Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  Cordell was rigid in the saddle. He was angry at himself for letting Aleta pin the flower on him. What was he thinking? Even the mayor’s wife had commented on it.

  “Never met him, mind ya. Jes’ saw him from a ways off. He’d jes’ fooled a whole Yank division into thinkin’ they was a-facin’ a dug-in bunch o’ Rebs. Fact is, he an’ his scouts was only three. Three, mind ya. Kept Longstreet’s flank from bein’ chewed up, he did. ‘Masquerade Battalion,’ that’s what they called it. Yessirree.” Shank shook his head, enjoying the reminiscence, not looking at Cordell. “Didn’t realize ’til later that he was a Texican. Wondered why he didn’t ride with Terry’s Texas Rangers, ya know, the Eighth Texas Cavalry. Guess he had his reasons.”

  Cordell rubbed his mouth with the back of his left hand and waited.

  “Ya know’d, he saved a lot o’ Reb lives that day. Maybe mine. Wished I coulda thanked him personal-like.” Quickly, Shank added, “’Course, Rule Cordell is daid now. Got hisse’f kilt along with another wild’un, Johnny Cat Carlson. Must be two years back, I reckon.”

  Cordell pushed his hat back on his forehead, and his grin matched Shank’s earlier smile. “Don’t know about this ‘Rule Cordell’ fellow, but I do thank you for your help on the ridge, Caleb. You did a much better job than I would have.” He paused and added, “But I think this is a job I’d better do alone.”

  “Your friend, Ian, he wouldn’t go with you?”

  The question hurt, and Cordell’s face showed it. “Oh, Ian couldn’t get away. Pretty short notice. It’s all right.”

  “King o’ the piddlers, that’s what I call him. Always a-piddlin’ with this thing or that. Fancies hisself gittin’ rich.” Shank didn’t look at Cordell as he made his observation, then looked up and saw Cordell’s pained expression and added quickly, “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with that, o’ course.”

  “I’ll be seeing you, Caleb. Thanks again.” Cordell turned his stallion back toward the trail, and the horse was eager to be on the move again.

  “Wait, Rule, er Reverend . . . please, I shouldn’t be a-paintin’ your friend thatta way. Ian Taullery’s a good man. Jes’ a mite particular ’bout things. Reckon I could learn from that myself.”

  “That’s all right, Caleb. Nobody knows what a pain in the butt Ian can be at times. Still, he’s my oldest friend. We grew up together.” Cordell’s eyes flashed with the thought that he shouldn’t have revealed that connection.

  Shaking his head excitedly, Shank pleaded, “I kin help ya, Rule. Really. This ol’ man is mighty good with a knife—and a fist, if’n I do say so myself. Might fool ya how quiet I kin be, too. Dun spyin’ fer Marse Robert an’ Longstreet, ya know.”

  Cordell reined in the horse, and it didn’t like the change in orders and shook its mane. “Caleb, I figure the best way to make Padgett leave is to scare the hell out of him. Aleta came up with the idea of making him think there’s an outlaw gang ready to kill him if he doesn’t leave the Riptons alone. I think she’s right and he’ll find a reason to ride away. If I do it right, they won’t know it’s me either—What do you think?”

  “I think I be havin’ a wagon full of stuff that’ll make one hellva of a gang.”

  “So do I.”

  “Kinda like that masquerade battalion, ya know? But . . .”

  “But what?” Cordell’s eyes narrowed.

  Shank yanked the pipe from between his teeth. “Why don’t we jes’ sneak up an’ cut the bastard’s throat? I kin do it, Ru—Reverend, jes’ as sure as yur a-sittin’ there.”

  Cordell cocked his head to the side. The same idea had passed through his mind earlier. “Thought of it. But killing him will only bring more law in here. Swarming all over to find out who did it. I figure if Padgett backs away on his own, there will be peace, sort of. At least, it’s a start. Then we’ll find who’s pushin’ him along.”

  “I’m with ya, Rule. Any way ya want to play it.”

