Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  A stocky man in patched overalls nodded and disappeared into the building.

  Chapter Thirty

  The tall leader lowered his shotgun. “Sorry ’bout raisin’ my gun at ya. I . . .”

  “No apology necessary. I would’ve done the same thing. May we see Jacob?” Cordell responded, leaning forward from his saddle.

  “We dun buried him over yonder. They weren’t happy ’nuff ’bout shootin’ him, they dun had to hang him. Zachim, too. That’s Zachim’s wife.” He pointed to a young woman sitting in the rocking chair with her head in her hands, weeping. Two women stood on either side of the chair, trying to console her.

  “We’ll take ya over to him. It’s them trees yonder. Thought it looked peaceful. Part of his land too.” The tall man continued, leaning the shotgun against the porch fence. “Buried Zachim thar too. Figgered Mister Eliason would be partial to the idee.”

  Taking a deep breath, Cordell swung down. Aleta rushed ahead of him to Zachim’s widow. She leaned over, took the woman’s hand, and told her what a courageous husband Zachim was, and how much he wanted to learn to read and write. Cordell shook hands with the tall man, who introduced himself as Alexander Morrison, then introduced the others. A glass of lemonade was thrust into Cordell’s hand and one into Aleta’s.

  They sipped on the drinks, more out of deference to the expression of generosity than to any interest in lemonade at that moment. Several men and women took turns telling what they knew about the night, which didn’t extend beyond Aleta’s experience. Except this wasn’t the first time they had been bothered by white-cloaked attackers. No one had seen Eliason’s carriage or Aleta’s horse. No one had any idea who the attackers were, other than the assumption that they were white men.

  The group walked quietly the short distance to the graves. Zachim’s widow and the women with her stayed behind. Cordell knelt beside the freshly dug mounds and shut his eyes to cut off the anguish that wanted out. Aleta fell to her knees beside him and began to weep.

  “Oh, dear friend, if I had only been here,” Cordell blurted.

  The large, white-haired woman was suddenly beside him. “Now, don’t you go blamin’ yurself ’bout this. Ol’ Suitcase would be angry. He rated you an’ your lady mighty high, he did. Told me so hisse’f.”

  Cordell stared up at her, his eyes filled with pain. “I’ll get them. I promise I’ll get them—if it’s the last thing I do.”

  She patted his shoulder. “I think the Lord Jesus talked ’bout turnin’ the other cheek.” She bit her lower lip and added, “Don’ mean to be tellin’ ya ’bout your business, preacher.”

  Cordell stood and took the woman’s hand in his. “This school must keep going. We promised him. Will you pass the word? That is, if you want it to.”

  “Nobody’s gonna hold yo-all to that, Reverend. Yur lady’s dun bin through plenty.” She patted his hand with her left and looked at Aleta.

  Cordell released his grip as Aleta rose and reinforced his commitment. “We will be here tonight—and every night.”

  “With Mistuh Eliason gone, there ain’t likely gonna be no money for schoolin’.” The large woman rubbed her hands together, studying the nervous movement.

  “He paid with his life. So did Zachim. We can never be paid more than that,” Cordell said.

  “Praise be to the Lord.” The older woman raised both hands in the air and began to tell the others.

  Cordell led the mourners in prayer as they requested, and the white-haired woman led them in singing “Over the River Jordan.” He told them that they must keep the factory—and the school—going in Eliason’s honor, and asked if any could handle the management of the concern. Several pointed to the tall black man, Alexander Morrison, and the older woman said Eliason was training him to eventually run the factory by himself.

  “May we talk with you a few minutes?” Cordell asked.

  “Yessuh. We can have some quiet over yonder.” Morrison pointed toward the trees.

  While the others returned to the factory, Cordell outlined the situation as he and Aleta now knew it. Mayor Giles was seeking control of land through Padgett—and had used this fledgling secret society to get control of the boot factory. Aleta described seeing Giles unmasked, and Cordell showed him Harper’s deed and told about the attack on the Riptons. The key would be Eliason’s will, if there was one. Without some legal declaration of ownership beyond Eliason, the factory would be sold. Cordell was certain this was what Giles was counting on. He thought that answer would be found in the suitcase kept in Eliason’s carriage.

