Ride for Rule Cordell

gun. Satisfied with their readiness, Dimitry jerked his head for the other two to follow him and went to the sheriff’s locked door.

Knock! Knock!

“Sheriff! There’s trouble in one of the saloons!”

He was certain the call for help would yield an immediate response.

“The sheriff isn’t here. I’m sorry,” Bartlett said from the other side of the door.

“Please, sir. You’re a Ranger. We need your help. Please. It’s Lady Holt’s men.”

“Coming. Hold your horses.” Bartlett grabbed the shotgun from the desk.

“Please hurry. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

The heavy oak door swung open to the office.

Inside, the deputy with the sneaked-in gun fired. Bartlett grimaced and spun toward the cell and fired a barrel of his gun. He twirled back toward the door too slowly as the three gunmen pushed through the opening, pouring bullets into him.

The Ranger fired the second barrel as he fell. The skinny gunman screamed and grabbed his bloody face.

Pulling the smoking towel from his gun, Dimitry stomped on the garment to put out the flames. He shoved the second gunman. “Let’s get outta here! Rule Cordell will be coming fast!”

“Rule Cordell? You’re kidding,” the second gunman said.

“He was standing outside the courtroom. That damn shotgun blast will bring him—and the black man. Do what you want. I’m leaving.” Dimitry turned and headed outside.

“Hey! Let me out!” The deputy looked stunned by the suddenness of the attack and the immediate retreat. He stared at Bartlett and the skinny gunman and the widening circle of blood beneath both of them.

The second gunman hesitated and followed. As he stepped to the opened doorway, a blood-soaked Bartlett groaned and raised his arm, enough to draw his revolver. His hand shook as he fired. The scarred gunman staggered into the sidewalk. Bartlett’s hand couldn’t hold the heavy gun any longer and it thudded to the floor.

He gasped and said, “I—I a-am a Ranger.”

From the courtroom building, Rule and Fiss came running. The street had already become empty as people realized the noise from the sheriff’s office meant trouble. In six strides, Rule was ten feet ahead of Fiss, drawing his revolvers as he ran. From the front door of the courthouse, Checker emerged. The look on his face was tense. He, too, knew what the booming sounds from the jail meant.

“Emmett, stay here. Watch Opat and Hangar. Opat, finish this hearing. I’ll be back,” he yelled, and ran after the men halfway down the sidewalk.

The sudden movement made him light-headed and he grabbed his side as new pain struck the wound. His hand came away with fresh blood. He gritted his teeth and kept moving. He had a bad feeling they were too late to help his friend.

Reaching the opened sheriff’s office, Rule wheeled inside with a cocked revolver in each hand. His gaze absorbed the awful results of the Holt attack, then studied the town for signs of movement. The only thing he saw, on this end of main street, were two dogs chasing each other. In the window of the barbershop, three men watched; one turned away as soon as Rule looked in their direction.

Nothing would be gained now looking for whoever escaped. He stepped past the groaning gunman with the scar on his face. The man held both hands to his stomach to hold in the blood that wanted out. Rule walked past the dead, skinny gunman, whose face was a red mask. He sought A. J. Bartlett.

“Oh, A.J.,” he muttered, and hurried to the still, bloody body.

Laying his guns on the floor, Rule knelt beside the dying Ranger and cradled him in his arms. “My God, they set you up. From front and back—and you still managed to get three of them,” he said. His next words were a whispered prayer to God to welcome the Ranger’s soul.

Behind him, a frozen deputy finally managed to speak. “I—I d-didn’t have anything t-to…do with th-this. H- honest, I d-didn’t.”

Rule’s face was a hot snarl. “You mean your friends didn’t have time to get you out. How many got away? One? Two? Don’t lie to me.”

“Ah…just one. It was one. Dimitry. Luke Dimitry. H-he works for L-Lady Holt.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I—I d-don’t know. H-he ran…south.”

Rule’s attention was drawn to Bartlett. The dying Ranger’s eyes fluttered open and he tried to speak.

“Rest easy, old friend. We’ll have the doctor in here.”

Bartlett shook his head. “No. I-t’s too late. T-tell John…I’m s-sorry I…c-can’t stay around. I—I sure…would’ve liked to.”

“Hang on, A.J. Hang on.”

“Did you g-get the h-hearings d-done? I-s…Emmett s-still w-wanted…for r-rustling?” Bartlett grabbed Rule’s arm.

Swallowing, Rule told him the hearings were over, that the charge against Emmett was dropped—and so were the charges against Checker and Bartlett. Then he added they had just received a wire and both men had been reinstated as Rangers. It was a lie, but one he wanted to say. Needed to say.

Bartlett patted his arm weakly. “P-pray for me…will you?”

Rule started to tell him that he already had, but realized Bartlett was dead. At the doorway, Fiss appeared, holding his shotgun.

The black man shook his head and stared at the various guns on the floor, all wrapped in towels. One was still smoking.

“Well, they figured on shooting whoever was here—and we wouldn’t have known it until it was too late. A.J…” Fiss didn’t finish the statement.

Through the doorway came John Checker, almost out of breath. His dark eyes took in the scene and locked on to Bartlett in Rule’s arms. “Is he?”

“Yes. Died in my arms. Told me to tell you that he was sorry he couldn’t stay.” Rule lowered his head. “Only wanted to know if Emmett’s charge was dropped.” The gunfighter looked up at the tall Ranger. “Told him it was— and I told him he was a Ranger…again.”

Checker’s mouth was a slit. He stared down at the wounded gunman and kicked him in the stomach. “Get that gun of yours, you bastard. You can forget the towel.” He spat; his eyes were hard. “Let’s see how good you are when you’re facing a Ranger.” He kicked him again. “Get up—or I’ll shoot you right there.”

Into his hand, the black-handled Colt appeared.

“No, John. A.J. wouldn’t want that.” Rule’s voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Checker’s shoulders rose and fell. Twice. He shuddered as he struggled to bring his rage under control. Fiss watched him from next to the dead deputy’s cell. His shotgun was held at his side. He was almost motionless; only his cheeks showed movement as he bit them to hold in his feelings.

“I’m sorry, John,” Fiss said. “He was a man to ride the river with.”

Checker tried to answer but couldn’t.

After easing Bartlett’s head back on the floor, Rule closed the Ranger’s unmoving eyes. He stood, saw his own pistols and leaned over to retrieve them, shoving one into its holster and the other into his waistband. He looked at Checker and his eyes asked what the Ranger wanted to do next.

Checker’s return gaze was full of hurt as he walked toward Bartlett and knelt beside him. “I’ll miss you, my friend. You kept me balanced. You always had my back.” He took a deep breath. “I should’ve had yours.” He bit his lower lip and recited, “ ‘Your strength is as the strength of ten, because your heart is pure.’ ”

Rule nodded as he realized Checker changed the word my in Tennyson’s “Sir Galahad” to your. A bittersweet tribute.

Fiss found a blanket in the small storeroom and brought it to Checker. The three men placed it over Bartlett’s body.

After a few moments of silence, Checker stood. “Rule. London. Would you take care of…this…while I go back?”