They reached the top of the ridge and saw the dark shapes of horses ahead of them as planned. No one called out, but Checker thought that was smart. At this point, they couldn’t be certain if the entire gang had fled or not.
Wind had intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more desolate than it was. The top of the ridge flattened out into a large spoon of quiet land. They passed a shallow pond. A struggling cottonwood stood not far from its life-giving water. Nearby was a squatty bowl of land where buffalo once rolled. Rule stared at it and remembered playing in something like that as a child. His best friend jumped into mind. Ian Taullary. They had protected each other growing up and fought beside each other during the war. Sadly, Taullary had gotten caught up in the wrong things in life, but had died trying to protect him. Again. He reminded himself that it was important to remember his friend’s good ways, their good times together.
He was tired and knew Checker had to be. Once a fight was over, energy left quickly, leaving the body drained. He glanced at the Ranger, but Checker was studying the silhouettes ahead of them. Ahead, their horses were grouped around three trees. Shapes of men were knotted against the dark sky.
Checker said, “Something’s wrong, Rule.”
An invisible voice was cruel and demanding. “Come on, Checker. You, too, Cordell. Walk easy toward us. Don’t try anything funny. Or the Peale woman and these two Gardners die.”
Without saying anything, Rule and Checker separated and walked toward the horses.
“Drop those rifles. Do it now.”
Both men let the long guns in their hands slip to the hard earth. The thuds of weapons hitting against the ground were four heartbeats. They dropped their hands to their sides, standing mostly in shadow.
The gray shapes in front of them became four Holt men. Luke Dimitry. Tapan Moore. And two men Checker didn’t know.
Tapan had his arm around Morgan’s neck, holding her close to him. In his hand was a cocked revolver. Dimitry stood, nonchalantly, pointing a rifle on Emmett and Rikor. The other two gunmen stood near the horses, holding rifles. Beside them, Checker saw the motionless body of London Fiss.
“Come on in, boys. The party’s just getting started,” Tapan said, motioning with his gun. “That was a good stunt you pulled on the Frenchman. What a stupid sonvabitch! Lady Holt should’ve had me become the Ranger captain, not him.” Tapan laughed. “Reckon he won’t stop running ’til he hits town. Him an’ his men.”
Checker and Rule stood with their arms at their sides.
Tapan’s eyes brightened. “I see you boys brought along all your big toys.” His smile reached only half of his mouth. “Luke an’ I had a hunch you might try something. So we went a different route.”
Dimitry glanced at the dead Fiss. “Ran into that colored boy and figured we’d just sit tight an’ see who came along. Lo and behold, all kinds of folks Lady Holt wants to see dead came wandering in.”
“Didn’t want to do that before we had a chance to talk with you two. Besides, you would’ve heard the shots,” Tapan explained. “That colored boy wasn’t so lucky. He got his while you all were firing up a storm.”
The curly-headed gunman smiled widely, his white teeth glistening in the moonlight, and continued, “Fact is, we would’ve shot you two when you came up the hill…but we wanted to know something.”
Morgan struggled against his tightened arm and he shoved his gun into her side.
“Stand still, lady. Or I’ll shoot you first.”
“Sorry, John, we done jes’ walked ri’t into this,” Emmett said, waving his arms in frustration.
Rikor’s expression was impossible to read. Was it anger or fear?
“I see you boys are carrying lots of iron. Ready for a war, huh?” Tapan motioned with his gun. “Unbuckle the gun belts. All of it. Real easy, now.”
Checker unbuckled his double-rowed cartridge belt and let it slide down his legs. The cartridge box tumbled ahead of it. Without being asked, he drew Bartlett’s pistol from his waistband and tossed it on the ground. The leather string attached to the trigger fluttered in the air. He drew the other revolver used in the fake barrage with his fingers holding the butt and dropped it as well.
At the same time, Rule unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall. Both of his barrage handguns followed; one had been the backup Colt carried in his front waistband.
Checker said, “You won’t get away with this. We’ve got Rangers…real Rangers…coming. Lady Holt is done.”
“Save that crap for the town newspaper,” Tapan snarled. “I want to know something. Eleven Meade was a friend of ours.”
“Where is he? Waiting to shoot us in the back?” Checker answered, and looked behind him.
“You know where he is. He’s dead. In Clark Springs.”
The tall Ranger looked at Rule on his left.
Shrugging, the gunfighter said, “Last time I saw him, he was on the saloon floor. From my fist. He didn’t die from that, I hope.” His remark snapped with sarcasm.
“I didn’t know that, Moore. When did it happen?” Checker said, hoping the conversation would keep going until he thought of something.
Tapan frowned and licked his lower lip. “Your friend here, he got a wire from Clark Springs about it. Someone named ‘A’ said Eleven was killed. There in Clark Springs.” The curly-headed outlaw jutted out his chin. “Lady Holt sent him there. To see where you were living. You, Cordell. She wanted you dead. Since you own the Gardner Ranch—or whatever that little game was.” The outlaw grinned again. “We want to know who ‘A’ is. Gonna pay him a little visit when this is over.”
Rule shrugged his shoulders again. “You must be more stupid than I thought. Just when do you think I would have seen this wire? We haven’t been to town. Or haven’t you been paying attention?” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know any man like that.”
“You don’t know who ‘A’ is? Come on, Cordell.”
“I sure don’t know any man with the name that starts with an A. Wait, I know a grocery store clerk…in Clark Springs…he’s Andrew. Andrew Gates.” Rule shook his head. “Don’t think he could’ve killed anybody. Andrew doesn’t even own a gun.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, wait a minute, there’s old Amos Pillar. He’s about seventy, I think. Spends most of his time in a rocking chair.”
“Well, you aren’t much help.”
“Sorry. I’ll keep thinking.”
“No need. There’s no reason you boys should live any longer, is there?” Tapan challenged.
Dimitry tugged on his Navajo coat and examined a particular large hole near its right-hand pocket. “This is quite a day. We kill two of the best there is, Checker and Cordell. And we get rid of two of the ranchers Lady Holt wants out of the way. I’d say we’ll have a big bonus coming.” He tugged on the coat again. “Reckon I’ll just see how that fancy tunic of yours fits, Checker. Be a nice way to remember this.”
“Mind if I have a last smoke?” Checker said.
Chuckling, Tapan said, “Sure, why not? Make it fast, though. We’ve got a long ride back to town. Lady Holt’ll want to hear this. Probably make some changes in that newspaper edition she was working on. When we left. Her and our colored boy, you know.” Tapan motioned with his pistol. “He knows how to set type, you know.”
“Thanks. Nice of you.”
“How about you, Cordell? Reckon it’s the right thing to do,” Tapan said.
“No, thanks. Tobacco and lead don’t set well with me.”
All four of the gunmen laughed.
Checker reached slowly inside his tunic and brought out a tobacco pouch and papers. He took a paper, creased it and began to pour tobacco shreds along the line. His hands shook and he dropped the paper.
“Kinda nervous there, aren’t ya, Checker?” Tapan said, watching the Ranger bend over to retrieve the paper.