“I like the way you think.”
Neither heard the swift movement behind them. Checker’s gun barrel cracked hard against the taller man’s head and he shivered and crumpled. The shorter man spun toward Checker, trying to swing his rifle toward the Ranger. Too late. Checker backhanded him in the face with his Colt and he staggered backward and collapsed. The tall Ranger hit the stunned gunman again in the head; his hat bounced from his head. A soft groan was the only response.
With a quick look for assurance, Checker holstered his Colt and yanked the two unmoving bodies down into the creek bed. He threw their weapons into the night, grabbed his own Winchester and began crawling slowly through the creek bed. Where the creek turned sharply to the south, he climbed out and looked around. At least, he now knew why gunmen were stalking through the night around the ranch. Gardner’s oldest son, Rikor—and his youngest, Hans—had somehow escaped. Emmett Gardner and his middle son, Andrew, were being held in the ranch house, as he suspected.
Only the dark shapes of trees and rocks greeted him. Yet the darkness could easily hide armed men. His reputation for tracking outlaws at night was well-known. His visual intensity grew with the darkness. It had always been so. Seeing color and measuring distances were the only things that he could not do well at night. Several outlaws had been surprised by his sudden appearance at their nighttime camp.
He slid into the dark. All of the night sounds had disappeared. All of this was definitely a confirmation of Emmett Gardner’s wire for help. The two Rangers had been riding hard since the old rancher described a massive land grab under way with small ranchers being squeezed out or overrun. County law was worse than useless; the sheriff was in Lady Holt’s employ. Emmett said he feared his ranch was the next target.
It made good sense. This was fine cow country with lots of water—creeks and ponds born of a fat river—and hilly with fine stretches of grazing land in between. Along the waterways, oaks of every kind, cottonwoods, and large pecan and walnut trees were in charge.
Captain Harrison Temple readily agreed to their going. He was growing suspicious of the activity in the region. There was little in this part of Texas not under the control of Lady Holt, an extraordinarily wealthy rancher. There were even rumors of the notorious New Mexico hired killer, Eleven Meade, being in the area.
On top of that, Captain Temple worried about the rumors of her alliance with Governor J. R. Citale. The governor was a corrupt man, pushed easily by money. The rumors seemed to coincide with the growing gap between Captain Temple and the governor.
Checker touched the small buckskin pouch hanging from a leather strip under his shirt. A gift of wolf medicine from Stands-In-Thunder. The old war chief, then on a reservation, said the Comanche warriors called Checker Tuhtseena Maa Tatsinuupi, Wolf With Star, because he came after them like a fierce wolf. The wolf was the young Ranger’s puhahante, spirit helper, the old man had said. Checker wasn’t certain how the old man had determined this, but had decided not to question the tribute. Choosing, instead, to enjoy the older man’s companion.
According to the Comanche, the mysterious beast gave him courage and was the reason Checker could see well in the night. Inside the small pouch, according to the old war leader, was strong puha, strong medicine, including a wolf claw, powder made from the wing of a night owl and the howl of a wolf.
To his far left, gray shadows along the dark trio of cottonwoods introduced more gunmen. John Checker took a deep breath, drawing in the velvety cool air, and flattened himself with his rifle aimed in their direction. He wiped each hand on his pants, as if to help him pierce the darkness to determine how many were there. Less than fifty yards away from his position, the shadows were moving. Moonlight washed stingily across them. Six. Yes, six. They were obviously searching for the two Gardner sons. Shadows told him more men were searching on the other side of the ranch. His estmate was too low; there must be closer to twenty gunmen.
Behind came soft movement from beside the shed and Checker spun to meet it.
A yellow cat.
Checker shook his head and returned to watching the gunmen.
“You look over there, Vince. By that shed.” A tall man with a full beard pointed in the direction of Checker’s position. “Eilert, you go there. The bastards have to be here. Somewhere. Remember Rikor has Wilson’s guns.”
The Ranger watched the lone gunman advance. Everything about the night was bothering the man. Slightly built, he wore a derby over long, stringy brown hair. A long coat glistened with remains of a greasy dinner. It looked as though he was wearing two belted guns; both were tied down. He held a Winchester tightly with both hands. Cocked. His finger was on the trigger. Checker watched him from twenty feet away, careful not to look him in the eye.
The gunman was far too jumpy.
If Checker attacked him now, there would be a good chance the man’s finger would squeeze the trigger the instant Checker hit him, but he didn’t want to leave the man in a position to shoot at him as he advanced.
Silently, Checker left his Winchester propped against a tree, circled to the outside and edged himself directly in back of the gunman, and in line with the bunkhouse. It would appear he had just come from there. The move was risky, walking in the open for a few seconds, but he thought no one would pay attention to another man walking in the darkness. He pulled his hat brim lower to cover his face and drew his short-barreled Colt. Even in the dark, it was easy to see the trigger guard was half cut away, the section gone nearest the barrel and the filed-away barrel sight. Both were designed to help the Ranger shoot faster.
The brown-haired gunman remained with his back to the bunkhouse and had not heard Checker’s careful repositioning. Instead, he was watching the same yellow cat that had surprised the Ranger. Rubbing its back against a tree, the scrawny animal was a welcome diversion. The man’s cocked rifle was cradled in his arms, but his right hand was still wrapped within the trigger guard.
Checker declared his presence in a friendly, offhand manner, “Evenin’. Don’t shoot, partner. The boss sent me. Found them yet?”
The nervous gunman flinched, but the reassuring voice was a comforting sound in the lonely night. He turned and said, “Glad to have the—”
“If you whisper, I’ll blow your head off,” Checker snarled. His Colt barrel lifted the nervous man’s chin to attention as Checker’s left hand slid between the rifle’s cocked hammer and the readied bullet in its chamber. His move was a blur. The hammer hit the back of his hand hard, pinching it against the steel frame, but keeping the strike from reaching its intended target. It was the reflex action he had anticipated.
“Let go of the rifle real easylike. Wouldn’t want that hammer to get any farther, would you?” Checker growled. “Because if there is any noise to bother your friends, you won’t be around to see the fun. Now move over here in the shadows. Walk naturally. That’s it.”
Holstering his revolver, Checker’s hand pulled the rifle from the shaking fingers of the gunman with his right hand; the Ranger’s left hand still blocked the hammer’s path. Carefully removing his hand, he recocked the rifle and returned its barrel to the guard’s neck.
“Tell me what’s going on here. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Y-you’re a Ranger, aren’t ya? I’m just doin’ what I was told. P-p-please, mister, I—I—I’ll tell ya the truth.”
In a frightened staccato, he told Checker that Sil Jaudon, Lady Holt’s right-hand man, had led a night attack on the Gardner ranch house. They had taken the youngest when he was milking and used him to get inside by threatening to kill him. Jaudon and three others were holding Gardner and the third son in the ranch house now. Jaudon expected to get Gardner to sign away his ranch.