Ride for Rule Cordell

by Cotton Smith

  “A.J., when we’re finished here, we’ll find your friend.”

  “He’s dead. You heard it.”

  “I heard he was reported dead,” Rule said quietly. “I was dead, too, remember? Maybe he’s hurt and needs our help. But I don’t believe he’s dead.” He paused. “We’ve got a little more work to do here. Are you up to it?”

  “I am. Thanks. Think Hires’ll go see Hangar?” Bartlett said.

  “Oh yeah. Has he left yet?”

  Bartlett pulled on his hat brim and glanced back. “Yeah. Looks like some lizard in heat. Yeah, he’s definitely headed for the sheriff’s office.”

  “A lizard with a mustache.”

  Bartlett tried to smile.

  “Let’s go to the saloon and see what’s new. I have a feeling we won’t be without company long.”

  “Sure.”

  “And deliver some news.” Rule’s face took on the hint of a smile.

  “Even better.”

  Rule and Bartlett rode down the main street and reined up at the Bar and Billiards Emporium. He shifted his backup gun to his long coat pocket. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but it didn’t seem prudent to be unarmed, even though he planned to appear so.

  “Wait a few minutes before you come in,” Rule said. “Stay away from me. In case.”

  Bartlett nodded as he swung down. Rule walked inside and the closest handful of customers looked up, several offered greetings, as he headed to the bar.

  Hesitating, Bartlett took off his gun belt, hung it over his saddle horn and pulled free the Smith & Wesson revolver. He carefully placed the gun in his coat pocket. Adjustment of the weapon took a few moments until he was satisfied with its placement in Emmett’s coat and followed Rule into the saloon. Walking in Rikor’s battered chaps gave him a forceful stride.

  After ordering a beer, Rule deliberately unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on the bar. Bartlett passed him and went to the far end of the bar.

  “I’m new to town. What’s going on?” the gunfighter asked casually.

  The long-faced bartender delivered the heavy mug with only a hint of foam and told about Mrs. Cunningham’s difficulty with her firstborn, about the coming celebration of the town’s founding and the arrival of a new attorney from somewhere in Ohio.

  “Sounds like Caisson is growing,” Rule said. “That’s good. I’m planning on ranching near here. Good-looking land. Hear anything about a railroad coming through here?”

  The bartender gave him a look that indicated he wanted to tell him something, then decided not to do so.

  “Any trouble with rustling around here?” Rule asked, then took a sip of the beer, holding the mug in his left hand. His right slipped comfortably into his coat pocket.

  Next to him, a clerk with lamb chop sideburns and a dirty shirt and paper collar stopped slurping his own beer, glanced at the bartender, then said, “Oh yeah.”

  With another gulp for courage, the clerk told about Emmett Gardner being charged with stealing some of Lady Holt’s steers, and two Rangers being charged with murdering some of her men. He shook his head, looked around to see who was listening and decided against making observations about the situation.

  The bartender leaned against the bar and quietly told about a wire coming yesterday, alerting lawmen in various towns. The wire said Emmett Gardner was to be arrested if seen and Sheriff Hangar was to be notified. Former Ranger A. J. Bartlett was wanted for murder. The wire had been signed by Texas Ranger Captain Sil Jaudon, now head of the Special Force. A second Ranger, John Checker, also wanted for murder, had been tracked down and killed.

  Rule ran a finger along the side of his whiskey glass, trying to keep the emotion of again learning about Checker’s death from showing. “Sil Jaudon, you say? Don’t think I know that name,” Rule said, sipping his beer again. “Thought Temple was the captain. Special Force, right?”

  “Yeah, Temple was,” the clerk said. “Some kind of money problem, I hear. Word is the governor kicked him out.” He adjusted his collar. “Jaudon, ah, works for Lady Holt.”

  “I see.”

  “Probably not, mister. You’re not from around here,” the bartender said softly.

  Rule smiled and noticed three men enter the saloon and slide along the far wall. All wore gun belts. He noticed the bartender motion toward the stack of gun belts in the far corner of the back bar.

  “Guess it doesn’t really matter,” Rule said casually. “I own the Gardner Ranch now. Bought it from him.”

