Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  Cordell shoved the gun into his back waistband, then pushed the badge into the pocket with the folded Harper deed and asked, “You think the coyotes’ll get to . . . Belle?”

  Shank grunted. “Nope. Too close to the house.”

  “Jeremiah, why don’t you head back an’ check with your ma—about burying Belle. We’ll be right along, as soon as we can bring a horse to carry Graham. All right?”

  The boy wanted to stay with them but nodded approval and skipped toward the house, now glowing softly with warm light. After saddling an uneasy bay left at the Regulator string, they returned to the house and tied Graham’s body into place with a camp lariat. Cordell slapped the animal hard and they watched it gallop toward the lightening sky. It was false dawn, but morning wouldn’t be many hours away.

  “That oughta keep Padgett shook up,” Shank said.

  “Should I worry the Riptons about the possibility he might return?”

  Shank ventured that Tallie Mae should be alerted but no one else. He thought she had the steel. Chewing on the pipe stem in his teeth, he watched Cordell for any indications of interest in the woman and was a little disappointed when there weren’t any. After readying the remaining horses, they led them in a wide loop to Shank’s wagon, encircling it several times to look like many horses had stayed there. The animals were allowed to stand long enough to leave manure, then they were walked along the “Sons of Thunder” ridge and back. It wasn’t perfect, but both men thought the appearance would be sufficient.

  Next, the horses were led to each downed Regulator, whether dead or unconscious. Cordell and Shank methodically tied each man onto a mount and sent the horse running. Several horses had to carry two bodies. It was hard work, made worse by their tiredness. Even the huge Shank was having difficulty lifting. A silhouette caught their attention and Eldon’s stiff frame took shape against the darkened land.

  “Thought ye might be wantin’ some help. Tallie Mae’s got Billy all fixed up. Bullet went straight through. He’s a-sleepin’. She’s fixin’ some food. Jeremiah’s digging a . . . spot fer the cat.” Eldon walked toward them, carrying the Winchester crossed in his arms. Both Shank and Cordell noticed that he also had Graham’s black-handled revolvers shoved into his waistband. “Say, who do these hyar fancy guns belong to . . . now?”

  Shank answered first: “I reckon they belong to yo-all. Thar’s some six-guns ’round an’ about too. I’d be careful ’bout keepin’ any iron that kin be identified, though.”

  “Ya mean like it havin’ a carvin’ somwhars?”

  “Yeah, anything that makes it easy to tell who the owner was.”

  Smiling, Eldon rubbed his hand over the rifle in his arms. “Ya think people would think I cut down that crazy bastard if’n they saw me with these?” He patted the revolvers.

  “Could be. Most folks would recognize them, I think,” Shank observed, glancing at Cordell, who didn’t appear to be paying attention.

  Eldon’s smile was thick. “Wal, guess we got sumthin’ outta all this, anyway.” He looked down at the revolvers and added, “But I don’t think we’ll be a-keepin’ these. Ya want ’em? Captun Cordell? Sort o’ a trophy?”

  Cordell’s glare was the only answer. He looked away from the white-faced Eldon. “Caleb, do you have any paper—and ink—in your wagon?”

  “Wal, I reckon so. Why?”

  “Just thought of something else to leave behind.” Cordell turned back to Eldon. “Eldon, we’ll meet you back at the house.” The elder Ripton accepted the dismissal eagerly and spun around.

  At the wagon, Shank rummaged through his crowded wagon bed and proudly came up with a stack of writing papers, a glass, decorative ink bottle, and fairly new dip pen. “Ain’t got no sand to dry it, though.”

  “Thanks, Caleb. I don’t know what I would have done without you,” Cordell said, and squatted on the ground. “I can sprinkle little dirt on them if I need to.” Quickly, he wrote eight notes, each with the same message: “S. O. T. Meet at shadow tree at 6 tonight. Padgett is at Ripton’s.” Shank picked up a finished paper and asked, “What’s this fer? Whar’s the ’shadow tree’?”

  “I don’t know where the ‘shadow tree’ is. Thought it sounded nice an’ secret. We’re going to leave them around, like the Sons of Thunder were an organized band and ordered to be here. Padgett’s scouts’ll bring them back to him.”

