by Cotton Smith
Sliding into the building as unobtrusively as the huge man could, Caleb Shank held two decorative ink bottles and a small sack of dip pens. His injured ear was swollen and scabbed over. Hamlike fists placed the writing materials carefully on a handy crate. He withdrew several papers from his coat, smoothed them with his fingers, and laid them on the crate as well.
After a few minutes of arranging and rearranging, the big merchant nodded his satisfaction at the task being completed and smiled at Cordell in his minister’s garb. Cordell’s response was a quick grin. He thought it was probably Shank’s first time in a church since his family was killed. Shank decided to stand in a corner at the back, next to his presentation. Cordell had invited Shank to Sunday dinner at his house after the service; Alexander Morrison and his wife were expected to join them too. Cordell had invited the black couple to the church, but Morrison had politely declined. Later, Aleta had advised her husband that he was being foolish to think his white parishioners would be comfortable with black people in attendance.
Cordell’s attention was drawn to an older woman near the back. He hadn’t seen her come in—and couldn’t see her face now, for she was leaning over. Probably picking up a dropped hymnal. Something pulled him to her, but he didn’t know why. Was she from town? Someone he knew? But his attention was yanked to another woman sitting the next pew over. It was Eagle Mary—and in the same light blue dress she had worn when he last saw her. She was staring at the room’s ceiling like she could see through the roof.
He’d seen that penetrating glare before and looked away before she realized he’d recognized her. Why was she here? Today, of all days. He didn’t need such a distraction. He forced himself to look at the other side, near the back, where the Harpers sat. Ellena was settled with her arm around her young daughter, Rebecca, while twelve-year-old Michael intently watched every move Cordell made at the front of the church.
Just before the services began, Ian Taullery rushed down the middle aisle and managed to find a seat two rows behind Giles. His face was pale, with beads of sweat along his brow. Mary Taullery was apparently not with him. His face was flushed and, so unlike him, his suit was wrinkled, like he had slept in it. Taullery glanced to his left and realized he was sitting next to Michigan Fainwald. Taullery nodded, and Fainwald responded in kind. Immediately, Taullery began to fidget with arranging his hymnal so he wouldn’t have to meet Cordell’s eyes.
“Good morning, everyone,” Cordell began, judging that it was time to begin worship services. “It is a beautiful day, isn’t it. On such a day, I am always reminded that our Indian friends see miracles everywhere.” He touched the medicine pouch beneath his robe, brushing against the silver cross hanging around his neck. “We should too. The miracle of a sunrise. The miracle of a swift horse and a friendly dog. Good health and hard work. Yes, hard work is a miracle too, producing a better life for our families. Oh, and the miracle of children. Look at those wonderful faces among us today. The miracle of love. Or the miracle of spring bringing new life.” He paused and looked at an old man on the sixth row, cupping a hand to his ear to hear. “And, yes, the miracle of wisdom that comes with age. There are miracles all around us.”
Somewhere an “Amen” popped into the room, followed by another. He thought he heard Eagle Mary say “Nanisuwukaiyu,” the Comanche word for “miracle,” but he wasn’t certain; it might have been just the mingling of responses. He glanced again in the direction of the older woman, but her face was blocked by a tall man in front of her.
“There are many other miracles—one, in particular, that I want to talk about today. It is the miracle of caring enough about each other to keep all of us from harm. I would like to open today’s worship a little differently. First we will pray together, then I have a story to share.” His voice was even and kindly; his chiseled face seemed softer than usual.
He closed his eyes and folded his hands. “Lord, we are gathered together in peace—and to share the miracles that are all around us. We seek the goodness of the land—and we ask only for others to grant us the opportunity to find it.” He paused, grimaced, and continued, “Lord, give us the miracle of strength, of courage, and of wisdom, to help each other. Amen.”
He looked up and glanced at Aleta, who smiled warmly and glanced down at the rose in her hands to make sure he saw it. “Today, I want to tell you about the ‘Sons of Thunder.’ You may have heard of them; you may not.” Several heads nodded affirmatively. An old man on the fourth row was already asleep. His low snoring was bothering the families on both sides of him. Cordell’s steady gaze caught Mrs. Tomlinson, and she mouthed, “Vices.” He bit his lower lip to keep from smiling.
