“Got it. I’ll do it myself.”
“A knife would be the best.”
“I would like that.”
Smiling evilly, Jaudon said he wanted all of his men ready to ride out after that. They would hit the Peale Ranch first, then the others. This would be the day.
“What happened to Henry?” the doctor said as he entered, ignoring both Margaret and Lady Holt.
“I have no idea.” Lady Holt snorted. “Fell against something, I guess. Can you get him out of here? We have work to do.”
The young, slim physician’s eyebrows cocked in reaction as he slid beside the unconscious editor. He opened his large black bag, took out a stethoscope and listened to Seitmeyer’s breathing. Lady Holt returned to her writing, as if the room were empty and this were her own domain. Jaudon stared over the doctor’s shoulder, occasionally making a comment, sometimes in French.
Margaret leaned over and asked if she could do anything to help.
“I’m going to need hot water and cloths,” the doctor said. “I can’t move him like this. It’s too big a risk.”
Margaret was on her feet quickly and headed to the back room of the newspaper office, an odd sort of part kitchen and part storeroom, grabbed the only container she could find. An old pot. A towel and a shirt lay on a cluttered shelf. She took them, too. Hurrying past Lady Holt, who was writing furiously, she handed the towel and shirt to the doctor and left. Minutes later, she returned with the pot filled from the city well and placed it on the stove to heat.
“There’s not much I can do for him,” the doctor announced. “After I clean his wound, we’ll just have to let him sleep—and see what God wishes.”
Lady Holt looked up from her writing. “You’re not serious, are you, Doctor? We’re going to need room to get the next edition out.” She waved her left arm to demonstrate the need for space.
Angrily, the young physician glared at her. “I am quite serious, madam. A man’s life is at stake.” He glanced past her toward Margaret standing by the stove. “Mrs. Loren, is the water hot? It doesn’t have to be boiling.”
Chapter Thirty-four
At Morgan Peale’s ranch, the small group of defenders ate silently. Rikor reluctantly agreed to stand watch down by the first ridge. Sending along some of Morgan’s donuts—and the promise of stew later—made it easier for him to go. Anyone coming from town could be seen for miles from that vantage point.
John Checker said he wasn’t hungry and resisted anyone looking at the wound on his side, even though it had bled through his shirt. He insisted that he was fine, doing so gruffly. The death of his friend lay heavily on him and it was obvious. He stood by the fireplace, drinking coffee and staring into the yellow coals.
After eating, Emmett said, “Ya know, I’d sure like to be a-seein’ my boys. The rest o’ ’em. Reckon yu’re a-missin’ your family, too, Rule. Think we could take a ride down thar? To yur place?” He put the last bite of stew into his mouth and savored it. “Like to see mine, too. See if my beeves are still happy. Got a lot of things to do there. That barn roof’s in need of fixin’.”
“That’s up to John,” Rule said, sipping his coffee. “Mrs. Peale, that was a fine meal. We thank you. Best stew I’ve had in a long time.”
“You’re welcome—and please call me Morgan,” Morgan said, removing some of the used dishes from the table and heading to the small kitchen.
From the counter, she looked back at the tall Ranger, drawn to him in ways she hadn’t felt since her feelings for her late husband. They were feelings she didn’t think would ever arise again. Or should. Yet she wanted to go to him. To comfort him, she told herself. Of course, to comfort him. He was a lonely man; any woman could read that. A man difficult to reach. Would he allow her close? To his soul? Had a woman ever done so?
She placed the dishes in a large bowl filled with hot water, cut off some soap shavings from the large bar and massaged the water to create a thin line of suds.
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?”