  “Maybe ya should put ‘Padgett, ya better watch out’ on one o’ them.”

  Cordell smiled, stood, and patted his friend on the back. “Let’s spread the news. They’re dry enough.”

  After folding and leaving the notes in different places along the ridge, they returned to the house. Jeremiah had finished digging a small grave under the elderly cottonwood that protected Lizzie’s wild flowers. A hastily grabbed bunch of buttercups lay on top of the filled-in grave; a tiny cross of sticks, held with a leather strip, completed the remembrance. Tallie Mae was standing beside him with her arm draped across his shoulder. He held Cordell’s coat close to his chest and handed it to him as he approached. Studying Cordell’s face, Tallie Mae said Billy was sleeping. She smiled warmly and asked Cordell if he would offer a prayer for Belle, adding that Lizzie would have selected this burial place herself. She invited them to eat afterward, and encouraged their staying and sleeping. Her eyes darted toward Cordell, waiting for his response.

  “I’d be honored. I’m only sorry you can’t have a real minister here.”

  Tallie Mae bit her lower lip and the words came with a choke. “R-Reverend L-Langford, you’re the only . . . man, minister I’d want.”

  They formed a circle around the tiny mound, with Tallie Mae standing next to Cordell on one side, Shank on the other. The big merchant held his hat and his pipe in his hands. With his coat draped over his shoulder, Cordell removed his hat and bowed his head.

  “Dear Lord, we give to you the sweet spirit of Belle. This fine and brave cat gave the Riptons much love—and tonight helped us overcome a wicked foe. Please bring her to you and keep her warm and happy. Y-you will love having her close. We’ve been through much these past days, Lord, give us your peace and your protection—and bless this family and this house. Amen.”

  The others echoed his “Amen.” Tallie Mae laid a wild rose, cut from the bush beside their front door, on top of the other flowers. Cordell removed the rose stem from his coat and placed the remembrance on the grave next to the bright bloom. He muttered something no one else heard, but Shank thought he caught “Texas.” Tallie Mae whispered to Jeremiah, and he rushed away.

  Eldon said that Cordell and Shank were welcome to sleep on the floor beside the stove where it was warm. Cooking smells from the house were inviting, but Cordell told them he needed to leave. Breathing hard, Jeremiah returned and proudly held out another rose; this one yanked free, not cut. One petal was missing, victim of his urgent handling. Tallie Mae took the flower and placed it in the button hole of Cordell’s coat lapel and urged him to stay. The gunfighter studied the rose, thanked her, then rustled Jeremiah’s hair and thanked him.

  He turned to Shank and held out his hand. “Caleb, I hope you’ll stay and enjoy this fine family’s invitation.”

  Shank grabbed it and pulled Cordell to him in a giant bear hug. They patted each other on the back and stepped away, their eyes filling.

  “I can’t thank you enough for your help, Caleb,” Cordell said.

  “Wal, I missed out on yur first masquerade party, didn’t wanna miss the second,” Caleb pronounced joyfully. “Kin I he’p ya take care o’ Giles?”

  “No need . . . yet. I think Padgett is rattled enough to tell him, especially without Graham to back his play. But I’ll see that Giles gets a reminder about giving back the Harper deed. If the fine mayor drags his feet . . .” Cordell didn’t finish the statement, rubbing his chest to push away the tiredness. “Been thinking about starting a petition in church—to ask the state to remove Padgett.”

  Shank grinned. He wasn’t sure which pleased him more: the realiz
ation that Cordell was going to use his idea—or the fact that Cordell was going back to the pulpit.

  “I’m too weary to go nowhar fer a piece. Sur ya wanna be ridin’ now?” Shank asked, putting a large paw of a hand on Cordell’s shoulder.

  “I’ll be all right—and Aleta will be worried about me.”

  No one caught the slight wince on Tallie Mae’s face as Cordell announced his second reason for leaving.

  Cordell continued, “An’ it might be smart for you to keep wide of Clark Springs for a week or so. Just in case.”