  The look on the faces of the clerk and the bartender was what he expected the news would do.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, mister?” The bartender’s glance behind Rule told the gunfighter what he suspected was coming.

  Rule felt a hard grip on his right shoulder. He continued to drink as if the connection hadn’t occurred.

  “You insulted my woman, mister. Turn around,” the tall bearded man behind Rule commanded from a foot behind him. His ugly breath snarled against the gunfighter’s neck.

  Later, it would be argued by saloon patrons as to what actually happened next. Rule’s movements were one continuous blur. He tossed his beer over his shoulder, making his adversary blink, gasp and drop his hand from Rule’s shoulder. Spinning around, Rule swung the empty mug in his left fist and slammed it against the man’s beer-drenched face.

  The would-be assailant crumpled to his knees and fell over like a shoved statue.

  Rule’s gun appeared in his right hand and roared. He dropped the mug and yanked free the holstered gun from the unconscious man at his feet.

  Standing across the room, the yellow-headed gunman staggered, groaned and buckled over. His dropped gun slid across the card table in front of him, spraying cards, chips and money. The cardplayers yelled and dove for the relative safety of the underside of the table.

  “Barkeep, I wouldn’t do anything that would make me use this.” Bartlett swung his revolver onto the bar’s shiny surface and cocked it.

  The bartender froze and slowly lifted his hands. Along the bar, the string of customers snapped from watching Rule to realizing there might be a closer problem. The three standing closest to Bartlett spun away with their drinks untouched and headed for the back door.

  The remaining gunman’s face turned white. He was young and full of himself. But this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Word had come from Hires immediately after Rule had left. A sweat bead slid from his forehead down to his chin and dangled there for an instant before dropping. The stranger hadn’t reacted as he was supposed to. Sheriff Hangar told Vincent to get Rule Cordell into a fight and the other Holt gunmen would kill him.

  It would be easy, over with in seconds. The infamous Rule Cordell would be dead and the immediate ruling, by Hangar, would be self-defense. He had been thinking to himself how he would tell the others at the Holt Ranch how well he had handled himself.

  Now he shivered and hoped he wouldn’t die. Not here. Not today.

  “Drop your gun,” Rule growled, “or use it.”

  The young man swallowed. He didn’t dare look down at his groin where his pants were turning wet. He unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop.

  “There’s more.” Rule’s eyes tore into the terrified man.

  A Colt appeared from the man’s back waistband and was discarded as if it were hot.

  Four businessmen broke for the back door and disappeared to safety. A drunken cowboy yelled a tribute to the Confederacy. Most of the remaining patrons were hiding behind overturned tables; a few remained seated as if nothing had happened.

  Noise at the doorway became Sheriff Hangar. The look on Hangar’s face was shock, then annoyance, as he entered. He had expected to see a dead Cordell.

  “What’s going on here?” the lawman demanded, waving his hands. “You’re under arrest.”

  Both of Rule’s handguns swung toward him and Hangar was unsure of his next move. He looked around the room for signs of support and saw only frightened faces. He regretted not bringing a shot
gun, fully expecting the three men to have eliminated this new owner and what he meant.

  “No, Hangar. Not today. Go play Lady Holt’s game somewhere else,” Rule said.

  “We know who you are. You’re Rule Cordell. No wonder you’re mixed up with Emmett Gardner and his damn rustling,” Hangar said, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. He wanted to draw his holstered gun, but it didn’t seem like a wise thing to do and managed to fold his arms.

  “Yes, I am Rule Cordell.”

  Hangar frowned at the admission. “Rule Cordell is an outlaw. You’re under arrest.”

  “Better check your facts. I got a pardon from the governor. A long time ago,” Rule snarled. “I’m a rancher. Just bought Emmett Gardner’s place.” His stare made Hangar look down at his boots.

  “A rancher who doesn’t want any of Lady Holt’s nonsense about rustling,” he continued. “Do you really think there’s a real man in town who believes Emmett Gardner rustled any of her beef?” He waved the gun in his right hand for emphasis. “Did you see any of those rebranded steers, Hangar? Did you? Do you think a savvy ol’ rancher would do something so goofy looking? Why would he?”

  Rule Cordell’s face tightened. “No, he’s a man of honor…like Ranger John Checker and Ranger A. J. Bartlett. You wouldn’t know much about those kind, would you, Hangar? Everybody knows they saved the Gardner family from being murdered by Jaudon and his bunch. You do, too.”

