by Cotton Smith
The nervous guard nodded excessively; a dark stain spread across the groin area of his pants. Cordell pulled the weapon free, his left hand still blocking the hammer’s intended path. Smoothly, he uncocked the gun without moving his own from the guard’s neck. With the rifle in his left hand, Cordell delivered a blow to the back of the guard’s head with his revolver barrel. A stuttered groan followed, and the man collapsed into Cordell’s arms. His lariat wobbled from his shoulder and trailed the sagging guard to the ground.
A glance at the sleeping Regulators revealed no movement, nor did he hear any sounds from other parts of the ranch yard. Cordell reholstered his Colt and retrieved his fallen rope. Even their short conversation hadn’t carried over the night sounds. He didn’t think it would.
Cordell dragged the body to the tree and strained to hold the unconscious man in place while he lashed him there with his lariat. Shank appeared from nowhere to help. Like elks at a water hole, they looked up frequently to make certain no one had discovered them. From afar, the guard would appear to be on duty. Tossing the weapons on the ground away from the body, Cordell replaced the handguns with a rock in each holster. In the shadows, they would easily pass as gun handles from a distance. He crossed the sentry’s arms, like they were folded naturally, and held them in place with quick loops of his lariat.
“I’ll git a stick to look like a rifle—in his arms,” Shank whispered, and disappeared.
The guard’s neckerchief became a gag tied tightly around his mouth, in case he became conscious too soon. The gash in his skull was bleeding, but it wouldn’t show in the darkness. Several lashings around the man’s nose held his head up. Cordell didn’t want one of the man’s friends coming to see if the guard was sleeping on duty.
Behind him came a low growl. “What the hell? Raise your hands, mister, and turn around real slow.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Cordell’s hands eased skyward. He hadn’t seen any movement around the camp. Where had this man come from? He had to be one of the other guards from around the house. Silently, Cordell cursed himself for being so careless.
“That’s the first part, mister. Now turn ’round . . . real slow-like. Reckon I dun caught myself one of those bastards that dun shot up our boys today. Glad I needed a smoke from ol’ Jeff. Did ya kill him?”
Cordell turned slowly toward the man. A thick handlebar mustache couldn’t quite hide the guard’s missing teeth in his victorious grin; a cowhide vest was too big for his thin frame. Moonlight slipped along the barrel of his Winchester; Cordell had already noticed that the hammer on the rifle wasn’t cocked. A bullet had probably been levered into the chamber and the hammer eased down, so it wouldn’t go off accidentally, Cordell decided. A sign of a more savvy guard.
That would be the only edge in Cordell’s favor if he decided to draw his pistol. Could he draw and shoot before the man pulled back the hammer and fired? Cordell’s mind raced for a decision of what to do next. He knew he wouldn’t let himself be disarmed, but shots would bring the whole camp. Where was Shank? The thought rammed into his mind.
“Wait ’til I show you to the Captain. He’ll be real happy to string you up.” The grinning guard laid his thumb on the hammer. “Pull down that red mask, fella, so’s I kin . . .”
An iron hand over the guard’s mouth held in the rest of the words as a big knife ripped across his exposed throat. A gurgle was the only night sound. Shank’s huge frame took shape behind the crumpled man.
Cordell watched him, breathed deeply to release the tension, and whispered, “Thanks, Caleb. Not too many options left for me.”
“Yeah, had me a feelin’ ya was a second or two away from pullin’ leather. Thought for a swallow he were that scarey sonvabitch Lion Graham. Haven’t laid eyes on that bastard, have ye?”
“No, I haven’t, but he’s around here, I’m sure,” Cordell said, helping Shank drag the lifeless form into the ditch.
The mention of Graham’s name brought a twitch to Cordell’s face. He saw the killer’s eyes and they became his father’s. He hitched his shoulders to rid himself of the image and heard Shank say he thought that the guard was just coming over to pass the time and didn’t realize anything was wrong until he got close. Shank identified him as the guard watching the north side of the Ripton house. He remembered the mustache and vest.
“Didn’t think ’bout hidin’ my face.” Shank stared at Cordell’s red mask. “Ya think it’s worth my doin’? Not many folks are big as this ol’man. Cain’t put a mask over my whole body.” He chuckled at his joke.