  Cordell shook hands with Eldon and Jeremiah. Turning to Tallie Mae, she quickly extended her hand and told him to give their love to Lizzie. He wasn’t sure if he would share the awful news about Belle or not. She nodded and looked away. With that, the Riptons and Shank turned toward the house and Cordell headed for his horse.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  On the ride home, Lion David Graham returned to Rule Cordell’s mind as a kid along the creek, but his face was a blur. Cordell’s mind found the book about Roman armies in Taullery’s house. Did Graham really believe the two of them had lived back then?

  Somewhere an owl hooted its own loneliness as Rule Cordell rode alone in the waning hours before dawn. In his weariness, he was reminded of Moon’s admonishments that the bird was often a reincarnated spirit. He remembered the Comanche belief in reincarnation; Moon had told him that, too, and the old shaman was a wise man. He touched the medicine pouch under his shirt to honor Moon’s memory, then reassured himself that the earring was in his pocket. Dead warriors spent time in a wonderful valley, west of the sunset, where they were young and virile, the land was forever green, and the buffalo were plentiful. Then they returned to Mother Earth to come again as Comanche faithful to keep The People strong.

  “Maybe you knew something the rest of us don’t, Lion,” he said aloud.

  The stallion’s ears pricked up to catch the meaning of the words. Cordell recalled Whisper Jenson questioning him once about Jesus not being recognized by his disciples after the Resurrection. Whisper wondered if the reason was that Jesus didn’t look the same. An argument for reincarnation, the grizzled lawyer had surmised, enjoying the stunned look on the faces of his fellow Confederate scouts around the campfire.

  Ian Taullery was at that campfire, too, and Cordell’s thoughts ran to him for the first time since leaving his friend. He smiled just thinking about the reaction his dirty coat would have brought from his friend. It would have been good to have him with them. His absence bothered Cordell more than he knew it should. After all, his friend had a family, a business, responsibilities. Somehow, those excuses soured like old milk in his mind.

  His friend was settling into a good life, and here he was—in the eyes of the law—a wanted man. Again. The only difference was that the law didn’t know who he was this time. He figured it would only be a matter of days before wanted bulletins for the “Sons of Thunder” would appear. At least they had managed to keep the Riptons from any responsibility for attacking the state police, unless he was wrong about Padgett.

  He hoped Caleb Shank would stay away from the region for a while—and not be tempted to tell about the experience. He wondered if any of the Regulators had spotted his huge frame during the fight. That reminded him of the Harper deed, and he touched his pocket for reassurance that it remained. His mind was too tired to focus on how to get Giles to sign it over to the Harper family. He accepted the satisfaction that at least the deed couldn’t be filed while he held it.

  A soft rain whispered through the leaves, and he watched it blanket the land. He had kept off the main trail to avoid attention or ambush, but his alertness was waning. Raising his head, he let the spray cleanse his face. It felt good, in spite of the growing wetness across his body. Old habits made him check to see that his coat covered his guns. His hands brushed against the cold steel and assured him they were still dry. The storm wouldn’t last long. He could already see sunlight shoving away the clouds.

  Sleep sang a seductive song as adrenaline from fighting drained away with each pounding hoof. Aleta’s hanging hat brushed against his leg as he loped through an uneven prairie. He should’ve stayed at the Riptons’; only his desire to be with her had spurred him to try returning. It seemed like he had been gone from town for a week—and from Aleta for months, instead of a single night. His mind ran ahead to Aleta and the goodness of seeing her. He rode for minutes with her at his side.

  Maybe he couldn’t try to give up the ways of violence. An Old Testament quotation rose in his mind: “Teach a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” Maybe he was really no different from his father. He was soon lost in a dark time long ago, when his father had killed his pet dog because Texas had wet their rug.

  Reverend Cordell beat the dog to death and, almost, young Rule Cordell. The boy had come upon the father whipping the dog with a heavy stick and had dived on top of the bloody, whimpering animal to save it. The minister continued the beating, yelling out Bible quotations. Young Rule passed out eventually and was carried away by his mother, who discovered the cruel punishment barely in time. Only vague wisps remained of being quite ill for a long time and hearing his father tell his distraught mother that their son deserved to die for trying to disrupt him and God’s punishment. He couldn’t remember getting to bury the pet, and that brought once more the grief of Texas—and Belle—upon him.

