The other gunmen’s attention went to the paper and the movement, chuckling at the Ranger’s obvious nervousness.
Checker came up firing his backup revolver carried in his back waistband. His first two shots hit Tapan in the face. The outlaw screamed. Morgan shoved her elbow in his side and dove. Blood covering his face, Tapan Moore fired his revolver as he fell. His shot sang past the tall Ranger’s head. Checker fired his gun twice more at the bearded gunman to Tapan’s left. Leaning over, the Ranger picked up the closest pistol, Bartlett’s, with his left hand.
The bearded gunman grabbed his stomach and groaned, dropping his rifle.
Rule’s own backup Dean & Adams revolver, also carried in his back waistband, was barely an eyeblink behind. His shots blasted into Dimitry and into the other gunman beside him. Dimitry spun halfway and tried to bring his rifle toward the diving Emmett. From a crouching position, Rikor pulled a handgun hidden in his back waistband and fired at the other gunman. The gunman’s rifle roared into the night and ripped along the top of Rikor’s shoulder. The young Gardner released his gun and grabbed for the searing pain.
Rule emptied his handgun into all four gunmen and grabbed one of the discarded weapons.
“They’re done, Rule,” Checker said, stepping closer. “Morgan, are you all right?”
Rule walked over to the dead gunmen, kicking their weapons away. He retrieved his gun belt and buckled it, adding his backup Colt to his waistband. He stood without talking, reloading the Dean & Adams gun.
Emmett was examining his son’s wound. It wasn’t serious, only a burn along his shoulder.
Quietly, Rikor confessed, “Pa, I saw Uncle Rule and John carry extra guns in their belts. In back. That’s what I did. Nobody thought I was carrying.”
“Smart o’ ya, son.”
Morgan was in Checker’s arms moments later. Tears covered her face. “They killed…Mr. Fiss. London. They shot him…in the back. Oh, I hoped you wouldn’t…come. They wanted to kill you and Rule so bad.”
Breath hissed through Checker’s clenched teeth. “Lady Holt has killed two very good men.”
She buried her head against his Comanche tunic and sobbed.
Rule was already heading to the horses. His face was frozen in fury.
Looking at the fast-moving gunfighter, Emmett said, “The one who done kilt Eleven Meade…that were Aleta, weren’t it? Ya figger her an’ the kids is all ri’t?”
Swinging into the saddle, Rule said, “I’m riding to town to find that wire. And see a British lady.”
He whirled the horse and galloped into the darkness, slapping its withers with the reins.
The tall Ranger stepped back from Morgan. “I must go with him. You and Emmett…and Rikor…ride back to your place.”
“Reckon we should go wi’ ya, John,” Emmett said, and looked at the grieving Morgan. “I’m sorry, li’l lady, but…”
“Not this time, Emmett. Please take London back to their ranch.” Checker looked at Morgan. “Maybe you’d like to bury him in the same place where…A.J. is.”
Walking toward him, the wounded Rikor said, “I’m going with you. They can’t do this to us.”
Checker shook his head. “Not this time, Rikor. They need you with them.”
The young man stared at the Ranger. “You figured they wouldn’t think of asking about backup guns—with all those irons you were carrying. Right?”
“That’s what I was hoping, Rikor.”
Wiping the tears from her face, Morgan walked over to the tall Ranger. “You come back. To me. You hear, John Checker?”
“I will. I promise.”
Saying the words made the image of his little sister fly through his mind. He touched Morgan’s cheek. “A long time ago, I gave that same promise to my little sister. When I had to leave Dodge. She took a button from my shirt. To remember me by. Didn’t have anything else.” He looked away. “I haven’t kept that promise, Morgan. Not yet anyway.”
She grabbed his shirt under his tunic and yanked a button free. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll help you keep it.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Late night in Caisson found the lamps burning in the newspaper office. Even the saloons had quieted. Inside, Lady Holt wrote furiously.
Her face was flushed with the energy of creation. Behind her, Elliott toiled at setting type. Tomorrow would bring a brand-new world. Her empire would be established, and what better way to announce it than with a special edition of the newspaper?
Outside, lounging on the sidewalk, were four of her gunmen. The rest had gone with Jaudon to rid the region of the last of the interference to her empire. They would sweep through the Peale Ranch, then the Carlson place and lastly destroy Emmett Gardner’s ranch house, burning and killing. Tracking down any of the remaining ranch owners who lived would come next. Another day.
She chuckled when she recalled Tapan and Dimitry coming to her, asking for permission to ride a different direction. They were concerned John Checker and Rule Cordell might set a trap. How could she resist! She had kissed the curly-headed gunman and told him to hurry back. She would stay in town, at her apartment, after the newspaper edition was finished. They could celebrate. Together.
Rubbing her hands together to rid them of writer’s cramp, she examined the page before her. She had already finished the articles headlined TOWN ENJOYS NEW PEACE AS RANGER CAPTAIN SIL JAUDON COMBINES FORCES WITH RANCHER and ARREST WARRANTS ISSUED FOR EMMETT GARDNER, CHARLES CARLSON, MORGAN PEALE, JOHN CHECKER, LONDON FISS AND RULE CORDELL and LADY HOLT AGREES TO TAKE OVER THREE SMALL RANCHES AFTER OWNERS ARE KILLED.
Halfway finished was the story headlined GOVERNOR CITALE PRAISES RANGER CAPTAIN AND MAJOR RANCHER FOR FAST WORK IN QUELLING OUTLAW REBELLION.
Lying to her left was a blank sheet of paper with only the headline scratched on its top: BRITISH NOBILITY BRINGS WEALTH TO REGION. It would be a piece about her—with liberties taken as to accuracy. A third sheet contained the beginnings of a poem, entitled “Iva Lee, I wish you were here.” Several lines had been furiously scribbled.
O Iva Lee O Iva Lee
In the morning mist, I see thee.
In the afternoon dusk, I call your name
O Iva Lee O Iva Lee
You are with me
Even when you are not
You are part of me
Even though you cannot be
O Iva Lee O Iva Lee.
She thought it would make a nice inset piece and planned to finish it later.
Elliott had created a new masthead as she requested. The Caisson Reporter was now The Caisson Phoenix. Under the large typeset heading was a Latin phrase he had suggested. Emitte lucem et veritatem. He said it meant “Send out light and truth.”
She had loved it. Jaudon wouldn’t return for several days and she hoped to have the newspaper on the streets of Caisson before he rode in victoriously.
A knock on the door brought her alert.
“Yes?” she asked without moving.
“It’s Wilson. Wilson Tanner. Thought you might like to take a break.” The voice from the other side of the door was syrupy. “I’ve got some fine Tennessee whiskey. For toasting.”
She smiled, rose and then stopped. “No, Iva Lee. I won’t drink until I’m finished. Yes, I know this is important.” Brushing her hair with her hand, she turned toward Elliott. “I’ll let him in, but now is not the time to celebrate.”