Ride For Rule Cordell Cotton Smith
LEISURE BOOKS 
NEW YORK CITY
THE END OF THE RANGERS
“I’m going to have some breakfast,” Lady Holt said. “You find out when the hearing is scheduled.”
“What if the judge hasn’t set it yet?”
Her stare made Tanner wish he hadn’t said that.
“I’ll get it done,” he quickly added.
“Good,” she said. “Then ride to the ranch and tell Paulus to drive those rebranded cattle to town. Fast. We’ll turn this thing around real quick.”
She smiled a wicked grin that caught her eyebrows and cocked them. “Tell Judge Opat to expect a telegram from the governor.”
“Citale?”
“Do we have another governor?”
“No, of course not.” He returned the cigar to his mouth and his hat to his head.
“Tell Jaudon his defense remains the same. Exactly the same. This will be the day the Rangers will never forget.” Her laugh was more of a snort.
Tanner spun and left.
“Iva Lee, by tomorrow the Rangers will be history!”
To Margaret and Margaret
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
THE END OF THE RANGERS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
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Copyright
Chapter One
Texas Ranger John Checker saw the two gunmen coming in the darkness before they saw him. Like a cat, he dove toward the short buffalo grass pushing against the right side of the ranch shed. He rolled until he was lying chest-down in a shallow creek fifteen feet away. His long black hair brushed along the shoulders of his Comanche tunic.
Moonlight shivered on the dark water that fed upon most of his pants. He laid his Winchester against the edge of the creek itself. Hidden from the gunmen until they got close. Swiftly, he lifted the thong from the hammer of his short-barreled Colt carried in a reverse holster on a double-rowed cartridge belt. His hand gripped the black handles, carrying an embedded elk-bone circle on each side, and drew the fine revolver.
If they saw him, the short gun would be faster to bring into action. He froze in place as they came closer. He was certain they hadn’t seen him. A shooting encounter now might prove fatal for his old friend, Emmett Gardner. The smarter move was to determine what exactly was going on and where.
He and fellow Ranger A. J. Bartlett had come as soon as they received the wire from the gray-haired rancher. The two Rangers had hit town and learned from a loose-lipped cowboy that Lady Holt riders would descend on Gardner’s ranch tonight. They stayed only long enough to get fresh horses.
Right now, Bartlett was somewhere on the other side of the ranch yard, waiting for Checker’s signal to close in. If he wasn’t fussing with his new socks; things like that mattered greatly to his partner. He even kept a detailed journal of recipes of meals that could be prepared on the trail. Probably the result of growing up with schoolteacher parents.
So far, there had been no shooting. Most likely, this meant the old rancher and his sons had been surprised and subdued. Or it could signify something worse. A lone light in the ranch house gave no clue to what was happening inside, but Checker thought it was encouraging. He wasn’t certain how many gunmen were at the ranch, but guessed it was ten to twelve. Bartlett was uncomfortable with any estimate, especially one like that; Checker reminded him they wouldn’t know for certain until the attack was over.
The two gunmen finally stopped and stood above him on the grassy bank. Their rifles were carried casually in crossed arms. Both were looking back toward the ranch house. It appeared their only objective was to stay out of the way of others.
Checker dared not lift his head enough to see them any better. He had learned well from Stands-In-Thunder how a man could remain unseen by his enemies when actually in plain sight. No movement was the first requirement.
Courage was the second.
Third was to avoid staring directly at the person; such eye contact would often make the man realize he was being watched.
Ranger reports indicated Lady Holt had forty gunmen in her employ, including the notorious Tapan Moore and the half-breed Luke Dimitry. Were they all here? He didn’t think anything near that, but wasn’t certain. So far, his first guess of ten to twelve seemed right. Forty gunmen didn’t count all the regular cowboys who handled her vast herds. There was little in this part of Texas the English woman didn’t own—or control. There was talk of her employing the new devil’s rope to stop open grazing. Barbed wire would change everything, most agreed—and few liked the idea.
The two gunmen’s conversation was casual in the tense darkness.
“Looks like the ol’ lady’s gonna get her wish. Gardner’s spread’ll make it just about complete. The ol’ man’s got some fine water. Grazin’ land ain’t bad, neither. Sil said he’s gonna make him sign over his place—or start hangin’ his sons.”
“I was kinda hopin’ we’d just hang ’em all an’ get it over with. Hazel’s waitin’ for me in town. Damn, don’t know what Sil’s waiting for.”
“Lady Holt wants it this way. Nice an’ legal. Heard Sil’s gonna give him a thousand dollars for the ranch.” The taller man rubbed his chin. “ ’Sides, Hazel ain’t waitin’ for ya. She’d spin anybody who’s got silver.”
The shorter man flinched, but didn’t respond. Checker heard a match strike and saw the glow against the tall man’s face as he lit a cigarette. Tobacco smoke drifted down to him.
“Damn it to hell, you’re right about Hazel.”
“ ’Course I am. You oughta try that new blonde-haired gal.” The tall gunman grinned; white teeth gleamed in the night.
“Good idea. Thanks.”
“Say, how’d Rikor—and the kid—get away?”
“Wilson’s fault. Let ’em go piss—an’ Rikor jumped him. Took his guns.”
“Rikor any good with a gun?”
“Doubt it. Figger he’s a cowman. Like his pa. But so far, he’s been real quiet. Smart, I’d say.”
“Hey, Charlie’s got some who-shot-John in his saddlebags. Saw it. What say we go back an’ have at it? Nothin’s gonna happen around here. We can tell Sil we were checking on some noise. Thought it was Rikor.”