“These ‘Sons of Thunder’ are not the ones you’ve read about in the Bible, the ones who became disciples of Jesus. Although, from their description alone, I reckon they were pretty tough men.” Chuckles flickered across the room, and one loud guffaw. “No, these ‘Sons of Thunder’ are on a wanted poster. It is the name used by me to try to stop wicked men from stealing the Ripton ranch, like they did the Harpers’—and others around here.”
A collected gasp rattled through the church. Giles pretended to be thumbing through his hymnal. Taullery looked like he was going to be sick. Cordell proceeded to tell the audience how Captain Padgett had been fooled into thinking he and his men were surrounded. Cordell gave no indication of who had helped him in this effort. Snickers rippled through the audience, much louder than the earlier response. He told his stunned audience about the attack on the Eliason boot factory and minced no words in describing his feelings about the white-sheeted men who had done it.
He stopped and studied the room. Eagle Mary was now looking at him, her gaze so penetrating that he rolled his shoulders to remove the impact of the stare. The church was hushed. A small child’s whisper near the back was a loud announcement, bringing a moment of relief to the growing tension. One couple at the back rose and left. Mrs. Tomlinson frowned and mouthed, “No tobacco.” Shank was watching two children squirm on the back row, and Cordell figured it was only a matter of time before the big man went over to them with candy or something to occupy their attention. Cordell’s smile barely reached his face before he realized it wasn’t the right time to do so.
“It is important that you know something,” Cordell finally continued. “First, the ‘Sons of Thunder’ you’ve heard about are not the only thing that’s not real around here. I am not James Langford. I am Rule Cordell.” He waited for the talking to ebb before going on. “Friends helped me escape from Union troops—and to become your minister and to start a small horse ranch with my wife, Aleta. It had been our deepest wish that this would be our new life. That was not to be.” His chest swelled with nervous energy, and he exhaled. “We could not stand by and let good friends be robbed of their lands—by an evil lawman, William Padgett, his hired killer, Lion Graham, and their boss, William Giles.”
Giles’s chin shot up and crimson rose from his collar to his forehead. He stood and snarled, “What kind of nonsense is this? First, this wild story about the Sons of Thunder—and now you’re Rule Cordell. You said that last Sunday—when you attacked our state police doing their job. Why should anyone believe you—about anything?”
Cordell smiled. “That’s a good point, Giles. I’ll let the folks here decide. Padgett hanged an innocent man, Douglas Harper—so you could get his land. Then you had Padgett try to run the Ripton family off their ranch. You and some others attacked the boot factory—and murdered my friend, Jacob Eliason, and another fine man. You tried to kill the little kids going to school there, too—and my wife, who was teaching them.” He stared at Giles. “My wife saw you, Giles, when your mask came off.”
“That’s ridiculous! I refuse to listen to any more of this. . . .”
“Sit down, Giles, I’m not through.” Cordell pointed at the mayor.
“I have no intention of doing that. My good name is being smeared by . . . by a man who is wanted by the authorities, who has told all of us lies ab
out himself. You have no proof. I demand your dismissal—immediately. This isn’t church, it’s nonsense.”
“I have the deeds, Giles. I took them from Padgett’s wagon.” Cordell’s eyes bored into Giles, and the mayor hesitated and sat down. His wife whispered at him, and he told her to shut up.
“You don’t have to believe me, folks, I wouldn’t expect you to.” From under his robe, he pulled two documents and held them up in his hand. “Here is the deed for the Harper ranch—with Giles’s name on it. And here’s an unsigned deed to the Ripton place—with Giles’s signature already on it.” He stepped forward and handed the papers to Widow Bauer. “Pass them around for everyone to see. I hope they scare you as much as they did me.”
Staring at Giles, he told the congregation that he had signed confessions from every man who had attacked the factory. Each man asserted that Giles and two of his ranch hands had been the ones who killed Eliason and Zachim. He mentioned that both of these men had been wounded by his wife. Aleta stood and withdrew folded sheets of paper and handed them to the surprised man behind her.
