Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  Many thought he knew more about what was really going on in this part of Texas than any newspaper. Certainly, he rarely met a stranger—and, if so, that person rarely stayed one for long. Whenever he stopped at a homestead with children, each child got something free, regardless of whether the parents bought anything or not. Cordell liked the man; his huge joy for life matched his massive frame. It wasn’t surprising to see that “the Russian” was here. The huge man would have learned of the Sunday tragedy and gone immediately to help.

  “The Russian’s” real name was Caleb Shank, and he wasn’t Russian. He wasn’t even foreign-born, having grown up in Georgia in a small town outside of Atlanta. A few folks in town thought he fought in the War, but no one said where, or for which side. But someone, somewhere, thought he looked like a Russian, with his long black hair and heavy beard, and the description stuck. He never seemed to mind. There was also another tale that wouldn’t go away, of his killing two men in a bar fight, breaking one man’s neck with his bare fists and stopping the other with a knife thrown across the room.

  Taullery guided the wagon horses toward the barn as the front door burst open and a tree-sized, hatless man sprang from the house. With him came two laughing Harper children. Long black hair bounced on his shoulders, and the sun caught the glimmer of four gold rings on the fingers of his right hand and a large gold ring with a green stone on his left. Both hands were constantly moving as he talked. Strained buttons on his faded shirt had nearly lost the war with his thick chest. Black hair blossomed from the neck of Shank’s shirt and ran across the back of his hands. A heavy beard, sprinkled with gray, covered most of his face, leaving only an oft-broken nose and bright, happy eyes. His red-stained, leathery face and hands were testimony to constant sun exposure, but his complexion didn’t tan.

  Caleb Shank headed immediately for the wagon, singing a song that only the children understood and that he probably had just made up. His body weaved in rhythm with the words and his gruff voice added emphasis where it wasn’t needed, bringing contagious laughter from the children each time. Leave it to kids to see beyond the beast to the real man inside, Cordell thought as he removed his slicker and tossed it into the wagon bed. Kids know. They really know. Did the kids at school believe what I said? The question was a wind-swept tumbleweed through his mind and was gone.

  Grabbing the hands of both the little boy and girl, he began to half-skip, half-dance toward the barn. His mule-eared boots thudded against the soggy ground, spraying mud in all directions. That only made him roar with laughter. If one looked closely, scars on both sets of knuckles told a story of a man used to fighting. Inside his shirt, down the back, hung a throwing knife in a sheath held by a rawhide thong around his neck.

  Mary Taullery wondered aloud, “What’s he doing, running the way he was around with the children? Shouldn’t they be inside with their mother?”

  “Mary, they need some relief from that awful pain. He’s giving them a great gift, the gift of laughter.” Cordell’s tone indicated he didn’t want her to say more.

  “Ho, my great friends, yo-all are a grand sight.” Shank’s greeting was as large as his countenance. “Reverend Langford, t’is your prayers they be needin’ too. I see you caught the rain.”

  “I think we caught every single drop, my old friend. Caleb, it’s great to see you.” Cordell’s returned greeting was equally warm. He jumped down from the wagon, helped Aleta down, then Mary and the baby, and headed for “the Russian” with his hand extended.

  “Aye, a bear hug is called for, I reckon,” Shank announced, and wrapped his tree-trunk arms around Cordell and squeezed. The minister hugged back, gasping for breath at the same time.

  Seeing Aleta, the big man released Cordell and made an exaggerated bow to her. “My, my, the minister, indeed, has much to be thankful for. Mrs. Langford, you are proof that prayers are answered.”

  Aleta laughed and returned the greeting with a smile on her face. “You never change, Senor Shank. You make thees senorita weak with such pretty words. Mucho gracias.”

  Stepping to the side, she introduced Mary Taullery and their son. Shank connected the baby’s name with that of the late Rule Cordell. “Rule—a Texas name to be proud of. Is it after the great Rule Cordell?”

  Mary nodded and forced a smile. “It is good of you to play with the children. They need to laugh.” She avoided looking at either Cordell or Aleta, and glanced back at her husband, who was unharnessing the horses.

