by Cotton Smith
Another hour passed before horse and rider cleared a stingy, rock-laden pass and headed down into a secluded wide curve in the trail. A downward-traveling stream looped around the turn in the path, or was its cause. From the crest of the clearing, he could see the distinctive square outline of the schoolhouse and its dilapidated fencing. Strings of chimney smoke from neighboring buildings were caught in the late-morning sky, attempting to connect with the fully born sun.
He was surprised to see a saddled lineback dun tied at the rack beside the schoolhouse, instead of Aleta’s paint horse. The dun was one of theirs, a three-year-old gelding being readied for sale. Maybe she thought the animal needed work. She could certainly ride any horse they had ever owned.
As he swung down in front of the unpainted structure, it thrilled him to hear Aleta’s voice above the excited responses of children. He looked at himself and decided he should, at least, unbuckle his guns before going inside. He would look trail-worn and wet, but her students wouldn’t be taking home any tales about the minister wearing guns or some Indian thing. Stuffing both weapons and the Comanche warrior earring into his saddlebags, he took a few swipes at his black coat, still damp from the rain, and started up the creaky steps.
The door swung open and Aleta came rushing out to him. They grabbed each other and held tight without saying a word. “I love you” popped from both their mouths simultaneously, and they laughed and kissed. Behind them, children were peeking out of the doorway, whispering and giggling.
“I theenk school should be let out so we can go home and . . .” Her smile finished the sentence. His eyes agreed. But the corners of her smile dropped and she began to tell him what had happened at Eliason’s factory last night. Cordell thought he was going to fall to his knees. He couldn’t believe what she was saying. His friend, “Suitcase” Eliason, was dead? Killed by men wearing sheets for masks? Oh God, no. No!
He realized Aleta was trembling, and the tears followed. Between sobs, she told him of the night’s terror and how she had used her gun to keep the mob from getting to the children—and that she had wounded two. During the night, she walked them back to the tents their families lived in. One boy knew the way. Their parents were stunned and scared but very grateful to her. Four armed black men had taken her home in a wagon. She didn’t know what happened to her paint horse; she didn’t want to go back to the factory this morning to look.
Between choking statements about the night’s terror, she managed to tell him that Lizzie was resting easily and should be up and around in another day or so. He told her in two brief sentences about the Riptons being safe and Padgett leaving. There was no mention of his “Sons of Thunder” ruse or Lion Graham’s death or any other aspects of his encounters with the Regulators. That could come later. She asked why he had returned so fast, riding in the rain, and he mumbled that it was to see her. Her smile fought its way through tears.
Ernest, the towheaded boy with two missing teeth, found his courage and stepped out on the porch. A blond girl pulled on his shirt to keep him inside, but he shook off her attempt and stood with his legs wide apart, staring at the couple. “Mrs. Langford, are you all right? What’s the matter, preacher—why is our teacher crying?”
Cordell was too tired to dance around the issue. “A good friend of ours was murdered last night. Jacob Henry Eliason. He was killed by cowards wearing masks.”
“He that Negra that had hisself a boot factory?”
“Yes, he did.”
“My pa said no black man deserved to own nuthin’ like that. Pa said he wouldn’t live long.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Anger swelled within Cordell, and he spat, “You tell your pa I said he was wrong. Tell him I aim to find out who did this—and they will hang.”
The boy was startled by the response and stepped backward. His face contorted, and tears weren’t far behind. “B-but my pa . . .”
“I hope for your pa’s sake, he wasn’t one of them.”
Looking into Cordell’s face, Aleta whispered, “Rule, you cannot talk like thees. The children will not understand.”
“Maybe they should. ‘Suitcase’ was our friend—and those men would’ve killed you, if they could have. Probably the black children, too. Maybe these kids should know—”
“T-they killed another man too, Rule,” Aleta interrupted. “His name was Zachim. A-all he wanted was to read and write. T-they killed him when he tried to stop them from shooting down Meester Eliason.” She took a deep breath and pushed back the emotions. “I—I was so afraid. I—I didn’t sleep all night—b-but I thought my place was here. I am so glad you’re home, my love.”
