create the short walls of the valley. Waiting was the only thing that made sense—and the hardest to do. Attacking was always easier. For him.
Tired of sitting, he stretched out behind a huge yellow boulder, rechecked the loads in his rifle and laid it next to him along with a box of cartridges. He felt his side and knew that he was bleeding again, but not too much, he decided. He was so tired. So tired. He shouldn’t rest, but it would feel so good. The night sounds would warn him, he rationalized, and knew he couldn’t do so. To keep himself active, he pushed the cartridge box into his gun belt. It wasn’t just idle activity; he might have to move and shoot fast, and carrying a box would hamper his use of the rifle.
Scattered fragments of the past days were resting on the border between his conscious and unconscious mind. One fragment kept blossoming whenever he let go of the troubling news from town and what might lay ahead for his friends. And that was Morgan Peale. Morgan.
The owl hooted once more as if responding to his thoughts. It seemed as though his whole life was going to be spent this way—riding, waiting, fighting.
Why couldn’t he live as other men did? Why was he the one who rode alone to help people he didn’t even know? He hadn’t recognized the truth of the assertion until now. Stands-In-Thunder, in his wisdom, said it would be this way, that the grandfathers would gradually reopen his soul—when he was ready for it—to let caring back into his life.
A long streak of lightning and a boom of thunder off to the south reminded Checker again of his late Comanche friend, Stands-in-Thunder. Among his tribe, thunder was considered a spirit god, like other natural forces, and few men would have dared to stand outside during such a storm. His late friend had, indeed, been a highly respected leader. Checker missed him and his distinctive wisdom. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the small white stone.
“Wish you’d sing to me. Tell what’s ahead. What we should be doing,” he whispered, staring at the stone. “You know I can’t kill those men without warning. I can’t. That’s still murder. You know that. I’m still a Ranger.” He held the stone tightly and returned it to his pocket.
Maybe he could climb and see Morgan. Just for a few minutes. Oh, how he wanted to hold her in his arms.
Tiredness lay upon Checker and sleep was flirting with his eyes, but he dared not let the temptation overtake him. His fingers pressed gently against his closed eyes to ease their strain. Then he must be ready. He hoped the Holt gang would be riding in a tight group; a spaced group of riflemen would be more difficult to scare and track. If he and his friends were to have any chance tonight, it would come in the creation of immediate fear in the minds of the attackers. If they didn’t run after the opening barrage of gunfire, if they dug in instead, it would mean his friends would need to get away quickly. Hopefully, they would be able to do so.
Fights had always brought a change within him. He was aware of the transformation now, but he hadn’t been as a younger man. A cold intensity took over his actions. Everything was enlarged, as if under field glasses. And in slow motion. There was something that hadn’t changed; only he was more aware of it. As if a thick moss had grown over his heart. It had been necessary to carry on after leaving his sister, his only family, behind. A clinging moss keeping out all feelings, all fears, all life.
Until now and Morgan.
Oh, he knew a bullet could be his sometime, somewhere. No one lived a charmed life; bullets didn’t mind who they struck or why. He had seen too many good men, like A.J., die for no reason at all to believe he was invincible.
It was more as though he didn’t care. Not a death wish, nothing like that. Or maybe it was, deep down inside where he never allowed himself ever to probe. Probably for fear of what he would find there. Something was lodged within him that hadn’t been there before he realized his mother’s situation. And his. Was his sister still alive? Would she even remember him?
Like a stone skipping across water, Checker’s mind skipped back to Stands-In-Thunder, his late friend. How good it would be to see him again. To smoke a pipe and share the world from the old man’s perspective. There was a mental cleansing just in the remembrance. Maybe the old war chief would have some suggestions about what Checker should do against Lady Holt and her many advantages. Maybe he should walk away from the reputation of a “deadly man” when this was over.
One long sad inhaling of the night’s grayness returned him to the danger yet to come this quiet evening. Would one of his friends die? Would he? Right here in these rocks? He couldn’t bring the question of Morgan dying even to his lips.
Stands-In-Thunder said the greatest warriors gave when no one would ever find out. And the greatest warriors fought alone against many to protect a friend who didn’t even know he was in trouble. No matter the cost. That was the way it should be. That was the way it would be for him. No matter the cost.
After this was all over, if he was alive, Checker would ride away from this part of the country, from being a Ranger. Go where no one knew him, a place where he could start over. Where there were no nightmares chasing him. Would Morgan go with him? What did he have to offer? Nothing. Except weapons and the skill to use them. She could do so much better.
Night sounds disappeared into an eerie silent tension. A strange, yet familiar, chill rolled up Checker’s back and settled in his head. He was alert. Gray shadows along the dark valley entrance introduced the coming of night riders.
Checker took a deep breath, drawing in the velvet cool air. In a low, hoarse voice, he reassured his friends to wait.
“Here they come. Wait for my shots.”
He wasn’t sure they could hear him, but it felt good to say it. Poised like a wolf, he lay flat on the slope, his rifle aimed in the direction of slowly advancing shadows. He wiped each hand on his pants, as if to help him pierce the night to determine the size of the approaching enemy.
What was that? Muffled sounds across the road. Emmett—or Rikor—must be moving to a new position. He wished they wouldn’t. But he didn’t dare call out. Not now. Everything grew quiet again.
Less than fifty yards away from his position, shadows were moving through the trees, fanning out as they rode to surround the ranch. Twenty-five riders. No, more. Twenty-eight. They were talking quietly among themselves. An occasional laugh punctuated their easy ride. Checker could tell the riders had exchanged bridles for rope hackamores. They weren’t wearing spurs, either. There would be no jingling of a bit, or a spur, to give them away.
Moonlight washed stingily across the riders; purchased Ranger authority gave them a cloak of legality. Dry air crackled with tension. Two men were riding out front, twenty yards or so. Sil Jaudon led the force with a rider beside him carrying the strange phoenix flag. He didn’t see Tapan Moore, or Luke Dimitry, or Eleven Meade. Checker’s scalp curled. Where were they? In Caisson? Coming from another direction? He forced himself to wait for all of the riders to move into the middle of the valley and alongside them.
Satisfied the gang were as close as he dared to let them, he called out, “Drop your guns and ride out. You are surrounded by Rangers.”
From Rule’s site above him came the gunfighter’s supporting challenge. “Jaudon, you have a chance to live. Turn around—and don’t try to attack these ranches again.”
Neither expected the gang to disarm themselves, but they hoped the unexpected challenge would force a turnaround.
“What the hell?” Jaudon snorted, and drew one of his gold-plated revolvers and yelled something in French.
Without waiting for more response, three times Checker’s rifle cut through the night. White flowers of smoke broke the raiders’ unspoken confidence. Both advance riders flew from the frightened horses, driven by Checker’s bullets at the horses’ hooves. His fourth shot missed Jaudon completely, ripping only shadow.
As the others opened fire from their different positions, Checker fired at one rider attempting to shoot and dashed for the rope’s end and its multiple-gun surprise.
Again, he yelled, “Spake, move your men over there. Cut them off!”
Rule answered, “I’ve got them covered. They can run—or die.”
Without pausing, he knew the appearance of more guns had to be terrifying, probably looking like twenty. He yanked the rope and the guns roared in unison. Shotgun slugs sounded as if they had torn into the opposite ridge.
