Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  Finally the remaining lawmen drifted away from the campfire and rolled into their sleeping blankets. Still Cordell waited. If his calculations were correct, the guards would change at midnight. He would wait until the new sentries were settled in before returning to their horses and wagon. At ten minutes past midnight, four Regulators wandered out of camp toward their preassigned positions. Two others headed toward Padgett’s wagon and the string of horses to replace the guards there. None spoke, preferring silence to having to make talk. A few minutes later, the replaced guards from the positions nearest their ramp headed directly for their bedrolls.

  Cordell sensed the other sentries coming before he saw them. Three Regulators, returning from guard duty, walked within ten feet of him without realizing their closeness. They were yawning and talking about a blond whore they both had known, and about who might have been responsible for today’s ambush of their fellow Regulators, and whether there would be any whiskey left for them. He drew a gun in case they actually walked into him, leaving no choice but to fire. The three men passed him. One man stepped a foot from Cordell’s shoulder; his voice was clipped and sarcastic. Where was the fourth?

  There! The last Regulator had stopped to relieve himself in a shallow ditch in the middle of the east side of the ranch yard, only twenty-five feet from the house itself and next to the nurtured growth of wild flowers. Now he was moving again, holding his rifle like it was very heavy. Cordell watched him but avoided connecting with the man’s eyes. He had known of instances where men actually felt such surveillance and reacted out of some long-forgotten instinct.

  Satisfied the four men were interested only in sleeping, he crouched and worked his way back along the creek line until he felt comfortable walking. In the darkness, he could see that Shank had already returned and was cutting on something in the back of his wagon, using a large-bladed knife. A welcoming nicker from his stallion was louder than Cordell would have wished, but he went immediately to the horse, rubbed its nose, and led it to the creek for a drink. He wanted to loosen the cinch but knew it wasn’t a smart thing to do. They might be coming back fast.

  “Whatcha think, Reverend?” Shank whispered, as he watched the part-time minister care for the stallion.

  Retying the horse, Cordell removed his saddle lariat and joined Shank. “They’re all asleep now—except for the guards. I think we should go first to the house, like we planned, then get Billy Rip an’ finish this.”

  Shank nodded agreement. “Found some hats—for our ‘battalion.’ ”He chuckled and held up a handful of wide-brimmed hats. “Wish I had more. Bin thinkin’ we’re gonna need somethin’ to make ’em stand up. I gathered up some heavy ’nuff branches but couldn’t find ’nuff.”

  The same idea had been churning in Cordell’s mind, but he hadn’t decided the best way to create the appearance of many men in the darkness. It wouldn’t take much, just a shape. He popped the lariat against his leg as he considered their options.

  “See these hyar?” Shank lifted a piece of broom he’d cut. His heavy eyebrows jumped around with a life of their own. “These’ll go in the ground real good. We kin stick hats on ’em. I thought slidin’ a burlap sack over one would look like a man in the dark too. What do ya think?”

  “You’re way ahead of me, Caleb. That’s perfect. But we’ll have to work fast—and quiet.”

  “Gotcha. Ya wanna kill them guards ’round the house—a’fer we talk with the Riptons?”

  They discussed the options with Shank definitely more inclined to eliminate the four guards than Cordell was. They decided on knocking out only the man on the south side to allow them easier access to the house. If Billy Ripton agreed, he would join them in “surrounding” the Regulators with their props.

  “Are we takin’ them guns with us now? Them ’Chesters is all loaded an’ ready.” Shank pointed to the weapons in the wagon. “What ’bout these hyar sacks an’ hats? Hellfire, I almost forgot. Got one o’ them things ladies use to make dresses on. That oughta make a good’un.” He pushed aside some boxes to reveal a full-size dress form.

  Cordell chuckled, and Shank slapped him hard on the back.

  “We’ll get the stuff for the dummies later. Let’s take two Winchesters and some boxes of bullets—for now. That’ll give Ma and Pa Ripton more firepower. You can put the other Winchester to good use. I’ll use my Henry.”