A freckle-faced girl ventured slowly onto the porch, ignoring Ernest, who was staring at his feet. She walked beside Cordell and tugged on his long coat. He looked down into wide brown eyes.
“Pastor, sir, did you fall off your horse?”
Cordell couldn’t help but smile. His dirty coat would certainly appear like he might have had a problem. “Why, yes—yes I did. This young stallion has a mind of its own sometimes.”
“I thought so,” the girl said with great satisfaction. “I knew you wouldn’t be out riding around with such a dirty coat otherwise. Maybe you shouldn’t ride him when it rains.” She pursed her lips and fluttered her eyelids. “That’s a very pretty rose. Did . . . your wife give it to you?”
Aleta noticed the fresh flower for the first time and cocked her head playfully, waiting for his answer.
“Actually, it was given to me by a nice lady. I helped her family bury their pet cat.” Cordell pushed his lapel forward so the rose was emphasized.
“Oh, that’s so sad. I have a cat. His name is Rebel. What was the cat’s name?”
“Her name was Belle. She was a fine cat.”
“How did . . . Belle die?” The girl studied Cordell’s face.
Aleta placed an arm around her shoulder. “Margaret, why don’t you have the children sit down and weel finish our lesson?”
“Are you coming in, too, Pastor?” Margaret’s eyes had never left Cordell’s face.
“Well, thank you . . . Margaret, but I have to go see about another funeral. This one is for a friend of ours.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that why Mrs. Langford is crying? I thought she might be worried about you being hurt—from falling off your horse.” Margaret folded her arms and glanced at Aleta for the first time, then quickly back to Cordell.
“When my cat dies, will you give it a funeral?” Margaret asked, her forehead furrowing into a sad frown.
Cordell nodded. “If you want me to. But let’s hope that isn’t for a long, long time.”
Satisfied, the girl spun and retreated into the schoolhouse, telling Ernest to get inside too. The boy hesitated and followed without a word. Margaret announced authoritatively to the rest of the class that Reverend Langford had fallen from his horse during the morning rain, that he had received a rose for burying a cat, that he was going to give a funeral for a friend, and that everyone should be especially nice to Mrs. Langford because she had been crying about the friend dying.
Outside, Aleta hugged Cordell again and asked if the “cat story” was true. He told her what happened with Belle—and with Lion Graham; then about the strategy to make the state police think they were outnumbered; Caleb Shank’s help at the ridge and at the Riptons’; the three Regulators on the road to town; Taullery’s refusal to go along; and that both the big merchant and Billy Ripton were wounded. She told him not to blame himself for the man Lion Graham became. He pointed to her hat hanging from the saddle horn and mentioned how the big merchant had returned it.
He gave her the credit for the idea of pretending to be a group and calling them “Sons of Thunder.” She smiled thinly and shook her head. She licked her lips to ward off the dryness overtaking them and asked about the dried blood on his coat sleeve, touching it lightly as she spoke. He dismissed the wound as superficial, and assured her that his head bruising was fine as well, then changed the su
bject to the stallion’s performance.
As he rubbed the horse’s nose, she stepped to her hat lying against his saddle and fingered it. Glancing over her shoulder to be certain Margaret wasn’t close, Aleta told him about Mayor Giles being the lead clansman. Cordell’s face told her of its importance, and he explained about having the deed to the Harper land made out to the mayor, the deed to the Ripton ranch readied for their signature, and that he was certain Giles was paying Padgett to run off selected landowners so he could purchase their holdings cheaply and eventually control the entire region. He reminded her of the two other ranches Giles owned, as well as the hotel in town. Then he told her about planning on getting Giles to return the deed to the widow Harper. He wasn’t certain how to do it, however, without identifying himself. He had thought of sending a letter from the “Sons of Thunder” along with the deed itself.
“Eet weel take mucho more than letters to stop heem, my love. It weel take Rule Cordell. ‘Colonel Bulldog’ ees a beast who knows only how to keel and take.” She patted her hat without removing it from the saddle horn.
A coldness swept through him and he didn’t challenge her remark. Instead, he frowned and whispered, “Are you certain he didn’t think you saw him?”
