by Cotton Smith
Angry at hearing the boy recite his father’s comment, Taullery stepped forward. “Young man, I suggest you tell your pa that I said he was the fool. Next time, maybe, the Regulators will come for him. Ask him if he would rather no one tried to help.”
The boy’s face turned white and tears swelled at the corners of his eyes.
“That ees enough, Señor Taullery,” Aleta said.
Cordell rubbed his chin with his right hand and walked toward the boy. Cordell placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said quietly, “I know your father, Ernest. He is a good man. I understand why he said what he did.” He looked around the room at the small faces locked onto his. “When you go home today, I hope you will hug your mother and your father and tell them that you love them. They are very brave and want the best for you.”
His eyes went immediately to Aleta’s and sought her soul. She smiled and mouthed, Bueno.
From the other corner of the room, a boyish voice asked, “Why don’t the Yanks go home and leave us alone?” Another voice: “My momma says you shouldn’t ever use that word.” A second question from another boy was an echo: “Will they take away all our land?” Then another: “Did you fight for the South, Reverend? My mother says ministers aren’t ever soldiers.” “Of course he did. All Texans fought in the War.” “Why did we lose?” “‘Cuz Lee gave up.” “How come you told them Regulators you was Rule Cordell? My father said you did.” “That’s silly. No preacher would do that.” “That’s what he said. My father heard it.” A final question found courage in the blossoming dialogue: “Why are all the Negroes free to go wherever they want?”
Cordell cringed. He touched the bandage around his head as if the words had struck the wound and reopened it. His mind welled with pain, and he thought of his father. He barely heard Aleta’s hushing of the room to silence more eruptions. Instead, he was a boy again, being whipped by a short, portly, and bespectacled minister who saw himself as a singular force of righteousness and intelligence. “I cannot believe you are the offspring of me, a righteous man. Why has God presented me, of all men, with this sinful connection to my blood. I must drive Satan from your body, my son—it is the only way to save your soul.”
Cordell squeezed shut his eyes to grab his father’s image and throw it again behind the closed door in his memory. He pressed his hands together as if to pray, and gazed once more upon the tense classroom. He spoke evenly, his words washing the children with a comfort that rarely entered his own mind.
“Children, this is a time of many questions for us all, young and old, child and parent. God has visited upon us great change. Change that is hard for all of us to understand and accept. Change that sometimes feels like He has forsaken us. That is not so. God loves us all, but he wants us to change. I pray that you study hard to help us with these changes. Texas is depending on you.”
He paused, glanced at Taullery, now standing next to Mary and their baby, then turned back to the children who were watching him like he was a new book filled with wondrous ideas. “Know this: Today black mothers and fathers are telling their children the same thing. For the first time, they are free, as God intended. We must help them too. God tells us the only answer is love. We must love one another as we love ourselves. I pray for that.”
Taullery blinked away his disbelief at the statement and took a deep breath. He ran his hand lightly across the head of the sleeping Rule Taullery, cradled in Mary’s arms.
From the corner of the room, an older boy managed to yell, “Well, I’m prayin’ for thunder an’ lightnin’—a great big storm to wash away all them Yanks.”
Chapter Seven
The two couples rode in Taullery’s wagon, with its double row of seats toward the Widow Bauer’s house. There was little conversation except for an occasional remark by one of the women about the countryside. The back half of the wagon was filled with food and supplies. The two harnessed, matching bays walked easily across the rolling land, moving to a trot with Taullery’s occasional snap of the reins. He had traded for the animals three months before and was very proud of them. In the rear came the two saddle horses, tied to the wagon and finally understanding the futility of fighting the connection.
Spring was venturing across the Texas plains, bringing with it the promise of new crops, the lure of wild flowers, and the threat of summer storms. Even now, behind them, rain clouds attacked the sky, replacing blue with an ominous gray. Wherever the darkness took command, crackles of young lightning bloomed for an instant, trailed by coughs of thunder. Rain would not be far behind.