Without pausing, Cordell explained that he would resign after the service was over, and that he and his wife would be leaving the area, but not before justice was delivered to Padgett, Giles, and his two hands. The other clansmen had agreed to buy books and supplies for the black school.
In the middle of the church, a lanky man slowly stood, raising his hand as he did. “Reverend . . . ah, Mister Cordell, sir . . . some o’ us are a-knowin’ about all this. We seed Giles git his other ranches the same way. My friend, Warren Hanks, were hanged by Captain Padgett. Fer nothin’. What’er we supposed to do? He’s the law, ain’t he?”
Cordell cocked his head to one side. “You’re going to have to decide that for yourselves. All of you. That’s the miracle of caring about each other I mentioned earlier.” He motioned toward the back of the room. “Here’s a place to start. My good friend, Caleb Shank, has some ink and pens—in the back. There are two petitions for your consideration. One is for the removal of Padgett as captain of the Texas police force. It will be presented to the governor. The other is for the arrest of Giles for murder and his removal as mayor.”
“Well, by God, I’ll sign it,” the lanky man exclaimed. His was the lone endorsement, and he sat down.
Cordell folded his arms and found the encouraging eyes of Aleta. A few parishioners looked uncomfortable; more appeared angry; several women were sobbing. His gaze returned to Giles. “Oh, and we have a special pen for you, Giles. You are going to sign the deed for the Harper land over to Mrs. Harper.”
Giles looked up at Cordell, his face twisted with hate. Over his reddened cheeks spread a cruel smile. “Why would I do that? You’re going to be hanged—just like that fool Harper.”
Outside, the rush of horses gave an indication of why Giles was confident. The door was shoved aside and state police jammed their way into the church. Morning sunlight brushed against their badges as they fanned out along the back. One started to ask Shank to move away from his crate, studied the big man, and thought wiser of it. Without moving, Shank stood quietly, his hands behind his back.
Captain Padgett was pushed into the warehouse, sitting defiantly in his wheelchair. A different Regulator than before delivered the lawman; his strained arms indicated the task wasn’t an easy one. Padgett’s beaded-cuff gauntlets gripped the chair rails tightly and his head moved jerkily from side to side, like a rooster checking the barnyard. A few steps behind the wheelchair came a short, portly man dressed in black. His stern face was marked with spectacles; his collar and dark clothes marked him as a minister; his expression was one of cruel satisfaction.
It was Reverend Aaron Cordell, Rule’s father.
In a loud commanding voice, Padgett bellowed, “Reverend Cordell, do you see a familiar person here this fine Sunday morning?”
“I see my one failure in life. My son. Rule Cordell. May he rot in Hell for his wicked ways.” Reverend Cordell stepped forward as he spoke, slowly lifting his right arm until a pudgy finger pointed directly at his son.
“You’re under arrest, Cordell, for the murder of Lion Graham and four police officers,” Padgett screamed. “Take him, boys. I want to enjoy a hanging this morning.” He smiled, glanced up at Rule’s father, and added, “Then we’re gonna find every one of you bastard ‘Sons of Thunder.’ You’ll rue the day you ever got in my way.”
At the front of the church, Cordell stood with his feet spread apart and his arms folded. Calmly, he said, “Well, dear father, it’s good to see you too. I see you’ve found like company. Quite a trio you, Padgett, and Giles make.”
Giles jumped to his feet and shouted, “Padgett, you lost my deeds, you idiot. Get them. They’re somewhere in there.” He waved his arms in the direction of the middle of the pews directly across from him.
Four Regulators headed for the front. A loud metallic click-click behind them stopped their progress. It was followed by a casual command. “If’n you boys go any further, I’m afraid your fine captain is gonna find hisse’f in bad shape. This hyar fella’s got a hair trigger. Traded fer it jes’ yesterday.” In Caleb Shank’s fist was a long-barreled revolver that had been held behind his back, and it was pointed at Padgett.
Reverend Cordell snarled at Shank, “You sinful fool. You’ll go to Hell for helping this . . . this . . .”
