Sons of Thunder (Rule Cordell)

by Cotton Smith

  The fat Regulator chuckled, his belly bouncing his hanging pistol back and forth, then grabbed the gun, scratched the match on its barrel, and sucked flame into his cigar.

  Mason, the blond Regulator, smiled wickedly. “I’ll bet she’s a hot one. Yessiree, probably needin’ a real man ’stead of . . . whadda ya got ’round yur ear? Be that thar a rock? What the hell!”

  “If you’ll move aside, I’ll be on my way. I’m certain you’ve got important business to attend to.”

  “Now . . . don’t be in such . . . a hurry, preacher,” the narrow-faced man wheezed, nudging his horse forward. “We figured to . . . check out each place nearby . . . an’ make sure nobody’s . . . hiding that gal. She’s wanted . . . you know. So . . . why don’t you just turn around . . . an’ head back to your place. We can start there. Wouldn’t surprise me if you had her hidden there. Along with some o’ them gunnies that got our boys.’”

  Mason grinned and laid his hands over the rifle in front of him. “Maybe yur fine Mex gal’ll need some tendin’ to.” He looked at the others for approval. “Sur beats the hell outta trailin’ after them Johnny Rebs. That’s jes’ what they want, I reckon, to have us come after ’em. We got ourselves enough to tell Padgett. “’Sides, I wanna spend a little time in town a’fer we head back.”

  The other two nodded agreement.

  “Scoutin’ the territory, that’s what we’re a-doin’. That’s what we dun did at the tail end o’ the War, chasin’ down yella Johnny Rebs. ’Course, you wouldn’t know nuthin’ about War, would ya, preacher?” Mason added his own nod to the others in tribute to his assessment.

  Pulling his cigar from moist, blubbery lips, the heavy lawman squinted at Cordell. “You haven’t asked who the girl is. Ain’t you curious, preacher?”

  Cordell’s slow-coming smile was laced with contempt. He patted his stallion’s shoulder before responding.

  “No.”

  Looking at each other, the three Regulators waited for more, but Cordell was rubbing his horse’s ears and paying no attention to them.

  The heavyset man threw the cigar toward the ground. “What gets me is why a preacher man is riding a fine horse like this one.” He couldn’t hold back his interest in the roan stallion any longer. “I reckon you won’t care if we take it along with us. Official state business an’ all.”

  “Sorry, I’m headed for town.”

  “So what? Whatcha gonna do, preacher? Give us a prayer?”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  Cordell wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and slipped both hands casually into his coat pockets. His stallion snorted, raised its head, and stamped its front hooves authoritatively. Cordell reached for the reins with his left hand, hoping the animal wouldn’t act up. His pressure on the wrapped leather was enough to return the horse to quiet, and he returned the hand to his pocket.

  Staring at the minister, Mason reached into his vest pocket with his left hand and withdrew the makin’s for a cigarette. His right hand remained on the rifle until he was certain the weapon was positioned well enough to rest on its own. With both hands, he deftly rolled a smoke and returned the sack to his pocket, then moved his right hand back to the rifle. A match crackled into flame from the strike against the weapon. He inhaled and let white smoke slip from the corner of his mouth. Cordell watched the ceremony without comment.

  Finally, the blond Regulator spoke, with thinner strings of smoke bristling from his yellowed teeth. “Ya know, I don’t believe all that religious crap you boys dish out. Jesus, Moses, Adam and Eve—nuthin’ but silly fairy tales.” He patted the rifle. “I believe in this hyar.”

  Cordell smiled.

  “Ain’t nuthin’ much that riles you, is thar, preacher?” Cordell leaned forward in the saddle, keeping his hands in his pockets. “How you choose to go to Hell is your own business.”

  “What?” Mason choked on just-inhaled smoke and the fat lawman laughed, his belly bubbling with emotion.

  “Come on . . . Mason, let’s get goin’. We’ve . . . got to report . . . back to Padgett . . . by tonight,” the lean-faced Regulator urged. “An’ I ain’t about . . . to go ridin’ up . . . the ass end . . . of that gang.”