  Cordell leaned across the saddle with his right hand fully extended. Shank grabbed it enthusiastically. Cordell’s fist disappeared within the big man’s own.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Outside of town in the other direction, Aleta approached the darkened boot factory. Only yellow light from a single window welcomed her. A defiant grove of cottonwoods loomed grotesquely to the far side. Surrounding the small building was a hedgerow of unruly bushes, except for a fifteen-foot gap that served as an entrance. On the back side, the bushes deteriorated into scattered growth, linking with the more robust bushes on either side. The original owner had been fascinated with the unruly vegetation for reasons known only to him.

  She saw Eliason’s black buggy and mules before she saw him. The carriage stood at the corner of the unpainted structure closest to her. What appeared to be a double-barreled shotgun poked its head up from the seat. Then she saw Jacob Henry Eliason, the black businessman, sitting in a chair on the factory’s wooden porch, smoking a pipe. She waved, and he stood to greet her.

  He laid his pipe on the planked porch beside his chair and removed his hat. His gray suit and black cravat matched the growing shadows. Fading sunlight found the gold chain across his vest and caressed it before leaving. He walked quickly to the steps, holding the hat in his left hand.

  “Good evening, Missus Langford. Right good to see you tonight.” He was enthusiastic but couldn’t hide his concern. “Where be the Reverend?”

  She reined her horse at the rack and swung easily from her saddle, her split leather skirt flopping against her thighs. Eliason tried to avoid looking there, but admired her riding like a man instead of sidesaddle. His gaze couldn’t miss the gun at her waist. She wrapped the reins around the crossbar, removed a large canvas bag from the saddle horn, and quickly explained about Lizzie Ripton. She could think of no reason to hide the situation from a friend. Eliason’s expression was unreadable.

  “So the preacher is headed for the Ripton place.” He returned his hat to his balding head.

  “Sí. He rides first to hees friend, Ian. They will go together.”

  Eliason hesitated before asking if she really thought Taullery would accompany the minister. Aleta’s response was immediate and positive. Eliason’s frown indicated that her enthusiasm was not well-placed, but he said nothing.

  Instead, he rubbed his graying beard with his right hand and asked, “What does your man expect to do there?”

  “He weel get Padgett to leave theem alone.” Her chin raised slightly as she finished the statement.

  Eliason’s smile was instantaneous. “How’s he going to do that?”

  It was Aleta’s turn to smile. “He has hees ways.”

  “I figured as much.” Eliason’s chuckle shook his lean frame. “Still, I hope he rides careful. Padgett won’t care if he’s a man of the Lord or not.”

  “Are the children inside?”

  Pleased by her change of subject, Eliason described the waiting class: fifteen children ranging in ages from six to twelve. He swallowed and added, “There’s also Zachim. He thinks he’s thirty. He won’t stay if you don’t want him to—but he badly wants to learn to read and cipher.”

  “That weel be fine.” She unbuckled her gunbelt and pushed it into the bag.

  “May I help you with that?” Eliason reached for the bag.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eliason. It ees things for the children.”

  “I figured as much.”

  Neither mentioned the gun as they stepped inside the factory. Two wall lamps cast their proud light on three rows of desks occupying a freshly swept area next to a front window. All but three contained children, their eyes bright with interest and fear. Standing in the corner was a tall black man with his arms behind his back and his eyes down. Watching from the dark were work-tables scattered with leather, tools, and boxes of readied boots. A slate board was nailed to the wall in front of the desks, and a scratched teacher’s desk and chair completed the schooling section.

  Stacked on the desk were two piles of The New Texas School Reader, books
written during the War, along with small individual slates and boxes of chalk. He apologized for the desk’s appearance, then explained the children had already been fed supper here.

  “Hope this will work for you, Missus Langford. It’s all I could find. Nothing, I’m afraid, for the younger children.” Eliason’s voice was uncharacteristically tentative. “Figured you’d be wantin’ to do the passing out of the books an’ such.”

  “Thank you, Senor Eliason. It ees bueno.” Her smile was wide. “Thees ees better than my, ah . . .”

  “White folks’ school.”

  “Sí.”

  It was Eliason’s turn to smile. Then he put his hand over his mouth to cover his words. “Missus Langford, some of these children don’t know their last names.” His eyes flickered in pain and anger. “Thought you should know.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Eliason. They are beautiful, aren’t they.”