Each held close to thoughts that had sprung from the classroom and, particularly, Cordell’s last words to the children. Cordell had already shared with Aleta the news about Suitcase Eliason wanting them to teach black children at night. She hadn’t hesitated in agreeing to do so.
The wagon easily followed a broken line of slump-shouldered ridges, splattered with chapparal, scraggly oak, and mesquite. Here and there, thickets of plum bushes and meandering grapevines snuggled against a low-banked stream. Sand-filled and porous, it was thick with gypsum and not good for drinking. On the far side of the ridge, a series of tight canyons could hide a herd of buffalo, or a war party of Comanches, or a regiment of Regulators.
Finally, Ian Taullery broke the growing tension. “Rule, you’ve got to quit saying all those things about those Negroes. My God, man, those kids will go home and tell their parents that you want them to love them, for Heaven’s sake.”
“That is what I want.”
Unsure of herself, Mary Taullery listened to her husband’s criticism before responding. “Dear, I think Reverend Langford . . . was helping them understand the need to change.” Her voice was loud, even if it was hesitant.
“Mary, stay with what you know,” Taullery snapped, and slapped the reins across the backs of the two horses to reinforce his anger. Their heads jerked up, and both animals clicked into a canter. “No one wants to change. No one wants Negroes taking over. They’re trying to—and they don’t have the faintest idea of what they’re doing.”
Touching her fingers to her mouth, Mary returned to tending her child on her lap. From the corner of her eyes, she glanced at Taullery but said no more. Baby fingers grabbed for the ribbon strings hanging from her bonnet and dangling close to his little face. She tried to concentrate on the baby and attempted a smile. The corner of her mouth wiggled from the sting of his words.
Aleta placed her hand on Cordell’s knee. Incensed by Taullery’s remarks, she couldn’t hold back her thoughts any longer. “I was bueno proud of you, my dearest husband. It ees words that all must hear. Children must know thees change.”
“Come on, Aleta, there’s not one parent around here that wants to hear about change,” Taullery said over his shoulder. He popped the reins again to keep the horses at a canter. “Nobody wants it. Nobody.”
“No one said they did, Eee-un. Change comes without the asking. Many Texicans theenk they can turn it away. They have, what you call eet, neck in the sand.”
Cordell took Aleta’s hand, squeezed it, and smiled. “Head in the sand.”
“Gracias. Head in sand ees it.”
Taullery snorted, but his voice was more gentle. “Can’t you just preach on things like the Bible—an’ Jesus?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Jesus taught the need for change—to love your neighbor as you love yourself.” He paused, smiled, and added, “Isn’t that what being reborn is all about? Changing how you feel.”
“All right, all right, I give,” Taullery said, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “But you’re going to have everybody mad at you. You just can’t keep doing that. You just can’t. You’ve already got Lion Graham after you—and he knows it’s you, Rule. He knows.”
Without a pause for Cordell’s response, he launched into a detailed description about Lion Graham, how their strange-acting boyhood friend had turned into an evil being and how obsessed he seemed about Cordell. Aleta watched her husband closely during the
one-sided conversation; he hadn’t mentioned Graham to her, but she realized he hadn’t been talking about anything since Sunday.
Cordell sensed the movement before he saw them. Instinctively his hand dropped to his side where once would have been a gun. His brain reminded him that he was no longer a man of the gun. From the belly of the ridge erupted six well-mounted Comanche warriors. Short and stout with thick chests, they were transformed on horseback to grace and power.
Three carried rifles, two Springfields and a Spencer; the rest held bows and arrows and lances shortened for use on horseback. All were painted for war; plucked eyebrows added to an appearance of dread.
“Comanches, Ian. To the left.” Cordell could have been describing wildflowers, so calm was his voice. “Don’t try to outrun them, Ian. Bring it to a stop.”
