Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  “No one knows what thunder looks like.” She handed him the coat and scarf. “Thees coat will hide your frame. Thees scarf will hide your face. You become a son of thunder.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The idea of disguising himself hadn’t occured to him, but he quickly acknowledged that it made sense. He thanked her, took the offered items, and held the scarf in his hand while he put on the coat.

  “What’s this?” He pointed at the dried rose inserted in the coat lapel. The stiff flower came from their gun display. A petal fell when he slipped on the coat. The tiny reddish shape dribbled along his sleeve and floated to the floor. Watching its descent brought a swirl of old memories.

  “For luck, my captain, please wear the rose. You wore it when I first saw you.” She hesitated and opened her left fist. Her eyes studied the small object there, not daring to meet his gaze. “You should wear this, too. It ees good medicine. Moon weel see that you come back to me.” It was the Comanche stone earring given him long ago by the late shaman.

  Slowly her eyes rose from her hand. His mouth was a thin line of disagreement, matching the frown embedded in his forehead.

  “Please, my love. Please.”

  With a shrug of his shoulders, he took the earring and placed its small rawhide loop over his ear. He touched the tiny pouch beneath his shirt in a silent tribute to the dead shaman, then began to roll the scarf in a ball to carry in his pocket. But she insisted that he try it on first and took the scarf from him without waiting for any response. Both were giggling as she wrapped the red cloth around his nose and mouth and knotted it in place. The silky ends streamed halfway down his back. As she stepped back to admire her work, her eyes sparkled.

  “I theenk we should make love again, my capitan.”

  He chuckled. “You just like a man in uniform.”

  She laughed deeply. “No, I just love you.”

  “I love you, Aleta. I will be back.”

  “I know thees.”

  They embraced, holding each other close. A kiss became a long, soul-searching exhange of tongues. As they finally pulled away, their eyes did all of the communicating. She wanted to say something about Lion Graham but knew it was not the thing to do. Her only words were those of advice. “Do not wear guns into town. Someone weel remember.” He nodded agreement. Neither could say “goodbye” for fear that it could bring bad luck.

  After a hurried meal together, standing at the counter, Cordell went outside while Aleta gathered her things for her regular school. He unsaddled the green bay and readied his buckskin, a ten-year-old gelding with a steady attitude. Quickly, the rifle sheath was strapped on and the Henry shoved into place. He tapped its walnut stock for emphasis.

  A heavy pole, once a corral section piece before it rotted on the end, was tied with a lariat behind the horse. The bouncing sliding weight would remove most of the horse tracks from their ranch as he rode toward the ambush ridge. After adding the pole, he walked over to Aleta’s horse, standing quietly against the corral fence, and rechecked its cinch.

  The swish of the door turned him toward the house. Aleta burst through the doorway with his saddlebags packed with food and supplies. He tied on the bags, they kissed goodbye, and she galloped away first, waving as she rode. At her waist was a holstered revolver—a last-minute decision on her part. Cordell hadn’t objected. Her class would be waiting, but she wouldn’t be more than a few minutes late.

  Minutes later he headed toward the ridge, riding in a zigzag pattern that would look like wind had bruised the land. It would be hard to read anything from the result. His mind rattled through the ideas for creating misdirection at the ridge. Establishing the presence of a “gang” now took on added importance. It would provide the start of an imaginary army seeking Padgett.

  After planting the various “left behinds” in place and stomping around to add the impression of many men, he would ride the horse back and forth to the north, creating the illusion of a gang coming and going from that direction. Eventually he would circle through the creek bed and back to the house to check on Lizzie, then leave to get Taullery.

  Morning haze had laid its thin hands along the land as he realized that their earlier hoofprints ceased to exist a hundred yards from the ridge. As he rode closer, his eyes caught wagon tracks coming from the north and returning, just like he planned to do. The tracks umistakably belonged to “the Russian.” One of his mules had a split shoe; the other dragged a right rear hoof slightly. The trail was a book to anyone who could read sign and knew the wandering merchant. Yet the giant man had evidently ridden the wagon back and forth over the same area repeatedly to create the illusion of many men with horses and wagons.

