by Cotton Smith
In the main room, Checker studied the tiny dancing flames within the hot coals. His mind danced with them, along yesterdays: A. J. Bartlett recited Tennyson from one corner of his mind; his little sister reminded him of his promise to return in another. In between were the shadows of Jaudon, Tapan, Dimitry and Meade. He couldn’t bring himself to think about what had to be done. He tried, but his thoughts kept curling back to other times.
Touching the small pouch under his shirt, Checker couldn’t help thinking about Stands-In-Thunder’s views on death, on the afterlife. The old war chief was convinced all Comanches went to live in a magnificent valley, where everyone was young and virile. At some point, each would return to the earth and be reborn, to help keep the People strong. There was a beauty in his words.
Would he ever see Stands-In-Thunder again? Or A.J.?
It took Emmett to pull him—and all of them—back to the day.
“Thought London would be back by now. Said so,” the old rancher declared. “What if that evil woman’s guns all came to town after we done left? When was that Jaudon supposed to be back? Soon, I reckon.” He took another gulp of coffee. “Why don’t them other Rangers come an’ help us?”
Checker turned from the fireplace. “Citale would’ve fired all the Rangers in the Special Force. Jaudon’ll make Rangers out of his men.”
“What about that thar regular bunch of Rangers, then? Ain’t there more than just yur bunch, John?”
“Yes, the full force. But they’re spread out all over Texas, Emmett. Besides, Captain Poe knows which side his bread is buttered on,” Checker said. “I imagine he’s stayed out of this. And will. He can’t go against Citale and stay in his job. He’ll keep his men out of it. Or try to.” He shook his head.
“Ya mean he’s gonna let them do whatever to…ah, yur captain?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, Emmett.” Checker moved from the fireplace to the table.
Leaning forward at the table, Rule rubbed his hands together and stared at them. “What about this Spake Jamison? A.J. told me he was a tough old warrior.”
Checker was surprised Rule knew the older Ranger. “He is. Be a good hand to have on our side.” He slammed his fist on the table. “But he’s not here. None of them are. We can’t plan on wishes.”
“Wonder why we haven’t seen Eleven Meade,” Rule said, changing the subject. He held up three fingers. “Guess it doesn’t matter. She’s got three really bad ones, besides him. Sil Jaudon. Tapan Moore. And Luke Dimitry.”
“Figure we’re going to see all of them soon enough,” Checker said. “Might not see Meade unless we’re watching our backs.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “I’m going to get some more coffee. Anybody need some?”
“Naw. Done coffee’d out.”
“No, thanks, John.”
The tall Ranger headed into the small room and was greeted by Morgan with a warm smile.
“What do ya think, Rule?” Emmett’s tired face was a question.
At first, Rule thought the old rancher was talking about the attraction between Checker and Morgan. Then he realized the gunfighter was talking about their situation. “We bought a little time.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know how much. I’d say we’re going to have to leave here as soon as we can. My guess is they’ll hit tonight.”
“ ’Member when ya fooled all them Yanks?” Emmett stroked his unshaven chin as if he wasn’t listening. “Wha’d they call it? Masquerade Battalion, I think. Yah, that’s it. How ’bout we try somethin’ like that?”
Rule winced, trying to think of some gentle way to tell the older man that it was a different situation in a different time with a different objective. All he was trying to do then was to slow down the Union sneak attack long enough for the Confederates to prepare for the advance.
Shaking his head, the gunfighter explained, “Not sure how we could do anything like that, Emmett.” He pointed out that his scouts had taken advantage of an abandoned breastworks with left-behind uniforms and gear.
“We even had some cannonballs,” he said. “No cannons, but we faked those. It’s not the same, Uncle. All we were trying to do was slow them down so our boys wouldn’t be ambushed. We knew exactly where the Yanks were heading.”
“Well, ya faked out them Regulators, too. With that ‘Sons of Thunder’ stuff. That big boy…ah, ‘the Russian’…the travelin’ trader tolt me ’bout it. Said he did some helpin’.”