  “Jes’ a minute, Lester. Ya bother me, preacher, like an itch I cain’t git to.” Mason eased his rifle from his saddle and aimed it at Cordell without moving the weapon to his shoulder. “Lion Graham keeps a-tellin’ us that you really is Rule Cordell. Says he knew you in one o’ them Bible places somewhars. What ’bout that, preacher?”

  “Oh hell, Mason, Graham’s always talking crazy about livin’ in some other time. Who cares? More important, preacher . . . you hit me . . . in the face.” The narrow-faced man studied the stoic minister with renewed suspicion. “I don’t like . . . getting hit . . . in the face.”

  “Wal, ya kin call it crazy if’n ya want—but now he’s a-wearin’ a flower an’ sportin’ outlaw-fast hoss flesh. Thar’s only one man I hear tell that liked wearin’ hisse’f a flower. Rule Cordell.” The blond Regulator cocked the hammer on his rifle. “Just who the hell are you anyway, preacher-man?”

  The narrow-faced man’s hand curled around the rifle across his saddle and added, “I think . . . you’d better pull your hands outta . . . your pockets . . . an’ get down.”

  “Sure, boys, anything you want.” Cordell leaned back and raised his pockets toward them, as if freeing his hands. Instead, orange blasts erupted from the coat. His horse reared in fright but came down in place, tossing its mane, while Cordell held tightly with his legs and continued firing with both guns still in his pockets. A lone button sprang from its position holding the coat together and the front separated, immediately giving him more flexibility with the hidden guns.

  Mason’s eyes widened and he grabbed for his chest as Cordell’s first two bullets ripped into him. The blond lawman’s rifle bounced off his saddle and exploded, sending lead hissing past Cordell’s head. The narrow-faced Regulator raised his rifle and fired too quickly. The bullet creased Cordell’s left arm, driving the gun from his hand. A split second later, the minister’s return shots spun the lawman sideways. Cordell yanked the revolver from his right-hand pocket and a second shot punched the Regulator from his horse. Wild-eyed, the animal bolted with its strirrups flapping like a giant bird that couldn’t get off the ground.

  Cordell’s stunned left hand regripped the Colt in his left pocket and withdrew it, emptying the gun into the falling man. A click of the hammer on an empty shell registered in Cordell’s mind as he turned his attention on the remaining lawman. He snapped a shot at the heavyset rider with his right-hand Colt and missed. Slowest to react, the fat Regulator lifted his rifle and fired as Cordell’s horse jumped sideways at the continuing roar of gunfire.

  Cordell’s frightened stallion reared again and screamed its fear. A blur of reddish gray and hooves. Dropping the spent gun, the sometime minister grabbed the saddle horn with his bloody left hand to maintain his balance as the frightened horse froze in place on its hind legs, standing nearly straight up. The fat-bellied Regulator’s bullet tore through Cordell’s flapping coat. The lawman hurried to lever another shot, but the gun jammed. Frantically, he dropped the rifle and grabbed the pistol dancing wildly on his stomach from its neck cord.

  With the stallion’s front legs still lashing at the air, Cordell kicked free of the stirrups, pushed away with his left hand, and jumped down in one smooth motion, landing a few feet from the rearing animal. The surprising move caught the Regulator firing at an empty saddle. Cordell’s revolver roared three times in a continuous string of sound, lead, and smoke.

  The heavyset man’s head snapped backward, like it was on a hinge. Already dead, he went to his knees, then folded headfirst into the ground. Freed of its rider, the stallion crow-hopped and bucked away. Cordell paid no attention. Realizing his second Colt was also empty, he shoved the gun back into its holster and reached for the third pistol in his waistband.

  “I’m Rule Cordell,” he growled, cock
ing the gun and pointing it at the downed men.

  None moved, and he relaxed. Silence came as suddenly as it had left. Acrid gun smoke encircled the three dead Regulators and two of their horses. The third mount was barely in sight. He examined the three men; none was alive. Satisfied his adversaries could harm him no more, he returned the British pistol to his waistband and reholstered his first dropped Colt. He had no energy to reload his weapons, even though he knew he should.