  “Gardner has the right to a trial. Tell him to come in.” Hangar found a little courage and lowered his hands slowly to his sides and stared at Bartlett. “You, you’re Ranger Bartlett, aren’t you, mister? You can give yourself up, too.”

  “I’ll wait for a real judge,” Bartlett barked.

  “Don’t tell us about justice, Hangar. You don’t have any idea what it means,” Rule said. “But you will. And you won’t like it. Neither will Opat or Jaudon—or that woman you all work for.”

  The room jingled with murmurs of concern.

  Sauntering into the saloon came Eleven Meade, his long blond hair swishing along his collar. Rule guessed the man’s appearance wasn’t planned, judging by the look on Hangar’s face—and the amused expression on Meade’s. The New Mexico hired killer stopped beside Hangar and, in a stage whisper, asked the sheriff if the man at the bar was Rule Cordell.

  The sheriff nodded his head, then grimaced.

  Meade’s toothy grin reminded Rule of a mountain lion seeing an easy prey. Rule didn’t know the well-dressed man, but recognized the slight bulge under his coat, at his hip, was a gun. It looked as though another bulge would be a shoulder-holstered weapon. Who was he? Surely not a deputy. Most likely, one of Lady Holt’s gunmen in town for some reason.

  Bartlett knew and stated his recognition clearly. “Well, well, Eleven Meade. I see Lady Holt is paying well for her guns these days—or did the New Mexico law finally chase you out of there?”

  Any noise in the room was sucked away by the challenge. Another table was overturned and four men scrambled to huddle behind it. Somewhere a man was trying to sing “Nearer My God to Thee.”

  Meade studied Rule as if trying to determine where they might have met. His grin transformed into a cruel sneer.

  Bartlett demanded Rule’s gun belt from the bartender, slipped it over his shoulder and stepped away from the bar. It was a smart move, Rule thought, separating the two of them if shooting started. Rule’s only interest in Meade was his hands. Right now they were at his sides.

  “Well, who’d you come to shoot in the back, Meade?” Bartlett yelled as he stopped beside one of the overturned tables. “Emmett Gardner? Morgan Peale? Charlie Carlson? Someone in this room? Who did Lady Holt pay you to kill?”

  On the other side of the table, one man prayed and another told him to be quiet.

  Smiling evilly, Meade patted his coat where the gun rested. “I came to kill John Checker—and I did.” His cackle rattled around the intense saloon. “He tried to escape from me, but I am too good.”

  It was Rule who responded first, but both guns remained pointed at Hangar. “No, you’re known for shooting opponents in the back. You ambushed the Ranger while he was fighting Holt gunmen to keep them away from Emmett Gardner and his family. There’s no way a piece of scum like you could face him. No way.”

  “He was wanted, dead or alive. For murder.” Another cackle followed Meade’s first.

  Two cowboys slipped out the back door; one hesitated and looked back before going on.

  Sheriff Hangar nodded. “That’s right. Now he’s worm meat. Morgan Peale—an’ that black shooter of hers—took his body an’ buried it.” He avoided matching Rule’s hard stare.

  “I dug it up just to make sure,” Meade giggled, and waved both arms. “He was bloody and full of holes. I added another. Just for the hell of it. Right between his eyes.” The giggle became a hearty laugh that surprised even Hangar.

  Unable to hold back his anger any longer, Bartlett screamed from across the room, “You bastard! John Checker was the best Ranger Texas ever had. You murdered him—and all of Texas will know it.” His eyes were wide and hot. His gun swung toward Hangar and Meade.

  For an instant, Rule thought the distraught Ranger was going to shoot.

  So did Hangar, who flinched and ducked.

  So did Meade, who stepped behind Hangar and slipped his right hand inside his coat.

  Blinking, Bartlett caught his fury and turned it aside. Rule glanced at him and was proud of his new friend’s determination. Killing the two men now would only complicate their task, not ease it. Lady Holt had the upper hand and they needed to leave without more violence. Their appearance—and the news of the new Emmett Gardner Ranch ownership—would rattle the region.

  The handful of men remaining in the saloon would tell everyone what they saw and heard. It was enough for now.