Mary let out a wild wail and held her baby close to her breast. Aleta told her to be quiet or they would all die. Quivering, Mary bit her lower lip to keep from making any more noises. Cursing, Taullery halted the wagon and reached for the rifle lying at his feet. The warriors rode parallel to the wagon but didn’t attempt to close in. Fierce black eyes studied the passengers and their four horses. The passengers returned the gaze, barely allowing themselves to breathe. Only Cordell’s horse in the rear seemed upset about the situtation, yanking on the tied reins and pawing the ground with its hooves.
One warrior’s entire body was painted—half yellow, half black. Another’s massive face was colored red, with a white half-moon decorating his left cheek. The apparent leader’s face and chest were painted in long stripes of black—the mark of death, and of war. His leggings were striped in black the same way. Four feathers flickered ominously from his hair. Cordell knew it meant he had killed four men in battle.
Across the leader’s shoulders was draped an antelope skin decorated with silver conchos and bits of cloth. His striking appearance was reinforced by the glistening black horse he rode. Several others wore antelope skins as breech clouts or war shirts. Cordell recognized them as part of the Antelope band, the fiercest of Comanches, and the same as his late mentor, Moon.
“I don’t suppose you have a gun, Rule,” Taullery growled. He levered the rifle and laid the barrel across his left arm in the direction of the Comanches. His fingers curled around the trigger.
“I do,” Aleta replied, and pulled a revolver from her purse. Cordell was surprised. “There is mucho change going on. A senorita must be ready.” She smiled at him and held out the gun to him.
He declined and said, “Everyone sit tight. I’m going to talk with them.”
“These boys aren’t interested in a prayer meeting, Rule. Take the damn gun.” Taullery’s voice was taut with fear.
Cordell didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled the brim of his hat lower on his head, stood in the wagon, and yelled a warning in Comanche to the warriors. “Ride on, warriors of Noomah. The great puhakut Moon has given me the Thunderbird to ride.” He yanked the medicine pouch from under his shirt and held it forward with his fist. A chain of murmuring ran through the war party at such a powerful statement in their own language.
“I am brother to the Comanche Great Mystery and the white man’s God.” He held up the cross around his neck with his other hand. “I can bring the buffalo—and the antelope—and the thunderbird.”
The leader held his hand for the others to be quiet so he could listen. His face was puzzled, his eyes wary. Cordell knew the Comanche weren’t particularly good with sign language, but he supported his statements with sign anyway. Taullery was white, staring at the war party in disbelief that they hadn’t attacked. He squeezed the rifle tighter and glanced down to check that it was cocked. A few seconds later, he looked again to make sure nothing had changed in the meantime. Next to him, Mary rocked her baby and sobbed. Blood dripped from her lip where she had bitten it.
Shoving his chin forward, the Comanche leader shouted back, “I am Drinks-His-Blood. I wear four kill feathers. My puhahante is strong. My battle scars are honored. I drink my own blood to become even stronger.”
Sitting beside Cordell, Aleta understood most of what was being said. She whispered to her husband, “Tell them you ride with ghosts—and the little men.” She spoke of a Comanche belief in a scary sect of small, evil men who came out only at night and killed every time they shot with their tiny bows and arrows. It was a powerful medicine that most Comanches were afraid to associate with because one might inadvertently kill someone he cared about.
Through a loud but halting presentation, Cordell continued to warn them of his powers and wondered if they understood anything he said—or if they knew of Moon—or if they believed his bluff about making magical things happen. “Ghosts of great warriors—and the little men, nanapi—ride with me. I give you fair warning, Drinks-His-Blood.”
The warriors stood in a line, facing the wagon twenty yards away. Upon hearing of Cordell’s further powers, the farthest Comanche began to look around, his painted face furrowed in concern. They began to talk among themselves. Their long black hair, decorated with glass beads, silver conchos, and pieces of tin, fluttered along their shoulders as they jabbered nervously.
As he spoke, Cordell studied them. A streak of color lined the central part of each warrior, from the forehead back to the crown. Eagle feathers were attached to their side locks. A braid on each side of their heads was wrapped in beaver fur and highlighted with bright cloth. Adorned with a single yellow feather was a special scalp lock braided from the hair at the top of the head. In the leader’s scalp lock was a black feather with a red circle near the top.
