Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  “We should’ve opened up on them.” Taullery snapped the reins over the horses and they jolted into an uneven canter. “We need to get rid of all those red bastards.”

  “How many would you have gotten before they shot one of us? Or your baby?” Cordell said. His voice was even but strong.

  Taullery’s shoulders rose and fell. “Yeah, maybe so. What did you say to them?”

  Chapter Eight

  Aleta uncocked the gun and returned it to her purse. “Mi Marido, my husband, he say have mucho power and they must ride away to be saved from eet. Comanche Great Mystery and our God listen to heem. He say he can make the buffalo—and the antelope—and the thunder—come at hees call. He tell them of ghosts and leetle people. He scare them mucho.” She explained his “conversation” with the ghost of the old shaman they had met years before.

  Taullery shook his head and chuckled in spite of himself. “You sure like to bluff, Rule. One of these times, though, you’re gonna get called—and you won’t be holding crap.” He glanced skyward at the advancing rain clouds and popped the reins again to urge the horses faster.

  Leaning over to kiss her cheek, Cordell advised the others that most of the ideas were Aleta’s.

  “Then I’ll be careful playing poker with her.” Taullery chuckled and asked, “What did he say to you at the end there?” He patted Mary’s leg as she forced herself into a calm to concentrate on the crying baby.

  Cordell turned his head toward Aleta and motioned for her to answer. She smiled and said, “Sí, Comanche war chief said that spirits tell heem that Rule speaks strong words. He called Rule ‘Talk-With-Thunder.’ He would tell others of thees power and that Rule honor heem by not keeling him. Per favor, sometheeng like that.”

  After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the rumbling of the wagon wheels, Taullery asked, “Rule?”

  “Yeah, Ian?”

  “What if he’d wanted you to prove you could bring the buffalo?”

  “Produce them, of course.” Cordell grinned. “There was probably some over the ridge. Usually are this time of the year. I guess I would’ve told him to go look.”

  “You think of everything, my friend.”

  “There wasn’t much choice.”

  Taullery asked one last question. “Did you ever consider taking Aleta’s gun?”

  Thunder almost drowned Cordell’s negative response, and the vanguard of raindrops followed.

  “We’re gonna get wet, folks,” Taullery said. “Rule, there are two of those fancy English umbrellas back there—with the food. Slickers for you and me, too. They’re rolled up tight, back in the corner.”

  “Speaking of thinking of everything.” Cordell leaned over the back seat to look, then decided to climb back to the wagon bed.

  “Pull that canvas over the food, too, will you?” Taullery said.

  “Sure.”

  “Be sure the flour sack is covered. If the rain gets to it, we’ll have a sack of hard.”

  “Got it.”

  Taullery concentrated on the horses for moment as thicker raindrops drove their way into the wagon and its occupants. “Oh yeah, see if that sack of coffee beans is covered too.”

  Cordell held his teeth together to keep from responding. He knew that was his friend’s approach to life. Careful. Thorough. Precise. Always striving to be prepared. There was much to learn from Taullery’s way, instead of always always relying on instinct and nerve.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing one umbrella to Aleta, then another.

  She gave the first to Mary Taullery, who was complaining loudly about getting wet, and opened the second. Frantically, Mary looked around for the baby’s blanket to cover the infant from the rapidly increasing rain. Aleta handed it to her; the blanket had fallen into the back. Cordell unfolded the canvas and spread it over the pile of food, deciding from where he stood that the flour sack was covered. Taullery would have worked and worked at straightening out the canvas to make certain it was perfectly in place, but Cordell thought it would do just fine.

  Grabbing both slickers, he started to climb back into the seat but saw a small wrapped bundle in the corner of the wagon. He knew what it was: a rag doll Aleta had made just for the Harper girl, wrapped in a blanket remmant. He picked up the doll and carefully placed it under the canvas.

  Pleased that he had seen the special gift, he eased himself into the seat, still holding the raincoats. He helped Taullery into the heavy raincoat as his friend drove, then eased the second onto himself. Of course, his friend asked if the canvas was on straight and if the lid was on tight. Cordell pronounced them both in good shape.