Rule shook his head, watching Checker come back into the room, sipping a filled mug. “Yes, Caleb Shank was a big part of bringing them down. Still…” He stopped talking and looked at Checker. “You know, Uncle Emmett, we’re not even sure where they’ll hit first. They should come here, but they might not.”
“You’re right, Rule. But a smart play is that they will.” Checker walked over to the fireplace where he had been before. He took another sip. “Ever been around Luke Dimitry or Tapan Moore?”
“Can’t say as I have.” Rule ran his fingers along the table. “How good are they?”
“We aren’t going to like facing them.”
Checker turned toward the fire and drank his coffee. Rule and Emmett gathered the rest of the used dishes and took them into the kitchen. The old rancher took charge of washing, in spite of Morgan’s insistence that she would finish the chore. With a backward glance at Checker, she took an old watering pot outside to fill at her well and water a string of struggling flowers on the east side of her house.
“I’ll be right back, Uncle Emmett,” Rule said. “Want to tell John something. Before I forget it.”
“Sure. I’m an old hand at this…since my li’l lady up an’ died on me.” He bit his lower lip and looked away.
Rule spun back toward the main room. His own thoughts were huddling next to his wife, Aleta. He missed her very much. And Ian and Rosie. And Two, for that matter. In his mind, his children hugged him every night before he went to sleep. His dog, Two, joined in the warmth. Being separated, sometimes, was the cost of liberty.
Lady Holt seemingly had every advantage going for her against the three small ranches. She had money and influence, the governor, a gang of gunmen and now she had the Rangers. That meant the law. Like Checker, he had no illusion about what they had accomplished in town. The overturn of the charges against Emmett and the two Rangers would only last until Lady Holt heard about them. The townspeople couldn’t be expected to stand up against her power.
Pausing, he laid a hand on the back of the closest chair. John Checker had his back to him, lost in yesterdays.
“John, may I bother you?” he said, walking closer.
“What? Oh, of course, Rule.” Checker turned toward him and waved his hand. “I was just…doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does. A.J. was a great friend,” Rule said. “He died fighting…for a better Texas. That’s what he wanted.” The gunfighter stood next to Checker and laid a hand on the tall man’s shoulder. “It’s our job to make it happen.”
There was a hesitation before Checker agreed.
“I think you ought to go outside now,” Rule said, removing his hand and looping both thumbs into his gun belt. “I think a certain young lady would like that. A lot.”
Checker stared at Rule, then frowned. “Rule, I can’t. This isn’t the time. You know what we’re up against.”
The gunfighter took a step back and looked out the window. He could see Morgan watering her flowers.
“Don’t figure she sees it that way, John. The heart doesn’t carry a watch.” He smiled. “I only know life started for me when I met Aleta.” He turned away and headed back to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he yelled, “You do what you think best, John.”
Checker shook his head and chuckled. The time for mourning was over. He put down his cup on the table and headed outside. Taking a deep breath, he eased toward Morgan, who was pretending not to notice his coming.
“Flowers do something special to a place,” he said, shoving his hat back on his forehead.
G
lancing at him and smiling, Morgan said, “Wouldn’t think someone like you would notice.”
“You don’t think Rangers like flowers?” His returning smile equaled hers.
Their eyes met and danced briefly.
“I—I w-wish things were different,” he managed to say. “I’d do things different.”
She stood and stepped closer to him. “How different, John?” Her voice was soft.
Putting his hand on her arm, he pulled her to him.
Their mouths met.
As they kissed, the silhouette of a rider appeared from the west. Their moment of intimacy interrupted, Checker and Morgan stepped back from each other. Their hands held each other’s arms to keep the instant from fleeing.
“That’s got to be London. Otherwise Rikor would be warning us,” Checker said.
“Something’s wrong! Mr. Fiss has been hurt!” she yelled, and headed for the incoming figure.
The black man reined up; his left arm hung at his side.
“Mr. Fiss, what happened? You’ve been shot.” She pointed at his bloody sleeve.