  Shank motioned toward heavy canvas containers hanging from the sides of his wagon. “I’m figgerin’ those folks could be needin’ some water. I kin take two o’ these water bags. Fixed up a mite o’ extra grub, too. An’ lead.” He waved his ringed right hand in the direction of two packed leather pouches near his feet, one with food tins and the other holding boxes of bullets.

  Agreeing, Cordell laid his lariat on the ground, took a stubby pencil and a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, and wrote in a scrawly handwriting, unlike his own: “Padgett—Leave the Riptons alone or we will hunt you down and kill you.”

  He showed it to Shank, who studied the note, rubbed his bearded chin, and handed it back. “Ri’t good sentiment. But I think it should be signed, ya know’d, give this hyar gang o’ ours a name. Make it sound real an’ all.”

  Grinning, Cordell thought for a moment, then wrote, “Sons of Thunder.” He showed the note to Shank, who reviewed it a long time before commenting again. His eyebrows danced along with the reading. “‘Sons of Thunder,’ eh? Got a nice ring to ’er. T’were a couple o’ boys from the Good Book, weren’t they?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Shank’s observation surprised Cordell. It was true, but that hadn’t occurred to him. He smiled at the irony of a would-be minister overlooking the linkage to a New Testament reference to two of Jesus’ disciples. Shaking his head at his own lapse, Cordell told him about Aleta’s analogy of thunder being an unseen warning of a coming storm—and the need to become a “son of the thunder” to accomplish the rescue of the Riptons without being discovered. Since it was the two of them, “sons of thunder” simply sounded right. Then he told the big man about the woman in Taullery’s store and her reference to thunder and storms. Shank’s eyes widened with the news of the seer, and Cordell wasn’t certain he should have shared the encounter.

  Shank ran his hand through thick black hair. “Wal, that’d be Eagle Mary. Part Comanche, part witch. Let’s be hopin’ she dun seed it right. Las’ time I heard tell o’ one of her seein’s, a fella north o’ hyar up ’n’ died. Nobody knew from what.”

  “Sorry I brought it up.” Cordell shoved the note into his coat pocket.

  Nodding his head in agreement, Shank started to walk toward the water sack and stopped. When he turned back to Cordell, his eyes were wallowing in tears. “Reckon I should oughta tell ya somethin’. I ain’t exactly goin’ after Padgett to help these good folks. Ya see these hyar rings?”

  In choking sentences, he explained that the four rings on his right hand represented each of his four children; the bigger ring on his left was in memory of his wife. His entire family, living in Georgia, had been killed during the War, their home burned. The Yankee officer in charge of the brutal assault, he later learned from a search of newspaper accounts, was Padgett. Shortly after that, Padgett himself was wounded and lost the use of his legs.

  “I be a-carryin’ a heap o’ hate—an’ a heap more o’ sad inside me fer a long time. Bin a while since I could sleep a night through—without seein’ my kids an’ my wife . . .” He turned away, unable to finish.

  Shank’s anguish slammed into Cordell. He stepped back, caught his own emotions, and moved toward the big man, holding him by the shoulders. Cordell could feel Shank trembling. His hands covered a third of Shank’s upper arms. The massive merchant was dissolving with pent-up sorrow.

  “Caleb, I’m very sorry. I wish I could take away your pain—but God doesn’t give us men that power.” He looked into the big man’s face, washed with hot tears. “All I know is this—an’ I know it to the tips of my toes. They are happy. Very happy. T
hey’re in a joyful place—with no pain, no worries, no wants. Except one. They want you to know this, and that they’ll be waiting on the other side. When it’s time, you’ll all be together again. Until that time, you’ll always see them in every sunset. Every bird singing. Every gentle rain. Every pretty flower. I promise.”

  Shank stood with his head down and his shoulders heaving. His response was barely audible. “I—I c-can’t . . . quite see their faces . . . no more. I—I . . .”

  Cordell was about to tell him the same idea that he had shared with the young Michael Harper, about shutting your eyes and re-creating a happy moment, but realized Shank wouldn’t be able to do that. Glad it wasn’t the first thing out of his mouth, Cordell responded in a voice that was nearly as quiet as Shank’s.

