by Cotton Smith
Without warning, the image of his own father’s self-righteous wrath seeped into Cordell’s mind. He wished his recollection of the man could include such a hug as did Michael’s memories, but he couldn’t recall any emotion from the man except rage. His mother was the only goodness in his small world back then, and she had run away with another man one night and left him alone with the evil man. Her leaving made the senior Pastor Cordell more bitter, and he took it out on the boy with nearly daily beatings.
Actually, the only enduring thing from Cordell’s mother, besides her gentle ways, was his name. “Rule” was her choice, a doleful wish to make her only child become nobility. His father hated the name and called his son “Aaron,” his middle name. But “Rule Aaron Cordell” was written in the family Bible before he knew, and even his beating couldn’t make her change it.
Cordell shook his head to help push the torturous memories into a black hole of his mind, reminding himself that the boy had been forced to watch his own father be hanged. Distorted images of Captain Padgett and Lion Graham lingered in mental shadows. He hated them for what they had done to this boy, to this family. He should forgive, as the Bible said, but he couldn’t.
“You know, I may not have covered the flour sack good enough during the rain.” Cordell put his arm around Michael and forced concentration onto the wagon. “But don’t tell my friend, Ian, over there, will you? He’s a real stickler on things like that.”
Michael smiled back. “It’ll be our secret, sir.”
“Great.”
“S-sir, will you come to see—us, me, sometime?”
Cordell was surprised by the question, blinked, and said, “I’d like that a lot, Michael. Why don’t we make a promise to each other? Once a week, we’ll get together—and talk, or go fishin’, or go ridin’. Maybe your mother will let you come over to my place and help with the horses.”
“Really? That would be swell, sir.” Michael’s face brightened.
“Let’s shake on it,” Cordell said, and held out his hand for the boy to grab.
Stepping behind them, Shank laid a huge paw on each shoulder and pronounced with a friendly growl, “I think you boys is plannin’ some fun. Hope you can deal this ol’ ‘Russian’ in on it.”
Cordell looked at Michael, smiled, and said, “Tell him, Michael.”
Beaming, the boy explained their promise to be together once a week, and Shank immediately asked if he could join them. Both agreed that it would be grand if he did, and they began unloading Taullery’s wagon with enthusiasm. Shank expressed gratitude for Taullery’s generosity, and Cordell didn’t mention he had paid for the supplies. Michael told Cordell that the big man had already given them food and other needed items from his mercantile wagon. Shank was embarrassed by the approval from Cordell that followed.
After completing the transfer of boxes and sacks of food into the house, Shank and Taullery stayed outside and Taullery asked to see Shank’s merchandise wagon. The big man told Taullery about Cordell’s conversation with the boy and said he had never heard a minister say such soothing words. He also knew about Cordell trying to stop the state police last Sunday, even making up the name of a dead outlaw so they would take him instead.
Shank shook his head in wonderment as he recounted what he had heard. Taullery wanted to tell him about his friend’s real past but resisted. Shank had a well-earned reputation for spreading news—of all kinds. He wasn’t vindictive, just talkative, brought on by so much time alone, traveling from ranch to homestead to small settlement.
Taullery acknowledged that his friend was an intensely caring man and changed the subject. Fleeting pictures of Cordell wildly leading cavalry against entrenched Union forces rushed across his mind. His measured response was to ask where Shank got various items in the wagon; the big man’s answer every time was a trade. Cash money was hard to come by. He survived through an ingenious system of bartering that only he completely understood.
Finally, Taullery brought up their earlier encounter with the Comanche war party but changed the outcome to their being threatened away by his rifle. Shank observed that the Indians would soon have trouble existing since the buffalo hunters were destroying the great herds. Taullery thought the sooner both were gone, the better. After discussing the disastrous state of the Texas economy, Shank asked if Taullery knew that a black man—Jacob “Suitcase” Eliason—had bought the closed boot factory.
