Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  “Ya got any lead to go with them fine-lookin’ guns?” Eldon Ripton asked.

  “Sure ’nuff,” Shank replied, and dragged in the pouch of bullets.

  “That might do us, I reckon.”

  “Them’s Winchesters, Pa.”

  “I know’d what they are, son. Bin a-seein’ ’em pointin’ at us.” Eldon’s square jaw pushed outward as if to challenge his enemies to try again.

  From another room, Tallie Mae Ripton, Billy’s mother, quietly appeared. She held a pistol at her side. Her simple cotton dress was stained with blood; Cordell thought it was Billy’s, not hers. Her wide, flat face had lost its youthful beauty years ago, but her bright eyes were defiant. Billy had her eyes and so did the youngest Ripton child, eight-year-old Jeremiah Ripton, coming a few steps behind her. A long-barreled Navy Colt dragoon was carried proudly in both hands.

  Mrs. Ripton studied Cordell without speaking. Disappointment was evident when she finally addressed him. “Pastor, I’m real sorry to see you back in this. Thought you’d given up the gun for . . . better things.”

  Removing his hat, Cordell swallowed before answering. “Mrs. Ripton, your enemies are my enemies. I think the good Lord wants me here—with my gun. If he doesn’t, I guess he’ll let me know.”

  Rolling her shoulders, she started to say something else, but Eldon Ripton barked, “Tallie Mae, what kinda talk is that? Captun Cordell came to he’p us. There’ll be time enough for prayin’ an’ sech when this be over an’ dun with. Goodness, woman.”

  Embarrassed by her husband’s remarks, Tallie Mae Ripton wiped at her dress as if it would remove the bloodstains. She spoke with her eyes down, raising them slowly to meet Cordell’s. She had been drawn to him ever since he stayed with them after his father shot him. “We’re nigh outta cartridges—an’ food. Ain’t had no water for two days. I did bake us some bread. Last o’ our flour. Jes’ finished. Be proud to share it with ya.” Her assessment of the situation was expressed without emotion; the last sentence was her version of an apology.

  “Captun—and the Russian hyar—they dun brung us some . . . o’ all three, Ma.” Billly said, forcing enthusiasm through his weariness.

  “That’s mighty kind of yo-all.” She brought the gun to her bosom and held it there with both hands, then realized it emphasized her breasts and returned the gun to her side.

  Steppping in front of his mother, Jeremiah Ripton said matter-of-factly, “I bin doin’ the loadin’—but I kin shoot.”

  “I’m sure you can, son,” Cordell replied, meeting the boy’s intense gaze. “If we’re lucky, maybe we can get these Regulators to go away—and stay away.”

  “Yo-all gonna shoot ’em all?” the boy asked, his eyes reinforcing the question.

  Cordell glanced at Billy, then at both Ripton parents, before returning his attention to the youngest son. “No, we’re not, Jeremiah. Even if we were lucky enough, and that’s hard to imagine, the state police would come after you even harder.”

  “I—I don’ understand. What did ya come fer, then?” Jeremiah was close to crying but bit his lower lip to keep the tears away.

  Kneeling, Cordell explained the strategy of making the Regulators think they were surrounded by superior numbers, and letting Padgett decide on his own not to continue with his attack, and why it made sense. He talked to the boy as if he were an adult and the only one in the room. Jeremiah listened without saying a word. When Cordell finished, the boy asked only one question:

  “Can I be one o’ the ‘Sons of Thunder’? Please?”

  Shank roared and the others smiled, except for Cordell. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You already are. Better yet, you’re a Ripton.”

  Jeremiah beamed and asked, “So I can go with you?”

  “I’ve got a special job for you, Jeremiah, if your folks agree. You’re going to man one of these windows, so they won’t think yo-all have left the house unguarded.”

  “But I . . .”

  “This new Winchester is for you to use,” Cordell went to the doorway where the weapons and supplies lay. He picked up one of the rifles and returned. “You and your mother will each take a window and fire as fast as you can—straight up into the air, when we give the signal.”

  Jeremiah received the gun like it was precious jewelry, then turned to his mother for her approval. Her wan smile was the best she could do. She mentioned that she hoped her one windowpane would survive the ordeal.