  “Shucks, ma’am, that ain’t no big thing. I jes’ hate seein’ kids goin’ long-faced. They’s cried enough, I reckon.”

  Cordell asked about Mrs. Harper and her children, and the big man shared what he knew of the situation. They had been forced to leave their land this morning when a band of Regulators arrived with the official papers. Captain Padgett led them from his war wagon. The new owner wasn’t there and Shank wasn’t certain who it was, but thought it was a stranger from up north, maybe a cousin of Captain Padgett’s. Lion David Graham, the pistol-fighter, was there too. After Shank helped the Harpers finish packing, the family left with Mrs. Harper demanding her children not cry. They arrived here early in the afternoon, missing the rain by only an hour.

  “A brave lady she be,” Shank continued. “She never said a word to that son of a bitch Padgett. Beggin’ your pardon, preacher. But each time she carried something to the wagon, she gave that crippled bastard a stare he couldn’t meet. No sir. Her children worked right with us—and not a sniffle among ’em. Great kids they are, by God. Sorry, preacher. All the time, Padgett and his men, they watched—and they laughed.”

  “One of them yelled to her that a widow needed some lovemakin’—and words about how he was gonna do it to her.” His heavy face turned crimson. “Forgive me, Preacher Langford, but I jes’ couldn’t take that. I walked over and yanked the silly fool from his horse and hit him. ’Fraid I broke his jaw. Lawdy, it felt good. Sorry, preach.”

  “No need to ask for my forgiveness, Caleb. But you were playing with fire,” Cordell said.

  “Yah, Padgett, he told that pistol-fighter something—but I heard Lion tell him that the man deserved it. So they left me alone.”

  “The good Lord needs more like you—so does Texas.” Cordell put his hand on Shank’s shoulder and turned back to Aleta. “Why don’t you go on in, honey. You and Mary. I’ll help Ian with the horses and the food.”

  “Sí, my husband. I weel get the doll for Rebecca.”

  “Sure. She’s going to love that.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and headed for the wagon. Red blossomed at the edges of Cordell’s white collar. For the first time, he was aware of how wet her clothes were. They clung to her body and accented her ample bosom. He glanced down at his groin, and it had obviously responded to his wife’s appearance.

  From the wagon bed, Aleta lifted the cloth doll from under the canvas. Neither the wrapping nor the doll was damp. Silently, Cordell thanked God for making him see that was it well covered.

  Walking over to her, Cordell said quietly, “You’re soaking wet, Aleta. Do you need to ask the women for something to wear?”

  She looked coyly over her shoulder at him. “I am fine. Just a little damp. Does my husband see something he does not like?”

  Cordell grinned. “Nope. I see everything I love—but I don’t want anybody else to see it.”

  She looked down at herself, smiled, and pulled the wet blouse away from her breasts, then grabbed the edges of her skirt and shook it vigorously. Deciding that only time would help with her clothes, she laid the doll back on the wagon bed and reached for Cordell’s discarded slicker.

  “How’s that, Reverend?” Her words came like falling snowflakes as she slipped on the raincoat and buttoned the top two buttons.

  “Well, it might be a little warm—but I like it.” He smiled.

  “Bueno.” She kissed him again on the cheek and picked up the doll, cradling it like a real child. “Be pronto. Mrs. Harper needs you.”

 
Cordell agreed, and she headed for the house. Halfway there, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. He was watching his arms folded. Her eyes made love to him. Then, she continued, almost skipping.

  Unaware of the interplay between Cordell and Aleta, Shank squatted beside the children, who were clamoring for his attention. With joy in his voice, the big man told them to hide and he would be “it.” Giggling and yelling, they both ran in the same direction toward the barn. He shut his eyes and counted loudly and slowly. The numbers weren’t in any known sequence, with a few words like “chicken” and “saddle” thrown in for good measure.

  Cordell watched him as he removed the saddle from his gray horse. It was impossible not to smile when one saw “the Russian” with children. He ran his hand across the mantle; it was damp. He shook his head at the saddle soaping that lay ahead. Maybe tonight, after they were home.