“Son of Thunder.” The statement came from another large man sitting next to the Harper woman. In his hand was a Colt revolver. It, too, was pointed at Padgett. “You can count me one o’ them Sons of Thunder, Padgett. We’ve had enough of you—and you, too, Giles.”
“I’m a Son of Thunder.”
“Me too.”
“You’d better figger I’m one o’ them Sons of Thunder.”
Suddenly the room was bursting with men standing, brandishing handguns, and yelling, “I’m a Son of Thunder.” Cordell’s mouth opened slightly in amazement. His eyes caught movement on the first pew and saw Aleta pull a gun from her handbag, then a second. Next to her, Widow Bauer was standing with an old dragoon in her hand. Aleta turned toward Cordell and tossed him one of the pistols. Shaking his head, he watched it sail toward him, then stepped aside without raising his arms and let it pass. The Colt thudded on the floor behind him.
“Drop them guns, boys.” Shank pointed his revolver at different Regulators. “Unless ya figger a church is a fine place to breathe yur last.” The Regulator closest to him hesitated, and Shank’s left fist jolted the man in the jaw and he sank to the ground. The big merchant looked at the next man in line and said, “I said now.”
Immediately, the militiamen began dropping their rifles and unbuckling their handguns. Padgett screamed for them to shoot. An older, white-haired man on the back pew stepped over the plank and seized a dropped rifle and pointed it at the Regulators. He was followed by another. Reverend Aaron Cordell stared in disbelief at what was happening. He yelled, “‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’” But no one heard him.
“You can’t do this,” Padgett screamed. “We are the law.”
The white-haired man shouted back, “Not in Clark Springs, you ain’t. Not anymore.”
Cordell walked slowly toward a stunned Giles. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t hit anyone in a church. But for you, I’ll make an exception.” He stopped in front of the red-faced mayor and his fist flew into Giles’s belly. Giles staggered as his wind vanished with the blow, followed by the remains of his breakfast. Cordell jumped sideways to avoid the vomit, and it splattered on the floor and the emptied pew in front of him. Satisfied that the bent-over mayor was finished retching, Cordell slammed his fist into Giles’s chin, lifting him off the ground and sending him flopping over the pew.
From the back of the church came Shank’s steadying call. “I think he dun got the point, preacher.”
Editor Fainwald’s excited voice followed. “Leave something for the judge.”
Cordell backed away from the unconscious Giles. “You’re right. He needs to sign a deed
, doesn’t he?”
Giles’s wife studied her still husband, then Cordell, and huffed, “I can assure you that you won’t be getting a new coat from us!”
Cordell didn’t see the older woman stand, but there she was, glaring at his father. Her words rang across the tightened room, forcing everyone to stop and listen. She pointed at the heavyset minister. “Yes, you are this fine young minister’s father. I should know—I’m his mother.”
Cordell stared, disbelieving. It was! It was!
“You are fortunate to have a real minister. Someone who really cares,” she continued, turning toward the puzzled assembly. “This pompous fool beat his wife and his son, cheated on his congregation by keeping their donations for himself. You, Aaron Cordell, are the one damned.”
Sunlight glittered off of the gold-plated pistol in Padgett’s fist, drawn from one of the holsters hanging from his wheelchair and aimed at Rule Cordell.
“No, no!” Taullery yelled, and jumped to his feet, drawing his derringer. He fired both barrels at the crippled leader as Padgett’s gun exploded. Shank’s own blast was a fraction behind. Padgett jerked in his wheelchair and yelped, “Kill him, Lion.” He rose, took one short step, and collapsed. Reverend Aaron Cordell turned and ran out of the building.
Cordell rushed toward Taullery, who had taken Padgett’s bullet in the chest. He knelt beside his friend and held him close. “Ian, breathe easy now. It’s going to be all right.” Cordell looked up at the throng of faces gathering close. “Give him air. Please. Back up. Someone get some water. Quick.”
“D-don’t . . . R-Rule. I’m not going to make it.” Taullery’s eyelashes fluttered, and he swallowed. His body trembled slightly and his eyes closed.
“Ian? You can’t . . .”
Taullery’s eyes opened. “I’m sorry I let you down, Rule. I—I can’t make the next charge. I wish . . .”