Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  A plan of sorts was taking shape in his mind as he watched Aleta cross back over the ridge, leading her paint. He would try to create the appearance of an outlaw band waiting in ambush and then riding off to the south. After Lizzie was freed from her dying mount, Cordell would walk their horses back and forth several times along the back side of the ridge to create the illusion of many waiting there. His own layered footprints would add to this picture as well.

  Next, he would let them see horse tracks riding off to the south, straight from the bottom lip of the ridge, like the “gang” might have been from the border. He would hold Lizzie in the saddle in front of him. They would head for a dry creek bed that slid diagonally across the land. It was a half-hour away, but riding through the rock-lined creek bed would be enough to lose any trackers—especially if they weren’t expecting the riders to swing north again.

  Before leaving the rock cover, he would muffle his horse’s movement with pieces of his shirt tied over its hooves. That should make their return to the ranch nearly impossible to follow. With any break at all, the wind would do the rest. All of that misdirection would take time, and Lizzie’s wounds were serious. She would need to heal and regain her strength. That meant keeping her hidden in their home. That was a different problem, one to worry about later.

  Cordell thought the young girl could handle the ride after the bleeding was stopped. Or was he trying to convince himself of that fact because he was afraid of Regulators coming to their home? His chest rose and fell as he contemplated the answer to that question, watching Aleta come toward him. If anything ever happened to Aleta . . . He stopped his mind from pursuing that line of thought and raced to others more pressing.

  If the Regulators returned before he erased the tracks, he could simply say that he and his wife had ridden out to see what happened, and that the gang had already left. That answer helped relieve the tension within him somewhat. Part of him wanted to bury the dead men and pray for them. He struggled with the thought of leaving that to others who may or may not come. It wasn’t just a religious act, he admitted to himself. It would be a way to hide the fact that Lizzie was alive.

  No, his mind challenged, it wouldn’t. The state police would dig up the graves to see which bodies were there. An empty hole would mean Lizzie was alive. A single mass grave would make it even easier to discover the truth. Better for the Regulators to think she ran off with an outlaw gang. Thinking through how best to protect the Ripton girl—and to hide their own involvement—was much more comfortable to think about than what he was going to do about the Riptons. Was he going to ride there—and do what? Was he going to let Whisper’s death go unchallenged? Or was he going to stay out of it and hope for the best?

  Billy Ripton had sent his sister for Captain Rule Cordell, not Reverend Rule Langford. But why should that make him give up his new life? He had made it clear to his friends that “Rule Cordell was dead.” That wasn’t just to escape his outlaw past, although that was certainly a good enough reason. No, it was to also make it clear his life was forever changed. So why did Padgett have to be his problem? Other than breaking into his church service, the Regulator leader hadn’t bothered him—and he knew Lion Graham only by reputation.

  Hadn’t he talked of peace every Sunday, of looking ahead to better times, of building a community everyone could be proud of? Wasn’t he doing his part by helping build a church? His stomach churned with the agony of not wanting to deal with the thought of returning. To battle. A battle that would make him an outlaw again—or a dead man. It wasn’t what he had planned for Aleta and himself. It wasn’t fair to ask him to give it up.

  No one should ask that of him. No one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aleta joined him after tying her own horse to the middle of the three trees. Just seeing her made him feel better and shoved the idea of going after Padgett into a mind shadow. As she inspected Lizzie’s wounds, Cordell told about the Regulators surrounding the Riptons’ house and Lion Graham killing Whisper, as well as his plan to cover their intervention at the ridge.

  Looking up at him, Aleta said with an impish grin, “Elizabeth is becoming mucho woman—or did the great Rule Cordell not notice?”

  He frowned and pointed at his shirt. Without further comment, she agreed with the idea of making it look like a band of outlaws waited. Such easy agreement surprised him a little, but he hid it in a cough. With a fierce smile, she suggested some touches of her own. They should take some tobacco and cartridges from the dead Regulators and spread the items behind the ridge, as if left by the waiting gang.

