by Cotton Smith
“Could be. Were a lot of us in that awful thing.” Tapan grinned without answering directly.
“Yeah. Sure ’nuff,” the guard responded, and rubbed his thick mustache.
A bearded gunman brought forward a saddled, riderless horse. Tapan took the reins and waited for Jaudon, leading the horse beside a large rock. Awkwardly, the fat man pulled himself into the saddle, using the rock as a stepstool. Tapan waved at the driver and guard, swung his horse around and kicked it into a gallop without waiting for the Frenchman. The band of gunmen followed.
Annoyed at the suddenness of it all, Jaudon stared after them, then kicked his horse into following.
“I know who that was, Buster,” the guard said. “Just came to me.”
“Yeah, who?” The driver snapped the reins and yelled at his team to start moving again.
“That was Tapan Moore.”
“Tapan Moore? The gunfighter from down around El Paso?”
“That’s the one. Hear tell he’s a bit crazy in the head.”
The shotgun guard shifted his weight as the driver restarted the team. “He is. That’s where I remember him from. He was yelling and screaming. In a Rebel army hospital. In Tennessee, it was. During the war.”
“Sorry to see he’s working for that Holt woman.”
“Reckon she’s the only one hiring guns. They say she brought in that half-breed…ah, Dimitry.”
“Damn. He’s a bad one. Heard tell somethin’ about Eleven Meade comin’ this way, too.” The driver snapped the reins again.
“Heard that.” The shotgun guard settled back against the coach frame. “Don’t understand how that Frenchman got to be a Ranger captain, do you?”
The driver yelled again, snapped the reins again and said, “No. I don’t wanna know, either. Stay as far away from that Holt woman as you can. She’s pure devil, boy. Pure devil.”
“Didn’t he say those boys were Rangers?” The guard frowned.
“Yeah, guess he did.”
“Guess that means Tapan Moore’s a Ranger.”
“Damn.”
As the stage bounced over the ridge, Tapan, Tanner and the other Holt man eased their horses to a walk to wait for Jaudon. Already the Frenchman’s horse was laboring under the man’s weight.
“What’s going on?” Jaudon demanded as he caught up. “Do vous have nourriture… ah, any food? I am starving.” His horse, thankful for the rest, spotted some blades of grass that looked interesting and began to nibble on them.
”You’ll have to wait, Sil.” Tapan fiddled with the flagpole resting in a special saddle sheath and pointed toward the closest ridge.
From over the rolling land came another rider, riding sidesaddle on a black horse. Lady Holt’s long red hair danced on her shoulders. She was dressed in a dark red riding suit with a matching hat highlighted by a crimson feather. Black boots, decorated with beading around the top, reached past her knees. In her black-gloved hands was a coiled whip.
“Bonjour, Madame Holt. Tres heureux de voux,” Jaudon declared loudly, removed his hat and bowed from the saddle.
She nodded in return. She loved the sound of French and knew he had said he was delighted to see her.
The pig-faced Frenchman in the dust-laced, three-piece suit opened his mouth, shut it and finally asked, “Comment allez-vous?”
“Assez bien, merci,” she responsed to his polite question of how she was doing.
Tapan’s face reddened with jealousy, but he kept telling himself that she was interested in the fat man only for business.
“Let us ride, Sil,” Lady Holt said. “I’ll tell you on the way. The rest of your men are waiting outside town.”
“I thought we were going to, ah, your place,” Jaudon said.
“Not now. We have work to do.”
The Frenchman’s stomach growled.
Late afternoon brought new fear to Caisson.
Riding down the main street of town came Lady Holt with thirty-two armed riders strung out behind her. Beside her was Sil Jaudon. Behind him rode Tapan Moore holding the red flag. They rode slowly down the street like a cavalry unit taking a predeteremined position.
People stopped and stared. Word sped through the stores and offices. Lady Holt had come to town. Traffic in the street disappeared magically. A stray mongrel dog dared to bark and was shooed into silence by three men.
No one noticed Wilson Tanner returning to the livery a few minutes later. He shook his head, watching the Holt army take control of Caisson just by entering it.