  Taullery had already turned out the wagon horses, wiping them down carefully with a mostly dry saddle blanket from the wagon bed. He filled the water trough with several buckets of water from her well. Cordell led the unsaddled riding horses into the corral.

  “Your red is limping. Right foreleg, Ian.” Cordell pointed in the direction of the animal’s slight limp.

  “Hmm, probably a stone bruise. There was some mean ground we went over early on,” Taullery answered. “I’ll check it. Will you get some grain from the wagon? Four nose bags are there too.”

  “Sure. Does it matter which horse gets which bag?” He tried to hide the smile that followed.

  Taullery started to answer, caught Cordell’s grin, and shook his head. Instead, he asked, “Is ‘the Russian’ going to help us bring in the food?” His voice carried irritation. “You know they say he sells stuff from gangs. That’s why he sells things so cheap.”

  “I think he’s busy right now—with more important things.” Cordell ignored his friend’s expression of jealousy. He resisted commenting on the fact that Taullery also bought merchandise from men who could hardly have owned it legitimately.

  “Some of that stuff is real heavy. I’m afraid the flour got wet some. Are you sure it was covered?”

  Cordell grimaced at the question, then went to fill the eating bags from the buckets of the grain shoved into the right corner of the wagon bed. He couldn’t help wondering if his friend had ever gone anywhere unprepared. Springing easily into the wagon, he glanced at the flour sack and tried to remember if the canvas had covered it completely or not. His fingers pushing against the sack told him what he didn’t really want to know: A portion of the sack was now hardened paste. Further poking indicated, however, that most of the flour was fine. Satisfied, he headed for the grain buckets.

  In the corral, Taullery kneeled and ran his hand along the injured leg of his horse. His light pressing on the long tendons brought no response as he moved downward. A good sign, he told himself. Raising the hoof, he touched the soft pad surounded by an iron shoe and the horse pulled it from him in pain.

  “Looks like a stone bruise all right.” Taullery released the horse’s leg and shook his head. “It’ll be all right in a few days, I suppose. We should’ve been watching the trail more closely.”

  “For rocks?” Cordell said as he attached the first bag to his gray horse’s head and the animal began chomping the grain enthusiastically. He walked over to the sorrel, slid the canvas bag over its nose, and began tying the attached strings around its head to hold it in place.

  “I’ll take the grain for the bays. They don’t take well to anyone messing around their heads,” Taullery said.

  “A bit fussy, huh?”

  “No, just, well . . .”

  “Fussy.” Cordell handed over the remaining feed bags and returned to the wagon.

  Stacking one box of canned goods on top of another, he lifted them and started for the Bauer house. Half-skipping with the two Harper children chasing him, Shank came around the side of the barn and headed directly for the minister.

  “Brought you some help with your things,” he said. “Mighty good help, too.”

  “It’s mostly food for the Harpers,” Taullery said tartly, looking up from his two bay horses.

  Shank ignored the tone and bellowed, “Well, how’s that for neighborly generosity? Michael an’ Rebecca, let’s get at it.”

  Eight-year-old Rebecca immediately went to Cordell, holding the boxes, removed two cans, one in each hand, and trotted toward the house, proud of her contribution. She glanced over her shoulder at Cordell, smiled, and continued. Shank wondered aloud if little girls learned coquettishness from big girls, or if it was something built into them. Shoving his damp hat back on his head, Cordell chuckled and said it was a good question.

  Twelve-year-old Michael stared at the black-suited Cordell, blinked away his indecision, and asked, “Preacher, are you going to pray over . . . my pa—and my uncle? Ma said you’d be a-doin’ it soon as you could. They’re dead, you know. They hanged my pa—with a rope.” He tried to state the situation without showing any emotion, but a whimper got past his determination and a loud wail burst through his young resolve.

  Grabbing the boy with bearlike arms, Shank held the sobbing boy to him and stared at the horizon for an instant. “That’s all right, Michael, me boy. That’s all right. Your pa was a fine man, a fine man—an’ he’d want you to be the head of the family now. Come on, now.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cordell saw himself in the grieving boy, laid the boxes on the ground, and came over to them. Kneeling beside Michael, his mind raced for words. Something from the Bible? Something more than . . .