“It can’t hurt, Caleb. Have you got a handkerchief or something?”
A dirty handkerchief from Shank’s back pocket was soon stretched across his wide face.
“Nice mask,” Cordell teased.
“’Bout like puttin’ lace on a pumpkin and sayin’ it’s a table,” Shank growled, and showed him a thick branch he’d found to add to the first guard’s folded arms, to simulate a rifle.
Cordell folded his own arms. “Caleb, we don’t have much time. We won’t try to put this other guard back ‘on duty.’ He wouldn’t be seen from camp anyway. I think they’ll change guards in an hour. Maybe less. We’ve got a lot to do before then.”
Shank smiled, and the expression lifted his entire face. “Good ’nuff. How ’bout me sendin’ the last two your way. That’d be a mite faster.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Whiskey.”
Minutes later, Shank crawled away toward the guard on the south, after placing the stick into the unconscious guard’s arms. From the ditch, it appeared to be a rifle barrel, Cordell thought. Shank’s guttural whisper in the direction of the unseen guard was barely audible. “Sshay, we got . . . s-some Tennessee sippin’ whiskey . . . over hyar. Wan’ s-some? Come on. We’s all on the east s-side . . . down in that low s-spot thar.”
Cordell grinned at the presentation. It sounded just like somebody who’d been drinking. A rush of heavy footsteps followed an interested “Damn right I do. This night’s got me bored.”
Cordell lost the moving silhouette in the darkest shadows but followed the sound of the man advancing. He wasn’t certain where Shank went, but the guard passed where Cordell thought his friend was hiding, came to the the east edge of the ditch, and stopped. Cordell stood and waved his arms to direct his entry into the shallow embankment. The man wasn’t more than fifteen feet away. In the darkness, neither man was much more than a shape.
Reinforcing his gestured welcome, Cordell said enthusiastically, “Over here, man. It’s real good stuff.”
“All right!”
Casually holding his rifle in his right hand at his side, the guard cut straight down the incline. He misjudged the drop-off and slipped, let go of his gun, and staggered to keep his balance. His gun came to rest three feet away. With a long curse, he picked up the rifle as if it were part of his plan of entry.
His head turned first one way, then the other. “Where the hell are you, Jeff . . . Levi? Can’t see crap out here. Damn near fell on my ass.”
“Right here.” The crack of Cordell’s pistol barrel on the man’s head punctuated the statement.
Before Cordell could pull the unconscious man into the deeper shadows, another silhouette appeard at the top of the ditch.
“Hey, you bastards better save some of that for me, goddammit.”
Standing upright beside the downed guard, Cordell waved at him and the man half-ran toward him, stopping only four feet from Cordell.
“Hey, you’re not . . .”
“Drop the gun.”
The stocky guard with a black cloth patch over his left eye hesitated, and Cordell cocked his pistol. A menacing crackle in the night.
“If you shoot, you’ll have Regulators all over your ass,” the guard snarled. His one good eye almost glowed in the darkness.
“Better take a closer look, friend,” Cordell said confidently. “We’ve got your friends surrounded. We can start the ball anytime. You want to go first? Might as we
ll—you won’t be around for the end.”
The man’s face paled and his lone eye widened with a brown eyebrow that arched in fear. He dropped the rifle and it thumped on the ground, sending gray puffs of dust over his mule-eared boots. Unsuccessful with one approach, the guard tried another.
“Hey, we ain’t regular lawdogs. The boss spreads around the money he gets for running off sorry-ass Rebs like these here. I’m sure he could use some more good guns. I’d be happy to put in the word for ya. Say, you look familiar? Ever been down Rio Bravo way?”
“Not interested. I remind people of a lot of men, especially when they’re staring at my gun.”
“W-who are you?”
“They call us the Sons of Thunder.”
“T-the Sons of Thunder?” The guard squinted at Cordell, trying to see him more clearly.
“Where’s Lion Graham?” Cordell kept his face in the shadows. His sense told him that the one-eyed guard wasn’t going to challenge him without a clear edge. Maybe the man would talk.