  “My friends call me ‘Suitcase.’”

  “Thank you, Suitcase. I am very glad to be here. My husband . . . wanted to . . .”

  “I know he did. Where do you want this?” He raised the bag to his waist.

  “Oh, just put it anywhere. On the desk ees fine.”

  Without further discussion, she stepped to the front of the desks. “Good evening, children, I am Missus Langford—and I am here to help you learn how to read and write.”

  “An’ cipher?” a yellow-shirted boy with two missing front teeth asked.

  “And cipher.”

  He shook his head authoritatively.

  “Thank you for coming, Zachim. I appreciate you being here to help me with the children.”

  Zachim’s head snapped up and his face slowly registered the significance of her gesture. He mouthed, “Thank ye, ma’am.”

  She invited him to join her at the front of the class. Reluctantly, he edged forward with his eyes watching his new boots. A gift from Eliason. He paused at her side with his back to the children. “Missus Langford, I cain’t read no letters. No numbers, neither.”

  She put her fist to her mouth, faked a cough, and whispered, “You weel.”

  He smiled and stepped behind her, alongside the blackboard. Smiling, Eliason slipped quietly outside. Nightfall had sweetly come, like a young woman tending her flower garden. Instead of savoring the spring evening’s gentleness, he went immediately to his carriage and lifted the shotgun from the seat. After checking the loads, he clicked shut the gun, picked up a small sack of extra ammunition, and head back to the front porch.

  He had hoped Reverend Langford would have joined them. Threats against this school had grown more intense each day. A few steps from his vehicle, he stopped, chewed on his lower lip, and returned. He lifted the scarred suitcase with his free hand from the carriage, looked around as if he expected someone to be watching, and resumed his return to the porch with one hand holding the suitcase, the other his shotgun. He chuckled to himself that he was becoming a real worrier in his old age. But he liked the security of having his legal papers close to him. Always had. It was a good idea for a black man succeeding in a white man’s world.

  Words on a piece of paper weren’t really on his mind. It was the part-time minister who had become his friend. Something told him Reverend Langford was more than a Bible-thumper. He sensed it before Sunday’s awful conflict and was certain of it after. That had convinced him of his hunch to ask Aleta to teach black children. This minister was all warrior, he was sure of it. In the back of his mind, the name “Rule Cordell” crept forward to gain attention, but he dismissed the notion as nothing more than an impassioned man doing anything he could to save another.

  He leaned back in the chair, scooting it sideways to fully place himself in the darkest shadow. Maybe he was just geting old, he told himself, set the suitcase beside him, laid the shotgun across his lap, and looked for his pipe. It was lying a few feet away, right where he had left it. But placing the stem in his clinched teeth released a shiver. Why? How silly, he thought, and reached for a match in his vest. Another strange worry shot through him, and he instinctively removed his fingers to pause at the handle of his shoulder-holster revolver. The concern left, and his eyes sought the thin moon sliver tacked to the dark sky. He didn’t need to smoke right now. It was greater satisfaction just knowing he had done something to help. Even if it was just fifteen children—and a thirty-year-old man.

  Inside, Aleta was thrilled with the hunger to learn she was finding among the children. She was particularly drawn to an eight-year-old girl eager to answer every question. Mary Ann’s cheery voice was music. Without appearing to do so, Aleta quickly assessed the academic level of each student, distributing the slates to every child and the books to the older ones.

  She made a special announcement of suggesting Zachim sit beside a twelve-year-old boy named William James to help him. Zachim realized she was giving him a way to learn without the humiliation of being so much older than the class. His face beamed with joy when she gave him a slate and a book. He wiped away a tear with his fist, and she blinked away a responding emotion.

  Under her direction, the class began to recite the alphabet as Aleta drew the letters on the blackboard and the children wrote them on their own slates. She worked through the alphabet, giving the class an opportunity to tell her what each letter was. Mary Ann had given most of the letters so far.

  “Right . . . ‘M.’ Let us all say it together. ‘M.’ Bueno! Ah, very good. Now—after ‘M’ comes?”