In front of the telegraph office, Lady Holt reined her horse and swung down from her sidesaddle rig and handed the reins to Tapan. Jaudon dismounted in awkward stages and handed the reins to Tapan as well.
She stood, letting the drama of her appearance be absorbed by the townspeople. She enjoyed the effect and decided she must do it more often. She commanded Tapan to hold the men in the center of the street until they returned. With that, she went inside the telegraph office with Jaudon a few steps behind. The telegraph operator almost stumbled, attempting to greet them. He was shaking from nervousness.
“A-afternoon, L-Lady Holt. Ah, C-Captain Jaudon. H-how may I help you today?” The greasy-haired operator rubbed his sweaty hands on his wrinkled pants.
“He needs to send a wire to the governor. Now.”
“Of course. Of course. I’ll get you some paper—ah, and a pencil,” the operator declared, turning around and banging into his own desk.
“I have no need of either. Here.” She held out a folded piece of paper. “Send this.”
“I—I certainly w-will, ma’am. H-hope you are d-doing well today,” he said, his hands shaking. “W-we don’t have the h-honor of your presence…in town…often enough.”
Her smile was one of disdain. “Send the wire.”
Methodically, he unfolded the paper.
TO GOVERNOR CITALE:
RETURNED TO FIND ANARCHY IN CAIS-SON. SHERIFF AND JUDGE HELD. OUTLAWS IN CONTROL. DEMAND FULL AUTHORITY TO RETURN ORDER. AWAIT YOUR ORDER. CAPTAIN JAUDON
She watched him read the message and snapped, “What’s the matter?”
“Ah, nothing, I guess.” The operator sniffed nervously.
“Do you disagree with this assessment?”
“Ah, no. No. Of course not. Glad Captain Jaudon is here to…help.”
“Send it.”
Jaudon sneared as the operator sniffed again, unlocked the telegraph key and began sending the message.
“I know Morse code.” She folded her arms and one eyebrow arched triumphantly.
He nodded and ignored the sweat bead rolling down from his forehead and finding the end of his nose.
On the corner of the operator’s table was a folded paper, a message received but not delivered. Jaudon looked closer. Rule Cordell’s name was written in the upper corner. Without asking, he picked it up, unfolded the paper and read:
ELEVEN MEADE DEAD…STOP…TRIED TO AMBUSH US…STOP…HE DID NOT SUCCEED…STOP…ALL WELL…STOP…LOVE, A
He handed the paper to Lady Holt, who read and returned it to the fat Frenchman, who laid it back on the table. If the operator noticed, he didn’t say.
“At least that explains why he didn’t wire me,” she said. “I thought he had run off with the money I paid him.” She paused and her eyelashes flitted as if out of control. “Where is that money now? I want it back.”
Turning toward Jaudon, she told him to wire the Clark Springs marshal and follow up. He should claim the money was stolen. Without waiting for his response, she took a sheet of paper from the desk, wrote a short note about retrieving the “stolen” money and laid it beside the operator tapping out the initial message. He would know who to send it to in Clark Springs. On top of the sheet, she left several coins.
Minutes later, Lady Holt emerged from the telegraph office. Jaudon came behind her, waving the return message.
“I am authorized to take ze control,” he yelled to his men. “Vous know what to do.” He waved the paper again f
or emphasis.
Tapan nudged his horse forward and led the Holt men to the sheriff’s office. All of them drew rifles from their saddle scabbards, cocked and aimed them at the sheriff’s door. The blacksmith-turned-sheriff emerged, holding a cocked Winchester. Scared, but determined, he stood in the doorway as the armed riders lined up in front of him. Muscles in his arms twitched with nervous energy.
“Wh-hat can I d-do for you, gentlemen?” he said in his best voice, hoping to keep the fear from bubbling over.
“The governor has just given Captain Jaudon military control of this town,” Tapan declared, and pointed at Jaudon standing beside Lady Holt outside the telegraph office.
He pushed the flagpole forward in its leather holster. “We have been deputized as Rangers.” He pointed to the badge on his shirt and grinned.
“I d-don’t u-understand.”
“Understand this, then. Resign as sheriff now or die…now.”
