Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  Lion Graham’s mouth flickered at the corner. He rolled his neck from side to side, as if embarrassed by the attention his appearance had created. He stared at Reverend Langford, pushing his glasses against his nose. A slight puzzled look visited Graham’s face momentarily and vanished.

  Under his breath, Reverend Langford muttered, “‘There is a lion in the way; a lion is in the streets.’ Psalms Twenty-six, Thirteen.” Would Graham recognize him? Surely not, they had played together as boys before Graham’s parents moved away.

  Reverend Langford’s shoulders rose and fell, and he addressed Padgett again. “Sir, there are no traitors here, only souls wishing to talk with their Lord. I ask that you step outside if you don’t wish to join our service.”

  Reverend Langford’s eyes sought Captain Padgett’s gaze, and the crippled leader was surprised at their unyielding intensity. Padgett blinked and studied his men to assess the correctness of their alignment before responding. His glance included a negative nod to Graham, who continued to study the minister.

  “I’ll do the ordering around here, preacher,” Padgett said, not returning his eyes to Reverend Langford’s continuing stare. “The man we want is Douglas Harper.”

  A woman’s wild cry followed the announcement and a short, stocky man jumped to his feet in the middle of the assembled group. “What do ya be wantin’ me fer, Padgett? I ain’t dun nothin’ to nobody. Jes’ a man workin’ hard to turn his land into somethin’ fer his family.” Two children beside their mother whimpered, and she tried to comfort them in spite of her own terror. Douglas Harper squeezed her outstretched hand and gently let it go.

  Padgett’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Harper, you’re under arrest for treason. You will be hanged. Take him, men. Shoot anyone who interferes with justice. Sergeant Limon, your patrol.”

  Immediately, a sergeant and five Regulator riflemen marched toward the standing Harper. In concert, the remaining militiamen pointed their guns arbitrarily at people throughout the church. Seated on the aisle of Harper’s pew, a broad-shouldered man in an ill-fitting coat stood to stop the advancing Regulators. A rifle butt to his head dropped the well-intentioned neighbor and he flopped to the floor, a gash in his forehead blossoming blood.

  Harper’s mouth was a grim stripe across his white face. He hadn’t moved, standing at attention in the middle of the pew and staring at the grinning Captain Padgett. Graham folded his arms and muttered something under his breath that made Padgett chuckle and say, “Not yet.”

  Realizing Harper wasn’t coming his way, the sergeant shrugged his shoulders and began easing through the crowded plank to get to the former Confederate. He apologized to each couple as he moved past tucked-in knees and moved-aside legs. Behind him came his men, one at a time, like a line of awkward dancers.

  When Sergeant Limon passed in front of Harper’s wife, she grabbed for him and shoved the startled militiaman against the seated parishioners in front of them. His rifle clattered on the hard earthen floor. Over-reacting to the impact, a woman screamed and fell forward. Her husband went to his knees to comfort her, not daring to look at the reason for the sudden violence against their backs.

  Frantically, the sergeant clubbed the Harper woman with his forearm and elbow. Harper reached for the man to pull him away, landing an overhand haymaker that stunned him. Rifle-butt blows to Harper’s rib cage and lower back from the closest Regulator stopped his attack before it was more than started. Harper grabbed for wind that wouldn’t return and doubled over.

  Now undeterred, Sergeant Limon pounded at Mrs. Harper’s face and clawing hands. Her fierceness finally gave way to unconsciousness and she collapsed in front of her sobbing children. The rest of the Regulator patrol closed in, swearing at the seated parishioners to get out of their way, and yanked the stunned Harper to his wobbly feet. Captain Padgett barked at him to come peacefully or his family would be shot where they were. He glanced at Graham, and the gray-suited pistol-fighter drew a pistol from his sash.

  Harper’s shoulders rose and fell. To his unconscious wife, he said, “I love you, Ellena.” He stared at each child, fighting to hold back his own tears. “I love ya, Michael. I love ya, Rebecca.” Sergeant Limon stepped between him and his children, who wanted to hug their father. The state policeman shoved both children back into the pew and turned around to Harper. The former Confederate’s arms rose above his head at the sergeant’s command, and they began to file out of the makeshift pew, passing seated neighbors who either wouldn’t look at Harper or who muttered regrets with one eye on the Regulators.

