Scuffling at the door became Rule Cordell with a handful of Claisson townspeople. The blacksmith, a freighter, a young general store clerk, the woman who ran the dry goods shop, two Triple C cowhands who worked for Charlie Chance Carlson and several others. George Likeman joined them; he was the town undertaker and furniture builder. All had been selected by Morgan and Emmett. They weren’t quite sure why they were asked to come to the courtroom, but there was something about Rule Cordell that made it seem smart to go.
“Is London outside?” Checker asked, motioning for the new people to come forward and take seats.
“He is—and I’m joining him,” Rule said.
“Good. We won’t be interrupted, then.”
Turning his attention to the now-seated townspeople, Checker told them that they were going to be witnesses to a hearing, that although a hearing didn’t require a jury—or even anyone witnessing it—he and his friends had decided the town deserved a look at real justice for a change.
The blacksmith shook his head affirmatively and said loudly, “We do thank ye, Ranger, for trying. Lady Holt, she has men over in the saloon. The No. 8. They’re there every day. Just watching and waiting. They’re over there now.”
“Thanks. We’ll settle with them later.”
The dry goods store owner politely raised her hand. After being recognized by Checker, she asked, “Will this last long? I have a dress promised to Mrs. Haulprin by two.”
Checker smiled. “No, ma’am. It won’t, but you leave whenever you think you need to do so.” He turned to Opat. “Start the proceedings, Opat. You know what to do.”
With a tremor in his voice that wouldn’t go away, Judge opened the proceedings with his usual statement that the purpose of a preliminary hearing was to determine if sufficient evidence existed for the accused to be bound over for formal trial. Licking his lips, he added that the first case to be heard was that of a charge of rustling against Emmett Gardner. The charge had been brought by Lady Holt’s ranch.
He stared at Hangar. “Sheriff, you presented a number of Holt cattle that had their brands changed to Mr. Gardner’s. Is that correct?”
Hangar glared at him. “Of course, you fool.”
“Do you wish to add anything to your testimony at this time?”
“He’s a guilty son of a bitch—and everybody knows it.”
“I see. Will the defense make its statement please?”
Morgan testified she knew Emmett was not involved in such criminal act and only an idiot would think the revised brands would have been done by anyone, other than an attempt to make the rancher look guilty. She pointed out how complicated the rebranding had been and how rigged it looked. Turning toward the seated townspeople, she explained that the Holt brand was a jagged line with an H above it. She said most called it the “fire brand.”
One of the cowboys growled, “We call it the hell brand.”
Nervous laughter followed the remark.
She smiled grimly and continued. “The ‘fire’ had been blurred over with a running iron. Above it was a single line. The H had been turned into Emmett Gardner’s EG with the backward E covering the H as best it could to represent his Bar EG.”
Shaking her head, she declared, “Nobody could look at that mess and think Mr. Gardner did it. And, of course, he didn’t.” Her face became a frown as she glanced at Checker and continued. “Lady Holt wants his ranch. She wants mine. She wants all of them. And she’ll do anything to get them—like buying the judge and sheriff.”
One loud eruption came from the small group, followed by someone declaring that she was right and the judge should be run out of town on a rail. Both cowboys loudly agreed.
Without moving, Checker reminded them that they must be quiet. He looked over at Morgan and smiled. Having her lead the cause for a new hearing was important; she would be perceived in the community as honest.
She smiled.
Opat looked pale. Down the right side of his face rolled a sweat bead bound for his collar. “Any cross-examination, Sheriff?”
“I don’t know. Ah, no. Except I didn’t have anything to do with this.” Hangar looked back at the people sitting behind him. “Honest. As far as I knew, this was just rustling. Really.”
Checker took control of the room. “Since this is a hearing, and not a trial, I don’t see why we can’t have questions from the folks in here. Anyone have a question they want to ask of Mrs. Peale, or Mr. Gardner, or the sheriff here? Or me, for that matter?”
Silence followed as the group stared ahead.
Finally, Henry Seitmeyer raised his hand and said, “I have a question. Well, sort of. I thought you were dead.”
Checker nodded. “Well, a known killer from New Mexico, Eleven Meade, was hired to do that. Holt hired him. He bragged a little too soon, thanks to Mrs. Peale and Mr. Fiss.”
“I see,” Seitmeyer said. “Do you know where this Meade fellow is now?”
Checker grinned. “When I go outside, I’ll look under the first rock I see.”
Without further probing, Checker explained what had happened, that they were moving Emmett’s family to a safe place after the attack by Holt’s men, led by Jaudon. He said six Holt riders were trying to intercept their escape and he rode to stop them. He made the mistake of not watching his back. Meade had tried to kill him at that time.
Seitmeyer scribbled in his notebook, looked up and said, “I trust you are all right, Ranger Checker.”
“I’m all right.”
“That’s good. For all of us, sir. Your reputation is known—and respected,” Seitmeyer said. “I have a question for the sheriff, if you don’t mind.”
“Please go ahead. I’m sure Sheriff Hangar will be happy to help.”
“This morning you told me Rule Cordell was an outlaw and was part of Emmett Gardner’s rustling operation. You insisted I write a story about it.” He paused and added, “You said Lady Holt wanted it done. Did I miss anything?”
Snickering followed and the closest cowboy whooped, slapped his thigh and apologized for the reaction.
Hangar turned white and waved his hands urgent. “I—I didn’t have all the facts.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” the editor said. “So, you don’t want me to run a story about Rule Cordell being an outlaw—and a part of the Emmett Gardner rustling operation—is that correct?”
Laughter spat through the room and Hangar winced.
Opat shifted in the chair behind the bench. He glanced at the dry goods store woman and smiled his best smile. She ignored the attempt at connection, choosing the moment to say something to the blacksmith sitting beside her. He nodded and looked at Opat.
Damn, the judge thought. Why did he let Lady Holt talk him into coming to Caisson? He had built a nice legal practice in Austin. A profitable one. She had come to see him, paid for the visit and told him of her plans. When first hearing them, he wanted to laugh. King was building a cattle empire in middle Texas and this British woman wanted to make him look like a two-bit farmer. The opportunity was there, he saw that in her plan. For the right person with the right instincts—and the ability to destroy anyone in the way. Still, a woman? A woman from En gland, no less?
What finally convinced him to go with Lady Holt was the revelation of her relationship with Governor Citale. He knew the man was weak—and crooked. But she planned to turn him into a weapon. Opat’s own checking supported her claim. He had come to Claisson, opened a practice and was immediately recommended for the open municipal judge position. Judge Diales had been shot and killed two weeks earlier. No one knew who or why.
Hangar had joined the conspiracy a month later. Opat seemed to be the only one in town who knew he was wanted for fraud in Tennessee.