Jaudon’s shoulders straightened. “Vous are through, Gardner,” he finally blurted without looking at him. “Wait an’ vous vill see. I vill watch votre…your sorry ass hang. I vill be the one pissin’ on votre face.”
“Emmett, stand behind Jaudon. You know what to do if his men don’t come in quietlike.”
“Be my pleasure,” the old rancher growled. “Got these two fine pistols cocked an’ ready.”
Remembering his medicine pouch, Checker touched the small lump under his shirt and tunic. Somewhere a wolf cry haunted the land, as if his touch had brought the response. His rational mind told him it was just a coincidence. They had been hearing wolves off and on all day.
Jostling his shoulders to rid the nerves taking over, the Frenchman called out, “Venir…come in! Come in! Venir! Ve haff them. Ve haff them. Come in. Now. Ve haff much to do.” His voice was packed with anger, but he made no attempt to start anything. His fat face was like a red pumpkin.
Across the darkened ranch yard, voices carried Jaudon’s relayed command. So far, the others hadn’t discovered any of their downed associates. Checker told himself the darkness was helping, but he had dragged them out of the way, too.
Jaudon muttered something French under his breath.
“Remember, I want English when they get closer, Jaudon,” Checker said.
Emmett chuckled.
“Keep those pistols out of sight, Emmett.”
“They’ll be behind me back. A-waitin’.”
“Good.”
Supportive grunts and calls popped through the night. Dark shapes began to emerge from the blackness and head toward the house. Checker’s dark eyes assessed the advancing twosome. “I think the yellow-haired fellow is Whitey Wesson. He’s wanted in El Paso. Murder.”
“I did not know this,” Jaudon volunteered.
“Of course you didn’t. You were just hiring boys who were good with ropes, right?”
“Hey, boss! Vince’s been coldcocked. Over here, behind this shed!” The cry came from the area where Checker had dragged the unconscious gunman earlier.
Checker froze. He should have expected the reaction. “Jaudon, tell him it’s all right. You’ve got work to do.” He jabbed the fat man in the stomach with the butt of his rifle for emphasis.
“Rikor, keep a close watch,” Checker cautioned.
“I have him. There is only one.”
“Leave heem. Ve vill care for heem later,” Jaudon yelled loudly. “It is bien. Come on. Ve haff work to do.”
“B-but he’s hurt. Head’s bleeding real bad.”
“I said come.” Jaudon’s voice bit hard into the night.
“Yeah, yeah.”
From the other side of the ranch yard, two well-armed men appeared from near the corral and strolled toward the porch. The shorter gunman with an oversized handlebar mustache stopped and squinted.
“Wait, Tapan. That man with the boss. I know him,” the gunman gushed. “Saw him in El Paso. Last year, it was. That’s John Checker, the Ranger.”
“John Checker, damn! What’s he doin’ here?” Tapan Moore said, his breath coming in short bursts.
“Well, it ain’t to help us. Let’s get closer and then take him,” the short gunman declared softly, “before he knows we’re on to him. Remember that sonvabitch is a heller with a gun. Saw him in action in El Paso. Never saw the like. Maybe better’n you—or Luke. Be careful, though. The boss is standing right next to him.”
“All right. I’ll take Checker an’ you get ol’ man Gardner. He must be carryin’, I reckon.” A toothy smile from Tapan Moore followed.
“No, we’d better both take Checker.”
“Oh, all right. But I don’t like that ol’ man.”
“You can have him next.”
“Sure.”
They walked toward the porch, trying to act nonchalant, as the other Jaudon gunmen did the same. Neither saw Bartlett slip behind them at a comfortable distance and check out the barn to determine there were no gunmen waiting. Satisfied, he turned his attention to following the two gunmen.
At the porch, Checker focused on the gunmen sidling toward them from the cottonwoods. He was glad they didn’t look around while they were standing there. The creek where he had dragged the two men earlier was only fifteen feet behind them.
Halting twenty feet from the porch, the gunmen from the barn swung their rifles into position.
“Drop ’em, boys.” Bartlett’s command was like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky.
Tapan Moore dropped his rifle, jerking his arms into the air as if they were being pulled by unseen strings. The shorter man hesitated, then swung his gun toward Bartlett.
The Ranger’s rifle barked twice and the gunman yipped, dropped his gun and went to his knees. The exchange surprised the two gunmen coming from the front and both swung their guns into firing position. Checker’s Winchester roared into the night. Three times. Answering fire clipped the porch and one bullet thudded into Checker’s left thigh.
Jaudon flinched as Emmett Gardner drove the nose of a revolver into his back. “Better hope this gits dun quick an’ ri’t, Frenchie.”
Waving arms, Jaudon yelled out, “S’arrete! Stop this! Stop this! Come in. These are Rangers. They vill kill me.” His face indicated he believed the statement.
From inside the house came Andrew’s scared voice. “Pa, there’s someone at the back door!” Hans’s voice was right behind his older brother’s. “Shoot him, Andrew!” Hammer growled as if he were much bigger than he was.
Emmett spun toward the door as two shots cracked into the night. He entered the house to see Rikor standing in the back doorway.
“It’s all right, Pa. Rikor got him,” Hans said, appearing calmer than his brother.
Andrew’s gun was in his hand at his side. It hadn’t been fired. He was shaking and close to crying. Both younger sons stood near the tied gunmen, whose expressions were unreadable.
On the floor in front of a grim Rikor was an unmoving body.
The older rancher’s shoulders heaved with relief.
“That’s the guy who was yellin’ from our shed, Pa,” Rikor declared, holding his smoking Winchester with both hands. “Watched him curl back to the house—an’ followed him. He was the only one over on this side. Where do you want me to go?”
Emmett motioned toward the front window and returned to the porch.
“Did ya miss me, Frenchie?” he growled, jamming Jaudon’s pistols into the fat man’s back. “John, Rikor got the bastard tryin’ to come in our house. Nobody’s on that side now. He’s at the window. To my right.”
“It was his bullets we heard?” Checker said without turning his focus from the ranch yard.
“Yep. Rikor don’t miss much.”
Slowly, the remaining gunmen came to the porch, all realizing the situation had changed. One of the two gunmen coming from the front was down and not moving; the other held his arm. The curly-headed gunman from the barn left his companion and hurried toward the porch. Bartlett stopped and disarmed the short gunman, telling him in detail that he wasn’t hurt badly, that it only was painful.
Checker was bleeding from the upper thigh of his left leg. He recognized the advancing gunman. It was Tapan Moore. The Ranger report had been correct.
The old rancher was the first to notice. “You’ve been hit, John.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You’re bleedin’, man.”
For a vicious moment, Checker saw his father’s face in the one of the man advancing. He always realized, without wanting to admit it, that his own face carried much of the same look. Anger snarled within him as the memory barreled through his mind. J. D. McCallister was slapping his mother as she fought to keep him from the tent where they lived.