The blacksmith choked back the fear climbing in his throat. A wet spot appeared at his groin, bringing chuckles from the string of riders facing him. He wasn’t certain he could even walk. Finally, his hands let the Winchester drop and it thudded on the planked sidewalk, barely missing his boots.
“The hell with this. I—I r-resign.” He yanked the badge from his soot-covered shirt and dropped it. Without looking at them, he walked away.
“Smoky. Ben. Go inside and bring out Hangar and Opat,” Tapan commanded. His half smile was confident and cruel. When this was all over, Lady Holt might make him her number-one man, instead of Jaudon. Or her husband. He smiled and muttered, “Lord of Texas has a nice ring to it.”
No one appeared on the street. It was as if the entire town had become an oil painting. The bravado built from the hearings had evaporated like a wisp of smoke. Smoky and Ben reappeared a few minutes later with a smiling Hangar and a tentative Opat. Both gunmen quickly remounted.
“Thanks, boys. We were in a bad fix!” Hangar yelled. “That damn John Checker—and Rule Cordell—sneaked up on us. The bastards! Meade lied about killin’ the Ranger!”
Tapan glanced at Jaudon and Lady Holt, then back to the two released men. “You two failed. Lady Holt doesn’t like failure.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Hangar held out his hands.
Opat shook his head and bowed it.
A stream of rifle shots tore through Caisson. Both Hangar and Opat crumpled to the ground.
“Smoky, get the undertaker,” Tapan yelled, examining the aftermath of their firing. “Tell him the state of Texas is paying. For the boxes an’ the diggin’. I want those bodies out of here. Quick.”
He liked the feeling that came with leadership. Would Jaudon be a problem now that he had returned with his captaincy? He knew there was no romantic interest between the Frenchman and the English duchess. Maybe Jaudon’s responsibilities as Ranger captain would take him away.
“Drinks are on the boss at No. 8,” Tapan yelled. “Cause trouble in town and you’re fired. Same if you’re too drunk to ride when we leave.”
Grunts of approval and statements of agreement followed as the Holt gunmen wheeled and galloped toward the saloon. They vanished inside in seconds. Tapan looked around and saw Jaudon and Lady Holt standing in the middle of the street. He swung his mount toward her and took a position at her right, holding the flag of the phoenix upright. Jaudon looked at him and Tapan produced one of his best smiles.
The fat Frenchman actually giggled as he began a loud pronouncement to the quaking town. His horse snorted and shook its head. Jaudon yanked hard on the reins.
“Ze citizens of Caisson, hear me,” he yelled. “Ze governor has given me, as ze Ranger captain, ze complete authority to bring law and order to ze region. He is very concerned about ze outlaws attempting to take control of zee town. Bien entendu…” Jaudon caught his lapse and continued. “Ah, certainly, ze governor has ze need to be so concerned. But I—and mon fellow Rangers here with me—will change theez bad thing.”
He stared in both directions of the quiet main street. A boy on a bicycle went by, not paying any attention. He didn’t notice the black man watching from the alley. The speech was exactly as Lady Holt had written. He had promised to leave out any French words or she would have Tapan deliver it.
Loudly, he began again, explaining Hangar and Opat had been executed because they were found to be working with the outlaws. The mayor and town council would be disbanded until order was reestablished. Tanner would remain the municipal judge and Tapan Moore would be the acting sheriff until an election could be held.
Tapan held up the sheriff’s badge and put it on, just under the Ranger badge on his leather vest.
Warrants would be issued for John Checker, Emmett and Rikor Gardner, Morgan Peale, London Fiss, Charlie Carlson and Rule Cordell. Rewards would be established for each, dead or alive. He finished his proclamation with the statement that it would be printed up and placed on display throughout the area.
Hearing his declaration, Margaret Loren rushed from her dry goods store and hurried toward them. Her face red with anger, she screamed at him. “This is insane! That Holt woman is trying to ruin our town! Our town!” She looked both ways. “Come out! Come out! We don’t have to take this nonsense. Come on!”
Jaudon moved his hands toward his holstered revolvers, laughed and told Tapan to take care of the matter. He spun his horse and headed toward the newspaper office, where Lady Holt was already waiting.