  Morrison understood the seriousness of the situation but could offer no thought of where or what record Eliason might have left regarding his wishes, or where the carriage might have been taken. Tracks disappeared over rocky terrain to the west.

  “We ain’t got much time, does we?” Morrison’s shoulders rose and fell.

  “Do you think Jacob had a will?”

  Before Morrison could answer, Aleta responded, “Of course he did, Rule. He was a thorough man, a man who planned.”

  “Well, if they’re in the carriage, we have to assume they’ve been destroyed by now,” Cordell said. “Wouldn’t Giles go through the suitcase—and burn anything that would pass the ownership to someone else?”

  “Yasshu, I reckon so. But I can put together pairs of men to ride through the country looking for the carriage. We ain’t got much choice, does we?”

  “The women can go too,” Cordell responded. “And we’ll search in town.”

  “Before you do that,” Aleta asserted, “get everyone to search around here—and in the building. Jacob Eliason was the kind of man who would have hidden it—eef he had time.”

  “That’s a big ‘if,’ honey.” Cordell sought her eyes.

  “Sí, but he was a beeg man.”

  “Your lady’s right, Reverend. We should look here firstust,” Morrison said. “I’ll git folks a-movin’. Be good for ’em to quit mopin’ around, even if’n they don’t find nothin’.”

  While groups of black men and women searched the grounds around the building, and others explored possible hiding places inside, Cordell and Aleta scouted the outlying terrain and found where riders had gathered. Bunched-up hoofprints and a few boot-smashed cigar butts were the main signs. Cordell noticed that one of the horses left a print of a rear left shoe with a deep notch at its front. Something glittered within a clump of buffalo grass. Aleta leaned over and picked up a shiny dark blue button. It had come from a man’s coat or vest.

  “Colonel Bulldog wears a suit like thees,” she said, holding the button in her outstretched hand.

  “So do a lot of men,” Cordell replied. “But it’s something.”

  “The man with a missing button weel have mucho to explain, I theenk.”

  “Yeah, and a horseshoe with a cut in it.”

  They decided to go home, check on Lizzie, and get some supper before returning for the evening’s school. By then, Morrison would know if their search was fruitful. She wondered if her beloved paint horse would ever be found, and Cordell could only offer hope that it would turn up, but his manner indicated he didn’t believe the statement. Their conversation continued as they walked back to their horses tied to the factory hitch. Cordell finally told her about finding Lion Graham’s body, and that of two Regulators, on his way home. He told of his promise to return and bury Graham.

  Their walk back was disrupted by the big, white-haired woman waving at him from the middle of the bushes. Her body rippled like a pebble in a stream. Morrison was beside her, smiling. Cordell’s lopsided grin was followed by a wave of his own. Aleta exclaimed, “They’ve found it!”

  “Guess what we dun found?” Morrison yelled, and answered without waiting. His excited voice boomed across the open yard. “Mistuh Eliason’s suitcase. Yessuh, it was in a bush, right over there.” The nod of his head was toward the eastern hedge.

  An immediate examination of the suitcase’s contents began. Cordell spotted the will as Morrison
thumbed through the stack of papers.

  “There it is.”

  Morrison withdrew the document and began to read it aloud. Both Cordell and Aleta were impressed with his skill. He stopped at one point, looked at them, and smiled. “Mistah Eliason taught me.” He skimmed through the legal jargon and came to the important considerations: The factory was given to Morrison and three other men; his other holdings were to pass to the white family that raised him, Knox College, and to Reverend James and Aleta Langford.

  “Quite a fella, that Eliason.” Morrison folded his arms and looked away. “H-he helped me become . . . a real man.”

  “I think Suitcase would say you already were.”

  A red ball of sun watched them gallop toward their small ranch, both lost in thought yet clinging to each other’s closeness. Rounding the slooping hillside, they saw Aleta’s paint horse standing quietly in their corral, still saddled. Aleta whooped her joy, and Cordell withdrew the Dean & Adams revolver from his back waistband.