  The same yellow-shirted boy jammed his hand in the air and she called on him, pleased to have someone respond beside Mary Ann. “Sí, David Duane, what ees the letter?”

  “I hear tell your man dun fi’t them Regulators—during church. Be that the truth of it? Heard you was a-fi’ttin’ them too.”

  Aleta’s half-smile was less a response to the request than the annoyance of interrupting her lesson plan. “What you heard was true. Now, who knows what letter comes next?”

  David Duane’s hand shot up again, a fraction ahead of Mary Ann’s.

  What was left of her smile vanished. “Sí, David Duane?” She knew his response wouldn’t be “N.”

  “Is yo-all ag’in all the Yanks?” David Duane’s face was earnest, his eyebrows propped to reinforce his concern.

  “Let us concentrate on the alphabet for now,” Aleta said.

  “But, Missus Langford, my Momma says them Regulators are hyar to make sure we’uns gi’t our . . . just doin’s.”

  Aleta folded her arms. “Your mother ees right. That ees what they should be doing. Last Sunday, they took an innocent man and hanged him. What if they did that to your father?”

  “I don’t have no Pappa. Some white men in sheets burned our house—an’ kilt him.”

  She nodded and tried to think of something to say. The class was staring at her. Waiting. Their eyes told her that they wanted reassurance their new teacher wasn’t suddenly something evil.

  “That ees why you must learn all you can. That ees what your pappa would want.” She forced a smile, but it was trembling and thin. “The more you learn, the more you can do, and the more you will know who will really help you—and who says he does, but really does not want you to get better.”

  The silence that followed was sliced by Zachim’s intense speech. He stood from his crouched position beside James William. “Chil’un, this hyar fine lady—and her good man—they’s on our side. You best be knowin’ that. I dun seed that Captain Padgett and his bunch. Don’t you go believin’ they’s hyar to he’p us. They’s a-wantin’ to he’p theirselves—an’ that’s all. David Duane, you tell your Momma to come an’ talk to me about it. She’s wrong as the devil attendin’ Sunday meetin’.”

  Outside on the porch, Eliason heard the discussion and the resumption of the alphabet recitation. Just the sound of learning made him feel good. He muttered to himself, “School is the best fort there is.” His mind caught a rustling sound to his left, a noise that shouldn’t be there.

  Sliding from the chair to a
kneeling position, he returned his pipe to the porch and raised the shotgun to his shoulder, pointing it in the direction of the sound. He waited for more indications of movement and was rewarded with rustling to his right. No one out there was a friend, he was sure of it.

  With his right hand on the trigger and gripping the shotgun, he reached inside his coat with his left hand and awkwardly drew the pearl-handled revolver from its shoulder holster. He placed the gun at his knee and silently cursed its silver plating for the reflection it gave away in the moonlight. His attention was drawn to the nearby suitcase. Impulsively, he grabbed the handle and hurled it as hard as he could over the side porch and into the night. It sounded like the luggage landed in the hedgerow bordering the small building. He tried to calm himself by joking that a little scratching wouldn’t hurt anything that hadn’t already been marred from wear. He would hunt for the suitcase later—after this, whatever it was, was over. Silently, he chastised himself for being so jumpy but returned his attention to the night. Down deep, he knew it wasn’t a joke and he wasn’t hearing things. He listened again for shuffling but heard nothing.

  His two vest-pocket derringers were always ready but only good in close quarters. He saw the movement—or thought he did. Lighter-colored shapes moving in the darkness. But nothing definitive enough to shoot at. How many were out there? Would they really shoot with children inside—and the wife of a minister? Should he warn Missus Langford? He remembered her gun.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Orange flames cut into the night and he felt lead hammer against his chest and stomach. His shotgun exploded as his fingers closed in response to the impact. Bullets crashed around him. His head jerked sideways and his hat went flying. Sickening thumps of lead found his lean frame. He fell backward, grabbing wildly for the revolver at his feet. Blood covered his clothes. Blood was in his eyes. His mouth. He couldn’t see. Unable to move, he stammered, “Save . . . the children!” Three more shots rang out. A confident cry followed.