  She would leave her own sombrero. It was a man’s anyway. To make her point, she removed the hat and tossed it toward their horses. Her paint horse watched it sail past his head without moving; Cordell’s green mount reared and nearly snapped off the branch holding its reins. The sombrero came to rest against the middle tree. Then she told him to place short sticks inside his two spurs and let the ends touch the ground. When he walked, it would leave tracks like someone was wearing large-roweled Mexican spurs, something he didn’t wear.

  Her face glowed with anger and a strange sense of accomplishment. “If you want to leave a mucho picture, my sweetheart, we can scalp thees bastards—an’ make them theenk eet was a Comanche war party.”

  “I can’t do that, Aleta. We have done enough killing today.”

  “T’is better they die—or our young friend—or us? They weel come back, you know thees.” Aleta stepped back to the wounded girl and knelt beside her. “Or weel you ride to help your friends—and take the fight to these bastards.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Let’s stay with covering our tracks. For now. After we get Lizzie freed, we’ll leave new ones. There’s time before you need to leave for school.” Cordell motioned toward Lizzie and the downed horse. There was no need to put the animal out of its misery now; the fine mare was dead. Tears trailed from Lizzie’s eyes, and Cordell knew it wasn’t from the pain of her wounds; it was from the realization that her horse had died.

  With Aleta’s help, Cordell was able to pull the trapped girl from under the dead horse. Lizzie Ripton attempted to stand and reach for Cordell, but wobbled into a heap at his feet, barely conscious.

  Aleta leaned over and felt her forehead. “She has fever. You must hurry her back to the house. Get her water.”

  “What about riding north—to the creek bed first?”

  “No. No time. Take her to the house. Pronto. She ees too weak for long ride.”

  “What if they come before I get back?”

  Aleta smiled again and shrugged. “They come. We have guns. No?”

  “I can’t . . .”

  “Does Rule Cordell not go to help hees friends?”

  “Rule Cordell is dead. He died when the South did.”

  “I think, maybe, he is not,” Aleta said, returning to her horse. “I think, maybe, he just waits—in your head.”

  In minutes they were headed back to their ranch house with an unconscious Lizzie Ripton slumped in front of Cordell, his torn shirt buttoned around her. The minister’s eyes returned to the ridge often as they rode. A triumphant sun had taken control of the lower horizon. Anyone could see their trail to and from there, made more obvious by early-morning shadows. Each time he looked, Aleta chuckled and told him not to worry so. That was the extent of the discussion about the gun battle. Each disappeared into thoughts neither wanted to express.

  As they neared their small ranch, she turned in the saddle and faced him. “The first time I saw you, I was pulled to your courage. You were alone—and the Yankees came for you in that cantina. You were not afraid. You were a warrior. You will always be a warrior.”

  “That was a long time ago, Aleta—and I was afraid. It just didn’t make much sense to show it. Now I only want peace.”

  “Peace comes only to warriors who fight for it.”

  At their home, Rule Cordell eased from the saddle and let the unconscious girl slide into his arms. Lizzie Ripton’s weight was
that of a dead man, and Cordell took a step back as the full impact came to him.

  After several steps, he found a rhythm and carried her easily toward their house. The saddled bay was freed in the corral, along with Aleta’s saddled horse. Aleta hurried to open the door, holding both rifles in her arms. Cordell rushed through the house and laid Lizzie on their bed. From the window, golden fingers of sunlight sought the young girl’s head and caressed her sweating hair.

  Aleta returned their guns to the special altar. “I weel clean the guns later. We weel need them, I think.”

  She was immediately by Lizzie’s side with a filled cup of water. Dipping her fingers into the cup, Aleta ran them along Lizzie’s lips. The girl’s eyes fluttered as she tasted the wetness and fought for consciousness. Aleta moistened her fingers in the water again and repeated the wettening. Lizzie mouthed “Thank you” and balanced herself unevenly on her elbows. Carefully, Aleta helped Lizzie drink a little from the cup itself. Lizzie choked, then asked hoarsely for more. Aleta allowed her to sip once more from the cup, quietly telling her to drink slowly.