  Eldon Ripton responded first, turning toward Cordell. “I don’t git it. Why we don’t jes’ cut ’em all down? They shot our Lizzie—an’ they’re a-tryin’ to kill us an’ take our home.” He raised his right hand toward his own face, balling it into a tight fist. “We dun built this hyar ranch, Captun, outta nothin’ but red clay and rock. I already dun paid ’em eight hundred dollars in taxes they said I owed. Had to borry it from that damn Yankee bank in town.”

  “Pa figgers on makin’ a drive with some o’ our cattle. Git us some cash money,” Billy added. “Thar’s word o’ others doin’ it an’ makin’ good money if they git through.”

  Cordell’s face flushed with frustration, but it disappeared as he realized the strain Eldon Ripton was under. “I understand how you feel, Eldon, but if we kill a company of state police, you and your family will be blamed, you’ll be wanted—and you’ll lose your place anyway. You’ll have to run—and keep runnin’. Is that what you want?”

  “That’s purty hard talk. Yo-all were a-ridin’ the owlhoot trail once, I do believe.”

  “Yes, I did. But I didn’t have a family—or a fine place like this.”

  “Sounds like you’ve bin a-chewin’ on this awhile.” The elder Ripton rubbed his chin. “Thought you an’ your lady dun kilt some Regulators yourself today.”

  Shank waved his arms and added, “He didn’t tell ya about the three he had to fight this afternoon, when they came a-lookin’ fer yur girl.”

  “That how you got that bloody sleeve, Captun?” Billy asked.

  Cordell nodded and frowned at the big merchant.

  “That puts ’em down to sixteen, plus that bastard captain—an’ that gunfighter o’ his’n. Billy dun whupped a couple earlier, too,” Eldon assessed.

  “Saw one of them at their campfire—with a bandaged head.” Cordell shoved his hands into his gunbelts.

  “Pa, remember Captun Cordell’s the one that dun outsmarted all them Yanks,” Billy said, his eyes pleading for his father to understand. “We dun it by settin’ up all kinds of dummies, makin’ ’em think they was facin’ a load of Rebs.”

  “This ain’t Virginia, boy.” Eldon Ripton shot a look at his older son that immediately stopped him from saying more, then turned to Cordell again and demanded, “Yo-all think Padgett’s jes’ gonna up an’ ride off—if we do this hyar fake soldjur stuff?”

  “I think it’s your only chance. But you’d better decide quick. We’ve got to do it before they switch guards.” Cordell crossed his arms and stared at him. “The Sons of Thunder will get the blame for the dead Regulators so far, not your family.”

  Eldon Ripton looked down at his worn boots, then over at his wife. In the gray light, Cordell thought the man looked twenty years older than he was. She nodded slightly.

  “Let’s do it, I reckon,” Eldon muttered. “An’ God he’p us.”

  “Reverend, will you please . . .” Tallie Mae started and hesitated, “. . . lead us in a prayer—before yo-all go?”

  Annoyed by the idea, Cordell started to respond that they didn’t have the time, but something in him stopped any words that were coming. He held his hat in front of him with this arms extended and bowed his head. The others followed his action.

  “Lord, we know you are always near and that you are never sought in vain. Guide our minds now as well as our hands—and grant that we will have peace again on this beautiful land. Amen.”

  “Amen” was echoed by everyone in the room; Shank was the loudest. Billy hugged his mother, and Cordell brought her the second Winchester. E
ldon grabbed her hand and turned to leave, but she held it an instant longer and their eyes met in an embrace. Shank rushed out, rubbing his eyes.

  At the doorway, Cordell was the last one to leave. He turned back to young Jeremiah and said, “Remember, when you fire, I want you to shoot into the air. Don’t look out the window. You stay under it and poke the gun up an’ out the window. If you shoot straight out, you might hit one of us. Got that?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good boy.”

  “You’re not a’scar’t o’ that Lion Graham fella, are ya, Captain?”

  Cordell’s attempt at a smile was more of a grimace. “Only a fool wouldn’t be, Jeremiah. He’s killed too many men who knew how to fight.”

