Ride for Rule Cordell

Moore, Lady Holt’s curly-haired gunman with the toothy smile and square jaw. He was leading a band of Holt gunmen. As if leading a cavalry unit, he held a red flag bearing the design of a phoenix. The banner fluttered as they neared the coach.

Jaudon leaned out as far as he could and yelled to the driver, “Arreter! Stop ze coach. Stop ze coach. Those are my men.”

“Hold up, mister. No need for trouble,” Tapan said, grinning. “We’re here to escort Ranger Captain Jaudon to the Holt Ranch.”

A second rider emerged from the pack. Dressed in city clothes and obviously uncomfortable, Wilson Tanner declared, “I am the new municipal judge of Caisson. We have an emergency in town that will require Ranger Captain Jaudon’s immediate attention.”

“Well, that’s where we’re a-headed,” the driver said. “What kinda trouble?”

The stage jerked and bounced as the driver pulled the mules to a stop.

“Do what he says,” the shotgun guard said. “This ain’t no holdup.”

“Hey, Jaudon. They wanna take you to Lady Holt’s. Instead of going on to town. Says there’s trouble there. Sound all right?” The driver’s voice was gruff but worried.

Jaudon took a deep breath. “Oui…ah, yah. That is bien. Ah, good.”

He leaned out again, but could only see part of Tapan, who touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Good to see you, Sil.”

“Bonjour, Tapan. What is going on?”

Jaudon liked the young gunman, even if Tapan was currently Lady Holt’s favorite. He had seen them come and go. His own involvement with the British leader was strictly financial—and that’s the way he wanted it. They had made an agreement in Houston when he met her.

“Lots going on. John Checker’s alive—and riding with Rule Cordell. The other Ranger’s dead. Hangar’s out as sheriff. The blacksmith’s wearing his badge. For now. Opat’s out as judge. Tanner’s in,” Tapan said, looked up at the driver and smiled widely. “Your stage isn’t in any danger, mister. It’s political stuff.”

“Oh. Well, if’n you’re sure. Don’t want to be takin’ these folks into some kind of shootin’ trouble.”

“You won’t.”

Jaudon sat back in the seat and straightened his cravat. His mind made no attempt to settle on Tapan’s news, except for Checker being alive. Damn, that fool Meade’s a bald-faced liar! he muttered. Just like that bitch to make me come directly to ze ranch. Wonder if she’ll have anything good to eat.

From outside again came Tapan’s voice, more urgent this time. “Come on, Jaudon. Lady Holt’s waiting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

“Oui. Oui. I am coming. I am coming.”

The heavyset Frenchman slowly opened the coach door and stepped outside, shoving his hideout gun into his back waistband. He glanced back at the blotchy-faced woman, arched his shaved eyebrows and smiled. The doorway clipped his hat with the pinned brim and sent it spinning.

“What about your luggage?” the driver asked. “It’ll take a while to clear it from the others.”

“Non. Non. Merci beaucoup, monsieur. I vill get it later. At ze station in Caisson.” Jaudon picked up his hat and shoved it back on his head.

“Good enough.”

The shotgun guard sat with his weapon on his lap and studied Tapan Moore. “Don’t I know you from somewhere, mister? The war, maybe? I rode with Longstreet.”

“Could be. Were a lot of us in that awful thing.” Tapan grinned without answering directly.

“Yeah. Sure ’nuff,” the guard responded, and rubbed his thick mustache.

A bearded gunman brought forward a saddled, riderless horse. Tapan took the reins and waited for Jaudon, leading the horse beside a large rock. Awkwardly, the fat man pulled himself into the saddle, using the rock as a stepstool. Tapan waved at the driver and guard, swung his horse around and kicked it into a gallop without waiting for the Frenchman. The band of gunmen followed.

Annoyed at the suddenness of it all, Jaudon stared after them, then kicked his horse into following.

“I know who that was, Buster,” the guard said. “Just came to me.”

“Yeah, who?” The driver snapped the reins and yelled at his team to start moving again.

“That was Tapan Moore.”

“Tapan Moore? The gunfighter from down around El Paso?”

“That’s the one. Hear tell he’s a bit crazy in the head.”

The shotgun guard shifted his weight as the driver restarted the team. “He is. That’s where I remember him from. He was yelling and screaming. In a Rebel army hospital. In Tennessee, it was. During the war.”

“Sorry to see he’s working for that Holt woman.”

“Reckon she’s the only one hiring guns. They say she brought in that half-breed…ah, Dimitry.”

“Damn. He’s a bad one. Heard tell somethin’ about Eleven Meade comin’ this way, too.” The driver snapped the reins again.

“Heard that.” The shotgun guard settled back against the coach frame. “Don’t understand how that Frenchman got to be a Ranger captain, do you?”

The driver yelled again, snapped the reins again and said, “No. I don’t wanna know, either. Stay as far away from that Holt woman as you can. She’s pure devil, boy. Pure devil.”

“Didn’t he say those boys were Rangers?” The guard frowned.

“Yeah, guess he did.”

“Guess that means Tapan Moore’s a Ranger.”

“Damn.”

As the stage bounced over the ridge, Tapan, Tanner and the other Holt man eased their horses to a walk to wait for Jaudon. Already the Frenchman’s horse was laboring under the man’s weight.

“What’s going on?” Jaudon demanded as he caught up. “Do vous have nourriture… ah, any food? I am starving.” His horse, thankful for the rest, spotted some blades of grass that looked interesting and began to nibble on them.

”You’ll have to wait, Sil.” Tapan fiddled with the flagpole resting in a special saddle sheath and pointed toward the closest ridge.

From over the rolling land came another rider, riding sidesaddle on a black horse. Lady Holt’s long red hair danced on her shoulders. She was dressed in a dark red riding suit with a matching hat highlighted by a crimson feather. Black boots, decorated with beading around the top, reached past her knees. In her black-gloved hands was a coiled whip.

“Bonjour, Madame Holt. Tres heureux de voux,” Jaudon declared loudly, removed his hat and bowed from the saddle.

She nodded in return. She loved the sound of French and knew he had said he was delighted to see her.

The pig-faced Frenchman in the dust-laced, three-piece suit opened his mouth, shut it and finally asked, “Comment allez-vous?”

“Assez bien, merci,” she responsed to his polite question of how she was doing.

Tapan’s face reddened with jealousy, but he kept telling himself that she was interested in the fat man only for business.

“Let us ride, Sil,” Lady Holt said. “I’ll tell you on the way. The rest of your men are waiting outside town.”

“I thought we were going to, ah, your place,” Jaudon said.

“Not now. We have work to do.”

The Frenchman’s stomach growled.

Late afternoon brought new fear to Caisson.

Riding down the main street of town came Lady Holt with thirty-two armed riders strung out behind her. Beside her was Sil Jaudon. Behind him rode Tapan Moore holding the red flag. They rode slowly down the street like