“If’n ya don’t shut up, I’m gonna spit ag’in,” Emmett growled, half smiling. “What ar’ we a-doin’ with these hyar clowns, Rangers? Shoot ’em?”
“That would be the fastest, but no,” Checker said with the hint of a smile. “We’re taking them into town. To jail. They’ll stand trial for attempted murder.”
Jaudon’s face brightened.
“That damn, no-good judge is in cohoots with Lady Holt. So’s the sheriff. They’ll just let ’em go,” Emmett pleaded.
“Emmett, we’re taking this bunch to town. For trial.” Checker’s voice was low and even. The soft yellow of gaslight draped across his tan, chiseled face with its once-broken Roman nose for an instant, making him look like a wild Comanche warrior in war paint.
The old rancher frowned and shook his head. “How we gonna do this?”
“The Frenchman is going out on the porch and calling in his men,” Checker said.
“This vill never work,” Jaudon snarled.
“Better hope it does,” Checker said. “Or you’re dead. Got any rope around the house, Emmett? I’d like to make sure the rest of this batch aren’t a problem.”
“Sure do. In the kitchen.” Emmett headed toward the back, paused and chuckled. “Most folks don’t keep lassos in with their cookin’ stuff. Almina wouldn’t have allowed it.” He bit his lower lip. “It’s new. Bin a-workin’ it some to get it nice an’ smooth.”
“Rangers, vous are new to ze region.” Jaudon put both large hands on the tabletop. “Madame Holt vill understand this. She is a grand woman. She vill own this part of Texas. But vous have got to stop now. She vill reward vous…greatly. She knows ze governor. She can be most helpful…to your careers.”
“Jaudon. I’m real tired of your jabbering,” Checker said. “I don’t want to hear anything more from you. ’Til I say so. Out on the porch.”
In minutes, the half-breed and the other two gunmen were tied and kerchiefs shoved into their mouths to keep them quiet. To make certain the new ropes would be taut enough, the men’s belts were added as restraints. The old rancher relished the task, tightening the cords and retightening them.
Checker motioned with his Winchester. “Emmett, take two of his fancy pistols. A.J., you’re going to need that rifle.” Gaslight danced again along the Ranger’s derby hat, then sashayed with his black hair moving near his shoulders.
Staring at him, the old rancher said, “How long ya bin wearin’ that…derby, John? Don’t look like ya.”
“About ten minutes, Emmett. My hat’s outside. Thought it would help us get close.” Checker grinned and pulled on the brim. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
“Jes’ ain’t you, that’s all.”
Picking up the discarded rifle, Bartlett added, “Ah, Frenchie, we know how many you have with you tonight.” He started to indicate how many and where they might be, but Checker’s eyes told him this wasn’t the time to elaborate because they didn’t know.
Emmett retrieved Jaudon’s golden revolvers and Rikor took the remaining handguns and shoved them into his belt.
Looking at the old rancher, Checker said, “A.J. and Rikor will head out the back. A.J., you take the side of the house closest to the barn. Rikor, you’ve got the other side. Stay out of sight, both of you. Emmett and I will escort Mr. Jaudon to the porch.”
Hans Gardner pursed his lips. “What about me, Ranger? What do you want me to do?”
“And me?” Andrew pouted.
Checker turned toward the boys, whose faces were filled with determination. For an instant, the sight of the boys took him back to Dodge City, where he had been forced to flee as a fourteen-year-old, leaving his younger sister with neighbors. Their mother had just died of whooping cough. Neighbors took in Amelia, but young John Checker posed too much of a threat. Pent-up anger at the way his mother had been treated in life by the merciless J. D. McCallister broke loose after his mother’s terrible death. The boy had gone to his uncaring father’s saloon to confront him and ended up fighting some of his men, wounding one with a knife. A sympathetic prostitute had helped him escape.
He shook his head to drive the memory back.
“We need you two to watch the back door,” Checker said.
“Do I get a gun?” Andrew asked
Glancing at Emmett and Rikor, who both nodded approval, the tall Ranger agreed and the older son pulled one of the hideout guns from his waistband and held it for the younger son.
“It’s double action, Andrew. You don’t have to cock it,” Rikor said as the fourteen-year-old took the gun.
“I know. Pa showed me lots of times.”
“How about me, do I get a gun?” Hans asked, his eyes bright with eagerness.
Checker shook his head. “No…I need you ready to run to the porch and tell us what’s happening.” He patted the boy on the shoulder. “Watch through the back door, but don’t stand where you can be seen. If anyone comes, you hurry back. It won’t be A.J. or Rikor.”
“Should I shoot if they come?” Andrew asked.
“Yes. Once. Then get away from the door. Ah, take Hammer with you.”
The boys beamed with the responsibility given them and solemnly headed for the back door with the dog trotting obediently between them.
Nodding, Checker turned toward the sullen Jaudon. “If anything goes wrong, Emmett, shoot the Frenchman.”
The French outlaw leader walked toward the front door; his eyes avoided looking at anyone. His face was a deep crimson; his ample belly jiggled with the movement. Hatred poured from his eyes and his fists opened and closed to release some of the anger building within him.
Chapter Three
Renewal of the threat straightened the pig-faced man’s back and he began to walk stiffly as if precision would fully indicate his desire to comply. A few shadows lined up to support his compliance. Shifting the shotgun to his other hand, Bartlett grabbed the rifle as he and Rikor followed the boys to the back.
A dozen steps later, John Checker, Emmett Gardner and Sil Jaudon stood on the wood-planked front porch that covered the entire front of the ranch house. Four posts supported the overhanging roof, but provided little cover if needed. Shapes moved in the darkness. The Ranger could see two men standing under a thick cottonwood near the edge of the open ranch yard. Others were moving near the barn where he had seen them earlier.
If the Ranger report was correct, Lady Holt—and Jaudon—had at least forty gunmen working for her. Checker guessed there were twenty there tonight. Four were down and three were in the house under control. That left thirteen. If his speculation was right. Being only one off would be enough to cause trouble, though.
Without looking, Checker knew Bartlett had taken a position near the front of the house, crouched behind a scraggly bush. The barn and corrals were to their right. He couldn’t see where Rikor was hiding on the other side closest to the shed.
“Rikor, keep your eye on the shed and the trees around it. All right?” Checker said quietly. “I’ve got the front.”
“Got it.”
“A.J., there were men around the barn earlier,” Checker cautioned. “Most will be coming from that direction, I think. I’ve got the front. Two are there, for sure.”
Bartlett’s response was lengthy as usual, pointing out the difficulty of seeing anyone in the shadows around the barn, and wondering if the gunmen Checker had knocked out would be found. Before Bartlett could continue with a meandering speech, Checker told him to watch for movement in the darkness.
“All right, Jaudon, call in your boys,” Checker said. “If you say anything I don’t understand, I’ll assume it’s ordering an attack. Make sure nobody is slow coming. If one lags behind, you won’t like what happens.”