burn them.”
One of the cowboys yelled, “We’ll help ya tear down the ones they put up. Charlie’ll be real happy to hear ’bout this.”
“Wires will go out to surrounding towns. From you, Judge. And you, Hangar,” Checker added.
Hangar nodded and leaned down to scratch his right leg. The movement reminded Opat that the crooked lawman carried a short-barreled Scofield revolver in a special holster built into his boot. Did they check him for hideaways? Should he tell Checker about the gun? The questions popped into Opat’s mind. No one would expect him to know of such a weapon, so he wouldn’t say anything. If Hangar got lucky and shot Checker, everything would change. At least until Rule came back.
The roosterlike judge banged his gavel and announced, “This court will now hear evidence concerning the deaths of…ah, three Holt…ah, cowhands. Accused of their deaths are John Checker and…ah, Bartlett…A. J. Bartlett.” He leaned forward. “This court will now hear the prosecution’s statement—and evidence. Sheriff Hangar, please proceed.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Wilson Tanner, the well-dressed attorney, strolled toward the courthouse. He and Opat were planning on lunch together, a frequent activity. It was an easy way to exchange information, something Lady Holt considered as important as gold. Both were in Lady Holt’s employ; both were pragmatic about it.
As he walked along the planked sidewalk, he noticed two armed men standing outside the courthouse. A white man in a long black coat and a black man. They were talking quietly to each other while watching passersby. Resting in the black man’s crossed arms was a double-barreled shotgun. He was vaguely familiar to Tanner. Where had he seen him before? Of course. He was Morgan Peale’s hired man.
The other man? The white man. He didn’t know.
Yes, he was certain. The black man was with the woman rancher every time she came to town. Of course, he didn’t go into any of the stores. For a black man, that wasn’t allowed. He just waited. What was he doing there? What were the two of them doing there? If the black man was in town, Morgan Peale would be as well. Was she inside the court? Doing what?
He touched the brim of his hat in greeting to the two passing couples and headed across the street. Sheriff Hangar would know what was going on. He always did. A fast-moving carriage made him stop and wait for its passing. He fumed but held his temper. It was one of his strengths, he told himself. On the far side of the main street, he headed for the lawman’s office.
A glimpse through the window of Hangar’s office warned him again. A man sat behind the sheriff’s desk, drinking coffee. A shotgun lay on top of the desk. It looked as though Hangar’s deputies were each sitting in a cell. He didn’t see Hangar. What the hell was going on? Who was that man?
Tanner continued walking past the closed door and window, trying to think. The man had to be the Ranger who rode with John Checker. Had to be. Yes. Bartlett. What was he doing in town? He was wanted for murder. Was it just a coincidence that he and the Peale hand were in town at the same time, both at key locations?
Hardly.
Something was going on and it wasn’t good. What should he do? He wasn’t carrying a gun. Never did. Three or four Holt gunmen would be in the No. 8 Saloon. It was part of Lady Holt’s strategy to keep pressure on the town. Quick responses, if needed. There wasn’t much she didn’t think of. Caisson was vital to her plans for control. Only three ranches remained in this region. He knew she was already thinking about expansion beyond. Twice he had heard her refer to herself as “Queen of Texas.”
He pulled on his vest to straighten it and headed for the saloon. Once he reported the situation, he was done. Whatever Lady Holt’s men decided to do was fine. He had more than done his job: providing information.
She would pay well for that. Perhaps with herself. He longed for that pleasure. So far it had only been a tease.
The saloon was gray and the wall oil lamps were struggling to provide light to match the outside. He entered slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the darker atmosphere. There shouldn’t be any sense of distress. She never liked panic, or signs of it. She preferred careful, methodical action. So be it. At the back of the room were three men sitting at a table, playing cards. Luke Dimitry saw him and alerted the others.
Minutes later, the three Holt gunmen left the saloon with Tanner’s information ringing in their ears. He moved to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Drinking this early in the day was not his style, but a drink seemed like a good idea. Afterward, he would check the telegraph office for any new wires and ride out to see Lady Holt. She would want to know about this. Of course, he would wait until her gunmen took care of the situation.
Inside the sheriff’s office, A. J. Bartlett stood and headed toward the stove for another cup of coffee. Sheriff Hangar’s two deputies sat in one of the cells. Neither looked up, or spoke, as he passed. When the courtroom hearings were finished, Hangar’s two assistants would be released. Bartlett knew they were employed by the British woman; that was common knowledge. Still, they hadn’t been involved in the attempt to destroy Emmett’s family, so they would be allowed to ride away. Nobody expected them to ride any farther than the Holt Ranch.
Halfway across the busy street, the three Holt gunmen spread out and walked slowly, cutting in and out of passing traffic. After they took over the jail, they would head to the courtroom building. They moved easily. Confidently. Most likely this was some kind of attempt to retake the town. Lady Holt had expected it and ordered them to be especially on guard for strange-appearing actions. The promise of a bonus was added to the direction. It was clear she didn’t have much confidence in Hangar’s ability to handle anything stressful.
Wearing an old Navajo coat, Luke Dimitry slid behind a rumbling freight wagon, watching the two men outside the court as he moved. The half-breed knew who they were: London Fiss and Rule Cordell. He had no intention of facing them. That was suicide. Once they had retaken the jail, he would have the deputies go and ask them to move on. While that exchange was going on, he and his two comrades would sneak into the courtroom from the back door. There, they would be able to determine what was happening. Maybe Judge Opat was being forced out by some townsmen.
He didn’t want anyone inside the jail to know they were coming until they hit the door. From what the fancy attorney said, there was only one man inside. The other Ranger, the educated one. They reached the planked sidewalk and Dimitry motioned for the skinny gunman with crossed bullet bandoliers to make his move.
The gunman slipped to the back of the jail as planned. Once there, he stood against the adobe wall and said, “Alex, this is Sonny. Is the Ranger close? Is he watching?”
“Naw. Drinking coffee. By the stove,” the jailed deputy whispered.
“Good. I’m going to push a gun through the bars. You catch it. All right?” the skinny gunman said, glancing around to make sure no one was watching.
“Say when.”
“Here she comes.” He stood on his tiptoes, eased the handle of the revolver between the bars, holding it by the long barrel, and let it go.
“Got it. What’s next?”
Looking around again, the skinny gunman told him to wrap something around the barrel to hold down the noise and wait, that they were coming in the front door in about two minutes. He walked away, stopped and coughed, holding his hand against his mouth to minimize the noise. The other two were waiting in the alley.
“He get it?” Dimitry asked.
“Yeah. He’s ready. Waiting for us.”
“Should’ve got one to Lamon, too.” The gunman with the long scar on his face tugged on the brim of his flattened hat.
The half-breed responded with a curse and said, “Yeah, an’ you might’ve handed off a gun right to that Ranger, too.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Give me one of those towels.”
The scarred gunman distributed three towels taken from the saloon and each man wrapped one around his
