One long sad inhaling of the night’s grayness returned him to the danger yet to come this quiet evening. Would one of his friends die? Would he? Right here in these rocks? He couldn’t bring the question of Morgan dying even to his lips.
Stands-In-Thunder said the greatest warriors gave when no one would ever find out. And the greatest warriors fought alone against many to protect a friend who didn’t even know he was in trouble. No matter the cost. That was the way it should be. That was the way it would be for him. No matter the cost.
After this was all over, if he was alive, Checker would ride away from this part of the country, from being a Ranger. Go where no one knew him, a place where he could start over. Where there were no nightmares chasing him. Would Morgan go with him? What did he have to offer? Nothing. Except weapons and the skill to use them. She could do so much better.
Night sounds disappeared into an eerie silent tension. A strange, yet familiar, chill rolled up Checker’s back and settled in his head. He was alert. Gray shadows along the dark valley entrance introduced the coming of night riders.
Checker took a deep breath, drawing in the velvet cool air. In a low, hoarse voice, he reassured his friends to wait.
“Here they come. Wait for my shots.”
He wasn’t sure they could hear him, but it felt good to say it. Poised like a wolf, he lay flat on the slope, his rifle aimed in the direction of slowly advancing shadows. He wiped each hand on his pants, as if to help him pierce the night to determine the size of the approaching enemy.
What was that? Muffled sounds across the road. Emmett—or Rikor—must be moving to a new position. He wished they wouldn’t. But he didn’t dare call out. Not now. Everything grew quiet again.
Less than fifty yards away from his position, shadows were moving through the trees, fanning out as they rode to surround the ranch. Twenty-five riders. No, more. Twenty-eight. They were talking quietly among themselves. An occasional laugh punctuated their easy ride. Checker could tell the riders had exchanged bridles for rope hackamores. They weren’t wearing spurs, either. There would be no jingling of a bit, or a spur, to give them away.
Moonlight washed stingily across the riders; purchased Ranger authority gave them a cloak of legality. Dry air crackled with tension. Two men were riding out front, twenty yards or so. Sil Jaudon led the force with a rider beside him carrying the strange phoenix flag. He didn’t see Tapan Moore, or Luke Dimitry, or Eleven Meade. Checker’s scalp curled. Where were they? In Caisson? Coming from another direction? He forced himself to wait for all of the riders to move into the middle of the valley and alongside them.
Satisfied the gang were as close as he dared to let them, he called out, “Drop your guns and ride out. You are surrounded by Rangers.”
From Rule’s site above him came the gunfighter’s supporting challenge. “Jaudon, you have a chance to live. Turn around—and don’t try to attack these ranches again.”
Neither expected the gang to disarm themselves, but they hoped the unexpected challenge would force a turnaround.
“What the hell?” Jaudon snorted, and drew one of his gold-plated revolvers and yelled something in French.
Without waiting for more response, three times Checker’s rifle cut through the night. White flowers of smoke broke the raiders’ unspoken confidence. Both advance riders flew from the frightened horses, driven by Checker’s bullets at the horses’ hooves. His fourth shot missed Jaudon completely, ripping only shadow.
As the others opened fire from their different positions, Checker fired at one rider attempting to shoot and dashed for the rope’s end and its multiple-gun surprise.
Again, he yelled, “Spake, move your men over there. Cut them off!”
Rule answered, “I’ve got them covered. They can run—or die.”
Without pausing, he knew the appearance of more guns had to be terrifying, probably looking like twenty. He yanked the rope and the guns roared in unison. Shotgun slugs sounded as if they had torn into the opposite ridge. The Sharps slug ricocheted and ran off into the night.
Behind the first blast of multiple guns came the second from Emmett and Rikor, roaring as loudly as the first. Above him, he could hear Morgan firing. To the raiders trying to control spinning, wild-eyed horses, it had to look as if they had run into hell. Or so Checker hoped. If they regained their poise, this fight would be over in a hurry.
With his rifle in one hand, he crawled swiftly to the battery of silent guns. Reloading where necessary, he fired each weapon as he came to it, without trying to aim. With his left hand, he also fired his rifle. Hearing the awesome boom of the big Sharps carbine again had to be the breaking point, if there was to be one.
Like a covey of flushed quail, the raiders began leaving, yelling at each other. A few riders fired wildly toward the hillside where Checker and his friends had launched their special ambush. From below, Rule’s rifle silenced one of the shooters and the others fled. He could hear Jaudon cursing in French at his men to stand. Scrambling to a new position, Checker fired as he moved and another of Holt’s gunmen spun from his horse, firing in the air.
Gunshots from Emmett and Rikor were steady and over the heads of the fleeing riders. He didn’t hear any shooting from Morgan.
Checker couldn’t resist the temptation and yelled out, “Sil Jaudon! You’re a dead man if you try this again.”
Only the disappearing rhythm of fleeing horses answered his challenge. He had no idea whether the fat Frenchman heard him or not. But the shouted threat felt good just the same. Alive with shadowy movement of its own, the opposite hillside indicated Emmett and the others were trying to make sense of the retreat and whether it meant the battle was over or just beginning.
Standing up beside a downed tree that was resting its soul against the hillside’s gravel and ironweed, Checker shrugged his shoulders in a slow celebration of the successful moment. He joined Rule at the fake battery.
“Well, John, I think it worked.”
“Looks like it. Some would say we left them to fight again,” Checker said.
“We did the right thing.” Rule said, producing a pocket knife. “They’ve got to be worried now about who’s helping Emmett and Morgan.” He opened the blade and added, “We didn’t kill anyone who wasn’t facing us, either.”
Gathering the tied-up battery was done swiftly. Rule cut the leather strips holding the various triggers, letting the remaining tied end tangle from the triggers. The weapons would be unknotted later. Checker shoved two of the handguns into his waistband, above his gun belt and the box of cartridges held there, and took the Sharps and his Winchester, one in each hand. Rule recoiled the lariat and placed it over his shoulder. Then he pushed the remaining two handguns into his belt, picked up his own rifle and the shotgun.
“Looks like Emmett and Rikor are ahead of us,” Checker said, looking across the road.
“Good. That uncle of mine moves fast for his age. You and I should be so lucky,” Rule replied, and grinned.
“Another line of work would help.”
“Or fewer bastards trying to do in our friends.”
Quietly, they climbed the darkened hill toward Morgan.
“Good. She’s gone on to the horses,” Checker said as they neared her shooting site.
Rule agreed. “That’s quite a woman, John. She’d make a fine wife.”
“What kind of woman would marry me?”
“A good kind. The kind that stands beside you, not behind you,” Rule said as they continued climbing the ridge. “The kind that understands this fight. And supports your involvement in it. A woman like my Aleta.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
Chapter Thirty-seven