Cordell’s mouth tightened momentarily as he noticed that the second-farthest Indian was wearing a white woman’s light brown dress. A moment later, Mary realized the same thing. She screamed. Cordell cringed, but said in Comanche, “She screams in fear of my bringing forth nanapi.”
He thought a smile passed over the leader’s thin lips.
“She screams in fear of Drinks-His-Blood and his warriors, not your talked-of magic,” the leader proclaimed, and made a motion with his hand that included his war party. Tangling from his wrist was a rawhide quirt “The one of which you speak has long ago gone to the spirit world. I not speak his name. His medicine is gone to the other world. We take your horses and your women.”
Cordell thought he understood, but the words rolled together in a guttural stream that made it difficult. The warrior nearest the leader raised his bow, slid an arrow into place, and drew it back in one continuous motion. Out of the corner of his eye, Cordell caught the movement of Taullery’s rifle to his shoulder.
“Wait, Ian,” he whispered. “Wait.”
“The bastard is going to shoot at you, Rule,” Taullery advised.
“No, no, he won’t. If you shoot now, they’ll charge us. Wait.”
Aleta whispered again, this time telling him to act like he was talking to Moon. Cordell nodded and turned to his left and began talking in nonsensical English sentences mixed with Comanche phrases about ghosts, thunderbirds, and killing the Comanches if they didn’t leave quickly. He waved his arms wildly and motioned toward the war party as if he were talking with an invisible person next to him.
Finally, he stopped and looked back at the war leader. As loud as he could speak, Cordell yelled, “Moon says to tell him to put down his bow—or the ghosts will kill all of you. He tells me to warn you first, since you are of his old tribe. Look around you—see the ghosts waiting?” He pointed at a small dust swirl, then another—tiny advance breezes scouting for the coming rainstorm. “He tells me to give you one more warning about the little people. Look around you—see the tiny arrowheads?” His hand made a sweeping motion, taking in the ground in front of them. He hadn’t looked, but chances were good at least one arrowhead-shaped rock would be there. “And look at the sky. Moon tells me the thunderbird rides toward me fast. He is angry you question me—and my power. Ride on, Drinks-His-Blood. You are a great warrior, but your medicine is not strong this day. That is Moon’s warni
ng. He will not do so again.”
Cordell finished and folded his arms over his chest. A skinny branch of lightning flickered across the sky. Anticipating the thunder that would follow, he immediately raised his arms and the sky appeared to respond to his prayer with a menacing growl. As he returned his arms to a folded position, Cordell’s intense gaze connected with the leader’s wide-eyed expression. A bead of sweat blossomed on the minister’s forehead and made its way down the side of his face, pausing at the corner of his eye, before sliding down his cheek. He dared not wipe at the sign of anxiousness, and he hoped the Comanches didn’t notice it. To himself, he prayed that this bluff would work and asked for forgiveness from Moon for misusing his name.
As swiftly as the bow was readied, it came back to the warrior’s side, directed by the muttered command of the striped-face war leader. Nudging his horse with his moccasined heels, he rode halfway toward the wagon and stopped again. He held up his right arm in a gesture of friendly greeting and said, “We go. You go. I, Drinks-His-Blood, feel the spirits around us and they tell me you speak strong words. Tonight I tell council of ‘Talk-With-Thunder’ and how he honored Drinks-His-Blood with words of warning.” With his last words, he spun the horse around, gave a yip to the others, and bolted over the ridge and out of sight. In the rear of the wagon, both saddled horses stutter-stepped sideways in a futile attempt to join them.
Taullery’s rifle barrel followed the retreat and held at the point where they disappeared. No one spoke. Mary burst into a wailing sound that was more animal than human. Awakened, the baby joined her sobbing. Taullery looked at his distraught wife and baby, then back at Cordell.
“My God, Rule, what happened? I can’t believe they left. Will they come back?”
“I don’t think so, but let’s get going—before the storm breaks.”