  “They may still be here,” he warned, but it wasn’t necessary. In Aleta’s right hand was her pistol. He cocked the handgun and motioned for her to let him go first.

  He rode ahead to the corral gate, studying the house and surrounding area for anything that shouldn’t be there. Cordell leaned over in the saddle and pulled the rope latch holding the gate and swung it open. He saw a sheet of paper tied to the paint’s saddle horn.

  “Aleta, looks like there’s a note.”

  She kicked her horse into a lope through the open gate, reined up beside the paint, and tore the paper loose. A leather thong looped around the saddle horn held a shivering corner of the sheet.

  “What’s it say?” Cordell asked, closing the gate behind him without dismounting.

  “OhmyGod, Rule—they’ve got Lizzie!”

  “What?” Cordell’s eyes went immediately to the back door. The lock was lying on the ground.

  Aleta raced for the house, somehow hoping the message was a joke. Her dun wandered around the corral, dragging its reins. The paper fell from her hand as she pulled open the door and yelled, “Lizzie? Lizzie? OhmyGod!”

  Cordell entered behind her, picking up the note as he stepped inside. Silently, he read its horrible story: “We have the girl. If you want her back alive, let a new owner take over the factory. When the paper is signed, she will be returned.”

  His face burning with a new agony, he met Aleta returning from the bedroom. Her expression needed no words. Her breath came in halting jabs as she fought herself for control.

  “What are we going to do? They’ll kill her, Rule.” She bit her lower lip and stared at the ceiling, then held him tightly.

  Cordell’s mind was racing to a place he didn’t want to go. Tiredness had disappeared; his thoughts were icy clear. The only people, besides themselves, who knew Lizzie Ripton was in their house were the Riptons, Caleb Shank—and Ian Taullery. Could his friend have told someone else—like the madam, Lady Matilda, or his wife, Mary? Or someone else—like Mayor Giles? His mind pushed further—or was the reason Taullery couldn’t go with him to help the Riptons because he was going to be a part of Giles’s attack on the school at Eliason’s factory? But if that was the case, wouldn’t Taullery have also told Giles that he was going to help the Riptons, and Padgett would have been warned? Or did Taullery simply believe Padgett and his men could handle a lone Rule Cordell?

  “Oh no, Ian, not you. Not you,” he muttered with his arms around Aleta.

  She recoiled from the words. “What do you mean?”

  “Aleta, Ian was the only person I told about Lizzie being here—besides the Riptons and Caleb. Obviously they didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Aleta was silent. She looked into his face as if trying to withdraw more information directly from his mind. Finally, she spoke: “Let’s go to town—and see your friend. He’ll still be at the store, I’ll bet.” Her manner was calm; shock had evaporated from her system.

  He gazed at her face, inches from his. He loved many things about her; there was an inner courage that was always close to the surface.

  “Yes, we must go.”

  From the display of guns, she grabbed the remaining rifle and a box of cartridges. Outside, Cordell took his belt guns from his saddlebags and rebuckled them around his waist. Aleta tied up her dun, then checked the cinch on the paint, tied on the rifle sheath, and shoved the gun into place. She swung easily into the saddle.

  “Where is Moon’s medicine earring?” Aleta asked, waiting for Cordell to mount.

  “Oh, it’s in my pocket. Got torn during the night.”

  “Let me see eet. I weel fix. For luck.”

  He frowned but handed the pebble earring to her; she examined it and went inside. Minutes later, she returned with new leather in place. He smiled, placed it over his ear, and galloped toward town.

  Most of the stores were closed or closing as Cordell rode down the main street. A half-dozen townspeople remained on the sidewalks, absorbed in their personal activities. Similarly, most of the clouds had disappeared to their secret places in the sky, encouraged by a gentle wind. Only the blacksmith and the barbershop appeared to be fully active. The ping of the blacksmith rang even harsher in the silence. The one-legged man in worn Confederate garb was leaning against a low fence half surrounding the hot coals, watching as if it were his responsibility to do so. This time Cordell didn’t wave.