  William H. Giles, town mayor and owner of two area ranches and the town hotel, stood dramatically from the third pew. In his most mayoral tone, the bulldog-jawed Northerner from Indiana pronounced officiously, “Ladies and gentlemen, please. This is a house of worship, not a brawling establishment. Let the authorities do their job and then we can get on with . . . our worship . . . so ably conducted by Reverend Langford here.”

  The heavy-jowled man preferred being called “Colonel Giles” or just “Colonel.” However, there was no record of his having served in the military on either side. In private, Aleta Langford usually referred to him as “Colonel Bulldog” and expressed a wariness of the man and his motives. The part-time minister took his wife’s observations seriously; she had an uncanny sense about most people.

  Turning toward the young minister, Mayor Giles nodded affirmatively. “I’m certain you agree, Reverend. The sooner we can return to our service, the better.” White spittle settled in the corner of his month.

  Reverend Langford’s eyes flashed and he declared in a voice inches away from exploding, “Only if that service includes Mr. Harper.”

  Giles’s expression blinked into pure hatred at the rebuff, then returned to its normal placid state. His long, sprawling eyebrows jumped with a life of their own as his faced churned with the decision about what to say next. He glanced at Padgett, then at Lion Graham. A gentle pull on his coat caused him to look down at his wife.

  Dressed as if she were attending a New Orleans ball and wearing layers of makeup, the pudgy woman whispered to her husband, “Colonel, you can’t let them take that nice Mister Harper. He’s a good man. Tell those awful men to leave.”

  Giles gave a condescending smile. “Don’t get involved in what you don’t understand, Lillibeth.”

  Straightening his coat and vest to continue his plea for understanding, Giles was stunned to see Reverend Langford drop his hymnal and head toward the back of the church. Aleta’s urgent plea for him to stay out of it went unheeded or unheard. Mary Taullery screamed. The new hymnal bounced off the floor and came to rest against one of the boxes supporting the closest plank. Widow Attles picked it up and held the leather-bound book to her chest, afraid to watch. Mayor Giles shrugged his shoulders, glanced again at Padgett, and sat down. His wife immediately began to talk, and he told her to be quiet as he watched.

  Taullery started to rise, but his wife held his arm and loudly demanded that he stay where he was. Returning to his seat, Taullery couldn’t keep his eyes off Lion Graham. But so far Graham was only watching, his drawn pistol at his side. Mary stage-whispered that Reverend Langford should stay out of it too. Spinning around, Aleta told her to mind her own business and finished with a flourish of Spanish no one understood.

  “No! I will vouch for Douglas Harper. He’s an innocent, law-abiding citizen. You can’t do this!” Reverend Langford shouted as he ran toward the Regulators; his black robe floated behind him, turning him into a dark angel.

  “Stay out of this, preacher—I won’t warn you again.” Padgett’s threat was a machete in the still room.

  Langford’s wild advance surprised the six Regulators surrounding Harper, and they turned toward him too slowly. The minister slammed between the sergeant and Douglas Harper and said, “Take me, instead. I’m Rule Cordell. I’ve killed Union soldiers everywhere. Take me.” He raised his hands above his head in surrender.

  At the sound of the name “Rul
e Cordell,” Lion David Graham turned his head slowly to the right and examined the minister again. Something resembling a smile flickered at his mouth and vanished. Sergeant Limon’s eyebrows arched, and he looked at Padgett. The crippled leader’s own face was stunned by the admission, then he broke into a wide smile and a wicked laugh. “Yeah, and I’m Robert E. Lee. Shoot the lyin’ Bible-thumper. Rule Cordell’s long dead an’ rotted. Get on with it, men.”

  As Padgett’s words sank into Sergeant Limon’s mind, Langford’s right fist drove savagely into the sergeant’s face. Bones cracked and blood spewed onto the closest parishioners. An eyeblink later, Reverend Langford’s vicious uppercut followed and drove the militiaman up and sideways into the lap of an older woman. She spat at his unseeing face and pushed his limp frame onto the floor.