  What was more surprising was the appearance of the ridge itself. Cordell reined in his buckskin and took in the sight. Ineed, it looked like a small army had waited there. Boot prints went everywhere. Empty cartridges were strewn nearly the entire length of the incline. A canteen with a busted strap lay on the ground. A pistol and a single spur caught his eye, then a discarded bag of tobacco. Cordell knew the man collected empty cartridges for reloading, as well as discarded merchandise of every kind. Aleta’s hat was gone, but in its place was what appeared to have been a stand of rifles, judging from the marks in the ground. It had to be the work of the eccentric merchant.

  Definitely, the impression was the one that he, Rule Cordell, had intended to create. Only better. Why would Caleb Shank, “the Russian,” do this? Why would he risk getting involved? The only answer was that he came upon the scene, read what had happened, and decided to protect Rule and Aleta. Shank was counting on the fact that if his wagon marks were recognized, it would be viewed as a natural coincidence—after the battle, not a part of it.

  Cordell swung down and removed the dragged pole and left it. Because of the rotting end, the wood actually looked like it had been there for a long time. After recoiling his lariat and tying it to his saddle, Cordell rode around the north end of the ridge, past the three forelorn trees, Lizzie Ripton’s dead horse, and onto the flat land. The bridle was gone, leaving only a large brown mass of what had been a magnificent animal. That wasn’t all that was missing. All of the dead Regulators were gone, too. Even the winded horse had left—or Shank had taken it with him. He didn’t let his thoughts remind him of the two men that breathed no more because of him.

  The latest tracks indicated that the wagon headed north, back the way it had come. Caleb Shank had evidently hauled the bodies away, but why? There was no value in pondering what had happened, so Cordell kicked his buckskin into a lope north toward the creek. The ends of his long coat flipped up as he next pushed the horse into a gallop. He was in a hurry to complete the swing back to his house and get to town. Ian Taullery would go with him, he was certain. Maybe his friend would have an idea about what to do when they got to the Riptons’ place.

  Something more than riding in with guns blazing. That would end in the Riptons dying—and them too. How could they trick Padgett into thinking a large outlaw gang was after him? Aleta’s idea made good sense; now he had to figure how to do it. Taullery would have some ideas. He was the best at finding things nobody else could. During the War, he was always the best-dressed and helped keep the outfit well-fed, well-armed, and well-mounted. Taullery always found a way to get what they needed. That comforting thought sat with Cordell as he rode.

  An hour later he returned to their ranch, after swinging wide through the dry creek. It wasn’t really necessary, but somehow it felt right to complete at least a part of his strategy. Lizzie Ripton was sleeping soundly when Cordell checked on her. Just seeing the young girl made him even more certain of the rightness of his commitment to help the Riptons.

  Passing by the gun display, he paused and decided to take the Dean & Adams revolver along as well. He shoved it into his back waistband and went outside. He switched saddles from the steady buckskin to the new roan stallion purchased from “the Russian.” Not as steady as the buckskin, of course, but the big roan could
outrun anything he’d seen. He might need speed more than calm, he decided. He eased into the saddle, and the horse was into a smooth, ground-eating stride in seconds.

  Dulling unseasonal heat shredded the few clouds into thin gauzy strips, and he slowed the horse to a walk that it didn’t like, tossing its head in defiance. Cordell slapped the horse on its neck with his reins and the animal quieted. As he passed the adobe warehouse that served as the community church, he wondered if his fledgling parish would survive. A wagon drawn by a six-hitch team of mules was being loaded by three men. A teamster in a derby waved and Cordell returned the greeting, not recognizing the man. Movement of goods was a sign the region’s economy was taking shape again, if barely.