  Swiftly, Rule shoved both guns in his pockets and moved toward the bent-over Hangar and Meade to block Bartlett’s view, in case he decided to fire after all.

  Stopping within two feet of the shootist, he folded his arms. “You’re a really tough man, Meade, aren’t you? Next, maybe you can shoot one of the kids outside. Of course, you’ll need help from Hangar here. Maybe he can rig up some kind of phony rustling charge. Better yet, a phony murder charge. Ask Judge Opat to help. He’ll be glad to.”

  As Hangar and Meade straightened, a pearl-handled gun appeared in the shootist’s fist. “No, I’m going to shoot you, Rule Cordell.”

  Taking time to announce his intention was a mistake. Rule’s left hand was a blur that shoved the gun hand sideways. A bullet smashed into the far wall. Rule’s right fist was an eyeblink behind, slamming into Meade’s face and sending blood onto both of them. The shootist’s gun thudded on the floor.

  From behind them, Bartlett hurried across the room, shifting the shotgun to his left and drawing Rule’s pistol with his freed right fist.

  “Give me a reason, Hangar,” he bellowed.

  The sheriff backed up, holding his hands away from his side.

  Meanwhile, Rule drove his left into the gunman’s stomach. Meade bent over in agony, trying to find breath. A right uppercut sent the gunman flying backward. Unconscious, he slid on his back and stopped with his head against the door.

  “When he wakes up, tell him to run—and run hard.” Rule turned toward Hangar and shook his fist to rid it of the pain. “I don’t like people who shoot people in the back.”

  Hangar’s face was a snarl.

  “And tell this Holt woman that the fire has come to town—and she isn’t going to rise. She’ll just be another fried bird, if she doesn’t stop.”

  Rule yanked Hangar’s gun from its holster and pointed it at him. “You aren’t going to like the fire, either. Neither is Opat.”

  Hangar glanced down at the groaning Meade as Rule took the shootist’s handguns and shoved them into his waistband beside Hangar’s. Swallowing, the sheriff managed to say, “Cordell, you and Bartlett will be sorry when Lady Holt hears this. She�
�ll come after you with all of hell. You have no idea what’s going to happen. I don’t know why you’re here, or why you bought that old man’s ranch, but it was a big mistake.”

  Returning to the far side of the saloon, Bartlett retrieved the weapons of the standing gunman and the wounded one. He quietly told the young gunman that it would be wise for him to get out of the region. He walked over to the wounded gunman, lying like a child on the floor. Wimpering. A patron squatting behind the upturned table motioned toward the gunman’s revolver a few feet away.

  Bartlett thanked him, picked up the gun and checked the wounded man for any hideaway weapons. After removing a second Colt from the man’s back waistband, Bartlett shoved it into his own with the others and strode toward Rule. Everything in him wanted to kill Meade. The bastard had killed his friend. Killed John Checker!

  “Leave this piece of scum, A.J. Justice will get all of them.” Rule stepped past the dazed Meade to the door, recognizing the feelings of the Ranger.

  Halfway through the door, he stopped and turned back toward the inside of the saloon.

  “Gentlemen, tell your friends justice is coming to Caisson. Tell them Lady Holt isn’t going to run things anymore.”

  Tossing the retrieved guns into the street, Rule Cordell and A. J. Bartlett rode hard until they cleared the town, both taking turns at checking behind them as they galloped out onto the prairie. Satisfied they were safe for the moment, the two eased their horses into a walk.

  Shaking his head, Bartlett said, “Well, that’s one way of letting folks know.” He chuckled. “Why did you put your guns away?”

  “It wasn’t my smartest move. I didn’t think Meade had the nerve to pull on me. I knew Hangar didn’t.”

  “You wanted him to, didn’t you?”

  Rule rode without speaking for a few heartbeats. “I guess I did. It gave me an excuse to hit him.”

  “We’d better get your hands into some water. They’ll swell.”

  “There’s a spring where Emmett and Rikor are waiting.”

  Bartlett held his hand to his forehead and studied the horizon. “What’ll Lady Holt do…when she hears?”

  Rule patted the neck of his horse. “She has to send Jaudon and his men after us. I’m guessing he’s coming from Austin.”