Rule and Emmett joined her with Checker a few strides behind.
The three men helped him from the saddle and he told them what had happened in town.
Checker’s face matched Rule’s in intensity.
“Rode south out of town. Like I was scared, headed for the border. Left plenty of tracks,” the black man said, trying to catch his breath and ignore the steady ache in his arm. “They quit following me. Saw them turn back. An hour out, I’d guess.” He took a deep breath. “One of them was Dimitry. I’d recognize that old Navajo coat anywhere.”
“So Jaudon and Lady Holt are both in town,” Checker said.
“And Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry,” Rule added.
“Let’s go inside. We can talk there,” Checker said. “Morgan made a fine stew for us. Maybe I’ll have some, too. I’m getting hungry.”
Rule grinned to himself.
Holding the reins of Fiss’s horse, Emmett said, “If’n you don’t mind, London, I’ll borrow yur hoss an’ ride down to Rikor. He’ll be a-wantin’ some o’ that stew.” He shook his head. “Fact, you boys better git yur fill afore he comes. That boy kin eat somethin’ fierce.”
The black man warmly agreed. They continued walking to the house while the old rancher swung into the saddle and headed back. Checker looked at Morgan and smiled. Her return smile made him want to take her in his arms right there. Her eyes said she would like that, too.
As they walked into the house, Rule asked Fiss if he had seen Eleven Meade. The black man hadn’t seen him.
Fiss looked at the three men and the woman walking beside him. He should feel strange. White people didn’t like being around black people. For any reason. But not these four. They thought of him as a friend, an equal. And he wasn’t just a colored man, he was a former convict. It didn’t matter. Not to them. It hadn’t mattered to Morgan, either; she respected his skills. Of course, he lived in the special bunkhouse built from the barn, which was empty except at roundup when she hired short-time riders. At her insistence, his meals were always taken in the main house.
Inside, Morgan insisted she should clean his wound.
“There’s no lead in there. I checked. And it’s my left arm. It’ll have to do.”
“Better let her have a look anyway,” Checker said.
“Look who’s talking,” Fiss replied.
Morgan took his arm. “Hold out your arm, Mr. Fiss.”
“Sure. Sure.” He shook his head, but complied.
Checker handed him a fresh cup of coffee.
She began to cut away the bloody sleeve, pulling slowly on the garment where it had embedded itself in the wound.
“I’ll get some hot water going.” Rule headed for the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he yelled, “Where’s a big pot, Morgan?”
After the wound was treated and wrapped with a white bandage, Fiss finished a second cup of coffee. Morgan returned with a new shirt.
“It was my husband’s. I think it’ll fit, Mr. Fiss.”
In spite of his suggestion that she call him “London,” she always insisted on the more formal designation.
“I can’t wear that, Mrs. Peale.”
“Put it on. Now, how would you like some stew?” Morgan asked.
“Thanks, Mrs. Peale. I’m hungry as can be.” He looked at his left arm; it was stiff and hurting badly. John Checker wouldn’t stay in bed with a wound much worse than this; he couldn’t show any sign of weakness. He removed the old shirt with Rule’s help and put on the fresh one. It was a dull brown. It fit.
“And you, John, are you ready…for some stew?” Morgan smiled.
“Yes, ma’am. I am.” Checker sat down next to Fiss.
Quickly, she brought iron utensils and cloth napkins that had once been bright blue. Rule moved close to the table and touched the silver cross and medicine pouch around his neck.
“How do you want to play this, John?” he asked.
Checker watched Morgan set the white ironstone bowls in front of both men and asked if they wanted more coffee. They did and she left to get the pot.
“Not sure, Rule. Except they’ll come,” the tall Ranger said. “Most likely tonight. I think they’ll head here first, move on to the Carlson Ranch, then to Emmett’s. Their objective will be to destroy us. All of us. Time isn’t on their side. The state of Texas isn’t going to let Jaudon stay a Ranger captain.”