  “I’m sorry, Michael. I was proud to call your father a friend.” Cordell hid his frustration at not saying something more meaningful. “A brave man who fought for Te—”

  “They hanged him. I—I s-saw . . . it. One o’ them Regulators held me an’ made me. He said my pa was a traitor—an’ I should see what happens to traitors. Pa looked at me, at all o’ us, and tried to say . . . he loved us. They kicked the hoss he were on a’fer he could get out all my name. Pa’s face went all purple—an’ he kicked his legs an’ . . .”

  Cordell glanced at Shank’s face; the big man’s eyes were welling with tears. Pushing back the anger that wanted to express itself, Cordell knew the boy needed to tell someone what he had seen, as awful as it had been. Silently, he let the boy describe watching his father cruelly hang. Each word tore itself from the twelve-year-old’s soul. “. . . an’ his eyes went all starey . . . an’ he . . . his pants were filled with . . . everythin’. He couldn’t see . . . us no more.”

  With a long sigh, Michael stopped talking and hung his head. In a soft voice, Cordell said, “Michael, I want you to do something for me, will you?”

  The boy’s lips pursed, and he rubbed his eyes. “W-what?”

  “I want you to shut your eyes. Close them, will you?”

  Michael sniffed back the fullness in his nose; his eyelids fluttered and closed.

  “Good, now . . . I want to you to see your father coming home from the War. Remember? Did you run out to hug him? He told me about coming home to you and your sister and your mother. How wonderful it was. Do you see him coming, Michael? Tell me about it.”

  Michael nodded his head affirmatively. A tear burst through the closed eyelid and escaped down his cheek. “I—I saw him comin’ up the r-road—an’ I ran out to him. He were a-walkin’. I knew it were him when he were just a stick o’ a shape. On that ridge, quarter mile away.”

  “Do you see him comin’ down that road again? Look, Michael. Look, Michael.”

  Michael’s head nodded slightly.

  “Is he hugging you now?”

  The boy’s head moved affirmatively again. He sniffed away emotion. “I—I r-ran an’ ran—an’ I were all outta breath when I got to him. H-he grabbed me an’ held me so tight I couldn’t hardly breathe. It was the bestust I ever did feel, I think. He started in a-singin’—an’ I yelled. Then Ma came, a-holdin’ Becky’s hand.”

  “Yes, it
was wonderful. Whenever you think of your father, I want you to think of that time, Michael. Because he will always be with you. Always.” Cordell swallowed away his own emotion and continued. “Squeeze your eyes real tight. If you do, you can feel him hugging you right now. Feel it—can you feel his love all around you?”

  “I—I love you, P-Pa.”

  “I love you, Michael,” Cordell whispered. “That’s what he’s saying. I can hear it, can you?”

  Michael nodded, and tears streamed across his shining face. Shank wiped his eyes with a huge fist, his wet face a big mirror of the boy’s.

  “I—is there really a h-heaven?” Michael stuttered.

  “Yes, Michael, there certainly is. Your father is there now—an’ it’s a wonderful happy place to be. He’s very happy there—but he misses you and Becky and your mother. One day, a long time from now, you’ll see him again there—and he’ll be waiting to hug you again.”

  “P-promise?”

  “I promise, Michael.”

  From the corral, Taullery yelled about the progress with the wagon. “Hey, you guys gonna get that wagon unloaded today? Or do I have to do everything?”

  Cordell put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and Michael exploded into him with a fierce hug. The impact knocked the minister off balance, but he caught himself with his right hand against the ground. With first his left arm and then both, Cordell returned the hug. Patting the boy on the back, he said, “Sounds like we’d better get to work, huh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  They stood and headed for the wagon with Shank trailing after them like a huge puppy, his face still wet with tears. Without losing a stride, the big man pulled a folded, but dirty, rag from his pocket and blew his nose loudly three times. The loud honking behind them brought surprise, then a chuckle, from both Cordell and the boy. Pausing to examine the nasal contents in the rag, Shank wiped his nose vigorously, then ceremoniously refolded the rag and put it back into his pocket. His half-skips quickly caught him up with the minister and the boy as they reached the wagon.