  “B-but you’re better than he is with a gun, ain’t ya?” Jeremiah’s eyes pleaded for a positive response.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Jeremiah’s face contracted with disappointment, then his eyebrows flickered and he pronounced fiercely, “I think you are. I think you’re the best there is.”

  Cordell hitched his gunbelt to adjust the two handguns there, in addition to his holstered Colts and the Deane & Adams pistol in his back waistband. It was an unconscious reaction to the boy’s praise. He pulled back from the door and walked toward the rocking chair. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to take along . . . Belle, isn’t it? She’s been a big help so far. That all right with you?”

  Jeremiah’s face was a puzzle. “S-she gonna be in any danger?”

  “No more than she has been, Jeremiah.”

  “Wal, she’s Lizzie’s cat. It don’t matter much to me.”

  Picking up the cat, he headed back to the door. Belle nuzzled his arm, and Cordell scratched its ears. Tallie Mae met him there and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder as he paused there. “Rule, please forgive me for what I said earlier. I . . . had no right.”

  “Tallie Mae, there is nothing to forgive. Good old Caleb reminded me that it was Jesus who drove the coin-changers out of the temple with a whip. I reckon a simple preacher can fight for his friends.”

  “Bless you, Rule Cordell.” She sought his eyes. “You should let me look at your arm first.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but it’s all right.”

  Hurrying through the night, the four men worked their way back to the merchant’s wagon, carrying with them the guards’ rifles. The other three were surprised to see Cordell with a cat, but he didn’t seem inclined to explain. From the tailgate, Shank distributed hats, burlap sacks, broomsticks, gathered branches, and the few remaining pistols. Cordell gave his two guard revolvers to Billy. They decided to set up in three positions: Billy Ripton would take the west side, far enough back from the dry creek bed so that it wouldn’t be easy to see; Eldon would be on the north where the creek bed slanted to the east, with the sleeping Regulators in front and below him; Shank would man the Gatling gun; Cordell would direct Padgett. It was decided to leave Shank’s dress form behind because it was too awkward to carry.

  Cordell instructed the Riptons to lay the rifles and revolvers in a straight line, each gun a few feet from the next, and spread out the dummies as best they could. He recommended they hold a pistol in each hand as they moved. It was easier to shoot them quickly. The idea was to fire as rapidly as possible, from as many different places as possible, once the “attack” began. Cordell insisted on firing only for effect, unless there was no choice. The two Riptons left with the understanding of the need to be quiet yet move quickly.

  Returning to his earlier watching place at the creek bank, only this time with the cat in his arms, Cordell again studied the wagon guard, catching only glimpses of the other sentry standing at the far end of the string of quiet horses. It would take Shank a little longer to get over there, he guessed. The trick would be to take out both men without alerting the other—or worse, the entire camp.

  The lateness of the night was having a definite effect on the wagon guard. He was leaning against the wagon, relaxed with his arms folded. His rifle also lay against the wagon at his side. Cordell couldn’t see the man’s eyes from under his pulled-down hat brim, but thought he was awake. Curling along the creek until he was behind the man, Cordell slipped next to the wagon on the east side. He stood, holding his breath.

  The guard hadn’t moved. Three quick steps and Cordell tossed the cat in front of the man’s feet. Belle landed alertly and hissed her indignation at the activity. The guard jumped and reached for his rifle as Cordell’s pistol thudded against the man’s skull. The only sound was a rush of air from the guard’s mouth as he sank to the ground—and Belle’s sweet meow. A toss of the man’s handgun into the shadows was followed by Cordell’s boot kicking the rifle so it slid to the ground. Fascinated by the movement, the cat bounced toward it for closer observation.

  “Good work, Belle.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Regulator standing in midcamp. Cordell hadn’t seen him before. How long had the man been standing there? Cordell squeezed the handle of his pistol in his fist, readying himself for the man’s response. Instead, the Regulator yawned and proceeded to urinate on the ground a few feet from his blankets. Finished, he turned back to his bedroll without so much as a glance around.

  Behind Cordell was a padded advance, and he whirled to meet it. Caleb Shank waved him off with a big grin.

  “Nothin’ like a man peein’ to git ya a little nervous, is thar?” Shank whispered, and slapped Cordell on the back.