  After Lizzie gradually drank the entire cup, Aleta left again and returned with two bowls. The larger held water for cleaning; the smaller, a strange compound kept on hand for wounds and cuts. It always hurried the healing. Cordell wasn’t certain what was in the salve, except for beeswax, vinegar, and several different herbs. The medicine had been handed down for generations within Aleta’s family. She removed the girl’s bloody dress, then cleaned and dressed her wounds. A nightshirt of her own and a damp cloth on Lizzie’s forehead completed the medical treatment.

  While Aleta worked, Cordell stood in front of the waist-high cabinet with its array of guns, gingerly fingering first one revolver, then another. He hadn’t said a word since they entered the house.

  After touching the dried rose, he said aloud, “They killed Whisper, my friend. They are trying to kill more of my friends. How long do we have to pay for losing? Someone has to stop them.” He paused, and his fingers caressed the Dean & Adams .44 revolver taken from a Yankee scout near the War’s end. “Why does it have to be me? Don’t they understand I don’t want to fight anymore?” Picking up the double-action gun, he spun it easily in his hand, letting it come to rest in his fist, ready for firing. He stared at the English-made weapon and laid it down again like the gun was boiling hot. A passage from the Old Testament rolled from his clinched teeth. “‘He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him anymore.’”

  Aleta watched him from the bed but said nothing. She pretended to be finishing with her first aid.

  “If I go, they will come and take our home. I—I may n-never see you again.” He closed his eyes and stood with his arms at his sides.

  “Why do they have to know who you are?” Her words were soft. A prayer.

  Cordell’s shoulders rose and fell. “How can I do that?”

  “I do not know. Eet was a bad idea.” She stood and headed for the kitchen, humming a Mexican tune he could not place.

  Turning, Aleta stood in the doorway. “Our breakfast ees cold. I weel warm it now, Captain Rule Cordell.”

  “Something to eat sounds mighty good.” He ignored her reference to his real name and what it implied.

  His beautful wife was not being realistic, he told himself. How could one man stop many and not be recognized, much less killed. Getting involved was tantamount to returning to the outlaw trail he was so eager to leave behind. It meant going against what he professed as a minister. His gaze took in the sleeping Lizzie Ripton. She looked like a small girl asleep in their bed, and he thought of Billy Ripton and his parents. The Riptons had risked their lives to hide him while he recovered from his father’s gunshot. He told himself that he had repaid them with gift horses as well.

  Blinking away his frustration, his attention became caught on the minister’s robe hanging from a peg on the wall, next to a Mexican hand-carved dresser. On its top lay the cross he wore on Sundays and the special white collar. He looked away. The ache in his stomach swirled and he decided it was just hunger. Walking into the kitchen, he realized their meal of tortillas, eggs, and bacon remained on the counter where she had left it before they rode to help Lizzie. Only the coffee smelled like it was ready.

  Aleta turned toward him. Her face was glowing. Her eyes eagerly sought his.

  “I thought you were—”

  His question went incomplete as she interrupted, “I am hungry for you, Rule Cordell.”

  She didn’t wait for his answer, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around him. Her hands held his face as she sought his mouth with her tongue. The return to battle had unleashed a fire for this man, as if for the first time. Passion rippled through their embrace.

  He pulled away from her. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you. I just can’t.”

  His eyes caressed her, and she smiled. A devilish smile. Her hands slid from his face down his chest and rested at his belt buckle. Her eyes were an invitation. They dropped together to the floor, entangled in their desire to be one body. Their hands rushed to rid the hindrance of the other’s clothes and to enjoy the other’s nakedness. She popped apart his pants buttons and reached for his corded manhood. Greedily, his hands unbuttoned her blouse and his mouth sought her freed breasts. She moaned and arched her back as he entered her. Unnoticed, a fly buzzed around their intertwined bodies before moving on to the windowsill and finally back into the afternoon air.

  A half hour later, they lay half naked and exhausted. Aleta’s head rested on Rule Cordell’s shoulder. Neither wanted to return to the world. Aleta rose first; her blouse lay open on her arms; her skirt was wadded around her waist; her undergarments were flung across the room. Re-dressing, she focused on their waiting food on the counter instead of him.

