Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  Then he glanced back to Lizzie Ripton. The fourteen-year-old Ripton girl was in clear sight now, nearing the farthest in the string of homesteads. A more confident dawn highlighted her against its chest-thumping color. Her ballooning dress was transformed into giant heaving lungs on both sides of her charging horse.

  She was riding bareback with only a bridle and reins. Her torn bodice was half red, her right breast exposed. Hair braids flopped on her back in rhythm with the wild ride. Suddenly, she slumped, holding on to the horse’s neck. One rein danced loose in the wind. He could see the patrol easily now without the aid of field glasses. They were a black shape oozing across the plain, five riders spitting bursts of orange flame a hundred yards behind her. The firing was less frequent now, as Lizzie’s fine horse lengthened its lead in spite of the uneven movement of the rider.

  Leave it to Billy Rip’s sister to have good horse flesh under her, Cordell thought, and lowered his arm and the rifle. Silently, he told God that nothing had changed; he just had to help his friend, that’s all. He asked for understanding. His words were clipped in rhythm with the pounding of the strong-striding bay.

  Ahead was the middle of the ridge, offering the most protection. He would dismount there and fire over the heads of the Regulars. Hopefully, Lizzie Ripton would realize it was someone friendly and come his way. Hopefully, the warning shots would be enough to turn away the Regulators. Hopefully. He asked God for understanding again.

  Approaching the land swell, he reined in the bay, but the horse didn’t want to stop, savoring the wonder of running. He pulled harder on the reins, but the animal had the bit in its mouth and decided to keep going, ignoring his physical and verbal commands. Realizing the animal could easily bolt past Lizzie Ripton and into the advancing patrol, he pulled the reins to the left side and held them there, forcing the horse to turn sideways.

  In spite of the need for urgency, he had to be patient. Yanking the horse too hard would likely make the animal fall, possibly injuring both of them. He forced himself to concentrate on bringing the animal into a gradual circle behind the ridge. The rifle was in the way, but he rejected the passing thought to drop the weapon and get it later. Instead, he laid the barrel, with his right hand, against the opposite side of the horse’s head to reinforce his left fist’s rein pull.

  A wide jerky circle began to take shape, with the bay fighting the tightly held reins and frantically seeking an opportunity to race once more. Then another circle, this time smaller; then another and another. Each time the circle shrunk and the animal’s gallop changed into a lathered trot. Finally, it came to a begrudging stop at the northernmost slope of the ridge.

  He inhaled and exhaled the tension. Sweat bubbled on his forehead in contrast to the coolness of the early morning. He felt like he’d been in a fistfight and took another deep breath to regain his mental balance. A splatter of gunshots brought him back to the need for immediate action. He glanced in the direction of the patrol. He doubted they had seen him; they were still too far away and their concentration was on their fleeing prey.

  Worried that the animal would try to bolt again when he left the saddle, he jumped down anyway. Shooting from its back would make for a guaranteed runaway. Holding the reins in his right fist, he hurried back to the middle of the ridge, then cocked and aimed the rifle. There was no time to wonder what the green animal would do when the weapon roared.

  The Henry jumped slightly in his hands as he fired. Rearing in fearful response, the frightened horse tried to pull away from the rifle’s roar. He barely looked at the bay, knowing only more exposure to gunfire itself would eventually calm the animal. The pull against the reins in his fist made aiming difficult, but he wasn’t trying to hit anything anyway. Realizing that the big gun had a tendency to jam, he levered new cartridges carefully, a task he had learned the hard way. In between shots, he waved at Lizzie to come toward him.

  He didn’t think the young girl saw the motion as Cordell concentrated more shots over the heads of the Regulators, who showed no signs of responding to his firing yet. The faces of the five men were beginning to define themselves as they raced after the young girl. If they kept at their same direction, both Lizzie and the Regulators would pass fifty yards in front of the ridge, slanting toward the south. If she made it that far.

  Movement behind him was sensed before heard, and he spun around with his rifle readied. It was Aleta riding her paint horse and carrying the other rifle in her hand. Gone was the apron, and in its place was a pistol belt and holstered revolver. Stray sunlight recoiled from the pearl handle. Long black hair flamed behind her like a wild Comanche on the warpath. Her skirt was flapping like a huge bird above her thighs.

