Beside him, Checker was telling himself again that life was more than riding and fighting. His thoughts slid to a month ago when he let the outlaw Cole Dillon escape. He wasn’t certain why. But the man had just lost his wife to sickness. The Ranger had tracked him across the windswept Staked Plains and caught up to him standing over her grave. Cole had not asked for leniency; Checker had just given it. Something in the outlaw’s broken face told him the man was about to change. Something said they were more alike than different.
“Thank you, Ranger. I’m going to be the man she wanted me to be. Cole Dillon is dead.” Cole had galloped away, swearing he was going to change. Checker reported Cole Dillon as dead to Ranger headquarters. It made him feel good; he hoped the man would take advantage of the opportunity. But not all men could ride a new trail. Could he? Should he?
They passed a dry creek bed, one that escaped from the main branch of water, only to die. A company of mesquites were joined by scrubby oaks to watch over the empty stream. They rode with their rifles cocked. Checker held his rifle in his right hand, resting the butt on his thigh. Rule’s rifle lay across his saddle, his right hand holding it for quick use.
Gunshots ahead brought the two gunfighters to an alertness they hadn’t felt since leaving.
“It’s on the road.” Checker pointed. “Do you think it’s Jaudon?”
“That doesn’t make any sense, John.”
“No. It doesn’t.” Checker motioned with his hand toward a tree-lined bank. “Let’s move up there and get closer.” He reined his horse toward the trees.
They rode in silence for two hundred yards, blending with the trees and brush. Finally, they cleared the broken ridge through a crease. Ahead of them, a shadowy mass of men and horses milled in the open spoon of grassland. Here and there a body lay on the flattened ground.
At first, Checker could only make out one man. “That’s Jaudon. He’s got his hands up. There, in the middle. Standing.”
“Well, this can’t be all bad, John.”
They reined up to study the situation, and a wide smile hit Checker’s face.
“Well, I’ll be damned. That’s Spake Jamison down there. And…Rangers. Real Rangers. Damn. Where’d they come from?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Rule said, “I don’t care. They’ve got Jaudon and his bunch surrounded. It’s over, John.”
“Wait a minute, Rule. There’s a woman with them. Over there. See?” Checker pointed.
“Aleta!”
Checker looked at his friend. “Your wife’s down there?”
“She sure is. Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head.
The tall Ranger was still savoring the scene when he realized Rule was already loping toward them.
“Spake! It’s Checker—and Rule Cordell. We’re coming in,” Checker yelled, and kicked his horse into a downhill lope, trailing Rule’s advance.
Minutes later, Checker was shaking hands with Ranger friends who were guarding the surrendered Holt gang. Rule was holding Aleta close; both were dismounted and holding their horses’ reins.
Spake grinned. “Thought you boys could use a hand. You must’ve spooked this bunch something awful. They were runnin’ like the Devil himself was chasin’ them. Said a bunch of Rangers ambushed ’em.” He shook his head. “Ran right into us. Didn’t have much fight left in ’em.” He motioned toward the downed bodies. “Reckon they didn’t know how real Rangers act.”
After a short exchange about Captain Temple’s arrest, the governor’s involvement with Lady Holt and the mass Ranger firing, Checker told him about the fake gun barrage, that Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry were dead— and their murder of London Fiss. He told them the Gardners and Morgan Peale had taken his body back to her ranch.
“Been a hard ride for you, I hear. Sorry about A.J. Gonna miss that ol’ boy—and his poems.” Spake’s hard face softened.
Checker nodded, excused himself and rode over to a disgruntled Jaudon, standing with two mounted Rangers holding rifles on him.
Swinging from the saddle, Checker handed his reins to the red-haired Ranger beside him. “Hold these a minute, will you, Sawyer? Got something that needs doing.”
Checker strode toward the fat Frenchman. “Jaudon, you and your men killed two good men. Good friends of mine.”
Hunching his shoulders, Jaudon spat a French curse and glanced at his three gold-plated revolvers lying on the ground a few feet away.
As he stepped next to Jaudon, Checker slammed his right fist into the fat man’s stomach. The blow’s power was driven by pent-up fury and sorrow. Jaudon doubled over, gasping for breath that had disappeared into the night. He gagged and vomited on his own guns.
Stunned by Checker’s sudden action, the Rangers and the arrested gang members watched in silence.
Stepping out of the way of the projected vomit, Checker delivered a wicked uppercut to Jaudon’s chin that lifted the Frenchman off his feet and stumbling backward. The fat man collapsed on the ground. Checker grabbed his shirt with his left hand and yanked the stunned gang leader back on his feet. A right cross slammed into Jaudon’s face, spewing blood and spinning his head sideways. A long cut opened along the Frenchman’s right cheek.
Wild-eyed and desparate, Jaudon threw a windmill punch Checker stopped with his left arm and drove an uppercut into the Frenchman’s already throbbing belly. Jaudon wobbled; his legs wouldn’t hold him up. Grabbing him before he could fall, Checker held the half-conscious man by his bloody shirt, smashed a short jab into Jaudon’s face and cocked his fist to strike again.
“No, John. Let him go. A.J. wouldn’t like that. Neither would London.” Rule’s voice was clear.
Not even Spake Jamison added a word.
Checker stared at the blurry-eyed Jaudon and released him. The Frenchman crumpled to the ground. A whimper followed. The tall Ranger turned and asked for his reins.
“Better get those hands into water, John. They’ll swell on you,” the redheaded Ranger said quietly, as if advising someone to wash his hands for supper.
Almost without understanding, Checker looked at his raw and bloody knuckles.
He looked over at Rule. “I haven’t met your wife.”
Chapter Forty-one
Red streaks of a new day greeted a strange group of riders entering the quiet town of Caisson. Thirty Rangers surrounded Holt’s gunmen, their hands tied in front of them, as they entered the main street. In the rear were five horses carrying dead Holt gunmen.
A barely conscious Jaudon, with his face blossoming in purple and yellow bruises, rode in the center. His horse was led by the redheaded Ranger. His hands were tied together and grasped the saddle horn.
At the front rode John Checker, Rule Cordell, Aleta Cordell and Spake Jamison.
An excited young boy ran into the street and alongside them. “What’s going on? You aren’t real Rangers, are ya? My ma says there’s a bad bunch claiming to be Rangers.”
Aleta was the first to respond. “
“I’m fine, lady. I gotta go now. Tell my ma. She’ll be very happy.”
“Adios.” She waved and the boy ran off.
Spake turned in the saddle back toward the other Rangers. “Let’s take them to the city corral. Down at the end of the street. We can tie them to the poles. Any of ’em give us trouble, we’ll shoot ’em. Be less to mess with. They can stay there ’til the circuit judge can get here. Ol’ Judge Jones’ll be just what we need.”
