Ride for Rule Cordell

at once when the rope was pulled. Or at least it should.

With the tiedowns in place, they retraced their steps to cock each weapon. They would leave slack in the rope for now to avoid a premature firing. The concept could easily fail, but if it did work, Holt’s men might think there was a small army of men shooting at them from ambush.

Guttural was the sound of the heavy Sharps carbine being readied for firing as Rule cocked it.

Checker moved on to the first pistol; it had belonged to Bartlett. As he stepped back from locking the hammer of the pistol in place, a rock slab under his feet slid down the incline. The Ranger stumbled, fiercely grabbing at the larger boulder to keep from falling. His wounded leg gave way as his momentum took him to the ground, in spite of his attempt to hold himself away from pulling the trigger.

In the tranquil night air, the click of a hammer on an empty cylinder was pure music to his ears. Checker lay on the ground for minutes, not moving. Not even attemping to climb up. Instead, he tried to recapture some of the energy and confidence driven from him in the last maddening moment. Only five bullets were in the gun. His late Ranger friend usually kept just five in his handgun as a safety precaution, and Checker was thankful he did. A shot going off now would warn anyone within miles of the valley, as well as confuse his friends waiting for his signal.

Looking down from the gun area, Rule asked, “You all right?”

“Yeah. Just embarrassed. A.J.’s gun. Kept five beans in the wheel. Said it would keep him from shooting himself. Glad he did,” he said, and finally returned to his task.

“Glad you weren’t hurt. Morgan would never forgive me.” Rule grinned.

Waving off the teasing, Checker added a flat rock underneath the pistol barrel to ensure that it wouldn’t point toward their friends on the other side of the road when the rope was jerked. Hammers were readied on the second pistol and the shotgun.

Like two generals, they discussed the stages of their ambush. The Holt gang would enter the valley through the tree-lined opening and stay on the trail paralleling the creek. They would be too far from the Peale Ranch to be alert. Their first position fifteen feet down from the battery would provide an excellent field of fire. They would announce their attention to the gang from there and open fire over their heads with Winchesters. Three or four shots. Morgan, Emmett and Rikor would also begin shooting.

After an opening salvo from his rifle, Checker would run uphill five or six strides to the end of the rope lying on the ground, pull it and keep on scrambling to a second position. Farther to the right and higher than the battery, behind a man-sized, hawk-nosed boulder. Rule would cover his movement from his site, above and left of the gun placement. Once at his second position, Checker would shoot again with his Winchester while Rule followed; then both would head for the horses, making certain Morgan had already left.

“ ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns! He said; into the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward the Light Brigade! Was there a man…’ ”

Checker stopped. It was all he could remember. “They’re going to pay, A.J.”

“Yes, they are,” Rule added.

Across the road, Emmett and Rikor waved to signal their completion as well. Both returned the wave; then Checker couldn’t resist waving at Morgan. She stood and waved back.

Satisfied, they picked up their rifles and started back down the slope to their planned first firing sites, easing down the steep incline. From a clump of tall grass to their left came a small lark. It flew in front of them, startled from its sleep by their advance.

“Sorry, little brother. We didn’t mean to bother you,” Rule said.

Checker smiled and patted Rule on the back.

“Our Comanche friends would like this place for an ambush,” Rule said.

“Not without a little peyote to see ahead. To see their enemies.” Checker grinned and continued. “My old friend told me they used it as a war medicine. To see ahead.”

“You ever take off that pouch?” Rule said, walking around a struggling chaparral.

Checker touched the pouch under his shirt with his free left hand, holding the Winchester at his side in his right fist.

“No, not really. Figured it gave me luck. Didn’t want to challenge something I didn’t really know,” he answered. “How about you?”

“Same. The only thing I’ve added is that cross. Guess it’s two ways of looking at…help beyond us.”

Rule explained his pouch contained owl medicine, including a sliver of bone from the giant, prehistoric cannibal owl the Comanches believed existed at one time. The full bone was used to heal, drawing out the sickness.

They took a few more steps down the incline, letting the rock shale slide in front of them. Neither spoke, both drawn to their strong connections to the Comanche way.

Rule spoke first, glancing down at the road below. “Sometimes, I think his spirit is close. Moon’s. He died the same day I met him. My best friend and I were headed for the war. Stumbled into a Comanche camp and they were good to us. Not sure why, but they were. Probably it was because of Moon. The old shaman said he knew I was coming.”

Looking back and up at where Morgan was waiting, Checker couldn’t see her. His mind caught up with Rule’s observations.

“Funny how meetings like that change everything,” he said. “Before I met Stands-In-Thunder, all I’d ever done with Comanches was fight them. He ended up being, well, a father, I guess. Mine didn’t want to claim me—or my sister. Happens, I guess.”

The hillside jerked into a small, flat ledge. Rule would remain here.

“Yeah, most of my preaching came from Moon—or what I learned later from studying the Comanche’s view of…the Great Spirit.”

Checker watched his friend get settled. “Did you know they believe there is an Evil Spirit? Something like our Devil, I think.”

Stretching out behind a large rock, Rule adjusted his Winchester into position and said, “Lots of parallels. Only the Indians think every step on the earth is a prayer. They see miracles every day. Silence is a prayer. I like that.”

Overhead, an owl drifted past in search of an evening snack.

Rule looked up. “The Comanche think owls are reincarnated souls, you know.”

Checker nodded.

“Did you know some believe in a group of small, evil men who come out only at night? Nanapi. They’re supposed to kill every time they shoot with their tiny bows and arrows,” Rule said, making motions of shooting a bow and arrow.

“Hadn’t heard that one,” Checker said. “Hope those boys’ll be on our side.”

“I do, too. I’ll see you later.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Checker completed the return to his site, twenty feet lower. Sounds of the land were welcome to his apprehensive mind. Just like music. Following a long drink from his canteen, he looked for a good place to wait.

There was nothing to do now, except that. Checker propped himself against a crooked mesquite tree and stared at the silent ridge behind him. Young green plants were ganged up trying to act big as well. Darkness hid their true color and twisted their shapes. He hated waiting.

Loneliness came and sat beside the tall Ranger. Everything in him wanted to climb the rocks and be with Morgan.

Wind had intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more desolate than it was. Ahead of him was a well-used road from town; behind him and on the other side of the road were ridges that helped