Jamison pushed the hat back on his forehead. “Sounds like we’re headin’ for the same war, ma’am.”
Returning her reloaded guns to their holsters, she glanced at the sidewalk in front of the newspaper office. The four men had disappeared. Their absence didn’t seem to bother the old lawman.
“Don’t worry about them, ma’am. They’ve gone somewhere to get some courage. An’ get away from her.”
He chuckled and said he had just arrived in town with the plan on finding out what was going on.
“I was headin’ for the livery when I saw those clowns,” he said. “There are thirty Rangers waitin’ for me. Outside of town. Real ones. Or they were.” He pushed the quiver back farther on his shoulder. “Just found out that phony Ranger captain…ah, Sil Jaudon…rode out with his gang. They were headin’ for one of the small ranches left. Only three, I reckon. Don’t sound like it would be hard to find. Looks like the Brit woman wants to get this over with.”
His shoulders rose and fell. “Reckon us Rangers’ll head that way. Come back for her later.”
Her tired eyes brightened; then a film of worry dulled them. She told about sending a wire telling Rule about Eleven Meade’s death and that her husband hadn’t responded. Friends of theirs were watching their two children— and Emmett Gardner’s two boys. She explained why the latter were at their house.
“Can’t tell you anything about any telegrams,” Spake said, shaking his head. “This town has been hit real hard by this English lady and her thugs.” He pointed in the direction of the dark telegraph office. “There’s where it be. You can go there in the mornin’ and see if your man has been in. Bet he hasn’t, ma’am. Bet he an’ Checker are ri’t where that gang’s headed.”
He returned the shotgun to the quiver on his shoulder and started walking again. “A bunch o’ us came to help some friends. They were Rangers, too. A. J. Bartlett an’ John Checker.”
Rubbing his unshaved chin, he said, “Story we got in Austin was this killer name of Eleven Meade had killed John. Heard tell in that saloon just now…that he was alive—and A.J.’s dead.” He shook his head. “Had me a hunch Checker wasn’t dead. Bastard’s too tough. No back-shooter like Meade’s gonna make it happen. Mighty sorry about A.J., though. He was a good’un. Loved talkin’ poetry, ya know.”
Swinging her horse to walk alongside the sidewalk as Spake headed toward the livery, Aleta explained Meade was the one who was dead and that she had killed him.
The old Ranger chuckled. “Them four idiots had no idea of what they had tangled with. Glad to hear Meade’s dead. He was a sick one. Real sick. All that eleven mumbo jumbo.” He looked at her for a moment and asked, “If I remember rightly a good-lookin’ woman used to ride with an outlaw name of Johnny Cat Carlson. Right after the war.”
“
“Well, that’ll be a pair to draw to.” Spake hesitated. “Sure. Come on. You’d better switch hosses at the livery. That fella’s too good to run into the ground. An’ he’s looking mighty tired. No offense, ma’am.”
“
“Well, let’s go. There’ll be hot coffee at the camp. Johnson makes it good ’n hard. Puts an egg in it. Says it’s Swedish.” He withdrew a sack from his coat pocket. “Would you like some licorice? It’s mighty tasty.”
Chapter Forty
John Checker and Rule Cordell rode hard toward Caisson, keeping mostly off the main road, along the surrounding ridges, through narrow arroyos and across hushed open land. Night air helped lower their fierceness to allow them to think about their next actions. Riding down the main street of Caisson would only get them killed. They had to assume Jaudon and his men returned there.
They cleared a spongy stretch of bottomland, stubbled with grass and flanked by thickets of mesquite, ash, walnuts and persimmons. Crossing a wandering creek, the reason for the lower land’s wetness, they reined up to let their horses drink and rest. Around them stray cattle were in search of grass. In the distance, coyotes were attempting to communicate with the moon.
Both men were weary and trying hard to concentrate.
“Right about now, A.J. would up and recite,” Checker said. “He loved his Tennyson. Seems real strange not to have him riding with me.” He glanced at the gunfighter. “No offense, Rule. That didn’t come out quite right. I’m proud—and thankful—to have you with me. You know that.”
“I understand. You’ll always have the memories,” Rule said. “I lost my best friend a few years ago. Grew up together. Went to war together. I have those memories. They’re good ones.”
Checker nodded and his shoulders shivered. Rule glanced at the Ranger’s side and saw streaks of blood, old and new.
Rule changed the subject, withdrawing his boots from his stirrups and straightening his legs. “You know, John, we’re likely to be facing men we could’ve killed earlier tonight.”
“Yes, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Guess it doesn’t matter now.”
Checker studied a narrow path heading up an embankment to the left. Definitely an Indian pony trail.
“We could move along that trail for a while. What do you think?” He pointed at the barely visible pathway. “Keep us out of sight as we get closer to town, in case Jaudon left any snipers behind.”
“Makes good sense. Looks like an Indian trail. Ever see any man ride better than a Comanche?” Rule asked, twisting his head back and forth for relief.
Checker smiled. “No. You look at a Comanche walking—and here’s this short, slow, awkward-looking man. Get him on a horse and he’s awesome. Like some Greek god.”
“What if Tapan had told you to take out the backup gun?” Rule asked without looking at Checker.
“Not sure. Probably tried to stumble. Something, anything to give us an opening.”
“Did you know I still had a gun?”
Checker smiled again. “I can count.”
Rule nodded. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
They swung their horses toward the bank, up and onto the pony path. Slowly, they began to discuss what they would do when they reached Caisson. Their horses picked easily along the path, but neither man chose to urge them beyond a trot. An unseen hole would mean a broken leg and change every thing. Both took turns napping in the saddle as they rode. After a mile zigzagging along the ridge on the packed-earth pathway, largely bare of grass or weeds, they swung down onto a grassy swale, cradled by the same creek on the right and by a line of trees on the left. Six Holt steers looked up as they passed.
They weren’t more than a mile from town and had decided on a plan. When they reached Caisson, they would split up and enter from different directions. It was simple. Risky. Mostly, it depended on Lady Holt’s men not expecting such a bold move. The two gunfighters would find where Lady Holt was staying, get her on a horse and out of town before Jaudon and her men realized what had happened. Checker would get fresh horses for the three of them at the livery; Rule was going to the telegraph office and see if Ale-ta’s wire was there. They would take Lady Holt to Clark Springs and hold her until a circuit judge could get there. A real judge.
If they weren’t lucky, it was going to be a long, hard day.
Both rode almost mechanically, badly needing sleep, but not daring to nap anymore. Rule’s mind crisscrossed through memories, pausing to hear his father tell him that he hoped the young man would rot in hell, to the frozen battlefields of Virginia and onto the dusty Texas plains where his father had told the weeping child that the reason their black colt had died was the boy’s sinfulness, to preaching his first sermon about loving the land as the Reverend James Rule Langford, to the Sons of Thunder. He shook off the darkness in his mind and touched the rose stem on his coat collar and thought of Aleta and their children. He missed them so. It seemed like forever since he had left their home. Forever.