  Rain pounded on them, turning the sky into a fortress of water. Their horses in front and back disappeared, then reappeared, as sheets of rain swallowed and regurgitated them. A thin stream of water fell down in front of Cordell’s hat, barely missing his nose. He cocked his head to one side, then another, trying to empty the brim of its excess wetness. It was a fruitless exercise, and his brim began to melt.

  Taullery had taken off his hat earlier and placed it under the seat where it would escape most of the downpour. He asked Mary to slant her umbrella a little more toward him, and she did. He looked over to their baby and asked if the child was wet. She felt his blanket and whined that he was damp. Taullery frowned and told her to cover the child better with the umbrella. Mary shouted over the rain that she was doing the best she could.

  “I’m gonna head for that grove of trees up ahead,” Taullery shouted above the rain. “This is heavier than I expected.”

  No trees were in sight—with or without the heavy rain—but Cordell figured his friend had planned on the trees as a refuge, if needed, before they started. It seemed like an hour, but it was only ten minutes, before they reached the four windblown cottonwoods squatting beside the same stream, now wider and deeper.

  Cordell took off his slicker and spread it on the ground under the wagon, then helped the women squat there for more cover. He took the Taullery infant while Mary got herself positioned under the wagon. Aleta asked to hold him after she was sitting beside her, and Mary was happy for the relief, immediately telling Aleta about the woes of raising a child. Taullery wrapped the reins around a sturdy branch and added his raincoat alongside Cordell’s. The intense minister checked on the tied saddle horses, allowing them enough slack with their reins to graze near the wagon. Neither seemed interested. Their ears lay against their necks; their bodies were soaked with fresh rain. Silently he wished he had covered the saddles and decided to loosen the cinches to give their backs some air. The leather would need to be soaped and oiled after it dried out. He shook his head and returned to the wagon.

  All of them squatted under the belly of the wagon and sat on the men’s slickers. The women’s umbrellas were propped outward as a wall to cut off the slanting rain. They sat, watching the downpour from between the gaps in the umbrellas. Taullery griped about not being well prepared, Mary was certain her dress was ruined, and Cordell began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny, Rule? We’re soaked,” Taullery said, pulling on his coat.

  “Well, only a few minutes ago we were worried about dying. Now we’re complaining about a little rain.”

  Taullery smiled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. ’Course, you’d think a fella with your kind of connections with the gods an’ all could have kept it from raining until we got to the Widow’s place.”

  “I’m a little rusty in the connecting department,” Cordell replied with a faint smile.

  His mind was wrestling with whether it was right for him to have used his short relationship with Moon to send the warriors scurrying. What would the old man have said if he were here? Should a man of the cloth—a Christian minister—be promising such things as “riding the Thunderbird” and “bringing the little people”? It probably saved their lives—or at least some of their lives. Still, guilt chewed at the corner of his thoughts. Cordell’s attention was drawn to a squatty shadow beneath the farthest tree. How coul
d a shadow be there now?

  As the rain settled around them, his mind returned to the Comanche camp just south of the Red River, where he and Taullery had been welcomed on their way to War. Their hunger had stolen away any concern about what they might encounter there. But the Indians had welcomed the two young Rebel soldiers-to-be and told them their shaman had foretold their coming, and that he wanted to see Cordell.

  The dampness of the ground brought again the shaman’s lodge, thick with the odor of healing herbs swirled together with sweetgrass smoke from a tiny fire in the middle of the lodge. Near the dying old man was a bowl of half-eaten pemmican, dried cherries, and pecan nuts. Scattered around the buffalo-skin structure were Moon’s spiritual possessions: a sacred rattle, a drum, a medicine pipe bag on a tripod and draped with colored cloth, a large leather bag filled with medicines, and a black iron kettle holding owl feathers. He remembered the old man saying the owl was Mother Moon’s messenger.

  How strange an encounter. The experience had burned itself into his mind, even though he had rejected the old man’s teaching as so much feeble rambling at the time. Ultimately, it had changed him—and saved him from himself. Not just the closeness to a Comanche holy man, but Moon’s very words. The young Rebel and the old Indian had connected like father and son, even though Cordell knew none of their language at the time. Even today, he often felt the shaman’s presence but never shared the thought with anyone, not even Aleta. He had decided it was God’s way of giving him an experience of what a father should be like.

