember?” He used the Spanish name for the Staked Plains where the Comanches once were the lords. The rest of his words were nonsense only his sleeping mind heard.

In the other room, Rule, Bartlett, Emmett and Rikor were talking at the same time, almost delirious about discovering John Checker was not dead but wounded. Emmett had introduced Rule and Bartlett; Morgan had introduced them to London Fiss. Morgan and Fiss explained they thought it was the only way to protect Checker; they didn’t know exactly what had happened or where the Gardners had gone. All of the group were thankful for their help and their smart decision.

The Peale Ranch house was small, but sturdily built from a combination of rough-hewn logs, adobe bricks and flat boards. Two bedrooms were in the main house; London Fiss slept in a room built out from the barn even when Checker wasn’t there. Inside the main house the feeling was warm—and definitely a woman’s.

Fiss studied Rule as the group described what had happened on the trail and in town. Finally, the black man said, “Believe I know you, sir. Or of you.”

The other conversation stopped.

“My cousin, Alexander Morrison. Lives over your way. He told me about you and your wife helping…us. Teaching our children. You stopped one of those awful clans that killed Suitcase…Mr. Eliason.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fiss. Suitcase was a good friend,” Rule responded. “My Aleta enjoyed her time with the children. She said they were bright and eager to learn.”

“It was very much appreciated,” Fiss said, “and please call me London.”

“I’d like that. My name is Rule.”

Rule shared that Eleven Meade said he had dug up Checker’s grave and shot at the body. The gunfighter cocked his head slightly and added that he didn’t think the killer had done so, because it would have taken some serious work.