Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  Shank grinned as he continued to flip through the stack of wanted posters and government reports. “Well, look at this. Hyar’s one fer the Riptons’ place. Giles dun signed it—all it needs is Ripton’s mark. Reckon Giles is after the Ripton place too.”

  “I’ll take that one too.”

  Shank doubled over the document and handed it to Cordell, who added it to his pocket.

  “Come here, Millicent. I need you.” A breathy command from the sleep-talking Padgett made both men jump.

  Shank held back a giggle with his hand to his mouth. Regaining his composure, Shank headed for the wheelchair and emptied the bullets from the holstered revolver. Standing over the sleeping leader, Cordell lifted the man’s limp hand, withdrew the gun on Padgett’s stomach, and emptied the bullets into his own pocket, joining the folded deeds. He tossed the gun to Shank and the big merchant shoved it into the other holster. The cat stood on its hind legs with front paws resting on the top edge of Padgett’s cot, then jumped and landed on the police chief’s stomach. He made a strange noise but didn’t wake up.

  “All right, give me a hand. We’ll get the king into his throne—and get this thing started.” Cordell motioned toward the sleeping leader. “First, pull up your mask. It won’t do you much good around your chin.”

  Shank chortled and pulled up the handkerchief, forcing it over his nose. He lifted the cat, handing it to Cordell, and yanked the crippled leader from his cot and sat him in the wheelchair. Padgett shook his head and struggled to gain control of his mind.

  “W-what the hell! What’s go . . .”

  “Shut up, Padgett—or you’re going to die right here.” Cordell growled and shoved a pistol into the man’s cheek. He held Belle in his other arm. “We’re the Sons of Thunder—and we’ve come to bring you a warning. Listen real good, Padgett, it’ll only come once. You leave the Riptons—and the other good folks around here—alone or you personally will have to deal with us.”

  “What? Who the . . . My men’ll k—”

  “Careful, Padgett, I don’t think you were listening good enough. Let’s try again.”

  Padgett’s bloated face was twisted with red fury, but his eyes were filling with fear. His right hand edged slowly toward the holstered pistol on his chair arm.

  “Please do,” Cordell growled. “It’ll save us the trouble of watching you for the next year.”

  Padgett’s hand grasped the chair arm and went no further. Cordell motioned for Shank to get the Gatling gun ready—partly to hurry their presence to the sleeping Regulators, but mostly to keep the big man’s distinctive shape in the shadows.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Cordell said as he pushed Padgett’s chair toward the tailgate after releasing the cat to the wagon floor. Belle jumped from Cordell’s arm to the wagon floor. Padgett gripped the other chair arm, swallowed, and stared straight ahead. “We’re going to wake up your men—and then it’s up to you what happens next.”

  Cordell pushed the tailgate and it swung, crashing to the ground, followed by a blur of yellow and the wheelchair lumbering down the ramp with Cordell controlling its speed. He watched Belle disappear into the darkness and knew he shouldn’t be paying attention to a cat at this moment.

  With a wild Rebel yell, a distinctive high-pitched war cry that made the whole night shiver, Shank opened up with the Gatling gun, rotating the six-barrel cylinder with the hand crank and aiming it at the same time. Six hundred bullets a minute ripped into the darkness. His first target was the stack of rifles. A torrent of lead savaged the weapons, sending a shower of wood and golden sparks in all directions.

  The ridge came alive with a continuous bracelet of orange flame. Cordell could see the Riptons firing and running from one position to the next, but knew no one else would notice. Deep within his soul came his own Rebel yell, and it was matched by a similar scream from Billy, both so loud and piercing that the sounds themselves seemed to have lives of their own. Louder and higher they hollered, with a fierce triumphant swell. From the house came spurts of gunfire. Behind him the roar of the Gatling gun was a windmill of whining bullets.

  As planned, Shank fired the weapon only to the east, where no one was. Along the dry creek bed, Regulators jumped from their beds or dove for anything resembling cover. A silhouette produced a handgun and fired once. Returned rifle fire silenced him. Another ran for the scrambled rifles, but Cordell’s pistol fire in front of him discouraged the idea and the man stopped and held up his hands.

