On his coat lapel was a Ranger captain’s badge. Already it had brought him much attention and the interest of one of the women passengers. The woman had a birthmark that covered most of her left cheek. She had approached him at the last stage station. He guessed she was a whore headed for Caisson. When he got to Caisson, the first thing he intended to do was eat; then he would take advantage of her offer.
Already he could envision a big steak and potatoes at Lourdeson’s, his favorite restaurant in Caisson. Lady Holt could wait. Besides, he already knew John Checker was dead; Sheriff Hangar’s wire had informed him. Of course, that would make Eleven Meade her favorite for the moment, maybe even more than Tapan Moore, her current lover.
So be it, he told himself. I am ze Ranger captain and he eez not. When I kill ze bastard, no one will care. Except her. He smiled. Maybe I will kill Tapan, too. He glanced outside, pushing aside the window’s shade. No more than three hours from Caisson.
Above the thunder of the road, the driver’s shouts to his team—and the crack of the nine-foot whip—were a constant reminder of the stage line’s emphasis on speed. When climbing aboard, Jaudon had noticed the stage was carrying express freight and mail, along with passenger luggage. Only three men passengers had been allowed to sit on top; there was no room for more.
Concerned, the driver and guard were exchanging thoughts about what they were seeing ahead. He caught part of the conversation. “Looks like a bunch of them. They carryin’ a flag. Never seen the like before.”
“Do you know ’em?”
“They ain’t soldiers.”
“It’s wide-open country, Buster. Nobody’s gonna try to hold us up here.”
“Maybe.”
“ ’Sides, I ain’t takin’ on no army. Must be twenty or so.”
“You just keep that scattergun pointed at that fella with the flag. I don’t like this.”
“You’re getting jumpy in your old age.”
“I’m a-gonna keep them mules a-goin’.” The driver snapped his long whip over the top of the team to reinforce his intent.
Gripping his hideout gun, Jaudon leaned out the window and saw one silhouette coming closer to the coach.
For the dramatic impact of the passengers, Jaudon flipped back his coat to reveal the two additional ivory-handled, gold-plated pistols carried in formfitting holsters at his waist. But he knew immediately it was Tapan Moore, Lady Holt’s curly-haired gunman with the toothy smile and square jaw. He was leading a band of Holt gunmen. As if leading a cavalry unit, he held a red flag bearing the design of a phoenix. The banner fluttered as they neared the coach.
Jaudon leaned out as far as he could and yelled to the driver, “Arreter! Stop ze coach. Stop ze coach. Those are my men.”
“Hold up, mister. No need for trouble,” Tapan said, grinning. “We’re here to escort Ranger Captain Jaudon to the Holt Ranch.”
A second rider emerged from the pack. Dressed in city clothes and obviously uncomfortable, Wilson Tanner declared, “I am the new municipal judge of Caisson. We have an emergency in town that will require Ranger Captain Jaudon’s immediate attention.”
“Well, that’s where we’re a-headed,” the driver said. “What kinda trouble?”
The stage jerked and bounced as the driver pulled the mules to a stop.
“Do what he says,” the shotgun guard said. “This ain’t no holdup.”
“Hey, Jaudon. They wanna take you to Lady Holt’s. Instead of going on to town. Says there’s trouble there. Sound all right?” The driver’s voice was gruff but worried.
Jaudon took a deep breath. “Oui…ah, yah. That is bien. Ah, good.”
He leaned out again, but could only see part of Tapan, who touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Good to see you, Sil.”
“Bonjour, Tapan. What is going on?”
Jaudon liked the young gunman, even if Tapan was currently Lady Holt’s favorite. He had seen them come and go. His own involvement with the British leader was strictly financial—and that’s the way he wanted it. They had made an agreement in Houston when he met her.
“Lots going on. John Checker’s alive—and riding with Rule Cordell. The other Ranger’s dead. Hangar’s out as sheriff. The blacksmith’s wearing his badge. For now. Opat’s out as judge. Tanner’s in,” Tapan said, looked up at the driver and smiled widely. “Your stage isn’t in any danger, mister. It’s political stuff.”
“Oh. Well, if’n you’re sure. Don’t want to be takin’ these folks into some kind of shootin’ trouble.”
“You won’t.”
Jaudon sat back in the seat and straightened his cravat. His mind made no attempt to settle on Tapan’s news, except for Checker being alive. Damn, that fool Meade’s a bald-faced liar! he muttered. Just like that bitch to make me come directly to ze ranch. Wonder if she’ll have anything good to eat.
From outside again came Tapan’s voice, more urgent this time. “Come on, Jaudon. Lady Holt’s waiting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
“Oui. Oui. I am coming. I am coming.”
The heavyset Frenchman slowly opened the coach door and stepped outside, shoving his hideout gun into his back waistband. He glanced back at the blotchy-faced woman, arched his shaved eyebrows and smiled. The doorway clipped his hat with the pinned brim and sent it spinning.
“What about your luggage?” the driver asked. “It’ll take a while to clear it from the others.”
“Non. Non. Merci beaucoup, monsieur. I vill get it later. At ze station in Caisson.” Jaudon picked up his hat and shoved it back on his head.
“Good enough.”
The shotgun guard sat with his weapon on his lap and studied Tapan Moore. “Don’t I know you from somewhere, mister? The war, maybe? I rode with Longstreet.”
“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.”