  Three other Regulators grabbed for the raging minister, driving the butts of their rifles into his head and shoulders as he swung wildly and missed. Two more grabbed him from the back and held his arms. His kick caught an advancing rifleman in the groin. Grabbing for the intense pain, the Regulator dropped to his knees and vomited. But the tallest Regulator landed a blow to Langford’s unprotected stomach, then a second. Langford gagged, but managed to yank his right arm free and parry the third strike.

  Screaming in Spanish, Aleta ran toward the fight, hurling herself at the nearest Regulator, who stood next to the darkened church wall. The man staggered backwards from the impact as her head barreled into his stomach. Breath popped from his lungs and he fought desperately to find the air necessary to live. Her fist clipped his chin, but he had recovered enough to stop her assault. Holding his rifle with both hands in front of him, he shoved the weapon against her face and slammed her against the wall of the church. Her head thudded against it and she slid unseeing to the floor. She didn’t hear Mary Taullery say they should have stayed out of it.

  Catching a glimpse of his wife’s futile advance only enraged the fiery minister further. His fist freed, he drove it into the face of the leering, thin-faced Regulator who held his left arm and broke loose of the hold. Langford spun to receive the attack of the remaining militiamen. A pistol popped across the back of his skull. He staggered and collapsed in the lap of a farmer. He cried and patted the minister’s head as blood began to crawl across the farmer’s worn pants.

  Barely conscious, Reverend Langford tried to stand, stumbling against another parishioner. His eyes were wild with pain. He took one spasmodic step and fell to the floor next to the bloodstained farmer. Taullery was suddenly beside Langford and held his friend down, not letting his little remaining strength and his unrelenting fury carry the fight further to his death.

  Standing five feet away, Lion David Graham held a short-barreled revolver in each hand, hammers back, and aimed at the downed minister. Barely heard, he declared with an arrogant grin, “I knew you weren’t dead. Remember, I killed you in another life. It is my destiny to do it it again.”

  Padgett waved the killer off with a nonchalant motion. “Smart man. You just saved your preacher’s life.”

  Peering through his glasses at the crippled Regulator leader, Graham’s eyes were cold and narrowed. Ignoring Padgett’s motion, he glanced toward the third pew and saw Giles shaking his head negatively. Graham snorted, eased the hammers into place, and pushed the guns into his sash. He spun and left the church without looking back. Padgett laughed and followed his men as they dragged Harper out of the church. The door slammed shut behind the militiaman pushing Padgett’s wheelchair, not quite cutting off Harper’s choked cry of “Long live the Confederacy.”

  The following silence was broken by Mayor Giles’s authoritative voice: “My friends, this has been a most unfortunate morning. Such things always are, to discover a neighbor is guilty of crimes against us all. Let us not leave this place in such a terrible state.” He stood and slid through the crowded pew and walked to the front of the makeshift church. “Although I am unworthy, I will attempt to lead us in worship. Shall we try ‘Let Us Gather at the River’ again? I know it’s one of your favorites, Mrs. Bauer.”

  Chapter Three

  A warm breeze teased the hair on Reverend James Rule Langford’s forehead, introduced a gentle dance to the rest of his face, and playfully wiggled the half-faded mirror above the nearby washstand. Suddenly, the wounded minister was awake. It was the morning of the third day since the attack in his church, the first time he was fully conscious. He was weak—and very, very hungry.

  Sliding his bare feet over the side of the bed, he paused to let the glaze lift from his mind. He was naked except for a nightshirt and the medicine pouch around his neck. Dull pain in the back of his head reintroduced itself, and he touched that spot gingerly. A long welt lay under the tightly wrapped bandage. Crusts of dried blood along the soft cloth marked its passage. He winced and shook his head to clear it. But that only brought a dizziness, and he grabbed on to the bed to keep from floating away.

