Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)
Page 29
Cordell held the unmoving Taullery to his chest and wept. Aleta was at his side, tears streaming down her face. The rose slipped from her hand and tumbled across Taullery’s still face, coming to rest on the bloodstained floor. A lone petal fluttered onto Cordell’s hand and stayed there, unnoticed. He didn’t hear Mrs. Tomlinson mutter, “He has to stay. He hasn’t done his sermon on vices yet.”
Hestitantly, Cordell’s mother came to Aleta, tears consuming her wrinkled face. In halting phrases, she told Aleta that she had heard about this young minister and wondered if it might be her son. She was staying in town at the boardinghouse. Her second husband, Henry Johnson, had died in the War and her other children were working their farm in northern Texas.
She choked on her sobbing and whispered, “D-do you t-think he c-can ever f-forgive me?”
Aleta blinked, and her chest rose and fell. “Sí, your son already has.”
Widow Bauer stared at the sobbing woman, then at Fainwald scribbling notes on a pad of paper. “How you gonna write about this, Fainwald?” Her tone was accusatory.
He looked up at her, smiled thinly, and said, “State police captain and town mayor captured in a scheme to defraud community. Mayor arrested for murder.”
“What about . . . our minister?”
Fainwald cocked his head to side and returned to his writing. “What about him? I don’t see his sermon about miracles as a part of this story.”
Holding Taullery’s body in his arms, Cordell was aware of Eagle Mary standing next to him. “You are thunder. You are lightning. You are a storm to clean the land.” She paused and touched the medicine pouch under his shirt and robe. “Nanisuwukaiyu. Moon watches over you. Know this.” She turned and left before he could respond. His red-lined eyes followed her departure until he heard Aleta’s caressing voice: “Your mother is here, Rule. She wants to see you. There is nothing you can do for Eee-un now, my love. He ees gone elsewhere.”
At the back of the church, young Michael Harper ran over to Shank. “I-is he really Rule Cordell?”
“I reckon so, Michael.” Shank watched the Regulators being marched outside by armed churchmen. Several lawmen appeared relieved. None made any attempt to go to their their dead leader. One stocky deputy spat at Padgett’s body as he passed.
“W-will the Y-Yanks be a-comin’ after him? W-will I ever get to be with him again?” Michael’s eyes were filling.
“I don’t know, son, he’s got a lot o’ war in ’im.” Shank was distracted by several people gathering around his crate. “Wal, I reckon we don’t need no paper signed about Padgett no more.”
One bearded man holding a long-barreled Colt said defiantly, “I reckon to sign it anyways.” As Shank nodded, the man continued, “Ya was sure ri’t about the preacher needin’ some he’p today. You reckon we kin talk him into stayin’?”
“Hard to say, Jesse. Might be no one’ll believe Rule Cordell’s alive.”
“Yah, does sound a bit far-fetched—even fer a Yank. Ya kin have this hyar pistol back now.”
Michael tugged on Shank’s coat to get his attention. “Are you one of the Sons of Thunder?”
“I reckon so, Michael.”
“Can I be one?”
“You already are, son. Better yet, yur a Harper.”