“I do not know that for sure. Eet was dark.”
Cordell looked at the schoolhouse doorway where Margaret had returned and was waiting with her arms crossed. He nodded in her direction and Aleta told the girl to go to her seat, that class was resuming immediately. He started to tell her more about the discovery that Giles was the new owner of the Harper place and, likely, paying Padgett to run off the Riptons. Now wasn’t the time; she needed to concentrate on her classroom. It wouldn’t help to talk about her life being in danger, either.
“Rule, I want to keep Suitcase’s school going. We must not stop now,” Aleta said, holding his arm. “I want you to go find the parents of those children—and tell them. We have to do thees. No ‘Colonel Bulldog’ ees going to stop me.” Her eyes flashed, and for a moment she was once again the outlaw woman he had fallen in love with the first time he saw her.
“I—I agree,” Cordell responded, and then said, “But let’s go there together. I’ll wait here—and keep watch . . . on your hat. Might nap a little.”
“No, you get dry clothes, then go to Eliason’s. I weel be bueno.” Her fingers caressed his tired face. “Do you think they weel come here? I have my pistol—in the desk drawer—if they do.”
“I don’t know what to think, sweetheart. But if I’d been with you last night . . .” His eyes narrowed and his mouth drew itself into a tight line.
“Quit that, my love. You saved another family. You cannot be in two places. You are very good, sí, but not that good, senor.” She touched his lips with her fingers and brushed them lightly. “Go now. I weel be bueno.”
“No, not this time. I’ll wait. Those families will want to see you anyway.”
“W-what about Suitcase? H-he deserves a Christian burial. Y-you must . . .” Aleta’s eyes flashed again as she placed her hands on her hips.
“We’ll go together. I can stay wet a little longer. I’m almost dry now.”
She stared at him and a soft smile took over her face. She nodded, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “The children and I eat our noon meal outside. I weel see you then, my love.” She paused and added, “Do not snore too loud. My class will hear.” Chuckling, she disappeared into the classroom.
He stood beside the stallion and listened as she resumed their lesson about American history. She had a fascination for George Washington that always oozed from her presentations. He never tired of hearing her talk of the leader. In her eyes, he was a fearless leader, a caring warrior, who had held a fragile idea in his hands and helped it grow strong. Smiling, he touched her hanging hat and made it swing gently.
Finally, he led his horse to a shaded area forty feet from the schoolhouse and a few feet outside of the surrounding fence. His horse deserved to be relieved of its saddle. After removing Aleta’s hat, he loosened the cinch and pulled the heavy frame free, letting it slam to the wet earth. The noise wasn’t loud, but it seemed so to his tired mind, and he glanced at the narrow window to see if it had disturbed the classroom. One boy was watching him and secretly waved. Cordell waved back, smiled, and pointed for him to pay attention to his teacher. The boy turned his head toward the front of the classroom.
After looping the reins over a branch, Cordell brushed down the sweating animal with handfuls of leaves, then checked its hooves. He cleaned each hoof carefully with a knife from his saddlebags, especially the ridges around the frog. The head of each hoof rested right on the iron. The shoes were well-fitted and not worn. A good fit, he decided, for store-bought iron. The big horse didn’t appear to be winded or overly hot, so he offered canteen water from his hat. The wet coolness felt good when he returned it to his head.
Leaning over, he withdrew his rifle from the saddle sheath and sat cross-legged against the tree. Beside him was Aleta’s hat. He cocked the gun, then eased the trigger down and laid it across his lap. The quiet whisper of the tree was both comforting and distracting. His insides churned with despair. He knew certain white people were not happy with the black school, but murdering Eliason—and trying to kill Aleta?
A shiver shot through him and sprung frustration loose upon his mind. He could see the pompous Giles. For a moment, he wanted to ride into town and find him. But every idea he had, no matter the subject, would eventually blossom into Aleta. He couldn’t risk leaving her alone again, even though he was relatively certain the mayor would not think she had seen him unmasked. At least, not from the way she told the story.