  There was no time to be angry or to waste words about her going back. He pointed in the direction of the ridge where it swelled highest and returned to firing at the Regulators. He wasn’t certain, but he thought they may be gaining on Lizzie and fired again over their heads. A streak of red on the flank of Lizzie’s horse explained the shrinking lead. Cordell fired again over the heads of the patrol. For the first time, shots were returned in his general direction.

  Chapter Twelve

  Aleta’s running dismount would have been the envy of any fighting man. Her well-trained paint stood quietly where the reins hit the ground. But she knelt on top of them for assurance it wouldn’t be frightened away. She cocked and swung the Henry to her shoulder in a single motion, and her first shot knocked a Regulator from his saddle.

  Cordell stared at the riderless horse with its flailing stirrups and exclaimed, “Aleta, you just shot a man!”

  “Sí. You want to save Elizabeth Ripton—or jes’ say you tried. You must stop them now, Rule. She weel not stay on her horse mucho longer.” Her words were calm, like she was asking him how he wanted his eggs for breakfast.

  Without waiting for his response, she levered the Henry and fired again, but missed. Cordell’s own answer was to fire three shots himself, over the heads of the remaining four riders. Yells of concern erupted from the Regulator patrol. Agitated faces searched the ridge for their unknown attackers. One man pointed at the ridge where Cordell and Aleta continued their long-range assault. Cordell fired over their heads again; Aleta levered three shots into the pack and another Regulator fell.

  As the man flopped unmoving to the ground, Aleta shouted “Vamos!” and fired again at the falling rider. Returning gunshots spit dirt on the crouching Cordell. Together, the remaining three Regulators shouted hoarse encouragement to each other and charged toward the ridge, now less than fifty yards away. The embankment thumped with lead from their rifles. Aleta’s first shot missed, but her second drove the lead rider tumbling from his horse.

  Cordell fired twice; his second shot caught the rider low in the stomach, driving him backward and out of the saddle. The man’s released rifle held in the air for an instant before thudding to the prairie. Cordell watched the result with her eyes wide. He had intended to shoot the horse.

  Aleta stood. The remaining Regulator aimed his rifle at the suddenly appearing target and two bullets spit their songs of death around her. Coolly, she levered a new cartridge into her Henry, raised it to her shoulder, fired, and missed. She cocked and fired again, but the gun was empty. Closing on her, the Regulator recocked his shiny Winchester and aimed, grasping the reins in his left fist where it held the barrel. Aleta reached for new bullets in her skirt pocket, shoved one into the loading tube, and looked up as the man’s face exploded into crimson. His riderless horse raced wildly onward, clearing the ridge and continuing past them. Limp smoke from Cordell’s rifle told the rest of the story. Stillness came again so fast that it made both Aleta and Cordell freeze in place. To her face came a faint smile. To Cordell’s, a great sadness.

  Knowing he had no choice but to stop the man, Cordell studied the other downed riders scattered about the prairie. None were threats any longer, he decided. Only one was standing, dragging a broken leg and holding his bleeding stomach. Four of the horses had bolt
ed toward where they had come from. A lone brown horse stood with its head down, badly winded but unhurt otherwise. Closer was an unmoving Regulator, facedown in the dust, Aleta’s second victim. Spread-legged on the ground near him was the man Cordell had accidentally shot, holding his crimson stomach with both hands. Ten feet to his right was the man Cordell had just killed. The dead rider’s face was a red ball. The part-time minister held his hand to his mouth to hold back the anguish rushing through him. He hadn’t wanted this. He wanted to lead others toward a peace he had finally found within himself. He wanted a new life, a new beginning.

  Aleta’s rifle roared twice more and the only standing Regulator crumpled, twitched, and moved no more. She yelled in Spanish that they would kill no more innocent men. Cordell shuddered, thought of Lizzie Ripton, and looked in her direction. Twenty yards from the three scrawny trees guarding the end of the ridge, the young rider’s wounded horse stood. Unmoving. Heaving its last gasps.