  Into Padgett’s ear, Cordell announced, “When the firing stops, you can tell your men they can ride out of here—without us shooting at them. And without their guns. Or they can fight and—you guess.” Cordell moved Padgett’s chair directly in front of the wagon, a few feet from the unconscious guard. In the midst of the shooting, Cordell suddenly wondered where Lizzie’s cat had gone. His study of the darkness didn’t reveal any clues to the little animal. Hopeful the cat hadn’t gotten in the way of a stray bullet, Cordell waved for Shank to stop and he finally did. Heartbeats later, the rest of the shooting stopped. Two more shots came from the house, and then silence.

  Most of the Regulators were standing with their hands up. One man, in yellowish, torn long johns, was attempting to climb out of the embankment next to his bedroll. Another sat on his blankets with his legs crossed, looking like he was waiting for instructions. A third was inching his courage and his hand toward a gunbelt next to his bedding. Cordell thought it was Billy’s rifle that spat into the ground a foot from the weapon, and the man jumped up and stood at attention.

  “Do it now, Padgett. Tell them not to shoot—and to leave their guns behind.”

  Clearing his throat, Padgett yelled, “Don’t shoot. Don’t. Go to your horses, men. We’re leaving. Now.” His mouth curled downward to meet his jutting jaw; his beady eyes flickered a mixture of hate and fear.

  “Tell them—no guns.”

  “Ah, leave your guns. Do it. And don’t nobody do anything stupid, ya hear me?”

  A scramble for the horse string erupted as Padgett’s words echoed in the night. Cursing and yelling, men in various stages of dress ran for saddles or simply mounted bareback. A lone gunshot came from the house, and Cordell figured Jeremiah had gotten excited or just wanted to shoot again. Galloping horses accented the darkness. A frightened bay with a loose saddle bouncing under its belly ran and jumped down into the dry creek bed. After streaking through discarded blankets, clothing, and pistol belts, the lathered animal returned, stopping a few feet from Cordell and Padgett. Lowering its head, the horse seemed to be asking for assistance. Cordell shoved his left-hand pistol into its holster and walked toward the exhausted horse. His other gun was pointed at Padgett.

  “Easy, boy, you’re all right.” Cordell patted the horse on its wet neck, swung the saddle upright, and yanked tight the cinch. “Tell your men to leave horses behind for the dead and wounded. Your guards will need them when they wake up too.”

  “T-the guards aren’t dead?” Padgett’s voice cracked.

  “Two are. The rest are just coldcocked. We’ll put all of them on horses and send them your way before we ride on.” Cordell slapped the horse on its rear and sent it trotting back up the incline to the disappearing horse string.

  Padgett hesitated and yelled out the order for all the horses not ridden to be left behind. His fists opened and closed. Cordell walked back, redrawing his second pistol and watching as he moved. “Where’s Lion Graham?”

  Pagett’s eyes blinked. “I don’t know. The coward probably was the first one outta here. He only likes shooting when he’s the only one with a gun.”

  “Somebody better come and hitch up your wagon—or you’re going to have a slow roll home,” Cordell suggested, kneeling behind the chair with a pistol in each hand.

  “Alex! Nelson! Bring the trace mules, goddammit!”

  “Good boy.”

  Cordell caught the glimpse of metal among the trees and fired twice with both guns in its direction. A yelp and orange
flame snapping at tree leaves followed.

  “The next one hurts you, Padgett.”

  Rolling his shoulders, Padgett screamed, “Goddammit, I said no guns. Get on your goddamn horses and ride out.” Under his breath, Padgett muttered, “Enjoy this, you son of a bitch. The state of Texas won’t rest until you’re hanging from a cottonwood.”

  “No, the state of Texas won’t rest until law enforcement is in the hands of good men,” Cordell snapped, his gaze centered on the horses and the crazed exit of the Regulators. “Oh, and don’t forget to tell Giles he’s next on our list.”

  Padgett stiffened. “What? Who? Giles?”

  “Tell the mayor we expect him to sign that deed back to Mrs Harper.”

  “What deed?”

  “The one on your table—and now in my pocket.”

  “Hell, he won’t do that.”

  “You tell him. We’ll see that he does,” Cordell said. “Oh, and tell him the new Ripton deed has been burned. Tell him not to try that again.”