Noise from the front of the school jolted him alert. Had he been sleeping? For how long? What was the matter? He was barely standing when the children filled the open grassland within the fence, laughing and yelling. Coming toward him was Aleta, trying to look like nothing was wrong, but her eyes told him a different story. At least, they were together.
“Whatcha got that gun fer? Rabbits?” A dark-haired boy was leaning against the fence. “My ma makes a rabbit stew that’ll make ya want seconds and thirds. ’Course, there never is that much.”
Another boy joined the first at the fence, more interested in having his friend join him than in wondering why the minister was waiting.
His mind slow from napping, Cordell tried to think of a reason for the gun. “I . . . ah . . . I was just cleaning it, son. Hope to go hunting . . . soon.”
“Yah, my pa cleans his gun ever’ night, I reckon.”
“Come on, Tommy, let’s eat—and then we can play some baseball. Mrs. Langford said we could.” The second boy tugged on the shirtsleeve of the first.
Tommy looked at Cordell and shouted, “Say, Pastor, ya wanna join us—in some baseball? It’s great fun.”
“Why, he’d love to,” Aleta answered, coming up behind the two boys. “After he eats. Wouldn’t you, dear?”
School was out a few minutes after three o’clock, and a half hour later, Rule and Aleta Cordell were riding toward the boot factory. Aleta tried to cheer him up by telling him that the children were very impressed with his athletic skill. They were certain no one had ever hit a ball as far as Pastor Langford did.
The distraction was short-lived, and their conversation turned to what they might find. They would bury their friend—and the other man—and see if they could learn anything from the tracks around the building. Maybe Aleta’s horse would be there but neither expected it to be. Cordell wondered if their friend had left a will—or any kind of legal description of who should get his holdings. He was certain Giles was after the boot factory. Aleta reminded him that Eliason always kept his papers in a suitcase in his carriage. It would be critical to find the buggy and his documents, they agreed.
As they rode, Cordell began a string of questions that were eating at him. Could he really return to the ministry after this? Wasn’t it now a sham? Wasn’t there a big difference between using a di
fferent name to leave his old ways behind—and pretending to be something he wasn’t? How could he face the people in church and tell them about God’s righteousness when he, himself, turned to the gun for answers? Maybe they should move on? Weren’t there lots of places where no one would care about Rule Cordell?
Before she could answer, they cleared a shallow rise. The unpainted factory building was drenched in late-afternoon sun. Aleta saw them first. People were moving about the wooden front porch of Eliason’s factory. A few were standing next to the row of unruly bushes surrounding it. She guessed there were at least fourteen, all black, and mostly men. He guessed they were factory workers. A shout was followed by sunlight reflecting from a double-barreled shotgun, then from a rifle. Everyone stopped to watch the couple approach.
“Whatcha want hyar?” The command was harsh and loud. It came from an impressive-looking black man with a full beard, wearing a too-short suitcoat and a white, uncollared shirt. He appeared to be the group’s natural leader.
“I’m . . . James . . . Langford. This is my wife, Aleta. She taught children here—last night. I just heard about this awful thing. Jacob Eliason was a friend of ours.” Cordell whispered for Aleta to slow her horse to a walk and kept his hands where they could be seen easily. “We came to bury him—and find out who did this.”
“We already know’d who dun it. White folks dun it. Yo-all kin git.”
“Shut up, Alexander. That’s the white preacher from town. And that’s his wife. She was a-teachin’ hyar. She saved our chil’un’s life.” An older black woman with nearly white hair and a huge bosom waved her arms in the direction of the black man giving orders. “Put them guns down, you fools.”
Alongside Aleta, Cordell stopped the stallion at the hitching rack, but neither dismounted They studied the tense faces of the men and women in front of them. There were no signs of either Eliason or Zachim.
“Yur lady brung our chil’un home safe las’ night, Reverend. We-all mighty thankful for that. Reckon she dun saved their lives. We thank ye, Missus Langford,” a younger black woman in a faded gold dress pronounced as she stepped to the front of the porch. “Won’t you please get down. Jeffrey, ya go fetch these good folks some lemonade—an’ be quick about it.”