“Lion Graham? That crazy sonvabitch. How would I know?” The thick-chested guard rocked his hands back and forth in a nervous rhythm, like a schoolboy reciting. “Padgett has to keep him around because . . . well, the man with the money wants it that way. Graham gives me the shivers.” His right hand inadvertently brushed against the handle of his belt gun. He jumped at the slight contact and rushed his hand out and away from the pistol. “S-sorry. Sorry, I . . .”
“Take off the gunbelt. You wouldn’t want me to mistake what you’re doing.” Cordell’s voice was actually soft.
“Yeah, you’re right.” The guard’s hands shook as he struggled to release the leather strip from the belt buckle.
“Who runs Padgett?”
“What?” The gun thudded at the guard’s boots.
“Who runs Padgett? You said there’s a man with money who wants Graham with you.”
The guard shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I dunno. Never saw him, never heard his name. All I know is he’s the one who tells us who to go after—and tells Graham who to kill.”
“Is that what happened to Whisper Jenson?” Cordell’s question had an edge and and his gentler tone was gone.
“Yeah, I heard the big man was worried about Jenson rallying the folks around here.” The guard motioned with his hands to simulate the killer’s jerky manner. “But Graham, he’s crazy. Talks about being alive at different times. Ya know, back in history. Rome an’ all that. An’ he keeps talking about seeing a dead man an’ wanting to kill him—for real. Rule Cordell, ya remember him? A real heller. Got hisself dead two years back. Him an’ a whole gang, I think.”
Above them, a large shadowed figure appeared. Cordell knew immediately it could only be one person. Shank’s earlier observation about a mask not doing much to hide his identity was probably right.
Shank’s growl explained his appearance. “That’s the last one. How you doin’?”
“We’re fine. All of the boys ready?”
“Who . . . ah, yeah, they be ready whenever you give the word. All thirty o’ us. We’s itchin’ to cut down a few o’ them Regulators. Who’s this sorry ass?”
The guard found enough courage to comment, “You boys are playing with fire. That’s Captain Padgett down there, you know. Head of the state police.”
Shank replied first. “Hellfire, dun thought it were Saint Patrick. Wonder if Padgett is up for skeedaddlin’ outta hyar.”
Shank stomped into the ditch like it was level ground, heading toward the standing guard who was still facing Cordell. The big merchant’s sagging mask had slipped below his nose and now barely covered his mouth. Cordell motioned for him to raise it, but Shank wasn’t paying attention.
“What are you going to do with this guy?” Shank stopped just behind the eye-patched guard.
“Got any thoughts?” Cordell asked.
Shank’s answer was to tap the man on the shoulder. When the guard turned around, Shank’s right fist exploded into his face. The savage blow drove the man off his feet and he tumbled into the top bank of the incline, hit it, and slid back down without knowing.
“Will that do?” Shank asked, shaking his hand to relieve the pain. Shank’s hand ran across his face, pulling the mask down to his chin. His fingers stopped at his neck and scratched it. He didn’t appear to remember the handkerchief was even there.
“Looks good to me. You think he saw you?” Cordell asked as they tied the two guards’ hands and legs with their own pants belts and gunbelts and gagged them with their own neckerchiefs.
“Naw, he never saw nothin’ around my fist. Why? Would you kill ’im if he did? I figgered you wanted the boy to be able to tell Padgett a few things—when he comes around.”
Cordell didn’t answer. He shoved two of the guards’ handguns into his waistband. The action felt like the old days when he carried four or more revolvers into battle. He told Shank what the guard had said about not knowing where Graham was and about Padgett being controlled by another man. He didn’t see any benefit in telling about Graham being after him.
Just to make certain Billy Ripton—and the Ripton family—knew friends, not enemies, were close by, Cordell crawled beside the lone, glass-enclosed window and whistled a low shrill sound, much like a hawk screaming. He and other Rebel scouts with him had used it to signal to each other when they were sneaking up on something. He whistled, then waited for a response. Waited. Nothing. Precisely, he whistled again, a little louder this time. Still no response.
Surely Billy could hear that, even if he was sleeping. Maybe he was wounded and not able to respond. He would try again. There! There it was. Faint but distinct. Cordell whistled again; this time the signal indicated that Billy was to stay where he was, they were coming his way. The answering whistle was stronger this time; Billy Ripton understood.