  There wasn’t time to worry about anyone noticing the missing guard or taking the time to tie him up. By Cordell’s estimate, men could be stirring in camp within minutes, readying themselves for the next guard shift.

  “What about the horse guard?”

  “I reckon it’s real hot whar he be.”

  Cordell grimaced, but there was nothing he could do about the situation now. After removing the pegs holding the tailgate hinges in place, they went to the front of Padgett’s wagon with the cat trailing after them. Shank gave Cordell a push up into the driver’s seat. Without a sound, the big man disappeared and returned minutes later holding a sack filled with more cut-off broom handles and burlap strips. Cordell gave a lift with his hand under Shank’s shoulder, surprised at the huge merchant’s agility.

  Both stood quietly, looking down into the enclosed wagon at the sleeping Padgett and the Gatling gun on its platform a few feet away. Out of the night came the yellow cat, sliding next to Cordell. He shook his head in reaction to her unexpected reappearance.

  “Looks like the Sons of Thunder dun growed another,” Shank said with an impish twist to his mouth.

  “Maybe so.”

  Cordell stroked the cat’s back, and it curled upward to enjoy all of the encounter as the gunfighter returned his attention to the wagon’s interior. Padgett’s wheelchair was bolted into its special place in the corner of the wagon, poised like an iron panther. Lying on the floorboard next to it were his carefully folded uniform coat, pants, and hat. One of his twin beaded holsters, hanging from the chair arms, was empty, the gold-plated gun resting on Padgett’s stomach, his open hand across the pearl handle. Beside the wooden-framed cot was a small dressing table with a scattering of papers and an inkwell, anchored in place. The walls of the wagon were planked and lined with rifle firing holes; the fold-down ramp for the wheelchair was curled against the tailgate.

  “Ya know, thar’s a Reb over Fort Worth way, lost his arm an’ his leg a-fightin’ for the Cause,” Shank whispered, staring at Padgett, appearing peaceful in his long underwear. “Ever’ time I see him, I git a catch in my throat. Should oughta feel the same ’bout Padgett, but I don’t. Jes’ want to strangle the bastard.”

  “If this goes right, it’ll be even better.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Would ya mind if’n I took a close-up at that bastard a’fore we git at it?” Shank’s idea of a whisper rattled around the wagon enclosure as they swung quietly over the buckboard into the wagon bed.

  Cordel
l’s shoulders raised in response. He didn’t answer, only waving at the merchant to do what he wanted. He winced at the pain that shot from his arm from the sudden movement. Shank stepped toward Padgett’s bed. Belle watched and then came bounding down with them.

  “You’re not going to kill him, are you?” Cordell asked, half watching the cat explore the wagon’s interior, half focused on his friend’s request.

  “No sir, I dun promised ya. ’Sides, I know what we’re about,” Shank responded, patting his back where the throwing knife waited. “Not that I ain’t had it cross my mind a time or two.”

  Cordell looked up at the dark sky, trying to judge the time. Weariness throbbed at him, and he rolled his neck for comfort. An owl saluted as it flew across his path in search of dinner and he watched it sail past the softening moon. Belle stopped her exploring to watch the bird’s flight, then returned to her review. Cordell’s scan of the area revealed a line of in-place shapes of differing sizes across the two ridges where the Riptons were working. His silent approval followed: The shapes looked real. He was surprised himself at how much they looked like crouching men. Billy Ripton waved. He and his father were ready.

  “Did ya see this hyar?”

  The question jolted Cordell back to the wagon. Shank was shuffling through the papers on Padgett’s table. “Look hyar, Rule. It’s that sonvabitch Giles. You were right. God damn him to hell. Er, sorry, Reverend.”

  Cordell stepped over, urging his friend to keep his voice down. Cordell’s eyes continued to search the area around them for signs of movement, but saw none.

  Shank waved a paper in front of Cordell. “This hyar’s a deed—to the Harper place. Giles’s name’s on it, big as ya please. Padgett must gonna file it fer him. He’s one o’ the witnesses. Don’t know the other’n.”

  “Let’s see.” Cordell scanned the gray document, then folded it and placed it down in his pants pocket. “We’ll deal with this later. I have the feeling the mayor is going to be generous and give the place to Missus Harper and her kids.”