Biting his lip, Hangar spun and retreated his steps, yelling over his shoulder, “Won’t change nothin’.”
Checker watched him go, then strode the remaining yards to the sheriff’s office and stepped inside.
“Sacre Bleu! What the hell? Where is Hangar?” Sil Jaudon snorted, his heavy jowls shaking with the words.
Without speaking, Checker strolled over to the growling stove where a blackened coffeepot gurgled. He leaned his rifle against the wall, took a cup from the gathering of mismatched cups on the adjacent counter. Looking around, he spotted a rag that had been used as a handle buffer. He poured himself a cupful; a thin line of steam sought freedom. Sipping the hot liquid, he returned to the marshal’s desk and leaned against the corner of the well-worn surface as if no one else were in the jail.
“Vous vill die, Ranger Checker,” Jaudon said. “Vous an’ that stupid Emmett Gardner. An’ that other Ranger.”
The men in the other cells watched mostly in silence. Even Jaudon seemed mesmerized by Checker’s nonchalant style. Only the curly-headed gunman was unimpressed.
“Hey, Checker, what are you going to do when the judge lets all of us go?” Tapan Moore said, grabbing the cell bars. “All of us. Think you can stop us? We’re gonna pour so much lead into you that you’ll draw magnets from the general store.” He looked over at Dimitry. “Then this half-breed’s gonna scalp you. How ’bout that, Ranger?”
Without responding, Checker drank his coffee, then took out the silver watch from his pocket and flipped open the case lid. On the inside lid was the tiny cracked photograph of a young woman with two small children, a boy and a girl. He shook his head. That was a long time ago. His sister might not even be alive now.
Banter began to come from the other men as their courage propped their words. Finally, Sheriff Hangar banged open the door with Judge Opat a few steps behind him. Checker’s rifle was pointed casually at the lawman as he entered.
“Here you go, Checker. Here’s the judge.”
“Come on, Hangar, get us outta here! You heard the judge before,” Tapan commanded.
Other voices joined his declaration.
“What is this crap?” Judge Opat snarled. “I already ruled on this. They’re innocent, protecting their own property. I issued a warrant for Emmett Gardner’s arrest. For rustling.”
Checker thought the skinny magistrate looked like a rooster with his narrow, curved nose. A lock of brown hair even perched on his head like a rooster’s comb. His too-big suit coat made his thin frame look more so.
The tall Ranger kept his rifle pointed at Hangar, but his attention moved to the judge. “Interesting decision, Judge. You didn’t hear the testimony of the two lawmen who brought them in. How convenient.”
“Didn’t need to. I saw them steers. Outside in the corral,” Opat declared, raising his chin defiantly.
Checker described the rebranding. The original Lady Holt brand was a symbolic fire, a jagged line with an H above it. Most called it the “fire brand.” In quiet circles, it was referred to as the “hell brand.” The rebranding to look like Emmett’s mark was as good as possible. The “fire” had been blurred over. Above it was a single line. The H had been turned into the EG with the backward E covering the H as best it could to represent Gardner’s Bar EG.
“In the first place, did you ask Mr. Gardner if he had a bill of sale for those animals?” Checker asked.
“No, I—”
“Wouldn’t a real judge do that? Did you look at the brands at all? Do you think anyone could see those altered brands and think they weren’t changed? Did you ask where these steers were found? Were they bunched together? Do you think it makes any sense that a small rancher would take on the most powerful rancher in the region? Why did Holt’s men take this long to bring those cattle in? Why didn’t they come to the sheriff here first?” Checker’s questions were strung together like a Gatling gun in full fire.
“A sorry excuse for a judge you are, Opat,” Checker concluded.
“You don’t have any authority, Checker,” Opat shouted. “Or haven’t you heard? Governor Citale just had you and your partner dropped as Rangers. Good riddance, I’d say.”
“All the authority I need is in this gun.”
Hangar froze.
Opat licked his lips and folded his arms. His face narrowed and his eyes sought Checker’s. “Matter of fact, you’re under arrest, Checker. For the murder of three innocent men last night. You an’ that partner of yours.”
From the cells came an outburst of laughter.
“Au revoir, John Checker,” Jaudon spat. “I cut out votre eyes when I see vous next.”
Checker said, “You bring in real law an’ we’ll give ourselves up to him. But not to you. Or Hangar.” He stared at Jaudon. “Jaudon, you talk better than you do. I’d be careful of that.” He motioned with his gun toward the far cell. “I want both of you in there. Hangar, get rid of your gun belt. Judge, take that derringer out of your pocket.”
“What! How’d you? You can’t do this. I’m the law in this town,” Opat snorted, and withdrew the small gun and laid it on the desk. “Me an’ Hangar.”
“No, you’re not. Lady Holt is—and you’re dancing to any tune she happens to play. I feel sorry for you, Opat,” Checker said, watching Hangar unbuckle his gun belt and let it slide to the floor.
At the doorway, Checker turned back to the cells. “Now you listen. All of you. We’re no longer Rangers, so we don’t have to bring you in alive. You come after our friend Emmett and you’re going to die.”
Chapter Eight
John Checker rode hard toward Emmett Gardner’s ranch. Behind his bay was a sturdy packhorse carrying a load of supplies and ammunition. The general store owner had been helpful, but careful no one from Lady Holt’s ranch was close when he was. Checker’s mind was whirling with what they must do. Now they didn’t even have the law of Texas riding with them. They were outlaws.
Outlaws. He had been on that side once. A long time ago. When he was a young man riding with the burn of Dodge City in his heart. But that was a long time ago and Texas had held his loyalty—and his gun—since then.
Now? Swirls of childhood memory worked across his mind. His real father had been a gang leader with a disreputable saloon in Dodge, a corrupt man who took what he wanted, when he wanted it. J. D. McCallister had two legitimate sons, Starrett and Blue. The evil man’s blood ran through Checker’s veins even though the man wanted no part of him or his sister. Maybe that’s all Checker was, really. Maybe he was nothing more than McCallister’s blood and the evil man’s temper boiled easily within him.
He shook his head to clear it. He was a Texas Ranger. A good one. A proud one. He would act like one, even if the governor had fired the two Rangers. His mind slid to Lady Holt; she was older than he was, but she was very attractive. To any man. More importantly, she was powerful. Powerful enough to get the governor to have them dismissed as Rangers. Just like that.
Easing his horse into a smooth lope, he followed the narrow stream that led toward Emmett Gardner’s ranch and tried to think of their next strategy. Emmett had been right about the judge—and the sheriff. Still, what the two Rangers had done was the right thing, bringing Jaudon and his men into town to stand trial. That was the way they were trained, use the local law whenever possible.
Would he stand trial for murder?
No. He would not give himself up to Hangar or Opat. Or anyone else under Lady Holt’s control. Not even the governor. Citale was a cheat. A weak man swayed by any sign of power. Or money. But that didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was helping their friend. He was certain Emmett wouldn’t leave his home. The old rancher would choose to stand and fight. Lady Holt would count on that.