Rule’s right hand slid from resting against the door frame to his gun belt. A stone earring wiggled below his ear. Poe and Citale saw the stem attached to the lapel of his long black coat and wondered what it was.
He continued with what had happened. Morgan Peale, a local rancher, and her employee, London Fiss, were murdered by Holt’s men. They were buried in a quiet place where they had earlier buried Ranger A. J. Bartlett, who was also killed trying to stop the Holt gang. Lady Holt’s men, under her direction, had also murdered Jimmy Benson, the blacksmith who served as the temporary sheriff. It appeared that Henry Seitmeyer, the newspaper publisher, was going to make it, in spite of a severe head blow.
Lady Holt had been tried by Judge Roebuck Jones, the district circuit judge and convicted of murder, rustling and land embezzlement. Sil Jaudon, Tapan Moore, Luke Dimitry and Eleven Meade, all hired by her, were dead. Her other gunmen were on their way to federal prison, escorted by Rangers.
The businessman coughed and stood. “I believe my business can wait. For the new governor.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Kreig. This is just a silly misunderstanding. These men have no authority to…” Citale rubbed his fingers across his fine mustache and looked at the envelope resting on the desk.
“We have all the authority we need,” Checker growled, and drew his Colt. “Your greed has cost me the lives of two friends—and the woman I love.”
Frantically, Citale pulled open the right-hand drawer of his desk, to reveal a gold-plated revolver with ivory handles. Checker’s challenge stopped his movement toward it.
“Pick up that gun. Please. I want you to. I imagine Sil Jaudon gave it to you when you appointed him captain. He killed my lady.” Checker leaned forward. “Pick it up, Citale. Come on, you bastard, pick it up. Or can’t you handle doing evil things yourself? I’ll get your assistant in here. Maybe he can try.”
“Easy, John.” Rule drew his revolver. “They were friends of mine, too,” he said to Citale. “You and Lady Holt tried to run over some good folks. One of them is my uncle. I didn’t like that, either.”
“Wh-who are you?”
“I’m Rule Cordell.”
His face dark with fury barely controlled, Checker nodded toward the gunfighter in the black long coat. “I asked my friend to come with me today, to keep me from tearing you apart. You’re getting a break with that train ride, Citale. If I ever hear you’ve stepped onto Texas soil again, I’ll find you—and kill you.”
“B-but, but what’ll I say? What’ll I tell the newspapers? I’ve got state projects we’re working on. Important things. For Texas. Tell them, ah, Kreig. I’m running for…the U.S. Senate.”
The businessman paused at the doorway. “Nothing that can’t wait. You aren’t running for anything.” He looked at Checker, then Rule. “I didn’t know.” He hesitated and continued out of the office. Outside, the frightened assistant was sobbing.
“Your health is the reason for the sudden resignation,” Rule said. “That’s what the new governor will tell them. You can tell them anything you want.”
“But there won’t be any time for that, Citale. The train leaves in an hour. We’re taking you there,” Checker said, slamming the desk drawer shut.
Citale’s eyes blinked four times and it looked as though he was going to vomit. “Wh-where’s L-Lady Holt now?”
“She’s in the Caisson jail, waiting to be hanged.”
“H-hanged?”
“Yeah, she asked to be burned, but Texas doesn’t do things like that,” Checker said. “Something about being a phoenix.”
Captain Poe swallowed and blurted, “I almost forgot.” With the two gunfighters’ permission, he reached inside his coat pocket and produced a letter. “Came for you, John. From Dodge City, Kansas. It’s from a Mrs. Amelia Checker Hedrickson. Know her?”
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HIGH PRAISE FOR COTTON SMITH!
“Cotton Smith is one of the finest of a new breed of writers of the American West.”
—Don Coldsmith
“Cotton Smith’s is a significant voice in the development of the American Western.”
—Loren D. Estleman
“Cotton Smith turns in a terrific story every time.”—Roundup Magazine
“In just a few years on the scene, Cotton Smith has made a strong mark as a Western writer of the new breed, telling it like it was.”
—Elmer Kelton, Seven-time Spur Award–winning author of The Day It Never Rained
“Cotton Smith is another modern writer with cinematic potential. Grand themes, moral conflicts and courage are characteristic of his fiction.”
—True West Magazine
“Hats off to Cotton Smith for keeping the spirit of the West alive in today’s fiction. His plots are as twisted as a gnarled juniper, his prose as solid as granite, and his characters ring as true as jinglebobs on a cowboy’s spurs.”
—Johnny D. Boggs, Wrangler and Spur Award–winning author of Camp Ford
“These days, the traditional Western doesn’t get much better than Cotton Smith.”
—Roundup Magazine
“When it came to literature, middle-age had only three good things to show me: Patrick O’Brian, Larry McMurtry and Cotton Smith.”
—Jay Wolpert, screenwriter of The Count of Monte Cristo and Pirates of the Caribbean
“From his vivid descriptions of a prairie night to his hoof-pounding action scenes, Cotton Smith captures the look and feel of the real West.”
—Mike Blakley, Spur Award–winning author of Summer of Pearls
“Acclaimed novelist Cotton Smith is a Western legend.”
—Recorded Books Direct
Other Leisure books by Cotton Smith:
DEATH MASK
RETURN OF THE SPIRIT RIDER
THE WAY OF THE WEST (Anthology)
BLOOD OF BASS TILLMAN
BLOOD BROTHERS
STANDS A RANGER
DEATH RIDES A RED HORSE
DARK TRAIL TO DODGE
PRAY FOR TEXAS
BEHOLD A RED HORSE
BROTHERS OF THE GUN
SPIRIT RIDER
SONS OF THUNDER
WINTER KILL
Copyright
A LEISURE BOOK®
April 2010
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