After laying out a saddle blanket carefully on the ground, he straightened it several times and stretched out on the blue-and-green fabric. He withdrew his two pistols and positioned himself to study the ranch and its empty yard through his field glasses. The guns were placed at his side to allow for more comfort as he lay.
No Rule Cordell. At least not in sight.
In his mind, he began drafting the wire he would send to Lady Holt. After an hour, he decided he had watched long enough. Only a few children had ever emerged from the house to play hide-and-seek. If the former outlaw was in the house, he was apparently not coming out. The only thing to do was to ride down there and find out.
He would present himself as a horse buyer from Austin. If Cordell was there, he would return here and wait to kill him. That would definitely please Lady Holt. The price would be fair, even though the act was done before she told him to do it. If he didn’t get the chance—or Cordell wasn’t there—he would drive back to town and wire her what he knew and ask for orders.
After returning his revolvers to their holsters, he stood and wiped imaginary dust from his coat and sleeves. He straightened his cravat and his hat. When this was over, he would go back to the saloon and have a nice time with that Mexican waitress. He deserved it. Grabbing the blanket and folding it carefully, he carried it back to the carriage and laid the garment on the carriage floor.
Where was his rifle? He left it in the carriage with his cat, he was certain. He looked at the ground on all sides of the stationary vehicle. This didn’t make sense.
From behind a large boulder stepped a handsome woman with snapping black eyes and black hair pulled back into a single mane on her back. In her hands were two pistols. Silver-plated and pearl-handled. A few steps behind her came the vaquero from the saloon, holding the Evans rifle in his hands.
“You come lookeeng for
Taking a deep breath, Meade introduced himself as a horse buyer from Austin.
“Do you always look from ze hidden place?”
Licking his lips, Meade took off his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know how it must look. But I like to be careful. Found it’s easier to look at a man’s horses…when he isn’t standing right there, telling me how good they are. You know…” His voice trailed off.
“Is eet so important to carry so many guns when you do thees…thees horse buying?”
“Well, I’ve found it’s better to be safe than sorry,” Meade said, avoiding her eyes.
Actually he found her to be more fearsome than the silent man holding his rifle. There was something about her that made him shiver. He noticed the vaquero had not cocked the rifle in his hands. That was good. Very good.
“I’ve a letter from your husband. About selling me horses,” Meade said. “Let me show it to you. I represent a large rancher there. He wants only the best mounts.”
Without asking, he reached into his coat, smoothly drew the short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver from its shoulder holster and brought it forward with his coat hiding his real intent.
This would be easy. After all, he was “Eleven,” the chosen one. Eleven was a master number in astrology and numerology, he had been told by his parents. Others looked to those who were “Eleven” for inspiration.
He would kill her first, then the foolish man who had told on him. The gun had been named “Illumination” in honor of his special presence. The black nose of the pearl-handled gun with its strange markings and a left-handed loading gate cleared his coat.
The impact of Aleta’s bullets drove him backward. His bowler spun from his head as if it had its own life. He staggered and tried to fire his own gun. His eyes were blurring. What was wrong? No one could stop Eleven. He had known this since he was a child. His gun finally exploded, missing the woman before him.
Two more bullets, one from each gun in her hands, smashed into his chest, inches from the first three.
He staggered backward. His gun was too heavy and slipped from his fingers and thudded on the ground. Blood slipped from his mouth and he collapsed.
“I—I—I…a-am…E—Eleven. I—I am…L-Light…B-Bea…”
His eyes stared unseeing at the midday sky.
Aleta walked over to him, keeping her guns pointed at the unmoving body. She pulled his second revolver from its hip holster and tossed it. “You ees a murderer. It does not matter what number you ees.” She stepped back. “
She spun on her heel and thanked the hard-looking Mexican in Spanish. He said again Rule had told him to keep a lookout for any strangers coming to town asking about him. She nodded and said they would go to the town marshal to report the attempt on her life. A wire to Rule would inform him of what had happened.
“What do you think he meant by saying he ees ‘eleven’?” she asked.
“No
Aleta stared at the carriage. “We weel need to see if someone in town wants a cat.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Judge Opat was conducting a hearing about a leasing disagreement between two businessmen when Morgan Peale entered the small municipal courtroom from the main door. Morning light from the single window sought her maple-colored hair and danced with it.
“Sorry, ma’am, this is a closed courtroom right now. I’m conducting a hearing. You understand.” Opat’s face and manner looked more like a pompous rooster than usual.
The two businessmen barely turned to look at the woman in the doorway. All three men immediately noticed she was wearing a gun belt.
“That can wait. You’re going to handle something more important,” Morgan said, walking down the narrow aisle separating the courtroom’s rows of planked seating.
After a glance at the men, Opat straightened his back. “Ma’am, I thought I made it clear. This is a closed —”
“And I thought I made it clear you have something more important to do,” Morgan demanded, continuing her ascent. Her right hand rested on the handle of her holstered revolver.
“I’ll take care of this, Judge.” The taller businessman with the long sideburns stood.
“That would be a big mistake, mister.” The words halted his attempt to have her leave even before he realized who said them.
From the courtroom’s rear door, John Checker emerged.
“What? Aren’t you John Checker? You’re dead!” Opat almost choked on the words.
“No, I’m not, Opat,” Checker growled. “And these two gentlemen will be happy to stand aside for a few minutes while justice is done.” He looked at the two men. “Won’t you?”
Opat waved his arms and shouted, “You’re not a Ranger anymore, Checker. You’re wanted for murder.”
“No, I’m not a Ranger, Opat. That means I don’t have to abide by the Ranger’s rules. Understand?”
Checker’s stare was too intense for the skinny magistrate. He shook his head, making his odd lock of brown hair shake.
Stepping farther into the anxious courtroom, Checker rested both hands on his gun belt. Sunlight stroked his Roman face, long black hair and hawkish nose.
“That murder charge is one of the things we’re here for, Judge,” Checker declared. “First, though, you’re going to conduct a real hearing on the charge of rustling against Emmett Gardner. Then you’ll do the same with that ridiculous murder charge against my partner and me.”
He stopped and looked at the two businessmen, who were terrified, and asked again, “You boys don’t mind waiting a bit, do you?”
“A-ah, of c-course n-not.”
“N-no. W-we’ll c-come b-back. Later.”