Taullery acknowledged that he did and cursed the thought that the Negroes were taking over Texas faster than the Northerners. His voice trembled for an instant before retreating into a more controlled tone. In smoldering words, he announced that Eliason had asked the minister and his wife to teach black children at the factory, and he thought it was a great mistake. Shank’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, changing the subject by asking what Taullery thought was the best way to sell boots.
Meanwhile, Cordell went to the main house with Michael to see his mother. At the doorway, Michael went in first. Before entering, Cordell brushed off his still-damp coat and removed his hat, limp from its bout with the rain. Recalling his telltale arousal after Aleta’s sensual departure, he glanced down to make certain that his pants weren’t gathered around his groin. They were fine, but he straightened the cloth anyway before entering.
A sense of feminine warmth permeated the house, mixed with a sadness not easily defined. To the casual observer, it was an elegant home; to the more observing eye, signs of neglect ate at the corners. Michael stepped beside him, eager to find his mother and hopeful his closeness would keep the minister moving along. But Cordell was drawn to a magnificent hand-carved wood mantel over the fireplace. Cradles of dust in inlaid patterns of wild flowers only added to the appearance of texture and shading. Definitely Mexican in design, the mantel controlled the entire room with its quiet beauty.
Too impatient to wait any longer, Michael grabbed Cordell’s hand to accelerate their travel and said his mother was waiting. Cordell wanted to look further but followed the boy to the parlor off the main room. He heard Mary Taullery before he saw anyone. Entering the parlor, his gaze took in Ellena Harper in a large wood-framed chair, talking quietly with Aleta wearing the slicker, Mary Taullery, and Widow Bauer. Mary had changed into a solemn black dress with a matching bonnet. To Cordell, the funeral apparel seemed artificial in contrast to his radiant wife still in her rain-soaked garments. In the corner, Rebecca was playing quietly with her new rag doll.
When the young minister and her son stepped into the room, Ellena Harper burst into tears. Michael rushed to comfort her, proclaiming that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt their family again. He also blurted out the promise from Cordell to be with him weekly, but forgot to add Shank was invited too.
Kneeling beside the weeping woman, Cordell took her pale hand with his left hand and held Michael’s with the other. “Mrs. Harper, I am so sorry. Your husband was a good man, and I will always cherish his friendship.”
“Thank you, Reverend. You were very brave to try to stop those Yankee killers. Forgive me, but I only wish you were good with a gun. They deserve to die. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t . . .” She pulled her hand from his and covered her face with both hands to hide the anguish that followed. Michael awkwardly hugged her. She patted his arm and thanked him.
Cordell’s eyes sought Aleta’s. She, too, was crying. Mary Taullery was sniffling behind a lace handkerchief. Only Widow Jenson seemed removed from the sadness, staring at the doorway, alone in some moment of her own from yesterday.
“God has a plan for them—as he does for all of us,” Cordell heard himself say. “I—I would be lying to you if I asked you to forgive them—for I cannot.”
He shut his eyes and began to pray aloud, asking for God to grant His great peace of mind to all of them, and to comfort the Harper family in such an awful time. An “Amen” followed from his lips. Widow Jenson muttered “Amen” without changing her gaze, and so did Aleta. Ellena Harper mouthed the closing, but no sound emerged. Mary Taullery said s
trongly, “Praise God that he does so. Amen.”
Cordell felt terribly inadequate and wanted to leave the room. He wanted a gun. Beads of sweat attacked his forehead. His head wound began to throb. He wanted to attack something. Anything. Anyone.
Silently, he prayed for forgiveness for thinking so, then heard his father say, “Who gave you this right to take a life? Only God has that right. Those who take another’s life will be plunged into almighty damnation. Yea, verily, I say unto you, it is the word of the righteous God Almighty.” General Stuart followed behind his father, saying that to attack a great enemy was to live. A dying Moon told him everything a man did was a prayer. Johnny Cat Carlson, the dead outlaw leader he had once befriended, told him to quit caring about people who were born to be walked on.