  The stark room’s lone window was open, allowing glittering jewels of morning sunlight to adorn the framed bed and the dark, scratched dresser with its white pitcher and bowl. A mud wasp joined the sunlight and entered through the window. Becoming entangled in the faded curtains, it angrily attacked the containment to no avail. A breeze flipped open the curtain’s edge so the insect could again join the outside world.

  Outside, streaks of violet, rose, and gold signaled the morning’s completed arrival to his small adobe-and-timber home. The small ranch had been built by a Mexican vaquero killed in a saloon brawl; Rule Cordell and Aleta had bought it from his widow, who wanted to return to Mexico. It was Aleta’s idea. Combined with a sturdy barn, a well-built corral, a windmill that consistently produced springwater, and close proximity to an expanding settlement, the place offered a perfect beginning for their new life together. She understood and nourished his need to preach, even though her preferences were inclined toward more practical decisions.

  He wanted to give himself full-time to spreading the Word. But she told him that turning the other cheek wasn’t very effective in these turbulent times. At least, she wasn’t convinced of its ability to feed them—and the children they both wanted. She wished he would think of building a steady income of some kind. One night, she even suggested they rob a Yankee bank. After that, he had accepted the idea of preaching part-time while training and selling horses, and she would teach. In spite of an occasional Spanish word or phrase slipping into her instruction, the classroom was a natural environment for her.

  He struggled with the dead sleep in his head. Remnants of dreams battled for control, mostly nightmares. A stern face returned to his mind, one that he had managed to close off for some time. His father, Reverend Aaron Cordell, was a man who used the pulpit to justify the cruel and evil things he did as divine rights directly from God. The young minister’s nightmare brought his self-righteous father back into his life, even though he hadn’t seen him in more than a year. As far as he knew, Reverend Cordell continued to dominate churchgoers in Waco, a five-day ride to the northeast. The younger Cordell didn’t plan on seeing him again. Ever.

  In his dreams, just before waking, he felt again the savage slaps across his young face as a boy and felt the layered welts from a leather strap. He saw again the cruel man punish his wife, the boy’s mother, for some imagined offense. He saw again his own father trying to kill him as Rule Cordell tried to break his friend, Ian Taullery, from a Waco jail, a confinement owing to the fact that Taullery had come home with some money after the War—and Reverend Aaron Cordell’s accusation that Taullery knew his son and, therefore, must be a part of the Johnny Cat Carlson outlaw gang.

  How ironic it was that Rule Cordell would follow in his father’s footsteps, at least in the sense that he became a minister. Only he was a minister more closely resembling Moon, the aging Comanche shaman, than anything like his tyrannical father. In many ways, his single day with the old man in the Comanche camp had affected him far more than a young lifetime with his father. But that was in 1862, on the w
ay to battle, and he was a far different man, carrying the hate of his father within him all the way to Virginia and back.

  So often, the words of Moon became words in his sermons, words about caring for others, looking for miracles in everyday things, and that God was everywhere and in everything. It certainly wasn’t the usual doctrine of the plains preacher—no fire and brimstone, no righteous wrath. His growing faithful loved his comforting way of preaching. Of course, his ministry was only a Sunday thing; his everyday job was producing quality horses on their small ranch—although finding buyers with money was difficult, unless they were Yankees.

  Rule Cordell had presented the old shaman with a Bible that had been a gift from his mother and prayed the Lord’s Prayer, the only thing he could think of at the time. It had been the old man’s dying wish that Cordell talk with the white man’s God so that he might enter the next world with all the spirits at his side. He had looked into the future and it did not bode well for the Comanche, and he feared Comanche spirits were therefore growing weak.

  Moon had given him a stone earring and a small medicine pouch with a leather neck thong. The small pebble was a piece of Mother Moon to protect him in battle; he no longer wore it, but Aleta had packed the spirit tribute away in a small box. In the bundle was the medicine of the owl, the shaman’s personal messenger to the spirits. The tiny leather pouch, discolored by the sweat of years, lay quietly on his chest even now. He never figured out how the dying Comanche knew his father was a minister—and an evil one—but he did. His fingers touched the pouch. “It is a morning of miracles, Moon,” he muttered, and smiled.