  Lizzie lay across its back, her right shoulder and shirt sleeve drenched in bright red blood. The homespun cotton dress was ripped open; torn cloth and one braid caressed her pink breast. Cordell avoided looking at her body and sought her face. She was pale, in spite of long days in the sun; light brown curls stuck to her damp cheeks and forehead. Across the bridge of her nose, a patch of freckles appeared more prominent than ever. She was half woman, half child—and all Ripton, resembling her older brother and father with the same thick chin, deep-set eyes, and high cheekbones.

  An uneven sigh foreshadowed the animal’s collapse as it sank to the ground. Another groan followed and the horse lay on its side. Lizzie disappeared, like she was connected. There was no attempt to kick free; no reaction at all. Only her right leg, with no sign of her dress, was visible, and it could just as well been attached to the horse, so little did it move.

  Cordell rushed to the south slope as fast as he could lead his balky bay. He laid down his smoking rifle and wrapped the reins around a branch on the first tree there. He quieted the horse, disturbed by the smell of blood and death. After a few shivers, the animal lowered its head and Cordell ran on to the fallen girl.

  “Lizzie! It’s me, Rule. Lizzie, are you all right?”

  A thin voice answered, “Captun Cordell, I’m mighty glad to see you, suh. Mighty glad. They’s dun in my mare. Goddamn ’em to hell.”

  Cordell couldn’t hold back a smile. He hadn’t heard her curse before, but it was exactly something her older brother would have said. Even sounded like him. A closer look at Lizzie’s horse wiped the smile away; the fine animal was nearing the end. The caring thing would be to put the horse out of its misery, but that should be Lizzie’s decision if she was able to make it. Cordell raced around the downed horse to see that her left leg was trapped under the unmoving mount.

  Lizzie’s admiring gaze followed Cordell’s advance, and she spoke through clinched teeth, trying to hide the roaring pain. Her bleary eyes sought his, and she made no attempt to cover herself. “Was a-comin’ fer yo-all’s he’p, Captun. Them Regulators dun got us surrounded. They’s a-sayin’ Billy’s a criminal—an’ Ma an’ Pa are . . . criminals cuz they’s hidin’ him. Padgett’s a-wantin’ us out—so’s some carpetbagger kin have our place, I reckon.”

  She stopped talking, unable to talk more until she could replenish the breath that had left with her words. It took all of her concentration to inhale new air. Cordell took off his shirt, grabbed the sleeve where it was sewn to the main part, and yanked hard. Then again. Seams released their hold and he pulled the freed sleeve from his arm, folding it quickly several times. Kneeling beside her, he covered her exposed bosom with his shirt, then placed the small pad of sleeve over the bullet wound in her shoulder. He took Lizzie’s right hand and placed it over the pad. “Hold that tight, Lizzie. You’re leaking.”

  Lizzie’s eyes followed him as she complied with his request, continuing to inhale deeply. A weak smile entered her face, and he patted her head gently. She didn’t appear to realize her leg was pinned. After a long, leathery gasp, she continued her description of recent trouble.

  “They came after us a while back, Captun. Fer taxes. Wanted to throw us off’n the place then. Pa said we wasn’t leavin’ nohow. Said we’d come up with the money some way. Eight hundred dollars. Eight hundred dollars! Yah know, Captun, our folks dun built that place from nuthin’.”

  Lizzie paused again, pulled in fresh air that seemed to be vanishing through the bullet holes in her body.

  “Don’t know how they did it, b-but my folks got the money an’ dun paid it all. Made that fancy Captain Padgett real mad, but he went away. ’Til yesterday. They sneaked up on us. Two o’ ’em caught me in the barn—and they tried to . . . Billy heard me yellin’ an’ came a-runnin’. Whipped ’em both, he did.”

  Lizzie inhaled for a breath that wouldn’t come fast enough, swallowed, and wiped away a tear before it could run.

  “Take your time, Lizzie. Where are Billy and your folks now?” Cordell said.

  “We’s holed up in the house. Ma an’ I were loadin’—an’ Pa an’ Billy were shootin’. During the night, Billy an’ I sneaked to the barn an’ got Sally hyar. Thought I got away without ’em seeing me. Billy tolt me to ride for yo-all. So that’s what I were a-doin’.”

  “You think they’re still holding out?”