  Memory relinquished its hold on his mind as the the rain stopped. Black clouds grumbled and rolled on to the north, and the sky reclad itself in a beautiful cloak of blue. Entering a string of cottonwoods and underbrush pushed against a sometime stream called Mud Creek, he startled a sleeping deer and its fawn. The two animals slid silently to another resting place nearby. He watched their retreat with a grim smile.

  Streaks of dawn cut brilliant strips of gold through the trees, warning night creatures that the sun was about to take control. He drank deep of the clean air left behind in the storm’s wake and felt it lift his tortured mind. Blackbirds sang from the sparse undergrowth in celebration of the rain ending. Life was a joyous thing, he reminded himself. He was wet from head to toe but cleansed inside. For the first time since he had buckled on his guns, he managed a prayer to guide him for the path he had taken. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of his stallion’s walk. His head nodded, and Rule Cordell was asleep.

  With its sleeping rider, the stallion kept steadily moving down through a shallow arroyo, across a dry wash, and into a kingdom of grass. Two jays followed for twenty-five yards, chewing out horse and rider for not giving them any food. Shadows within the ravine were twisted and angry. Minutes later, the horse passed the remains of an old campfire. Several miles away were clusters of cattle amid patches of heavy buffalo grass. Jewels of blue, red, and yellow wildflowers decorated the green. Brown shapes were gathered around a water tank beneath a sturdy windmill. A small stream meandered alongside the foothills. All around them, dawn had stripped away the gray with bands of pink, violet, and gold.

  Cordell jerked awake as the stallion stutter-stepped to a halt. For an instant he fought through a foggy dreamworld, past haunting images of his father, mother, and childhood friends. His mind finally registered on two horses with their heads down, eating grass, a few yards ahead. A blink later, his instincts took over. He swung to the side of the stallion with a Colt pointed along the horse’s neck. Ahead nothing stirred. On one horse’s back was the body of Lion Graham. The other had lost its load; two bodies lay sprawled on the wet earth; a partially untied rope dangled from the saddle. A third shape, at first a man kneeling beside the first horse, became a gnarled bush.

  Sounds behind him! He swung in the saddle, a cocked pistol in his right hand. Standing twenty feet behind was a baby longhorn calf. The wobbly animal looked at Cordell, then squealed. The calf’s mother appeared from the trees and nudged her infant back into the darkness, giving the horseman a scornful look as she did. Cordell shook his head; he had bee
n lucky. Then saw the tracks of a group of riders with a heavy wagon—made since the rain had stopped, by the looks of them.

  He forced himself to read the sign more thoroughly. It had to be Padgett and his men. They were headed away from Clark Springs. The tracks came from hillside rock shelving where they probably sat out the storm. Apparently they left their dead behind, probably because it would slow them down. It was possible the horses had arrived after the Regulators left, but he doubted it. Lion Graham was soaked, his gray suit now more of an odd-looking pink.

  Cordell’s eyes burned from lack of sleep. His insides ached from longing to be with Aleta. His arm throbbed from the trail gunfight; his head had more of a dull pain where the Sunday gun had struck. And his mind stung with a lack of answers of how to stop the insidious raiding of property. His only solution, so far, was the gun—a solution he had vowed to give up. But it did seem good to be helping someone. He hadn’t recognized the truth of the sensation until now.

  “I’ll come back and bury you, Lion. I promise,” Cordell muttered, and rediscovered the limp rose on his coat. He couldn’t remember how it got there. A new energy spun through him. A squeeze of his legs was all that was needed to bring the stallion into a ground-eating lope. His movement took him along the edge of steep yellowish banks, gashed and torn, that rose abruptly from the creek bank, and followed it for miles. This narrow deer trail would be difficult for even the best tracker to follow quickly. His mind was working again and telling him that he shouldn’t leave an easy trail to his home. It wasn’t enough to not be seen; he shouldn’t lead them to his home, either.

  A morning breeze whipped at his wet clothes and began to dry them, but he didn’t notice. He could barely wait to hear about Aleta’s first night of schooling the black children. Her face would light up, as it always did when she enjoyed something. His first stop would be the school where she would be teaching. And waiting for him.