  “You know, Caleb, that’s God’s way of letting us know they are well. They’ll always be in your heart, but not in your head.” He didn’t know if it made sense or not, but it seemed right to him. He had lost a mother, but not to death—and a father, to hatred. It was the only common link he could draw on. Cordell was silent, waiting to see what his big friend would do next. The part-time minister felt like his vitality had been drawn from him and into Shank.

  Shank rubbed his eyes with huge leathery fists and Cordell released his hold on his shoulders, not sure what would happen next. He couldn’t wait much longer to move on Padgett and his wagon, with or without Shank’s help. Slowly, the big man looked up again. His eyes crackled with pain, and his cheeks and beard were lined with wetness, but he smiled. A smile of contentment. The expression puzzled Cordell.

  “Didn’t think no preacher’d ever make me feel so good. Thank ye for them words. They’s like one o’ them spring rains, all sweet an’ gentle, makin’ ever’thin’ green an’ nice.”

  Cordell winced. He wasn’t certain he would be able to return to the pulpit. Not after today. Men of God didn’t shoot people. He swallowed and couldn’t bring himself to silently ask for forgiveness. Instead, he said, “Let’s do this for your family.”

  “I’m ready. Thank ye.”

  To emphasize the point, Shank grabbed a lariat and the two large sacks of water. Without further word, he headed toward their planned drop-off point. Cordell couldn’t imagine how Shank would be able to handle both water sacks, but he carried them like a man holding two dead chickens. Cordell picked up his own lariat, slung it through his left arm and over his shoulder, then lifted the two rifles from the wagon, the pouches of ammunition and food from the ground, and followed Shank. Shank again suggested they take out all four guards. He reminded Cordell that it would make things easier when they started the “gang” attack; they wouldn’t have to worry about one sneaking behind them.

  “Remember, these boys is figgerin’ on killin’ some good folks—an’ takin’ their fine home.” Shank summed up his argument, waving the water sacks as he talked.

  “Are you worried I’m going to hold a prayer meeting?” Cordell glanced at him as they crossed the creek over a chain of flat stones, left there by the Riptons for that purpose, and eased through a cluster of cattails and tall buffalo grass.

  “Nope, jes’ didn’t want ye to be chewin’ on yourself ’bout gittin’ rid o’ these bastards. Ya know, it were Jesus himself who sent all them coin-changers a-packin’ out of the temple. Dun had himself a whip too.”

  Suddenly Cordell froze. Something touched his right knee! His pistol jumped into his hand as he looked down. A big-eyed, yellow cat stared back at him. The Riptons’ cat. Exhaling the tension, Cordell moved his foot to convince the animal there were other adventures more worthwhile. Now, where was the guard on this side of the house? Had he moved? Had the man seen them? No, he would have shot or yelled out.

  A solitary line of sweat crossed Cordell’s tanned face. He was thankful for the black sky with its mere handful of weak stars. Touching the buckskin pouch beneath his shirt, he prayed silently. He gave no thought to the irony of invoking two very different spiritual actions.

  “Damn cats have a way of sneakin’ up on a man, don’t they?” Shank observed.

  “I know why they were here, my friend—and I agree with you, we should take out all four.” He pointed in the direction of the ditch near the house.

  Shank stared in the direction Cordell aimed. “Ya think . . . ah, Rule Cordell coulda handled Lion Graham? If’n he were alive, I mean.”

  The darkness hid Cordell’s frown. He had asked himself the same question over and over since last Sunday. “It’d be awfully close. Neither would have wanted to live on the difference, I reckon. Guess we’ll never know, though, will we—since Cordell’s dead.”

  “Huh? Oh, yah, no, we won’t, I reckon.”

  After an awkward silence of several steps, Shank began describing the guards. It was like a military briefing, Cordell thought. All four carried Winchesters and belted handguns; the rifles wouldn’t be cocked, only levered, or at least that’s how they were when he left. The farthest guard, on the west side, was impatient and bored with the whole thing; Shank thought he would be inclined to let his mind drift. Both the north and south guards had a routine of walking they went through, repeating it over and over. The east guard was very nervous and would be the greatest problem because of it.