  “Pa said we had plenty o’ bullets and water. An’ he didn’t think they’d burn the place. That’d just make fer more work fer the new owner. Leastwise, that’s what Pa thought.”

  “How many men does Padgett have?”

  “Billy said you’d ask that.” She smiled and shifted her weight to her left arm, realizing for the first time that Cordell had covered her with his shirt. “You didn’t have to use your shirt, Captun. I didn’t mind. Really. Billy said there were twenty-four. Twenty-six, countin’ Padgett an’ a city feller.”

  “We’re going to get you to our house where you’ll be safe—and we can take care of you.”

  Lizzie’s eyes indicated she didn’t like his use of “our” and “we.” Her gaze went beyond him for the first time in an attempt to see if his wife was with him. Then she remembered more of her story.

  “I almost forgot the worse part, Captun. They dun shot Whisper. His wife is poorly, and he came fer a poultice Ma makes. He went outside to talk with Padgett. Said the law would protect us. Wouldn’t listen to Pa or Billy. Mighty fancy words he threw at ’em, Captun. I dun heard most from the window. You’d a been real proud o’ him, Billy said.”

  Cordell couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and the air caught in his throat and wouldn’t go anywhere. “That skinny city fella with Padgett dun kilt him—ri’t front of our house. Coldest eyes I ever did see behind them spectacles.”

  “Lion Graham.” Cordell’s pronouncement was a hiss.

  “N-never heard his name. But he pulled a shooter from his purty sash an’ shot Whisper. Ri’t in midword. Three, four times he shot Whisper. Then he l-laughed and said he were tired of all the windying. Then Padgett shouted fer us to give up. The shootin’ started ri’ after that.”

  Cordell squeezed his eyes shut to stop the pain. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t fair, not after all Whisper had gone through during the War. Whisper was a good man. Honest and strong. A flash of Whisper Jenson at a patrol campfire, questioning their next move, roared through Cordell’s mind. What would happen to his family? Cordell touched the medicine pouch hanging from his neck, under his shirt, and made a silent promise to his wartime comrade: Whisper’s family would be cared for. The face of Lion Graham came to him, and he shivered. It angered him that he felt such a twinge of fear. How could a small boy become so mad?

  Shaking away the darkness in his mind, he concentrated on the next task, getting Lizzie freed from her horse. He sat on the ground beside her and put both boots against the horse’s back, his knees nearly doubled.

  She watched the daring Confederate leader that her brother had told her about so often and she had met at their hous
e. Her crush was hard to conceal, even when she was weak from loss of blood. She wanted to touch his face, but it hurt to move her arm. “Heard yo-all a-firin’ at them. Do appreciate yur doin’ it, I sur do, Captun Cordell. I reckon yo-all are the bravest man I know. Billy said you’d know what to do.”

  “When I say go, Lizzie, you pull your leg out. Can you do that?”

  “Sur nuff, Captun Cordell. Holler away. This hyar mare, she dun give me all she had, I reckon.”

  Pushing against the dying horse, Cordell managed to lift its back slightly and Lizzie Ripton pulled on her trapped left leg, bracing herself with her good left arm and driving with her right boot against the animal’s back. Nothing happened. Cordell gasped and released his legs, emptied of strength. They would need Aleta’s help too.

  He stood and yelled for her to come. Lizzie frowned but was too weak to complain. Aleta was walking through the downed Regulators, leading her paint horse. She paused, a look of irritation on her face, and mouthed “Uno momento.” A revolver in her hand made it clear what she was doing: making certain none of the attackers were alive. Cordell sighed and knew she was right, even if it hurt to see and think about.

  The ridge was too far away from the other homesteads for anyone to be able to determine who had helped the young rider or who her pursuers were. Of course, even at a distance, it was obvious Aleta was a woman, but he couldn’t worry about that. His mind was turning to ways to disguise what had happened. Eventually, Captain Padgett would send out more riders to find out what happened to the first five.

  It wouldn’t take much of a tracker to end up at his ranch. What could he do to misdirect them—without putting a neighbor at risk either? How long before more would return? He didn’t think it would be any sooner than tomorrow morning. But if Captain Padgett wanted it so, their return visit to the ridge could come before nightfall.