“What are they waiting for?” Checker asked.
“Oh, two of that old man’s sons got away. They’re around here somewhere, I reckon,” the shaking man said. “Sil’s mad as hell at Wilson for letting them escape.”
He further explained Jaudon and his men would take over the Gardner herd later, probably tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Satisfied the man couldn’t tell him more, Checker delivered a blow to the back of the man’s head with the barrel of his Winchester and he crumpled to the ground.
Checker’s eyes quickly searched the yard for signs of discovery. Nothing. He breathed a deep release of tension. The men were spread out, most of them looking north. He dragged the immobile body behind the shed and into a shallow ravine that ran parallel to the ranch house, so it wouldn’t be discovered easily.
Quickly he removed the man’s pistols, shoved one into his own cartridge belt and threw the rifle and the other revolver into the darkness. He considered slowly eliminating Jaudon’s men as he had the first three. But the other searchers had left the area, moving toward the barn and the main corrals. It would be difficult to do without being discovered. A shootout with those odds wasn’t likely to end well.
He heard someone coming through the brush. From his left. He crouched to wait.
It was his partner, A. J. Bartlett, a medium-sized man in a short-brimmed fedora. He held a double-barreled shotgun. A three-piece brown suit looked as if he had just bought it. His bullet belt and a holstered Smith & Wesson revolver were strapped over his coat. But everything—and every way—about him was precise. Or as precise as he could make it.
Even the shotgun had been carefully chosen because of its firepower and its threatening appearance. He wasn’t nearly as good with a handgun as Checker. Few were. Supposedly, the Confederate cavalryman-turned-outlaw, Rule Cordell, was. So were John Wesley Hardin and Clay Allison. Rule Cordell wasn’t dead as previously reported and was now a preacher, or so Ranger reports had confirmed. Facing each other wouldn’t be anything any of them would want.
“Saw you introducing the fellow to the stars,” Bartlett said, pointing with the gun at the unconscious gunman. “Thought I’d see what you had in mind—and introduce you to a couple of lads I just ran into.”
The Ranger waved and an eight-year-old boy and a lanky young man of eighteen appeared from the darkness. The young man held a Henry carbine in his hands; he looked comfortable with it. A long-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver was shoved into his pocket.
“You remember Rikor, John. And this fine-looking lad is Hans. Looks just like his pa, I do believe.” He continued telling Checker about the situation, then expanded his assessment to tell how much the boys had grown since the last time he had seen them, then wondering if Emmett Gardner’s herds were safe, and then wondering if cattle prices in Kansas were holding up. He finished by saying that his socks had gotten damp and were troubling him.
Checker stopped his wandering assessment by greeting the boys. “Well, good to see you, Rikor. You, too, Hans. The last time I saw you, you were just getting into everything you could reach.” Checker held out his hand to greet both.
Rikor, and then Hans, accepted the handshake enthusiastically. The smaller boy looked him straight in the eye. “They’ve got my pa. An’ Andrew.”
“Yes, I know,” Checker said, and leaned forward. “How many are in the house—holding them?”
Hans glanced away as if seeing the inside of his house once more, then looked back. “Four. Two inside—and two more fellas watchin’ the front an’ back doors. Standin’ outside.” Checker nodded; that matched the number given to him by Vince, the gunman he had just dispatched.
“There were five. One less now,” Rikor said with a grin reaching the corner of his mouth. “These are his guns. Jumped him when we went outside to the outhouse. He’s behind it now.”
“Heard about that,” Checker said. “Good work. You gave your pa time. Us, too.”
Rikor’s eyes brightened with the compliment.
In spite of his favored choice of weapons, the older Ranger was actually much less intense than his younger fellow Ranger, now a gun warrior known throughout Texas. He loved to talk and usually it seemed to fill the silence left when he and Checker rode together. Now it was getting in the way.
“How do you want to play this, John?” Bartlett grinned and recited, “ ‘How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use, as tho’ to breathe were life!’ ”
Checker glanced at his older friend. “I think you made that up.”
“Ah, no, my friend, ’tis Ulysses, one of Tennyson’s best.”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson was Bartlett’s favorite poet and he quoted from his works often.
“I like it.”
Checker looked at Bartlett, then back to the two Gardner sons. “Got an idea of how we might get close. Maybe even inside. But it will take being very brave.”
“What do you want me to do?” Hans blurted, and crossed his arms.
Chapter Two
Minutes later, Checker walked with the boy toward the house. The tall Ranger had switched hats and pulled down the brim of the derby taken from the downed gunman to help keep his face covered. His rifle was cocked and ready, carrying at his side one-handed.
Bartlett and Rikor were headed for the back door, using the same approach with Bartlett appearing to bring in the oldest Gardner son. Rikor’s pistol, taken from the gunman earlier, was stuffed into his back waistband, so it wouldn’t be seen.
Checker straightened, lowered his rifle to his side, and pulled again on the brim of his adopted hat. He needed to get close. Pretending to be one of Jaudon’s men made the most sense. He hoped. He didn’t like using the boy for bait, but couldn’t think of a better way.
“Well, well, lookee here,” a yellow-haired gunman with a scrawny mustache and a leather vest greeted them at the door of the house. He stepped onto the porch to get a better view of the shadowed man advancing with the boy.
Checker kept walking, easing Hans to his left, so he could step in front of him if necessary.
“Hard to find a little bastard like that. Where’s the big one?”
“Don’t know.” Checker’s voice was little more than a hoarse growl. “Got any smokes? I’m all out.”
“You bet.” The yellow-haired gunman reached for his shirt pocket.
Checker drew closer, passing Hans.
“Keep your hands right there.”
Grim-faced John Checker shoved his rifle into the man’s belly. Moonlight shivered, for an instant, along its barrel.
“Wh-what? Who are you?”
“I’m Ranger John Checker and I don’t like what’s going on here.” Checker pulled the man’s revolver from its holster. “Turn around.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Ask another stupid question and I’ll go ahead without you.” The arrowhead-shaped scar on Checker’s cheek flamed with his anger.
“You’re buttin’ into somethin’ you shouldn’t, mister. This is Lady Holt’s business.” The yellow-haired gunman pushed out his chin and straightened his back.
“When I see her, I’ll tell her you were clear about that. Turn around.”
Slowly, the man turned. Checker handed the gun to the boy and told him to empty out the cartridges. He pushed against the gunman’s back with his Winchester as he waited. Hans completed the task and held out the gun. In his other small hand were the cartridges. The tall Ranger took the handgun and shoved it back into the man’s holster, then received the handful of cartridges and put them in his pocket.