Margaret followed him, screaming for others to come and help her.
Holding the flag in its saddle boot, Tapan swung his horse toward her, kicked it into a gallop and rammed the running animal into the woman before she had a chance to get out of the way. The horse’s shoulder hit the side of her face as she stumbled and fell.
He rode past her without looking back.
She lay in the street. Unmoving. From the alley across the street, the black man came running.
Jaudon shook his head, stepped inside the newspaper office and slammed the door behind him.
Chapter Thirty-two
The lone window rattled with the force of Jaudon’s entry. Lady Holt was already inside, delivering a combined offer and threat to the young publisher.
Henry Seitmeyer stood behind his desk with his arms crossed; his shirt was blotched with black. Neither it nor his bow tie had been changed since the hearings. His expression was easy to read: he didn’t like either Lady Holt’s words or the deliverer of them.
A large, metal printing press stood silently behind him, its job finished for the moment. Seitmeyer had had it shipped from Finsbury, London; it was “an improved Coumbia press.” The small office was cluttered with paste pots, type trays, ink bottles, stacks of paper, a dozen books, two coats, a stack of printed posters and a large ashtray holding a cold pipe. A sack of loose tobacco rested against the tray.
Piles of the latest edition of the Caisson Reporter lay on his desk piled with other exchanges, research papers and ad layouts. The front page headline read COURT DECLARES GARDNER, CHECKER INNOCENT. The subhead was RANGER KILLED IN RELATED INCIDENT.
“You should be ashamed of printing such garbage.” Lady Holt pointed at the newspapers. “Did the outlaws make you do this?”
“Ma’am, freedom of the press is guaranteed. By the Constitution,” Seitmeyer said. “I will publish what I want, when I want.”
“How much for this silly place?” Lady Holt asked, waving her arms.
“The newspaper is not for sale, ma’am. Neither am I.”
She glared at him, but her intensity was more than matched by his own. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Seitmeyer. Progress is coming to Caisson. I am bringing it. Soon this land will be completely under my authority. Behind that will come the railroad and barbed wire. Riches will follow.” She cocked her head. “Some will have the wisdom to see what I bring—and some will not.”
“What happens to that second group?” Seitmeyer growled.
“Oh, nothing, I suppose. Although most likely, the
y will decide other places are more comfortable.” She reached out and touched the top newspaper with her forefinger, leaving it there.
“You mean like Gardner, Peale and Carlson?”
“No. Those people are guilty of breaking the law. They will be tracked down and punished.” Lady Holt’s mouth curled into a long sneer that made her look more like a sinister man than a woman.
“The court just conducted a hearing on the charges against Emmett Gardner and found him innocent of rustling. The same for the big Ranger, John Checker—and his murdered partner.”
Jaudon walked over to the printing press and studied it. “That was ze illegal court. And John Checker is no longer ze Ranger. He is ze murderer.”
Seitmeyer licked his lower lip. “Jaudon, he’s a lot more of a Ranger than you’ll ever be. So is A. J. Bartlett, who was murdered by your men, Mrs. Holt.” His jaw tightened; a glimmer of fear flickered in his eyes, but he had no intention of backing down. “You can’t try a man for the same thing twice. That’s double jeopardy. That, too, is against the law.”
The Frenchman glanced at Lady Holt, who explained the charges were new ones; new rustling had been discovered—and Checker’s initial murder charge did not cover the killing of a deputy and two more of her men. Morgan Peale and Charlie Carlson were charged with attempting to impede justice.
“You mean Mrs. Peale testifying at the hearing was illegal?” Seitmeyer said; his face was full of disgust. “Mr. Carlson wasn’t even there.” He waved his right arm. “The men you say were murdered by Ranger Checker were actually killed by Ranger Bartlett, who was defending the jail against their assault.”
Lady Holt’s retorts were thorough and completely distorted, but delivered with intense passion. “No, Carlson wasn’t there, but employees of his were, acting on his behalf. The Peale woman was helping the outlaws. And I have it on good authority that it was Checker who did the shooting at the jail. He was attempting to break out and my men tried to help the deputies there.”
“I see. That’s quite a twist of the truth, ma’am.”