  Shank’s gaze was intense; Cordell fought to regain energy. They slipped into the ditch and crouched there to study the situation. Cordell pointed out a dark spot where one of the first guards had urinated so Shank wouldn’t lay anything in it. The big man hefted the heavy water bags toward the southern end of the small earthen bowl and laid them there. All the time, his dark eyes sought signs of the guard posted on this side of the house.

  The man wasn’t hard to find, and Shank’s assessment of him was right. The guard was in constant movement around a tree. Even normal night sounds were bothering him. The murmuring leaves in the cottonwood were ominous conversations. He would whirl first in one direction, then another, at imagined advances. Worse, he was carrying a cocked Winchester, with his finger on the trigger. If they attacked the guard now, it was likely his finger would squeeze the trigger the instant Cordell or Shank hit him, assuming either could get that close without being seen. That was a chance they couldn’t risk.

  Settling into a crouch, they let some of the guard’s jittery nerves burn off naturally, watching from a mere twenty feet away, but careful not to look the edgy guard in the eyes. Cordell guessed the early guards—the first and second sets—would be the weakest men. The best ones would take the harder parts of the night when sleep beckoned to every sentry. He counted on them not expecting any problem so early in the evening, if they were concerned about an attack at all.

  About Cordell’s size but slighter, the guard wore two belted guns—one with the handle forward, the other toward his back. Both holsters were tied down. A light-colored derby, a dirty neckerchief, too-tight pants, and a woolen vest that glistened with remains of a greasy dinner completed the man’s distinctive appearance. Cordell decided that the nervous guard would respond favorably to some “company.” If the sentry thought someone was coming from camp to talk with him, he might relax.

  It was worth the gamble. Waiting longer just increased their being seen. He motioned for Shank to stay in the shadows and the big merchant complied, his eyes wide with concern. Without a murmur, Cordell circled around to position himself as if coming directly from the sleeping camp. Remembering Aleta’s advice, he pulled the folded-up scarf from his coat sleeve where it blotted his wound and tied it around his mouth and nose. The smell of his own blood hit his nose, and he coughed. His arm burned from the movement but didn’t bleed again. He looked up at the guard but knew the slight sound wouldn’t carry that far.

  He should have suggested that Shank wear a mask too. The thought jumped into his mind. Would the big man think of wearing something to hide his face? Probably not. Cordell stared into the darkness as if he would be able to check on his big friend. He reclosed the gap of thirty feet between the nervous man and himself without another sound. P
ulling his hat brim lower to partially cover his eyes and shadow his face, he drew a revolver and kept it at his side.

  The two-pistoled sentry was facing the ranch house, the sleeping camp to his back. The guard’s cocked rifle was now cradled in his arms with his fingers out of the trigger area. He was watching the same yellow cat that had surprised Cordell earlier. Rubbing its back against the tree, the scrawny animal was a welcome diversion for the man.

  Snapping a match to life with his left hand to simulate lighting a cigarette, Cordell declared his presence in a soft, offhand manner at the same time, trying his best to imitate the drawl of one of the Regulators who had passed him earlier. He pushed the coiled lariat back in place on his shoulder as a way to help him concentrate on the voice. “Don’cha shoot now, ol’ friend. Thought you might be likin’ some company. Couldn’t sleep.”

  The guard flinched slightly, but the reassuring voice was a comforting sound in the lonely night. He turned and said, “That you, Bobby Joe? Glad to have the—”

  “If you whisper, I’ll blow your head off.”

  Cordell’s gun barrel lifted the man’s chin to attention, as the dark-coated gunfighter’s left hand slid between the guard’s rifle hammer and the readied bullet in the chamber, and his fingers grabbed the gun itself. The move was a blur. It would be enough to keep the rifle from falling and keep the gun from going off if the guard made some sudden move to fire it and warn his friends. Cordell’s instinct was right, as the guard’s arms jerked upward in response to Cordell’s terrifying command, releasing the gun.

  “Good boy. I’ll take the rifle. Easy-like. Don’t move,” Cordell growled. “If there’s any noise at all, you won’t be around to see the fun. Understand? Nod your head.”