  “Por favor, please forgive me for trying to get you to do something you do not want to do, Rule. I love you—and I do not want anything to happen to you. You are right. It ees not fair that you should go to the Riptons’. It ees not your fight.”

  Cordell stared at the ceiling, making no attempt to put his clothes on. He didn’t respond.

  “I weel get us sometheeng to eat now.”

  “We’re supposed to start Suitcase’s school tonight.”

  She turned away to hide a smile at what she thought was a last objection to his going to the Riptons’. “Do you wish to stay here, instead? Eet is not necessary that you go there with me. I weel go there, by myself, without you. Eet is bueno.”

  Her eyes were bright with purpose and continued to avoid connecting with his. She fiddled with a plate of cold tortillas.

  “What about Lizzie? Shouldn’t one of us remain here—to watch her?”

  “I theenk not so. She must sleep and heal. I weel care for her wounds again mañana.”

  Propping himself up on his elbows, he told her that he had decided to help the Riptons. “Good, I’m going to the Riptons’. I have to. They hid us after my father shot me. We can’t turn our backs on them now. I’ll fix up the ridge first, like we planned, then go get Ian. He’ll want to go too.” His stomachache disappeared as he spoke, and he began rebuttoning his pants.

  Her attention was apparently on cutting up an apple for their breakfast, but her eyes wandered hopefully toward the ceiling as she continued her conversation of misdirection. “It ees not your fight, this problem with the Riptons. Whatever happens will be so. You would be few against many.”

  “I spent the War that way.”

  “Sí, I know.” Her voice was soft, her eyes frozen on the ceiling.

  Putting on his shirt, Cordell said without emotion, “If I go, our lives will be changed forever. I will be a wanted man—again.”

  Unable to hold back any longer the emotions she felt, she dropped the knife and spun around. The blade clanged off the counter.

  “Sí, you might become a wanted man—again, my Captain Cordell.”

  “That doesn’t bother you? I thought you said . . .”

 
“No importa. It doesn’t matter. As long as I am with you, I care not what happens. I know you must do thees. But I believe you can—without theem knowing who does it.”

  “B-but I am a man of God now.”

  “Sí, do you think your God wants you to stand by while your friends are killed and their lands are taken?”

  “But . . .”

  “There are many ways to serve God. Teach children. Plant corn. Train horses. Build a home. Love your wife. Fight for friends.” She ran her fingers across her lips, then repeated the movement on his. “Thees Padgett ees a coward. If he becomes afraid, he weel leave the Riptons alone. You must become many and scare him away. I theenk Rule Cordell knows how to become many.”

  “You mean, like the trick we pulled on the Yanks with that empty breastworks?”

  “Sí. Cannot the outlaw gang that saved Lizzie come after Padgett?”

  He laughed out loud. Shaking his head, he said, “I think you’ve been stringing me along. You’ve had this all figured out.”

  Her face recoiled in a wide smile. “I weel worry about you, mi marido . . . my husband—but it ees right.”

  Without waiting, she left the room and returned a few minutes later with two gunbelts, each carrying a holstered revolver, as well as his rifle. Surprised at her swiftness, he nevertheless thanked her and took the weapons. After propping the rifle against the counter, he put on the cross-belted handguns, the ones he’d worn last on the outlaw trail. The weight on his hips felt strangely good, but he denied the sensation to himself. Aleta’s face glowed as she watched him lift first one .44 Colt, then the other, from the holsters and check the loads.

  “They are fresh, my captain.” Her eyes narrowed, and she gave the advice that had been churning in her mind for some time. “You must become the thunder that comes in the night. Thunder is never seen but warns of the coming storm. Padgett will run from the storm he sees in hees mind.”

  He stood without speaking, absorbing her analogy. Then he nodded agreement and she smiled again. Her face was total relief. Disappearing again, she returned with his black long coat and a crimson scarf that had once belonged to her mother.