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.”
Jaudon rubbed his nose. “I need ze poster. Now. It is ze proclamation for ze town to understand.”
“Find someone else.” Seitmeyer rubbed his nose. “I’m too busy.”
Lady Holt motioned Jaudon away and smiled warmly at the editor. “I understand how you feel, Mr. Seitmeyer. You see us as unmerciful—and uncaring.” She waved her finger. “But that is not so, sir. I intend to donate the money to build a church for Caisson. The money will be turned over to the council as soon as this terrible lawlessness, this rustling, the murdering, is ended.”
“That’s a very generous offer, Mrs. Holt.”
“Yes, it is, but I am a very generous person. And caring. When I take hold of this entire region, many will benefit,” she said. “Certainly the Caisson Reporter will grow and prosper.”
Without responding, the editor walked over to the table next to the wall. It was stacked with papers, books and envelopes. He shuffled through one stack, then another.
Finally, he found what he was looking for and yanked the newspaper clipping free of the others.
“I wrote this last year. You should read it, Mrs. Holt.” He handed the crumpled paper to her. “I haven’t changed my mind—and won’t, no matter how many churches you pay for.”
She took the clipping, looked at it and crumpled the paper in her fist. The headline read Holt plans to control entire region by any means necessary. Her face transformed into purple hate.
“You stupid little man. I will squash you like this piece of paper.” Lady Holt looked over at the Frenchman and nodded.
Returning the subtle directive with a grin, Jaudon stepped closer to Seitmeyer.
“I want you two out of here. There’s no outlawry in Caisson—except for you. Get out.” The editor shoved the bigger Jaudon away.
“Oui, vous are through.” The Frenchman drew a revolver and raised it
Seitmeyer’s hands rose too slowly to stop the barrel slamming against his head. “No…” he gasped, fell against the printing press and collapsed on the floor. A thin trail of blood eased from his head and slid along the wood planks.
Without examining the downed editor, Lady Holt ordered Jaudon to send a rider to bring Elliott. The black servant would know how to set type, she was certain. Her men were to work through town, picking up every issue of the latest Caisson Reporter they could find. She intended to publish a new edition immediately.
After her band of gunmen were finished with retrieval, she wanted them to make a swing through the remaining ranches, burning all the buildings, stampeding the herds and killing anyone they found.
“I’m sick and tired of this,” she snarled. “This is my land. My land.”
Jaudon returned his gun to its holster, straightened his coat lapels, wanting to ask if he could get something to eat first.
“Vous want Tapan to lead this—or me?” he asked, keeping his hunger to himself.
Stepping toward the door, Lady Holt smiled. “Get yourself something to eat. I know you’re starved. I want you good and ready to lead the men. You’re the Ranger captain—and they’re the Rangers. We want that cover of legitimacy.”
“Bien. How about Dimitry and Tapan going with us? We could use their guns if we run into Checker and Cordell.”
“That is fine. Tapan is the new sheriff and, logically, should be with you,” she said.
“Sacre blue! It is too bad we don’t have Meade with us. We could use his gun. Who is this ‘A’?”
“I don’t know and right now I don’t have time to worry about him—or Meade.”
Jaudon frowned. He didn’t like things he couldn’t control any more than she did. “Too bad. We could have used him.” Jaudon glanced at his holstered revolvers. “I vould like ze bastard’s guns. They very nice, vous know.”
“Bull. He lied about killing the big Ranger. I don’t like people lying to me.” Her face contorted into a scowl. “Tapan wired the marshal there—to get my money back,” she said, glancing out the window at the street where a black man was helping an older woman to her feet.
“Vous think this A is helping Gardner—and them?” Jaudon’s large belly rose and released.
Running her finger across her lips, she replied, “I have no idea. What does one man matter?”
“Speaking of ze one man, what do vous want with him?” Jaudon motioned with his head toward the unconscious editor.
“If he’s dead, get the undertaker. If he’s not, get the doctor.” She smiled and grabbed the doorknob. “There’s a black man outside. Looks like some old woman fell down.”
Chuckling, Jaudon explained about the owner coming from the sewing store and yelling at him—and Tapan running at her with his horse. Realizing who the woman was, she told him the woman had been considered as Opat’s replacement for municipal judge.
“Cela va sans dire…ah, of course.”
From the alley, London Fiss ran to the knocked-down woman. He laid his long-barreled saddle revolver on the ground as he knelt beside her and slowly helped her to stand.
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” she said, patting him on the arm as she gathered her feet. “I’m all right. Knocked the wind out of me.” She took a deep breath. “You work for Mrs. Peale, don’t you? You’d better get out of here. They want all of you.” She patted his arm again. “I appreciate your kindness. There weren’t any white men who were brave enough to help me. But please go.”
After retrieving his weapon, Fiss glanced down the street and saw Tapan wheel his horse away from the saloon hitching rack. He had gone there after knocking down the dry goods owner with the intention of joining the other men.
“Ma’am, step away. Trouble is coming,” the black man said.
She hesitated, saw the horseman galloping toward them and hurried to the sidewalk, knowing it was too late to tell him to leave. Running now would only get him shot in the back.
Fiss didn’t move. Tapan shot and missed. The black man raised his gun and fired. Twice. Tapan’s horse squealed and stumbled. Tapan flew over the horse’s neck as the animal skidded and collapsed. Still holding the reins in his left hand and his pistol in the other, the gunman hit the street, bounced once and didn’t move. Only his gun bounced a second time from his opened hand.
Fiss looked at the older woman, touched the brim of his hat and spun back toward the alley.
The gunshots outside made Lady Holt jump.
“What the hell?” she said.
“Stay here!” Jaudon ran toward the door, yanking free his revolver again, shifting it to his left hand and drawing the second with his right. His thick stomach wobbled with the fury of his movement.