Ride for Rule Cordell (9 page)

By the time Emmett Gardner and his family got to Clark Springs, the day was well past noon. Rain had delivered on its threat and soaked them thoroughly through the morning and midday. All, except Emmett, had nodded off a few times in the saddle, napping for a few minutes at a time.

In the distance was a well-built, adobe-and-timber house. Nearby were a sturdy barn, a windmill, a blacksmithing shack and three corrals. Horses of brown, black and tan milled about the enclosures. Rain caught their backs and made them glisten. A large brown-and-white dog barked his warning.

Reining up the wagon, Emmett yelled through the thickening rain, “Rule! Aleta! It’s me, Emmett. Me an’ my boys. We got trouble.”

In the shadowed doorway of the front porch stood a familiar figure with a chiseled face and a lithe frame. Dark eyes studied the scene. Long brown hair touched his shirt.

“That’s all right, Two. It’s all right. They’re family,” Rule Cordell said, and whistled at the dog. “Come here, boy. Here, Two.”

With his tongue hanging out, the dog hurried to the
porch and stood beside Rule. He leaned over to scratch the animal behind its ears. A silver cross tangled free of his opened shirt from a leather cord around his neck. Under his shirt was a second symbol of spiritual attention, a small medicine pouch also hung from a leather cord. It was a gift of an aging Comanche shaman named Moon before Rule left for the war.

Both tributes to spiritualism he usually wore.

His days as a preacher were over now; he had declined the town’s offer to become the full-time minister. His experience in fighting the Regulators had convinced him that his calling was in raising and training horses. Moon had told him a man could serve the Great Spirit in many ways. Mostly, if he was doing what he really wanted to do. His feelings for God were better expressed in working with a fine horse, he thought, and being outside in His creation than bottled up in some building. Regardless of how beautiful the structure might be. That kind of spiritual guidance was best left to someone else.

The revolver in his fist lowered as he turned toward the inside of the house and said, “Aleta, it’s Emmett—and his boys. Come quick. Something’s wrong.”

At Rule Cordell’s side soon appeared a stunning, doe-eyed Mexican woman with long black hair. She, too, had ridden with Johnny Cat Carlson after the war—until she met Rule.

A boy and a smaller girl appeared at her side; the older boy looked like his mother, the younger girl more like her father. Their eyes lit up when they saw the Gardner boys climb from the wagon. The older boy said something to his younger sister and they ran out to meet their cousins. The dog followed.

In minutes, the Cordells had welcomed the soaking-wet riders into their house, helped the Gardner boys shed their
wet slickers and guided them to stand in front of the stone fireplace. A fire warmed and brightened the main room. The Cordell children and the Gardner children began talking and laughing as if it were a summer picnic. Wagging its shaggy tail, the dog joined them, licking an occasional face or hand of the four. Strutting carefully, the yellow cat also joined the group, but chose to make himself comfortable near the fire. Andrew’s frog sprang from his hands as he tried to show his special friend.

Laughter filled the house as everyone tried to catch up with the springy animal. It was Rule who finally secured the pet and returned it to Andrew.

Everything in the house was clean and in its place. The curtains were freshly washed, still smelling lightly of soap. In the adjoining kitchen was a large table with Mexican designs carved into the heavy legs. Matching chairs stood silently around it. A tablecloth of simple blue finished the presentation.

Emmett introduced Rule to Ranger A. J. Bartlett, who greeted him warmly. Rule introduced his wife, Aleta, and son, Ian, and daughter, Rosie, then said, “And this is Texas the Second. We call him ‘Two’ for short.” He patted the dog’s head and left unsaid that the name was a tribute to the first “Texas,” a cur he found during the war. The dog’s death during a battle nearly unraveled him.

“Mr. Cordell, I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” Bartlett said, “and yours, Mrs. Cordell. But I must excuse myself and return to find my partner. John would’ve caught up with us…if he could. I fear…” He didn’t finish, not liking his words.

“Please call us Rule—and Aleta. What happened?”

Bartlett explained with Emmett joining in. Rule glanced at Aleta, who excused herself and left for the kitchen. Rule had heard of Lady Holt and knew Texas Ranger John Checker
by reputation. He said Comanche warriors called him
Tuht-seena Maa Tatsinuupi
, Wolf With Star, because he tracked them like a fierce wolf. He also knew Eleven Meade, Luke Dimitry and Tapan Moore, but not Sil Jaudon.

