Rule winced, trying to think of some gentle way to tell the older man that it was a different situation in a different time with a different objective. All he was trying to do then was to slow down the Union sneak attack long enough for the Confederates to prepare for the advance.
Shaking his head, the gunfighter explained, “Not sure how we could do anything like that, Emmett.” He pointed out that his scouts had taken advantage of an abandoned breastworks with left-behind uniforms and gear.
“We even had some cannonballs,” he said. “No cannons, but we faked those. It’s not the same, Uncle. All we were trying to do was slow them down so our boys wouldn’t be ambushed. We knew exactly where the Yanks were heading.”
“Well, ya faked out them Regulators, too. With that ‘Sons of Thunder’ stuff. That big boy…ah, ‘the Russian’…the travelin’ trader tolt me ’bout it. Said he did some helpin’.”
Rule shook his head, watching Checker come back into the room, sipping a filled mug. “Yes, Caleb Shank was a big part of bringing them down. Still…” He stopped talking and looked at Checker. “You know, Uncle Emmett, we’re not even sure where they’ll hit first. They should come here, but they might not.”
“You’re right, Rule. But a smart play is that they will.” Checker walked over to the fireplace where he had been before. He took another sip. “Ever been around Luke Dimitry or Tapan Moore?”
“Can’t say as I have.” Rule ran his fingers along the table. “How good are they?”
“We aren’t going to like facing them.”
Checker turned toward the fire and drank his coffee. Rule and Emmett gathered the rest of the used dishes and took them into the kitchen. The old rancher took charge of washing, in spite of Morgan’s insistence that she would finish the chore. With a backward glance at Checker, she took an old watering pot outside to fill at her well and water a string of struggling flowers on the east side of her house.
“I’ll be right back, Uncle Emmett,” Rule said. “Want to tell John something. Before I forget it.”
“Sure. I’m an old hand at this…since my li’l lady up an’ died on me.” He bit his lower lip and looked away.
Rule spun back toward the main room. His own thoughts were huddling next to his wife, Aleta. He missed her very much. And Ian and Rosie. And Two, for that matter. In his mind, his children hugged him every night before he went to sleep. His dog, Two, joined in the warmth. Being separated, sometimes, was the cost of liberty.
Lady Holt seemingly had every advantage going for her against the three small ranches. She had money and influence, the governor, a gang of gunmen and now she had the Rangers. That meant the law. Like Checker, he had no illusion about what they had accomplished in town. The overturn of the charges against Emmett and the two Rangers would only last until Lady Holt heard about them. The townspeople couldn’t be expected to stand up against her power.
Pausing, he laid a hand on the back of the closest chair. John Checker had his back to him, lost in yesterdays.
“John, may I bother you?” he said, walking closer.
“What? Oh, of course, Rule.” Checker turned toward him and waved his hand. “I was just…doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does. A.J. was a great friend,” Rule said. “He died fighting…for a better Texas. That’s what he wanted.” The gunfighter stood next to Checker and laid a hand on the tall man’s shoulder. “It’s our job to make it happen.”
There was a hesitation before Checker agreed.
“I think you ought to go outside now,” Rule said, removing his hand and looping both thumbs into his gun belt. “I think a certain young lady would like that. A lot.”
Checker stared at Rule, then frowned. “Rule, I can’t. This isn’t the time. You know what we’re up against.”
The gunfighter took a step back and looked out the window. He could see Morgan watering her flowers.
“Don’t figure she sees it that way, John. The heart doesn’t carry a watch.” He smiled. “I only know life started for me when I met Aleta.” He turned away and headed back to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he yelled, “You do what you think best, John.”
Checker shook his head and chuckled. The time for mourning was over. He put down his cup on the table and headed outside. Taking a deep breath, he eased toward Morgan, who was pretending not to notice his coming.
“Flowers do something special to a place,” he said, shoving his hat back on his forehead.
Glancing at him and smiling, Morgan said, “Wouldn’t think someone like you would notice.”
“You don’t think Rangers like flowers?” His returning smile equaled hers.
Their eyes met and danced briefly.
“I—I w-wish things were different,” he managed to say. “I’d do things different.”
She stood and stepped closer to him. “How different, John?” Her voice was soft.
Putting his hand on her arm, he pulled her to him.
Their mouths met.
As they kissed, the silhouette of a rider appeared from the west. Their moment of intimacy interrupted, Checker and Morgan stepped back from each other. Their hands held each other’s arms to keep the instant from fleeing.
“That’s got to be London. Otherwise Rikor would be warning us,” Checker said.
“Something’s wrong! Mr. Fiss has been hurt!” she yelled, and headed for the incoming figure.
The black man reined up; his left arm hung at his side.
“Mr. Fiss, what happened? You’ve been shot.” She pointed at his bloody sleeve.
Rule and Emmett joined her with Checker a few strides behind.
The three men helped him from the saddle and he told them what had happened in town.
Checker’s face matched Rule’s in intensity.
“Rode south out of town. Like I was scared, headed for the border. Left plenty of tracks,” the black man said, trying to catch his breath and ignore the steady ache in his arm. “They quit following me. Saw them turn back. An hour out, I’d guess.” He took a deep breath. “One of them was Dimitry. I’d recognize that old Navajo coat anywhere.”
“So Jaudon and Lady Holt are both in town,” Checker said.
“And Tapan Moore and Luke Dimitry,” Rule added.
“Let’s go inside. We can talk there,” Checker said. “Morgan made a fine stew for us. Maybe I’ll have some, too. I’m getting hungry.”
Rule grinned to himself.
Holding the reins of Fiss’s horse, Emmett said, “If’n you don’t mind, London, I’ll borrow yur hoss an’ ride down to Rikor. He’ll be a-wantin’ some o’ that stew.” He shook his head. “Fact, you boys better git yur fill afore he comes. That boy kin eat somethin’ fierce.”
The black man warmly agreed. They continued walking to the house while the old rancher swung into the saddle and headed back. Checker looked at Morgan and smiled. Her return smile made him want to take her in his arms right there. Her eyes said she would like that, too.
As they walked into the house, Rule asked Fiss if he had seen Eleven Meade. The black man hadn’t seen him.
Fiss looked at the three men and the woman walking beside him. He should feel strange. White people didn’t like being around black people. For any reason. But not these four. They thought of him as a friend, an equal. And he wasn’t just a colored man, he was a former convict. It didn’t matter. Not to them. It hadn’t mattered to Morgan, either; she respected his skills. Of course, he lived in the special bunkhouse built from the barn, which was empty except at roundup when she hired short-time riders. At her insistence, his meals were always taken in the main house.
Inside, Morgan insisted she should clean his wound.
“There’s no lead in there. I checked. And it’s my left arm. It’ll have to do.”
“Better let her have a look anyway,” Checker said.