  He couldn’t help feeling the building should be used for God’s message alone. It needed to be closer to town as well. Maybe the town would undertake such a commitment if it had a better preacher, he self-assessed. If Padgett or his men identified him, the fledgling parish would have no choice but to replace him. He didn’t consider that the same would be true if they killed him. He bit his lower lip in recognition of the one-way path he was taking. There was talk of using the building in the winter to hold a lyceum, a literary society, for weekly debates, lectures, and songfests. He thought it was a great idea, but now neither winter gatherings nor Sunday services seemed important at the moment. Rather, he needed to come up with a way to fool Padgett into thinking he was “many,” as Aleta put it.

  Dismissing the church’s concerns, he growled, “What Clark Springs needs is a real church—and a real minister.” His stallion spun its ears backward to assess what its rider wanted that it wasn’t doing. Chuckling at his spirited self-conversation, Cordell patted the horse’s neck to ressure the animal. “You’re doing fine, boy. Doing fine.” The stallion’s ears returned to normal but took the sign as an indication it could run again. The horse yanked on the reins and gathered itself to gallop. Cordell discouraged the movement with a pull on the reins and they stayed at a walk. The horse reminded him of the stout mounts he had ridden during the War and on the outlaw trail afterward. The big roan was a bull, for sure, but didn’t seem to show many of the unruly attributes of a stallion. Cordell was pleased with the horse’s performance so far.

  He was also pleased with himself. His statement about the town needing a real minister produced no sense of defeat or sadness. Only a renewed ache where he had received the blow Sunday. Removing his hat, he rubbed his hand along the back side of his head to ease the pounding. It didn’t help, and he replaced the hat.

  His decision to help his friends was a morning fog around his soul, leaving him determined but happy. If he were honest with himself—except for being with Aleta—the early days of the great War when the South was winning were the happiest days of his life. His purpose was clearest then his cause to a young Rebel warrior noble and grand. All he had to do then was fight and ride—and he was very good at both.

  In bright memory, Cordell saw the gallant General Stuart again, resplendent in his newest uniform, a black-plumed hat and a red rose on his lapel, leading his vaunted cavalry against too-slow Union forces. Cordell would have followed him anywhere.

  He was jerked back into the day as silhouettes of three riders abruptly rose on the horizon. They were headed his way. Sunlight reflected from the middle of one rider’s chest. Cordell guessed it was a badge. Were Regulators already backtracking to see what had happened? Had Padgett reacted that quickly? Had they come directly from the ambush ridge? It appeared like they may have. Why? Why wouldn’t they ride north in the direction of the tracks? Had they seen through the fake signs? Maybe they were on an unrelated assignment. Had they seen him yet? He shook his head to clear away the remnants of yesterday. It wasn’t smart to let his mind wander at times like this. Jeb Stuart had taught him better than that. He touched the rose on his lapel and studied the advancing riders.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rule Cordell pulled his wide-brimmed hat lower and rolled his shoulders. He was certain it was Regulators and they had seen him. It would be foolish to ride in another direction. That would only invite suspicion and pursuit. He pulled both revolvers from their holsters and shoved one into each coat pocket. They were too far away to see the precautionary move. He gathered his long coat with one button to hide his gunbelts.

  A deep breath took away the jitters and he nudged his horse into a lope toward the advancing Regulators, now in full view. He wasn’t certain why he felt they had come directly from the ambush ridge, but he did. Were they looking for him?

  As the distance between them closed, he recognized the closest rider immediately as being a part of the Sunday assault in his church. Besides being fat, the man was distinctive because he carried his pistol on a looped thong around his neck, letting it hang in front of his stomach on a ring from the butt. The other two looked familiar, too. Cordell’s mind raced through blurred faces coming at him at the ridge, then earlier at the church. Yes, they had been at the church when Padgett came after Douglas Harper. They were talking to each other, possibly about him, but he couldn’t make out the words. The guns in his pockets were reassuring. He shut off the ache from his head and tried to concentrate.

  A blond-haired Regulator with greasy spectacles stared at Cordell. Like the other two, his rifle lay across his saddle for immediate use. At thirty feet, his eyebrows shot upward and his mouth opened in recognition.