After listening, Rule said quietly, “Ranger Checker wouldn’t necessarily have followed your same route, A.J. He might have ridden in the other direction. To make sure they didn’t find you. He’ll catch up later. That would be savvy.”

“Well, he’s that. In spades,” Bartlett replied; his expression was one of a man who wanted to believe what he had just heard but couldn’t quite. His thinking tended toward the negative—and to worry. Almost the opposite of his Ranger partner. But this time, his concern seemed justified.

“There you go. Please eat first, and then I’ll ride with you…if you will allow me the honor, Ranger. We’ll find your friend, I’m sure,” Rule said. “You’ll need a fresh horse, too.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind. My horse thanks you, too.”

“I cain’t be askin’ ya to do this, Rule,” Emmett said. “I’ll be ridin’ back with A.J. This hyar’s my fight—an’ now his. Leastwise to find John.”

“It’s my fight, too. I’m going with you, Ranger Bartlett.” Rikor’s eyes were bright; his frown was keeping sleep from getting any closer.

Bartlett bit his lip. “I’d like that. Up to your pa, though.”

The young man was silent, looking at his father for approval.

The statement brought a clearing of Emmett’s throat. “Yas, son, I reckon ya’d better go with us. Yu’re already actin’ a warrior.” He shook his head and looked at Rule. “Don’ know what I was a-thinkin’, Rule. I may be bringin’ hell ri’t to your door. Forgive me. After we done et, we’ll be pushin’ on.” His face wore weariness and, for the first time, a lack of confidence.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Uncle Emmett. You’re most welcome,” Rule said. “You are my family. No one does this to my family. No one.” He glanced at a window to see the lessening rain outside.

“Wall, thank you, son, them’s the purtiest words I ever did hear.” Emmett shook his head. “If’n you could jes’ watch the two young’uns I’d be in your debt. Keep ’em safe for a while.”

Aleta hurried back into the main room, bringing mugs of hot coffee. “Of course we can. As long as it takes. Our kids would like that a lot.” She handed a mug to Emmett, the other to Bartlett, then returned for more.

As they sipped the hot brew, the older rancher explained more about what had happened. A hot meal of tortillas, slices of beef and eggs soon followed. Aleta served the food with a wide smile, observing that it had been too long since they had seen Emmett’s sons and how they had grown. Little else was said during the meal as everyone ate heartily. Both the Gardner boys and Cordell’s children sat around the hearth to eat.

When they were finished, she invited Emmett’s two smaller sons to get some rest in their main bedroom and asked Ian to show them. They followed eagerly with Rosie, Hammer and Two trailing after them.

Returning to the table, she said, “You have ze
mucho
fine sons, Emmett.”

The tired rancher hunched his shoulders and told her about each. He was obviously proud of them and she said he should definitely be.

“Not so sure I’ll git to see them growed up, though.” Emmett bit his lower lip. “This hyar Lady Holt’s just about got everythin’ bottled up her way. Wants my land—an’ the few others left—for herself. Got the law ag’in me. Even got that chicken-livered governor in her pocket.”

Watching his children return from the bedroom, Rule
took a deep breath and looked at Bartlett. “And you haven’t seen Ranger Checker since he rode off to stop those men?”

Aleta rose from her chair and directed the children outside to play, noting first that the rain had completely stopped.

“No, we ain’t. Must’ve stopped ’em for a piece anyway, I reckon. Heard gunshots an’ nobody showed up to stop us,” Emmett said, rubbing his unshaven chin. “He wanted us to keep goin’. Made that real clear. So we did.”

“One against six…” Rule didn’t finish the thought and avoided looking at Bartlett.

The Ranger’s response was to take another gulp of coffee and stand. His action was an indication of the desire to leave and look for his partner. Guilt and pessimistic thoughts about letting his friend take on Holt’s men alone gnawed at him, even though Checker had insisted.

“Better get riding,” he said, pushing away the chair. “Thank you for the fine meal, ma’am. It surely tasted good.”

Aleta smiled. “I weel geet some food together for you to take.” She paused and brought up a new idea. “
Mío
love, maybe you should buy ze ranch from Uncle Emmett.” She winked. “Until thees ees over. Then he buys eet back. That weel make eet
mucho
tougher for them, I theenk.”

His eyebrows raised, Rule turned to the old rancher. “Makes good sense, Emmett. Keep them off stride. They wouldn’t be expecting anything like that.”

“Yah, it do.”

Rule looked at Rikor and the young man nodded agreement.

Rule looked across at the standing Bartlett. “What do you think, A.J.?”

