“Hot damn! That’s what Pa were a-talkin’ about,” Rikor said with a mouthful of donut. “Doin’ the masquerade thing all over.”
Nodding at the young man, Checker said, “It’s risky. What if they don’t bite—and stay to fight, instead?”
“We’ll set ourselves up to get out of there. Quick. Leave them wondering.” Rule drew a circle with his finger on the table, then moved it swiftly away.
Checker was silent a moment; his eyes sought Morgan’s, then returned to Rule. “I’m ready, if the rest of you are.”
The location of the ambush was Morgan’s suggestion. A short valley on the eastern edge of her grazing land, and not far from town. The main road from Caisson went right through there. There were plenty of boulders and ridges to hide behind. They would be able to hide their horses close by, fire down at Holt’s men and ride away before they could reorganize.
“Wal, I reckon that thar’s a good ’nuff plan,” Rikor said as he raised a spoonful of stew to his mouth. “Whar do we head after?”
“Lady Holt.”
“Ya mean her ranch?” Rikor drawled.
Checker cocked his head. “No. I mean her. Wherever she is. We’re going to take her to Clark Springs. For trial.”
“That’ll be somethin’.”
“Yeah. Maybe so,” Checker said, and drew the handgun he carried in his back waistband to check its loads.
Chapter Thirty-five
After repacking the packhorse, filling canteens with well water and gathering every weapon they could find, the small party left the Morgan Peale Ranch and headed toward town. It was important to stay out of sight until they got to the valley where Morgan thought they should wait for Holt’s men.
Fiss and Rikor took the point, knowing the land better than the others. Narrow ravines, an occasional stand of trees, a string of ridges and even a herd of grazing cattle provided the screening they desired en route. They didn’t intend to go far, at least not now. Just far enough.
Nightfall found five of them hidden in separate shooting positions along the road from town, settled on both sides of the shallow valley. Two on the south side, three on the north. The positions were selected by Checker and Rule. Each was picked for its concealment from the road—and its easy escape to their horses. Each shooter was to come to the horses as soon as possible after firing on the Lady Holt gang. Shooting was to be over their heads unless the gang started firing back.
Located fifty yards behind the shooting positions, their saddled horses were tied to branches among a grove of pecan, mesquite and cottonwood trees. A shallow pond was the reason for their growth. Fiss was put in charge of the horses. He didn’t like the job, but accepted it when Checker quietly explained they needed someone savvy there in case of trouble. Both Checker and Rule knew the man was hurting and unable to use his arm. This would be a good place for him.
Checker expected the Holt riders to come through this part of the road riding easily and unsuspecting. It was a good location for an ambush. The hardest for him was to leave Morgan in a firing site above him and Rule. The gunfighter told him that he had to do it—and to treat her like a man. She would insist on it.
Her shooting location was within a rock cradle above and to the left of where Checker and Rule intended to wait. In her hands was a rifle. A Colt rested in her belt. “Morgan, I…I’m not comfortable with you…being here,” Checker said, feeling awkward. His long black hair rustled along his shoulders.
“You don’t think I’m good enough, brave enough…what?” Her mouth twisted into a half smile. “Or do you want me beside you?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. Don’t worry about me. This is my ranch. I don’t intend to let that awful Englishwoman have it.” Her face changed into a frown.
He made her promise that she would fire quickly and crawl away. Immediately. Then he suggested she cock the rifle now and ease the hammer back into place until needed. That would keep her gun from making a noise being cocked as the gang rode through.
“My daddy would’ve called this the rattlesnake code. Warn ’em first, he’d say, and then let ’em have it if’n they don’t leave.” She cocked her head.
“That’s about it. Only we’re the ones who are going to leave. Remember that,” Checker said. “If they don’t turn and run, we need to.”
“I understand.” She smiled. “Now I need something from you, John.”
“Anything.”
She gently insisted on a parting kiss, which he was happy to offer.
Reluctantly, he climbed down from her position to the main one where Rule waited.
“Wish it was darker, Rule. The darker, the better,” Checker observed as he joined the gunfighter.
Rule assured him a full moon favored them; the old Medicine Man Moon had told him never to fear Mother Moon’s gentle caring. He never did. Even during the war and the guerrilla fighting afterward.
“Still wish it was darker.”
Rule grinned and reassured him the evening would go well.
As she sat down to wait, Morgan Peale’s mind was wrapped around the man she had just kissed.
“He’s good-looking in a hard sort of way, isn’t he?” she said to herself. “I wonder where he got that arrowhead-shaped scar on his cheek. He almost looks like an Indian, doesn’t he?”
She couldn’t forget the longing in his eyes when they were close. It made her warm all over. Way down under his Ranger ways was a caring man, one who would back up a friend, regardless of the odds. The realization of this gentle core drew her to him as nails were drawn to magnets at the general store.
Her late father—and her late husband—she had understood. And men like them as well. She could almost read their thoughts. They were good men, or tried to be, as they saw goodness. Dependable. Stubborn. Yes, and narrowminded, too. Neither would have understood her hiring London Fiss—or allowed it. The three things they couldn’t stand were liars, cowards and people of a different color. Men like them would fight when pushed hard enough, but only then. From that point, the fight was your own, yours to handle, not asking for, nor expecting, any help. “Stand n’ git ’er dun, boy.” Or die trying. That was her father.
She was glad Checker had insisted on the same kind of warning her father would have done. But the Ranger was different from her father.
Men like John Checker—and Rule Cordell—she didn’t understand. They were a breed of men Texas needed now, or the worst kind of men—and women—would take over. But what kind of life could a woman have with a man like Checker and Rule? She knew the gunfighter was married and had a small family. How had he done it? Why was he here? She already knew the answer, to help his uncle. He was a wild-looking man with his stone earring, long black coat and many handguns. He was what she had expected him to look like. Yet he, too, had a gentle way about him. A caring way.
On her lap lay her rifle, cocked and ready. The hammer had been eased back into place as the Ranger had suggested. She moved her legs to relieve them of stiffness and studied the road below. Her thoughts returned to John Checker. He was a killer of men; a Ranger, but a killer nonetheless. Just like Rule Cordell. She could see Checker’s face with those penetrating eyes.
“We could never have a life together. Never,” she admonished herself.
A man like him was always drawing danger. Such a man could be killed at any time. Eleven Meade had already tried. God knows how many other men with a gun had. The thought of John Checker dying made her wince and shiver. She squeezed her eyes tightly to get that awful picture to go away. Seeing him lying wounded in bed was bad enough. She knew he shouldn’t be up so soon; she knew what the blood on the side of his shirt meant. He had to be weak from losing so much blood. Had to be. That stubbornness was just like her father, she admitted. Just like him.