  Behind them, Cordell could hear Shank shuffling around, talking to himself. A thump on the wagon floor was distracting, but the big merchant quickly assured Cordell that he was fine. Two Regulators appeared, wearing only boots and hats over their long underwear and leading the eight matching mules. Neither said a word as they began hitching the animals in place, but they were obviously anxious to get away. While they worked, Cordell told the Regulator leader that the “Sons of Thunder” would leave him—and his men—alone as long as they stayed away from the people in the region.

  “Do you understand, Padgett? Say it, real loud.”

  “I understand.”

  “What do you understand, Padgett?”

  “I understand if I leave the Riptons alone . . .” Padgett’s face was plastered with fright. His hands trembled, and he gripped the wheelchair arms to steady them.

  “And?”

  “Ah, and other people around here, ah, I will . . .”

  “Live.”

  “. . . live.”

  Padgett’s voice cracked with the last word, and his body rose and fell like a giant hand had lifted and dropped him. He heard creaking sounds, and a quick glance told him Shank was finished and coming down the plank. Cordell motioned for him to go toward the house. Satisfied his friend was beyond recognition, Cordell ordered the two Regulators to come around and push their leader back into his wagon.

  Standing behind the wheelchair, Cordell yelled out fake orders into the night. “Rattlesnake and Panther Patrols, check the camp. Bear Patrol, the horses. Black and Rose Patrols, hold the perimeter.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Rose Patrol? He laughed to himself at the name, but it was the first thing that came to mind. The Riptons wouldn’t know for certain what he wanted, but that was all right. The yelling was for Padgett’s benefit. He planned on checking the area himself after Padgett was gone. His little performance completed, Cordell withdrew the note from his coat pocket and placed it in Padgett’s right hand. The Regulator leader stared at the paper as if trying to read it without opening the folds.

  “Just a reminder of what we told you. Wouldn’t want you to forget, now would we?” Cordell growled.

  As soon as Padgett was in place and the tailgate raised, the wagon lumbered off. Shank came out of hiding and stood beside Cordell.

  “Watch this,” Shank said with a slap on Cordell’s back. “Ever’ one o’ them six big barrels is jammed with broomsticks an’ flour sack strips. Nice ’n’ tight. It ain’t gonna be purty.”

  As they watched, the wagon came to a sudden stop only twenty yards away. Moonlight caught the Gatling gun swinging into position toward them. Cordell looked at Shank, but the big man was standing confidently, his chest swelling with pride at what was about to happen. They could hear Padgett urgently barking orders. There was an odd thumping noise, followed by a biting explosion, then another, then another. A man screamed, and Padgett cursed. Red and gold sparks billowed from the wagon, outlining the black Gatling gun, followed by hungry lips of flame.

  “Think we’d better see if Padgett gets outta thar?” Shank asked. The tone of his voice indicated he wasn’t in a hurry to do so. “Sur wouldn’t want them fine mules to git hurt none.”

  A “meow” distracted Cordell from the wagon, and he spun toward the soft sound. Beneath one of the Regulator blankets across the creek bed was a tiny yellow head.

  “Belle—there you are!” Cordell holstered his guns as he hurried toward the cat. “Be right with you. Got to make sure she’s all right.”

  Shank turned to watch Cordell and shook his head. Chuckling, he headed toward the wagon. Popping open the hinge locks, he pulled the tailgate down with his left hand, his rifle held in his right. Staring inside, he saw flames giggling around the edges of the silent Gatling gun; a broomstick extended two inches from one barrel, with a burlap tongue crackling with flame. Sprawled against the back wall was the blackened shape of the gunner.

  Padgett sat in his wheelchair, still in his underwear. Reflection glittered off the gold-plated pistols in his lap. The man’s hands lay on the wheelchair arms and made no attempt to reach the weapons. In his right fist was Cordell’s note, still unread. The other Regulator was nowhere in sight. Shank rubbed his chin, forgetting the handkerchief that crossed his mouth and yanking it down. Behind him came Cordell, carrying Belle.

  “I don’t think Padgett’s going to burn, do you?” Cordell asked.

  “Not hyar, anyhow. What do ya wanna do?”