Cordell hurried back to the waiting Shank. “Come on, Caleb, let’s go see some nice people.”
“You betcha.” Shank lifted the water sacks and scaled the incline like it wasn’t more than a stair step in town. Cordell gathered the sacks of food and bullets and the two wagon Winchesters. Lizzie’s cat reappeared, me-owed its curiosity, and followed them to the back door, where they laid down their supplies, knocked, and waited. Inside were sounds of scuffling feet, muffled voices, and, finally, the unlatching of the heavy door. The door opened slowly, only an inch.
At the last moment, Cordell remembered his mask, pulled down the scarf, and tried to smile. Billy Ripton stood in the doorway, holding a Spencer repeating carbine taken from a dead Union soldier during the War. His eyes were bright, but fatigue hung to his sunburned face. He was heavier than the last time Cordell had seen him, but it was the same energetic boy who had ridden with them as an underage Confederate cavalryman. His homespun shirt was dark at his left shoulder; dried blood speckled his neck.
“Oh Lordy be, it is you. Thank God, it’s Captun Cordell, Pa. He’s here!”
And the door swung open wide and the yellow cat scooted ahead of Cordell and Shank into the house.
“Better git in quick, Captun, a’fer them Regulators see ya. Thar be four ’round the house—all the time.” Billy glanced down at the streaking animal and chuckled. “So that’s whar yo-all’s bin, huh, Belle? Yo-all bin with the Captun.”
Cordell stepped inside and waved for Shank to join him. The big man entered, ducking his head to clear the door frame. When Billy Ripton saw the big man, he realized what he had said. “Oh my, I . . . ah, how are you, Reverend . . . Langford. I’m sorry I . . .”
“That’s all right, Billy Rip. This is Caleb Shank, a good friend—an he’s been trying not to call me that all night.” Cordell turned toward Shank and grinned.
Shank chuckled, and his eyebrows danced. “Wal, I didn’t want to be a-stompin’ on your back trail.” He paused and held out his hand to Billy. “I were at Longstreet’s when you came a-ridin’ to warn him—while the Captain hyar did his playactin’ with them Yanks. You boys did a heap fine job that day.”
Billy’s proud glow was evident even in the dark.
Shank cocked his head to the side. “By the way, t’ain’t nobody out thar now, ’ceptin’ an owl or two.”
Cordell snapped, “But there are plenty waiting in that creek bed. We only took out the four guards close to the house.”
“Well, come on in. I reckon Ian’s out thar somewhars too.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Cordell avoided the question until he was inside, then only muttered that Taullery couldn’t come on such short notice. In the grayness, he could see a potbellied stove, a washstand, and a rocking chair now occupied by the sitting cat. Strangely, the aroma of fresh baked bread hung in the air, mixing with the sharp odor of gunpowder.
In the adjoining room, he noticed that a large knife lay on the red coals in the kitchen stone fireplace. Only the blade was being heated; the wooden handle rested on stone and was wrapped in a rag. He surmised that the knife on the fire was Billy’s idea. It was a trick they used during the War. If not too severe, a wound could be cauterized with a hot blade and the soldier returned to action.
Billy apologized for the darkness as his father, Eldon Ripton, stepped forward from the shadows. He was an inch shorter than his son, his frame thinner, his hair nearly gray, and his shoulders bent slightly, but the resemblance was obvious. Unlike his son, however, the older man’s manner was stern, self-righteous, and humorless. In his reddened hands was a Confederate Enfield rifle with the “CSA” plate embedded in the stock.
“Ri’t glad to see you, Captun.” Eldon Ripton held out his hand. “Whar’s our Lizzie—she got to yo-all, I reckon.”
After the greeting, Cordell explained about Lizzie Ripton being wounded but being cared for by his wife. Eldon’s only response was a frown. Cordell didn’t mention Aleta being at the school for black children but told about stopping the Regulators chasing her and Shank covering their tracks. He omitted any reference to Ian Taullery and outlined quickly what they intended to do next. While he talked, Shank went back outside and brought in the water bags, food pouch, and weapons.