After watching Morgan in the kitchen, Checker looked at Rule. “There are some big ranchers who’ll scream about no Ranger help along the Rio Grande. That’ll end Jaudon’s time as a Ranger captain.” He licked his lower lip. “It’ll come too late to help us, though.”
“I don’t like waiting for trouble,” Rule said.
Checker put a spoonful into his mouth, savored it and swallowed. “Me, neither. What say you and I ride to town.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I like that idea.” Rule put both hands on the back of the end chair.
Returning with the coffeepot, Morgan raised her free hand to signal a halt. “Wait just a minute. This is my fight. Mine and Emmett’s. Not yours.” She poured fresh coffee, took the pot back to the stove and returned, standing in the kitchen doorway. Her arms were at her sides, her legs spread in defiance.
Checker thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and wanted to tell her so. Her earlier kiss lay on his lips—and mind—like a butterfly on a flower.
“I ride with Mrs. Peale,” Fiss said, not daring to bend his wounded arm. He shoved another spoonful of stew into his mouth to emphasize his commitment.
Checker reminded them Jaudon would be bringing a force of nearly forty men, all experienced fighters. Among them would be Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry—and maybe Eleven Meade. Tapan, in particular, would be hard to handle. The tall Ranger shook his head, pushing away the weakness in his body that wanted control. Not now. There was no time for giving in to the ache from the wound.
Only Rule and Morgan noticed. She wanted to hug him; Rule wanted to tell him it was all right to feel the bullets that had tried to kill him.
“I don’t like the idea of taking on forty,” Checker said, “when we’re really just after three.” He stared at the stew, then took another spoonful.
Rule rubbed his chin. “Holt. Jaudon. Citale.”
“Right.” Checker washed a third spoonful down with coffee. The movement brought a pain to his wounded side that he tried to ignore. He added Jaudon would likely lead the Holt gang if they attacked, then asked Fiss what Lady Holt was doing in town. Fiss responded that she was in the newspaper office when he left; Jaudon had been there, too, firing at him from the doorway.
“Hard to miss that big boy, but I did.” He forced a grin and continued eating.
“That means Henry Seitmeyer is in trouble. Or worse,” Checker said. “He was going to bring out an edition telling about the hearings.”
“Didn’t see him. But I heard a couple
of businessmen talking about the story.” He turned his head to the side. “Probably should have gotten a copy.”
“Mrs. Loren was all right when you left?” Morgan asked, leaning forward in her chair.
All of them complimented Margaret Loren for her courage. He retold what had happened, expanding it to include the resignation of the blacksmith as temporary sheriff.
Checker thought he had shown both courage and judgment. “Not much wisdom in going up against forty guns—by yourself.”
Hoofbeats signaled Rikor’s return. The young man entered the house with a question. “What’s goin’ on?”
Checker summarized the situation while Morgan rose and went to the kitchen again, returning with a filled coffee cup, tableware and a napkin.
“Sure did like those donuts, ma’am,” Rikor exclaimed.
“You have some stew and I’ll see if we have any left.” Morgan set a bowl filled with stew in front of him.
“Oh my, that looks mighty good. You sure can cook, ma’am. Bet your husband liked coming home.” He stopped, realizing the insensitivity of his statement, and apologized.
She smiled and told him an apology wasn’t necessary and quickly asked if the others wanted more coffee. None did.
Checker stared at his empty cup for a moment before looking up. “Let’s go to town—and arrest her. Citizens’ arrest.”
Rule’s face brightened. “Well, we can’t protect the ranches. Trying to do that puts all the advantage on their side. And puts us…dead.” He turned to Morgan. “Are you ready for this? They’re going to burn this fine home. Run off your cattle.”
“I can rebuild a house. I can round up cattle.” Her response matched the fierceness in her eyes.
“All right, let’s do it,” Rule said. “Got a thought, John.”
“Of course.”
“We need to ride like the guerrilla fighters did. During the war. Carry lots of weapons. Bullets. Food. Water. With us. Stay on the move. Until this thing’s over.”
“You’re right. What ever happened to that packhorse with food and bullets I brought to your place, Rikor?” Checker asked.