Jaudon’s shaved eyebrows tightened over his eyes. “Sacre bleu, vous cannot mean this.”
“You doubt my word, Sil?”
“I do not understand, Madame.” He shifted his wide rear in the chair, deciding it was sturdy enough to support him. His hat fell off his lap, but he dared not try to lean over and retrieve it.
Haughtily, she explained that she wanted Jaudon to send his remaining gunmen to watch the Gardner Ranch. They were to spread out and keep them bottled up, but not attempt to attack. She expected the two Rangers and the Gardner family to be waiting for their advance.
She walked to the table where he sat and put her arm on his shoulder. “Sil, we shall have some brandy. To celebrate my wonderful idea. Then you go find Tanner. He will know how to contact the governor.”
Jaudon licked his lips. “Je comprends. I salute vous, Madame.”
“This will be the end of the Rangers,” she said, walking toward a cabinet. “Their captain will refuse to ride against these two.” She withdrew a filled glass decanter and two glasses. “The governor will have no choice but to fire him.”
“S’il vous plait, but they will only replace him with another Ranger.”
She smiled. It was a wicked smile.
“Ah, no, Sil. The governor will pick you.” She filled the glasses and handed him one.
“Merci beau coup! Captain Jaudon,” he said with his eyes sparkling. “Oui, Captain Jaudon has a nice ring to it.”
She went on to explain Jaudon would then be able to pick his own men as Rangers to ride with him—and that he would likely want to add a few good guns to replace the men killed.
He stood and bowed as deeply as his thick waist would allow. “Madame Holt, I bow to votre…your brilliance.”
They clinked glasses and downed the brandy.
Jaudon laid the glass on the table and then returned to the earlier subject. “Am I to assume Eleven Meade is to be one of my Rangers?”
“No. That would be too much to ask of the governor. Even I have limits,” she said, and smiled. “His job will be to take care of this John Checker, the Ranger.”
“I want to do that.”
She smiled. “Of course you do.” She stood and walked to the window again. “When he is dead, you can piss on his body.”
Jaudon’s eyes flashed. “You do not think I am good enough to take him?”
Turning from the window, Lady Holt snarled, “If I did, do you think I would have said what I just said?”
“Non. Non.” Jaudon waved his fat arms in front of him. “Pardon, Madame, I was just trying to help…you.” He swallowed his reaction and added, “You know, he is so strange, Madame. Always with ze white cat. It is…not natural.”
“Eleven Meade is a killer. For now, he is my killer.” She flitted her eyes. “Do not feel badly, Sil. I do not think Tapan or Luke could kill him, either.”
“Oui,” he said, shook his head and asked, “How did Eleven get such a strange name? Is it…how you say, ze nickname?”
She refilled their glasses, took hers and sipped it this time.
“No, it’s his real name,” she said. “He told me his mother was into astrology—and numerology. The number eleven is, ah, the master number, the symbol of the light within us. Very spiritual stuff.”
Jaudon shook his head. “What’s he say about all theez?”
“That his mother was a fool. A much better name would have been Harold.” She leaned over and picked up his hat and handed it to him.
Chapter Twelve
False dawn was filled with the sounds of creaking saddle leather and snorting horses as Emmett Gardner, his sons and the two Rangers moved east toward Clark Springs. The old rancher drove the loaded buckboard with the milk cow and Checker’s packhorse tied behind it, moving east.
With a rifle across his saddle, Rikor rode the point, knowing the land. The two other boys rode flank on one side of the wagon; Bartlett and Checker rode drag, pushing the handful of Emmett’s horses.
As expected, leaving the house had been teary for the two smallest children. Each got to bring along his favorite treasure; Andrew had a small frog in his coat pocket; Hans carried a cigar box filled with rocks and a few marbles. In the wagon seat, alongside Emmett Gardner, was Hammer. Beside the sleeping dog was a yellow cat.
All of the family were solemn; all were fighting the lack of sleep. They had left behind everything that was home. When they left, Emmett tried to remind them that home was wherever they all were. Together. The old man choked when he spoke, then said they had to be brave.
On the ridge to their left, the figures of three riders appeared in the night sky, then vanished.
Checker nudged his horse and galloped beside Emmett in the wagon.
“That’s trouble. Most likely it’s Holt riders. Coming after us.”
“Yeah, we’re ’bout halfway across’t their land,” Emmett said.
“I’m going to ride toward them,” Checker said. “I’ll try to keep them away from you. And busy.”
Bartlett rode alongside him. “What’s up, John? I saw the riders. The lady’s boys, I’m sure.”
“Just told Emmett the same. I’m going to ride that way. Discourage them from trying to stop us.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, A.J. If they get past me, your gun will be needed,” Checker said, and turned in the saddle toward the wagon. “Emmett, push through the Holt land fast. We don’t want to get boxed in there.”
“We won’t, John,” Emmett said, licked his lower lip and added, “You be careful.”
“Sure.”
Checker spun his horse and rode first to Rikor to inform him, then galloped toward the ridge. He wasn’t certain what he would do at this point. All he knew for sure was that he needed to delay them. At least until they crossed Lady Holt’s land. If he could turn them around or put them afoot, that would be perfect. He pulled his Winchester free of its special saddle horn sheath and cocked it. There was a reassurance in the click-click.
If he was right, the riders had come to the house, discovered it empty and begun trailing them. It wouldn’t have been difficult, even at night.
Ahead was a long ridge composed of boulders, trees and weary buffalo grass. On its far side was a stream that stayed strong most of the year. He guessed the riders would follow the stream and attempt to get in front of Emmett’s family before showing themselves. Getting close enough would require his being skylined for a minute when he crossed the top, but he didn’t see any other way.
He nudged his horse into a lope over and down the other side and onto an Indian pony crossing, narrow but defined, separating the higher bank to his right from loose gravel and rocks to his left. Nearby a mockingbird made fun of the world. In the uneven morning light, he could make out six riders ahead. They were concentrating on the trail in front of him and didn’t see his approach. None looked like Sil Jaudon. Or Tapan Moore. Checker guessed the fat man wouldn’t care too much for riding a horse—or the horse, either, for that matter. He didn’t have any idea why Tapan wasn’t with them.
Luke Dimitry! He was one of the six. The wild half-breed was riding on the farthest side of the group, probably acting as the scout.
They were following the stream and the ridge toward where they assumed Emmett and his family were headed. He reined up, kicked his right leg over the saddle and eased to the uneven ground. Pain shot through his left leg and he knew it would be difficult to run. Getting too close would only expose him to six against one. A large rock outcropping with two hearty pines guarding the projection would serve well to cover his horse.