  “Hey, y-you’re that preacher! W-what are ya doin’ here? Ain’t no prayer meetin’ ’round here. Whar’s yur preachin’ collar, anyhow?” The other two men snorted their approval of his remarks and reined their horses to a stop. All three men laid their hands on readied rifles but didn’t lift them. Cordell decided the movement was intended only to intimidate.

  “’Afternoon, men. Did you boys need some praying over?” Cordell reined his stallion to a stop ten feet closer. The big horse stutter-stepped, eager to keep moving, but finally stood. Still annoyed at the command, the horse pawed the ground and sawed on the taut bit. Cordell pulled on the reins to stop the belligerence and reinforced it with a nudge of his spurs. The horse raised its head and froze in place, just like his easygoing buckskin would have done. He patted its shoulder to reinforce the behavior. The next move was theirs.

  The large-bellied, sweaty Regulator with a double chin responded. “Ride on, preacher. Before we forget who you are.” His shirt buttons were struggling to hold against the advance of his stomach as he leaned forward in the saddle. The hanging revolver bounced against the saddle horn.

  Cordell swallowed the anger he felt. They made no attempt to open the trail for him to pass and he made no attempt to ride on.

  The third Regulator’s narrow face was pulled by sleep, hate, and too much whiskey. His whiskey-laden voice was thin and hesitant, like it was coming through an iron pipe. His eyebrows were wirey and seeking space away from his forehead. Cordell vaguely remembered hitting him with his fist at the church.

  “Who are . . . you . . . this time?” he snarled. “Clay Allison . . . or have you decided to be . . . Bill Longley?”

  Derisive laughter swarmed around Cordell, who smiled but said nothing.

  “Say, what do ya know ’bout a girl that escaped from the law this mornin’. Looks like some gunnies was awaitin’ for ’em. Reckon they be headed north afterward.” The question and explanation jabbed at the air. It came from the blond Regulator; the others called him Mason.

  “Afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A part of Cordell was pleased they had bought the signs left by “the Russian”; another part wondered if the statement was designed to catch him in a lie.

  The heavy Regulator straightened in the saddle, and his hanging gun rose with the reaction, flopping against his rolling belly. “You mean to say you didn’t hear any gunshots this morning? Ain’t you got a place close by? It was a whole bunch of riders. Rebs, I’m betting. Or maybe Comancheros. They blasted away while our boys were chasing a fugitive. Must’ve been ten or twelve. Shot down our bo
ys in cold blood, they did.”

  The other two Regulators chuckled at his use of the word “fugitive,” and Mason added, “Yeah, an’ Padgett was fit to be tied when them hosses came a-sketterin’ back. I thought he were gonna explode hisse’f.”

  “Nobody could’ve stood up to that shootin’,” the fat man said defensively, and turned back to Cordell. “I asked if you heard any gunshots this morning, preacher.”

  “Yes, I did. Many. It sounded like they were coming a long way east of us. Couldn’t tell from my corral what it was.” If they pursued the matter, whatever tracks from their house remained could be explained as coming out afterward to see what had happened. “But that’s not what your friend asked me. He asked if I’d seen a girl or a bunch of riders on this trail. I haven’t seen anyone on this trail, except you three.” It wasn’t the question, but it was a truthful statement, Cordell acknowledged silently to himself.

  “Hard to figure how they knew we was comin’—an’ where. Had to be that gal led ’em right into a trap all set an’ waitin’. Yessir, that’s what I think. Looked to me like they’d been there awhile, from the signs. Had wagons too.” As the heavyset man continued, he searched his right shirt pocket for a cigar, jabbing fat fingers into the stretched-out cloth. “Hell, they even carried off our dead. They was all gone. You didn’t bury anybody, did you, preacher?” He withdrew a half-smoked cigar from his pocket, jabbed it into his mouth, and started a search for a match.

  “Not today.”

  “You’re mighty . . . uppity for . . . a Bible-thumper.” The narrow-faced gunman snarled and handed a match to the fat Regulator. “How come you ain’t got on . . . a preacher collar? Hey . . . what’s with that damn . . . dried flower . . . stuck on your coat? Did that good-lookin’ Mex gal of yours . . . give it to you?”