  “You gather up the men. I’ll see that the fire’s out—and Padgett’s on his way again.” Cordell motioned for Shank to stay in the shadows and pull up his mask. The big man frowned, then realized what Cordell was indicating. Shank chuckled and pulled the handkerchief back into place.

  “Here, take Belle with you. Have . . . the Rose Patrol . . . go and tell the Riptons everything is all right, that Padgett has decided to leave. For good. Those good folks will be wondering what’s been happening. Be sure they know you’re friendly before you get too close.” Cordell winked. “When I’m through here, I’ll join the patrols checking out the area.”

  “You betcha. You’d better check out Mistah Padgett’s fancy pistols first, Ru . . . er, ah, they might be refilled, ya know.” Shank frowned at his close call at calling Cordell by name, took the cat, and rambled away, talking to himself.

  With three strides, Cordell bound up the ramp and went directly to Padgett. Shank’s suggestion was a smart step—and one he might have overlooked. He took the two golden guns and tossed them up and onto the driver’s seat. Swiftly, Cordell beat out the scattered flames with his long coat. A glance at the motionless gunner told him all he needed to know about the man.

  Cordell’s arm was aching and bleeding again by the time he returned to Padgett, and his head was throbbing again. The Regulator leader’s eyes were glazed, and he appeared in shock. Cordell realized that not much, if any, of their contrived dialogue may have registered in his dazed mind. Regardless, the layering of a story of an organized force after him should have the necessary effect.

  “One of your men is dead. The other ran. There’s no one to drive your wagon,” Cordell said, standing in front of Padgett.

  The crippled man nodded without looking up.

  “I’m going to drive you—out to some of your men.”

  “W-why?”

  “Not sure. Maybe it’s to let you know we’re men of our word. You stay away from the people around here, we’ll stay away from you.”

  “S-Sons of Thunder?”

  “Yes.”

  “A-are you one of those S-Southern clans everyone’s talking about?” Padgett raised his head slowly.

  Cordell pondered the question. “No, we’re not. Just a bunch of . . . men who believe in the law behaving like the law should.”

  “You were the ones that hit my men earlier, weren’t you?”

  “We were waiting for them.” Cordell walked to the tailgate ramp.

  “How’d you know
. . . they were coming?”

  At the bottom of the ramp, Cordell lifted the end board and answered as he closed it. “We’ve been watching you for weeks, Padgett. We’re good at it. We’ll be watching you to see if you’re smart enough to move on.”

  With a snap of the reins, Cordell took control of the wagon and it pulled away. Minutes later, he stopped at the trees where Shank’s wagon and his horse waited, positioning the vehicle so Padgett couldn’t see the big merchant’s wagon. Cordell tied his horse’s reins together, looped them through his arm so the stallion would have to trot alongside the wagon, and started again. Padgett sat in his chair, bracing himself for the jostling of the wagon. They rode for at least a mile, maybe more. He could hear men yelling for the wagon to stop and knew they were only yards away.

  “Shoot the bastard driving the wagon!” he yelled. “He’s one . . . of the Sons of Thunder. Shoot him!”

  He heard no shots, only the sounds of someone bringing the horses to a stop. “Whoa. Whoa, boys. Whoa.”

  After the wagon jerked to a stop, he heard the squeak of someone getting down from the driver’s seat, then the clink of the hinge locks being removed. Down came the tailgate, and three Regulators greeted him. Two were in long johns, the other fully dressed.

  “You all right, boss?”

  “I told you to shoot that sonvabitch. Bring him here,” Padgett snapped.

  “There’s nobody up there, boss,” the stocky Regulator answered. “Them reins was held down with a big rock. We wasn’t sure you were even in hyar.”

  The tallest Regulator held out two gold-plated revolvers. “Got your guns, though. They was next to the rock.”

  Padgett glared, and the third man mumbled, “At least they didn’t kill us all. Must’ve been forty of ’em. Where’d they come from?”

  Furious, Padgett started to say something, then remembered the note in his fist and looked at it. He fumbled to open the paper and studied the few words scribbled there.

  “What ya got, Captain?”

  “Never mind,” Padgett said, staring at the note. “Get the men together, we’re heading for headquarters. We’ve got better things to do than worry about these Riptons.” The three Regulators glanced at one another in collective relief.