  After a few minutes of letting his mind and body absorb what had just happened, he began to examine his wound. A slice along the upper sleeve of his coat was wet with his blood, and smoke snorted from both coat pockets. For the first time, he noticed that his big roan had not bolted far and was eating grass twenty yards away. Taking the wadded-up scarf from his smoking pocket, he shoved it into his coat sleeve where the bullet had struck. It would have to do for now. His assessment was that the wound was not serious, only bloody and painful. Cut flesh was angry and puffing.

  Wary of what his horse might do, he walked slowly toward the grazing animal, talking low and gently. The big roan snorted and stomped but didn’t run, and allowed him to take the wrapped reins from the saddle horn without trotting away. He reassured the horse, calming it into lowering its head. “You’re all right, boy. Steady now, we’ve got work to do.”

  Leading the stallion back to the dead men, he went to the closest body and lifted it onto the closest horse. He kept both his stallion’s reins and the Regulator’s reins in his numb left hand, leaving his right hand and arm free to do the heaviest part of the task. His stallion balked and tried to back away from the smell of death, then gentled and lowered its head.

  It took a while, but he finally got the other two bodies across the saddle of the other remaining horse. Roping the bodies in place took longer than he expected. He stopped often to let the weakness of lost blood and the realization of what had happened pass and wipe the nervous sweat from his reddened face. Satisfied the bodies would stay in place, he slapped the rumps of the animals and sent them galloping toward the Riptons’, where they had come from.

  “Consider this the first roll of thunder, Padgett,” he said, watching the frightened horses pound into the distance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rule Cordell leaned against his stallion, letting spent energy seep back into the hollows of his soul. The pounding in his head returned, or his mind allowed him to be aware of it. The horse was steady, as if it understood the weakness of its rider. For a moment, he was back in Virginia and his cavalry had just finished a successful attack against Union forces. His mind returned him to the reality of the day.

  Another blow against Padgett and the Regulators had been struck, whether he liked it or not. Padgett had lost eight men today; the crippled leader would be forced to send out another scout team to determine what had happened. He could wait and ambush them; the thought registered only brief consideration. No, he needed to hit Padgett closer; the Regulator leader needed to feel that he was not safe anymore, not even when surrounded by his own men. That was a big task for him and Taullery.

  Old uncertainties trailed the recharge of energy. A young Lion Graham entered his mind briefly to charge him with not playing fair and running away. A lashing by Cordell’s violent father followed. Stunning his only son with vicious slaps to his reddened face, the evil minister screamed that the young Rule Cordell was just like his mother and would never amount to anything. But the embedded nightmares were quickly followed by Aleta’s last reminder to take off his guns before entering town. “My God, Aleta, I miss you already,” he muttered.

  With a long sigh, he unbelted the weapons and squatted. The stallion stood quietly beside him, and Cordell wrapped the reins around his leg to leave both hands free. His mind kept running away to the contentment he felt as a minister and wondering if he would ever know that feeling again. In the midst of feeling sorry for himself, the memory of Moon came to him. The old Comanche shaman once again reminded him that, for the brave man, “life was the point of an arrow. Flint was only a piece of rock until much pounding made it into a sharp weapon. Welcome the challenges of life, my son, for they make you strong.”

  He felt the medicine pouch hanging beneath his shirt, then remembered his stone earring. Aleta hadn’t mentioned it, but the earring, too, should be removed during his town appearance. He lifted the small loop from his ear and placed the earring in his pocket. He looked at his long coat and decided to leave it on. Better than seeing his bloody shirtsleeve. No one—except Taullery—would notice the coat’s bullet holes. The Dean & Adams pistol would remain in his waistband. And the dried rose would stay on his lapel, he determined, glancing down at the stem and its few hardened petals. He didn’t care what anyone thought. It was long past caring about that.

  Talking with Taullery would help him focus, he told himself, shoving new bullets into the open chambers. It always did. His ever-practical, perfection-seeking mind was a salve to Cordell’s impetuous, intense style. After reloading the two Colts, then wiping off occasional smears of blood, he unwrapped the reins, rose a bit wobbly, and placed the gunbelts in his saddlebags.

  An easy lope took him past the busy sawmill and the empty baseball field that had been the scene of many epic battles against neighboring towns. Cordell and Taullery loved the game as much as anyone. The roof-tops of a string of two-story buildings teased the skyline. He was almost to town.