  Eager to be home, the proprietor of the drugstore was locking up but stopped to watch the black-coated rider pass. He frowned as his observation took in the fact that the familiar man was armed and looked around to see if others had noticed. Not seeing anyone, he quickly completed his locking and scurried down the alley and out of sight.

  Cordell was suddenly aware of a tall woman with long black hair studying him. She was standing across the street by herself; her light-colored eyes bored into him. Even if she hadn’t been wearing the same dress from the day before, he would have recognized her as the strange woman from Taullery’s store. Caleb Shank’s description rang through his mind: “Wal, that’d be Eagle Mary. Part Comanche, part witch.”

  His eyes met hers, and she said in a singsong voice, “Why are you here? You are thunder. You are lightning. You are a storm to clean the land. You have sent the one who came to another time.”

  He shivered and looked around to see if anyone else was watching either of them. When he looked back, she was gone. Instead, a few feet away from where she had been, two men strutted into view and stopped to watch him with interest; both were reinforced by an afternoon of drinking. Weaving as he stood, the white-haired buffalo hunter spat a thick brown string of tobacco juice and asked his younger companion, a hide skinner, if that was the preacher.

  When the younger man acknowledged it was, the hunter spat again and asked why the preacher was wearing guns. Wearing a shapeless hat and mule-eared boots, the leathery-faced companion studied Cordell for a few minutes and finally observed, “Maybe he ain’t a preacher no more.”

  The older buffalo hunter spat and muttered, “Things jes’ ain’t like they used to be. We shoulda won.” With that proclamation, he began walking along the planked sidewalk. Behind him came the younger man, scurrying to catch up. He told the stumbling man that the preacher was also wearing a rose and some kind of earring. They both looked back at Cordell, who had pulled up in front of Taullery’s general store. A lamp near the rear of the place signaled someone was still there.

  Dismounting, Cordell strode to the door and pulled on it. Locked. He banged on the door, then peered in the display window. The light was out, and only shadowed shapes greeted him. He returned to his stallion and swung into the saddle. His coattails flipped back, revealing his belted revolvers. He flipped off the hammer thong and eased the right Colt up and down in its holster to make certain the weapon would clear quickly. Spurring the big horse into a gallop, he raced to the end of the street and around back. A lilac-watered woman yelled at him from the second-floor window of the whorehouse as he p
assed. Down on the street, a man in business clothes looked up at her and yelled back. Ignoring Cordell, she waved at the man, who began walking toward the house.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Rule Cordell held his breath as he rode around a shallow trench hollowed out under a lean-to used by saloon patrons to relieve themselves. The wind whipped the odor into a reeking wall. Clearing it, he shook his head to cast off the smell and looked down the alleyway. Halfway along the rear side of the main row of false-fronted stores, he saw two silhouettes against the fading sky. Aleta’s shape was further distinguished by her returned sombrero. Her black hair lay untied and rested easily along her shoulders. At her waist was strapped a bullet belt with an empty holster sitting on her left thigh. Aleta held the holster’s gun on Ian Taullery. Beside them was Taullery’s waiting buggy, with the reins of Aleta’s paint horse now tied to a wheel. Their simple plan had worked. Before getting close to town, Aleta separated from Cordell and slipped behind Taullery’s store to wait. As they suspected, Taullery fled as soon as he saw Cordell coming.

  “Your friend, he ees not so happy to see us,” Aleta snapped, pushing her revolver against Taullery’s back.

  “This your idea of a joke, Rule?” Taullery demanded. “I’m late for supper. Mary’s expecting me.” He withdrew a cigar from his coat pocket, bit off the end, and spit it away. His hands roamed his vest pockets for a match.

  “No, it’s my idea of justice.” Cordell stopped his horse and stepped down in one smooth motion, holding the reins in his left fist. “When did you stop carrying a derringer in your vest pocket?”

  “Oh, I forgot. I was just looking for a match. Here, you can have the gun.” He reached into his right vest pocket for the hidden pistol.