  After the two smoked the medicine pipe, the old shaman began to speak in broken, singsong English, as he watched smoke trails embrace the moon watching through the gathered lodge poles at the top of the tipi, laced together and tilted slightly backward. He told the young Texan of the ways of the Comanche, of their love of horses, of their training as warriors to never leave a comrade for the enemy to torture or mutilate, of the sacredness of the buffalo.

  On and on he talked, trying to communicate the essence of his nomadic life as if it had to be planted within Cordell. The holiness of the number four. That resurrection was not uncommon. How some shields were sacred to thunder and lightning. That every man could be his own priest and guide his own way to the afterworld. How the selection of a man’s medicine was the most important and sacred event in his life. How the Great Spirit was everywhere and in everything, and that a Comanche was connected to all other living things.

  He told him that he would soon depart for the afterworld that lay beyond the setting sun. There he would enter a great, lush valley where all warriors were young, all horses fast, and the buffalo plentiful. The birds were beautiful there, and so were the women. Eventually, like all others, he must be reborn of the Mother Earth to keep the power of the Comanche strong and unbroken.

  Looking into the young man’s eyes, the shaman said, “Mother Moon watches over me tonight. She has done so for many moons. She has given me the power to see what most of The People cannot. It is my strength—and my curse. She told me of your coming.”

  As if to allow this unfathomable thought to sink into young Rule Cordell’s mind, Moon inhaled more smoke from the pipe, stroking the long stem like it was alive. “You are to be a warrior in the Taibos’ great battle about men with dark skins. Your road will be hard. It will be long and lonely. Men will follow you into battle but not know you. They will fear you and the death song from your iron sticks. It is so.”

  The next time Moon stopped talking, Cordell actually thought the old man had died in front of him. The shaman’s head nodded and came to rest on his frail chest. His body gave a long sigh and the medicine pipe fell from his hands. But as Cordell touched him, Moon retrieved the pipe at his lap and continued as if nothing had happened. “I have seen my next road. It is straight. The ancients are eager to have me join them. It is well, but I need your help.”

  A harsh cough followed that ripped through Moon’s shaking frame. He coughed again, and Cordell hugged the old man to ease the pain. For the first time in years, the young man prayed. He prayed for the old man to live. The coughing became less frequent and finally stopped. Moon patted Cordell on the shoulder and thanked him for his caring. “I am a worried old man. Mother Moon tells me the God of the Taibos has grown strong. I have already talked with the Comanche spirits, and they are satisfied with my coming. But my old ways may not be enough, and I have not met the Taibo God. He has chosen others to talk to. I would like to enter the other world with the power of your God at my side as well. Will you talk with this Taibo God—for me? The spirits tell me he rides close to you.”

  He handed Cordell the medicine pipe and Cordell repeated what he had seen the shaman do earlier, pointing the pipe in each direction, the four Winds, and to the ground, Mother Earth, and to the sky. At each point, he drew on the pipe and exhaled sacred smoke. All the while, his mind raced for the right words to say. Out came the Lord’s Prayer. It was as if his mind were linked to God and all he had to do was open his mouth.

  “Aiee, Mother Moon says your talk is strong. Listen! She tells me you walked the black road when a small tua. The Voice tells me you are the son of a father who wraps the Taibo God around him but does not see this God. He is a cruel father, unworthy of your love. Ah, this is so.”

  Cordell’s surprise at the old man knowing about him was tempered by his assumption that Taullery had told him of the situation, but he wasn’t certain when this could have happened. Before he could ask, Moon said solemnly, “You must forgive him, your father. You must open your heart and let the pain flee from you. Not now. You are not ready, my son. You will know when it is time. You will quit running—from yourself—and be ready to let the Taibo God take you where he wants you to go. Moon will watch over you if the spirits are willing. And your God does not mind.”