Cordell opened his eyes and saw Michael peeking at him. The boy touched Cordell on the shoulder and whispered, “I know you tried hard, sir. Don’t know anybody who would’ve charged them Regulators the way you did. You ’bout got yourself kilt too. Heck, you’re not supposed to be good with a gun, sir. You’re a preacher.”
Chapter Eleven
A new-born sun, unsure of itself in the early-morning sky, found Rule Cordell already working with a young bay gelding. Aleta was inside preparing breakfast. Tonight would also be her first class with the black children Eliason had gathered at his factory. She was excited about the new experience, especially so since Cordell was going to join her.
Eliason had assured her there would be at least twelve black children waiting. Two white townsmen had visited Rule and Aleta at home to discourage this teaching endeavor, but had been sent away with Cordell’s defiant words ringing in their ears.
It felt good to lose himself in work, to leave the responsibilities of the spirit for a while and reconnect with the concerns of this world. Anticipation of a good meal added to his contentment. Trying to stay in the saddle of a green horse was no time to be thinking about anything else. Any praying should have already been done.
An eager sweat bee, awakened by the fragile dawn, tried to surround the bay’s head all by itself, then gave up the task to encircle Cordell’s. With a swift slap of his opened hand, the insect fluttered to the ground. He stared down at the stunned bee and muttered an apology, reminding himself that it had as much right to the land as he did.
A week had passed since their move to the Jensen place, and they were settling nicely into the small cabin behind the big house. True to his word, he had ridden over to see Michael—and the boy’s mother and sister—yesterday. They had gone fishing and caught enough for everyone’s supper.
Cordell’s mind jerked from the sweet time with Michael to his father’s cruel punishments when he was a child. A timid ray of sun across his face triggered the hateful memory of being forced to stand outside their house for several hours on a frigid winter day when he forgot to refer to his father as “Right Reverend.” Frostbite nearly consumed his hands and toes. Then he saw his father slap his mother across the face. Twice. Three times. Blood crept from the corner of her lip, but she said nothing. Not a whimper. It was the last night that either Cordell or his father ever saw her. Even now, he wondered what became of her and if her new life ever included any thoughts of him.
He shook his head. That was long ago. Another world. Another lifetime, it seemed. This was now. Shaking his head brought a brief pain. The head wound bothered him only occasionally, usually when he was tired at the end of the day, or when his head was shook hard by the jolt of a bucking horse, or when he moved it vigorously.
With soothing words to the nervous horse, he checked its new shoes. Purchased from Taullery’s store and nailed on as they were, most ranchers called them “good ’noughs.” They weren’t nearly as effective as having a blacksmith use an anvil and bellows to heat and shape the shoe to the horse’s foot. But taking a horse into town took time—and money. He had rasped the edges off yesterday. Taullery wouldn’t have liked the result, but Cordell thought they looked fine.
Yesterday, as planned, Cordell had delivered the four gift horses to the Evanses. Each had been ridden at least twenty saddles and were broke to the slicker and rope; they would be excellent working horses for any rancher. He was proud of the way they had responded to his training, and the thought of giving them to the family that had so generously helped him and Aleta made him feel good all over again. The look on Jacob Evans’s face was all the payment Cordell needed. Slapping his hands together in appreciation, Evans had yelled for his wife and sons to come to the corral, and they were equally appreciative. Mrs. Evans invited Cordell to stay for supper, but he begged off, saying that he had to get back to work on a new stallion. The oldest Evans boy wanted to know if he needed help, but his father, Jacob, reminded him of the chores already assigned.
Satisfied, he curled himself easily into the saddle, his spurs jingling softly. A gunshot rattled the horizon. He settled into the stirrups and concentrated on listening. Maybe he had heard wrong. The young horse shook at the strange presence again on its back, then stood quietly. Patting its brown neck, he complimented the horse on being quiet. The animal’s alert ears spun toward him to gather more information, but its rider was preoccupied with watching the shadowed prairie.