  Clark Springs was like a hundred other Texas towns, born of a welcomed source of water, nurtured by men and women who toiled the land, and surviving because of sheer will. It wasn’t really home, Rule Cordell realized as he entered the busy main street, but what was? Wherever Aleta was, that was home, he told himself and smiled.

  Rhythmic sounds of the blacksmith reached Cordell as a rumbling freight wagon and an outrider passed him headed the other direction. The black-coated minister waved at the skinny blacksmith turning the yellow-hot end of a horse shoe into shape and the sweating man nodded a return greeting. Leaning against a fence enclosing the blacksmith’s work area was a one-armed man in faded Confederate pants and kepi cap. He waved too, then went back to intensely watching the blacksmith. Next was a stable with a pair of black horses being readied for someone, followed by a string of false-fronted buildings.

  Cordell spotted a man pushing a wheelbarrow, piled with rock, along the planked sidewalk toward an unknown destination for no apparent reason. He wheeled his load past several men without saying a word. Cordell couldn’t help wondering where the man was going with his load or what he expected to achieve. At that moment, a freight wagon pulled by oxen rumbled onto the main street from an alley and shouldered its way past Cordell in the other direction. Cordell reined in his horse hard to keep from colliding with the wagon. The driver grunted an apology between snaps of his bullwhip and splattered curses.

  Passing three riders he knew, Cordell didn’t notice the nicely dressed older woman watching him from the porch of the unpainted boarding house. He trotted alongside a lead-gray-painted, one-story building with a lengthy sign proclaiming “Real Estate, Insurance & Loan Agent & Attorney-at-Law. William H. Giles.” Squeezed next to it was the Benning Home Restaurant, also a one-story structure; then the bank; and the year-old headquarters of The Clark Springs Clarion, the region’s newspaper. Cordell liked the editor, a fiery young man from Nebraska.

  A few other retail establishments announced their services with signs of varying levels of professionalism and weathering. At the far end of town was a stone well, offering the community a continuous flow of cool spring water and a permanent point of reference to its name. A lone cottonwood guarded the well with long, drooping branches that could knock a man off his horse if he wasn’t paying attention when he rode to get water. Flanking the well, at the corners of the street, were three saloons and a pleasure house, probably doing more business than the rest of the stores put together.

  Near the center of town, Cordell pulled up next to the hitching rack in front of Taullery’s General
Merchandise store. Behind him, two buckboard wagons clanked past each other in the middle of the street. A well-dressed couple strolled toward him on the planked sidewalk. He didn’t move, letting a wave of light-headedness pass. His left arm was throbbing.

  “Well, good afternoon, preacher. What brings you to town?” Mayor William H. Giles said with little enthusiasm, as he stopped in front of Cordell. White spittle took its usual position in the corner of his mouth after his salutation. “Did you hear shots a while back—out your way?”

  His response was a lie. “No, I didn’t hear anything coming in.” Cordell didn’t like the man, yet he knew he should try to do so. Giles was quickly becoming an influential force in the region. His holdings, like his presence, came after the War, and for little more than back taxes. In the case of one of the ranches, the original owner was arrested and hanged for treason by Captain Padgett. Cordell had heard the rumors that the previous hotel owner tried to hide Rebel holdouts shortly after the War ended and was finally led away by Federal troops. One rumor had Rule Cordell and Johnny Cat Carlson hiding there for a while, among other notorious Confederate outlaws. He didn’t know what happened to the other ranch owner.

  “It is good to see you in town, Reverend Langford.” His wife’s greeting was considerably warmer. The pudgy woman’s gaze sought Cordell’s as part of the welcome. Always a fashion leader, she was dressed in a matching, light-blue silk skirt and O-shaped bodice gathered tightly at her waist. A white cheissette collar, white gloves, a wide black belt, and exaggerated full sleeves at her elbows completed her dress. Her hemline was a daring four inches off the ground in front and dragging the ground in the back. A matching bonnet with a curled ostrich feather, dyed blue, set off brown ringlets pushed around her fat face. She wore as much makeup as most prostitutes; Taullery thought she had been one.