  After that, Moon gave the young Texan two gifts: a stone earring and a small pouch with a leather neck thong. “Here. These are for you. I have made them for you. The rock is a piece of Mother Moon to protect you. In this bundle is the medicine of the owl to guide you. It is well. I must go. The spirits are calling.”

  In return, Cordell went to his saddlebags and retrieved the Bible his mother had given to him, the only thing he had to remind him of her. He handed the book to the old shaman. With both hands, Moon held it above him so that a beam of moonlight could kiss the leather cover.

  Pulling the book to his chest, Moon said, “My son, in the spirit world, our time together now is as a lifetime. It is so. When this strange fighting between the Taibos is over, and when the fighting with your father inside you is over, you will tell others of your Taibo God. It is so. I ask that you also remember the ways of the Comanche. The spirits have given me little time to tell you. Promise me you will learn more.”

  Moon tried to stand and leaned on Cordell to maintain his balance. He looked upward and waved his arms, as if he were gathering the faint moonbeams sliding through the poles and holding them next to his heart. With his left hand pressed against his heart, he reached out with his right and placed it on Cordell’s shoulder. “Whenever you pray, my son, I will hear you. My sons have gone ahead of me to the spirit world. I have no sons in this world to care for. My spirit will watch over you. It is so. Ask for the thunderbird and it will fly to you. It is so.”

  “I think the rain’s let up. We can get going again.” Taullery’s words broke into Cordell’s remembrance. The lithe minister immediately checked for the shadow by the tree. It was gone. Silently, he thanked Moon’s spirit.

  “Sounds good to me. How about you ladies?” Cordell answered. He felt the side of his head and pulled down what remained of the soggy bandage. For the first time, no pain was there.

  Mary snapped, “Well, it’s about time. This is terrible. Just terrible. Worse than Sunday even—and that awful Captain Padgett.”

  Cordell acted like he didn’t hear her, but his eyes caught Aleta’s and she shook her head slightly in disbelief.

  Chapter Nine

  White tendrils of
smoke wandered into the bluing sky as the wagon pulled alongside Widow Bauer’s ranch. Once it had been prosperous; now it was showing signs of neglect. A candle beckoned from one of the angular front windows. Shadows within told they were seen.

  In addition to a main house of adobe, there were a number of other smaller buildings surrounded by a rock fence sprouting weeds in several places. A large barn and a cabin, once holding Mexican ranchhands, were positioned at the southern edge of the ranch yard. Nestled close were an outhouse, a stone cooling shed, and a sturdy-looking corral. Twenty feet from the corral was an old well.

  Neither Taullery nor Cordell had known the late Alexander Bauer well. Thrown by a horse, he had been dead for ten years. His widow had given up ranching during the War, after her two sons left to fight and never returned. Supposedly, Old Man Bauer never owned slaves, preferring Mexican vaqueros. Mrs. Bauer lived alone on the property, no longer attempting to control any pastureland. Any of her cattle not run off by Comanches roamed wild across the near prairie. Most, however, had been rebranded by more aggressive ranchers.

  “Ian, there’s that wagon—of that awful Russian.” Mary’s voice rang across the land. Taullery snorted his dislike.

  Visible from the back of the house was an unmistakable wagon. Piled high with pots, pans, brooms, and cooking utensils, it had to belong to the huge man everyone knew simply as “the Russian”—a friendly trader who traveled from settlement to settlement, selling or trading, sharpening knives, bringing the news from throughout the region, and helping others for the sheer joy of it. His two wagon horses—one dappled gray the other sorrel—were standing quietly, still hitched.

  In addition to kitchen goods, almost anything might be found in his traveling warehouse: Eggs, nuts, jars of jam, cages of chickens, or perhaps a container of goat’s milk or wrapped cheese. Old jewelry and bottled medicines. Bolts of bright cloth and all kinds of guns. Canisters of spices and condiments. Saddles and leather to repair them. Large knives and small, old and new. All very sharp. Books, crockery, music boxes, toys, pressed soaps, and clocks. However, he never carried tobacco or whiskey. No one knew where he got all the things he carried; some said it was stolen merchandise purchased from gangs ravaging the South. No one said it to his face, however.