No other sounds of shooting came across the land. One shot? Probably someone trying to shoot a prairie grouse or a rabbit, he mused to himself. The shot came from the east, where three other small homesteads stretched across the rolling land. Sound could travel quite a distance in the early-morning air, he reminded himself, and LeRoy Breen, his farthest neighbor, liked rabbit stew. He grinned at the man describing such a meal the last time they were together. It was at least a month ago, after church services. Mrs. Breen came every Sunday, but not her husband.
A second shot cracked the silence, followed by another and another, growing into a string of explosions. Aleta came to the back door and stepped outside. She wore an apron over her leather riding skirt and white peasant blouse. Her frown was a knowing one; somewhere a gun battle was under way—and it was heading toward their home.
“Rule, can you see anytheeng? What ees it, por favor?”
“Don’t know, Aleta. Wait a minute, there’s a rider—see? Against the sky. Just a speck. Could be headed this way.” Cordell held his hand above his eyes to help him see. “He’s still a long way from Breen’s, I think.”
“There has to be more than one, Rule.”
“Yeah, I know, one’s all I see—so far.” He turned back to her and she was gone.
Within a minute, she returned with one of her pistols pushed into an apron pocket. In her right hand was a Henry rifle; in the other, his old field glasses. The guns were from the bedroom display, the field glasses from a kitchen drawer. Gunshots were linked together now, like an oncoming train. Seeing her with the weapons tore at the promise to himself that he would give his life to God and leave violence behind him. The sight upset him more than the shooting.
“I don’t think you’re going to need a gun, Aleta,” Cordell said as he swung down and walked toward her to retrieve the binoculars. He led the saddled horse by the reins, and the animal shook its head joyously to be relieved of the strange thing on its back.
“Maybe not, my love, but eet is bueno to be ready, no?” Aleta’s smile was less than full. “Not all vaqueros ride for good.” She handed him the glasses.
He didn’t answer, walking to the edge of the corral closest to the distant silhouette. Initially, the horse balked at the change in direction, but Cordell talked it into joining his advance. Holding the reins in one hand, he stared into the glasses, blinked, and looked again, rejecting what his eyes were telling him in the uneven morning light.
“It’s Billy Rip’s sister! It’s Lizzie!” Cordell exclaimed without looking away, using the Civil War nickname for Bill Ripton, then the youngest scout in his patrol.
“Elizabeth Ripton?”
“Yeah, what the . . . a bunch of riders are after her. My God, Regulators! Why?”
Carrying the r
ifle, Aleta ran from the house to Cordell’s side. He handed her the field glasses and swung into the saddle.
“Where are you going?” Aleta held the glasses, but was watching him instead.
“I’m going out to see what’s going on.”
“I go too.” She started to put the field glasses into the apron pocket containing her pistol. Realizing it was full, she shoved them into the other empty apron pocket instead. Her eyes were hot with the threat of oncoming battle.
“No, you stay here.”
“Take thees gun.” Her face was stern. She held out the rifle with both hands.
He hesitated, swung onto the horse’s back, and said, “All right. Give it to me. But, please, go back into the house.”
She handed him the Henry as he rode past and spurred the horse into a gallop.
“Escuche! Listen! Rule, my love, they are not coming to hear a sermon. Por favor, you must shoot, then pray, eef you want to help her.” Aleta’s words caught his ears as the big-shouldered bay crow-hopped once, in response to the jab of the rowels, lowered its ears, and stretched out to run.
He was headed for a long, swollen ridge, a giant dismembered arm stretching out across the flat land. It was naked of growth, except for defiant batches of buffalo grass and a trio of scrawny trees on the far southern lip. Side by side, the wind-shoved trees stood, like three skinny cowboys standing together, chatting and watching the prairie.
The big gun was comfortable in his outstretched arm, and he urged the bay into a smooth run, eating up the distance between himself and his fleeing friend. Suddenly, his mind told him that he was carrying a weapon again. His eyes turned from the land to the hand gripping the Henry. Anger swept through his body. His own hand had betrayed him. He raised the gun to fling it away from himself, away from what it meant.