“No offense, Rule,” the Ranger said, “but your past—as an outlaw—will be dragged into this if you do. This Holt woman’s ruthless—and she’s got the governor’s office in her
fist. She’ll get Citale to revoke your clemency sure as can be. You’ll be charged with being a part of the rustling.”

That brought the room to silence.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Rule said, “but I like the idea anyway. We’ll ride to Clark Springs first. I’ve got a friend who runs the land office there. He can be the witness and make sure the paper is in order. We’ll take it to Caisson. After we find your friend.”

Emmett chuckled in spite of the seriousness of the moment. “I’d sure like to be thar when that awful woman hears the news.” He found himself saying, “Yu’re gonna like John Checker, boy. The two o’ ya are cut from the same tree.”

Rule nodded and stood as well. “Let me get my war clothes on.” He put an arm on Emmett’s shoulder. “After we find Ranger Checker, we’ll figure out our next step. All right?”

His comment was far more confident than he felt. Why wouldn’t John Checker have caught up…if he could?

At the other side of the table, Rikor struggled against the lack of sleep, but wanted to show his maturity. His eyelids blinked rapidly as he resisted the urge to shut them for just a minute.

Stiffling a yawn, he finally asked, “Should we get our wagon out of sight? You want us to put our milk cow in your barn?”

“Good idea, Rikor,” Rule said, walking toward the bedroom. “We’ll take care of it before we leave. You’ve done plenty, son. Maybe you should stay behind and get some sleep. We’ll be back in a couple of days.”

The young man shook his head negatively and asked the questions hovering over the room like vultures. “What if John’s…dead? What’s going to happen to our ranch?”

Softly, as if it were a song, Bartlett said, “ ‘Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.’ ”

Rule stopped in the doorway to their main bedroom. “Tennyson, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, he’s rather a favorite of mine, I must say.”

“I like ‘If God be with us, who can be against us?’ Romans, chapter eight, verse thirty-one.”

Bartlett smiled. “Hard to trump that, I suppose.”

“Rikor, your ranch is going to be yours for a long time,” Rule added. “Why don’t you pick out some horses while I get ready? Everything in the big corral is saddle good. Twenty saddles each—and slicker and rope broke. Aleta did the final polishing, so they handle good—and can run all day.”

Bartlett nodded.

Emmett tried to smile.

“Be real quiet,
mío
love, the boys are in the bedroom. Sleeping,” Aleta urged.

“I will.”

Inside his bedroom, Rule dressed quickly in a black broadcloth suit and white collarless shirt. On the bed, Andrew and Hans were soundly sleeping. Beside the bed was a handmade, waist-high cabinet, accented with hand-carved flowers. Once it had been a strange display of guns when he first began his new life as preacher, leaving the vestiges of the war and the lost time as a renegade gunfighter behind. The placement of pistols and rifles had been a measured one, almost ceremonial.

Now the guns were kept in his closet, high enough to avoid the curious hands of his children. He stepped past the half-century-old cabinet now displaying a Bible. Beside the book was another gift from Moon. An eagle feather fan.

Inside the closet, on a high shelf, were seven .44 revolvers of mixed origin and a five-shot, Dean & Adams pistol. Two of the big pistols were settled in holsters with their bullet belts wrapped around them. Another brace of pistols were silver-plated and pearl-handled. They were Aleta’s guns. Stacked on each side of the cabinet were two Henry
rifles, a Winchester and a shotgun. All were cleaned regularly.

He strapped on one gun belt, checked the .44 revolver and reholstered it. A short-barreled Colt was shoved into his waistband, then the Dean & Adams pistol into his back waistband. Carrying four or five pistols was something he had learned in the war; it always seemed comforting.

Into his mind sneaked an ugly memory. It was a few days before he left for the war and he had caught his father, the Reverend Aaron Cordell, hiding money from the donation plate. His mother had long since left the clutches of this terrible man. The evil preacher spun toward his young son, spitting righteous phrases that meant nothing and raising a silver-topped cane to strike him. The look in Rule’s eyes had stopped him.

Later, his father ridiculed Rule’s leaving to fight for the Cause; the evil man showed up once more in his life, siding with the Regulators. That Sunday had brought many surprises and much pain. His best friend died, trying to protect him. His mother, long gone from his life, appeared in church to ask for his forgiveness. His father ran—and hadn’t been seen again. An entire congregation stood up and shouted they were “Sons of Thunder.” He announced to them that he wasn’t James Rule Langford, he was Rule Cordell—and they didn’t care.