by Cotton Smith
“Afternoon, Mayor . . . Mrs. Giles. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Cordell said, not answering the mayor’s question. He tugged on the brim of his hat, then swung down from the saddle and slipped the reins over the rack. He was glad to have heeded Aleta’s advice about his guns. The mayor would be among the worst to have seen them.
“A trifle warm. But it’s always so in Texas, I fear. Going to do some trading at Taullery’s, I see,” Giles responded, satisfied with his self-analysis of Cordell’s mission to town.
The heavy-jowled man’s voice was curious and polite. He had heard this Southern minister’s preaching several times and wasn’t certain what to make of it. Northern friends suggested keeping an eye on Reverend Langford, in case the sermons began to take on renewed pleas for succession. Last Sunday’s outburst was a further indication of a potential problem.
Swallowing a twinge of fear, Giles said in his most mayoral tone, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline before flattening. “I must say I was taken aback by your brawl with state police officers—during services, no less. What were you thinking, Reverend? My word, you even said you were a dead outlaw.”
“Justice.” Cordell walked past them to the store. The ring of his spur rowels on the board sidewalk was music.
“Did you hurt your arm, pastor?” Mrs. Giles asked, her round eyes locked onto his coat sleeve.
Cordell stopped in midstride, turned back, and smiled warmly. “Why, thank you, ma’am. That’s nice of you to notice. Actually, it’s an old coat, I’m afraid. Kinda torn in places. It’s comfortable, though.”
“But, but, that looks like—blood.”
“Oh, it is. Hit a corral post, working with a young horse a week ago.” He turned back and continued walking.
“What did he say?” Giles asked his puzzled wife.
“He hurt himself on a corral post—some time ago.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” A smile crawled into the corner of Giles’s mouth and stayed there. “Reverend, I trust last Sunday was something we won’t see again. Your position—even though it is part-time and, perhaps, temporary—requires considerable restraint. I didn’t like the situation either, but we must support our police. I’m sure you agree, upon reflection. Perhaps you can apologize next Sunday.”
Cordell stopped again, this time in front of Taullery’s store window. His reflection was that of a man Giles didn’t know. A man with such intensity in his eyes that the mayor braced himself unconsciously for Cordell’s response.
Cordell turned around, and his voice was as syrupy as the mayor’s had been. The softness surprised Giles and he didn’t catch the subtlety of the message. “Much must change before next Sunday. ‘They that saw in tears shall reap in joy.’ ”Completing his statement, Cordell spun back to the window, lost in thought.
Encouraged by what he termed a most agreeable response, Giles moved to sweeten things. “By the way, my foreman at the Lazy K says we need horses. I told him that I was certain you had the best for sale.”
If Cordell heard the remark, his manner didn’t indicate so. Giles started to repeat it, then decided to resume his walk. He was pleased with himself, taking Cordell’s silence as a further indication of wanting to cooperate. Money had a way of doing that, he thought and chuckled. Mrs. Giles kept pace but glanced over her shoulder at the minister; her face was a question mark.
“Maybe we should take up a collection to buy him a new coat, dear. You know, being a minister like that takes a lot of time. He doesn’t get anything for it.”
“Well, he’ll soon be well paid, my dear. Haven’t seen a preacher yet that couldn’t be turned by the sight of gold.”
“Did you see that old, dried rose?”
“What? Where?”
“An old dried rose—on his coat lapel.” She glanced back again at Cordell, who was looking in the store window.
“Goodness, how silly.” Giles thought about looking too, but decided against it. “Well, you know preachers. Look, dear, there are the Atkinsons. I need to talk with him. His place butts up to the Harpers’. Come along, now. You can ask them about a coat for the preacher if you’ve a mind to. Langford’s a good man, even if a bit hotheaded and impractical.”
Cradling his wounded arm with his other, Cordell read the new hand-lettered sign in Taullery’s store window: “Trades accepted for hard goods, clothing, or guns. Gold only for food. No Colored People Allowed.” Cordell grimaced and glanced at Mayor Giles and his wife, who had stopped to talk with another couple.
Eager sunlight pushed its way inside the small store as he entered. A gray world of pungent smells rushed at him. The captivating perfume of freshly ground coffee danced with aromas of tobacco, bacon, spices, oils, salted fish, soaps, vinegar, pickles, and the satisfying scent of leather goods. Everywhere he looked were carefully displayed goods. Taullery hadn’t wasted an inch of space. Definitely, this was the town’s center of attraction, the saloons and whorehouse notwithstanding.
The room was thoughtfully arranged for shopping, with kegs, sacks, and barrels of cooking staples and groceries on one side, and dry goods and hardware on the other. Some things were available only with Taullery’s personal assistance, but he allowed customers to touch and feel most merchandise. Even the rafter beams carried heavy pots for cooking, as well as hams, slabs of bacon, and sides of mutton. Of course, Taullery was usually moving through the store, straightening items and restacking them to fit his perfectionist eye.
Two women were examining an exhibit of crockery, highlighted by a complete set of fine French china, likely something traded for more practical things. Cordell couldn’t hear what they were saying but wasn’t interested anyway. He didn’t see Taullery waiting on anyone or sitting on his high stool in the rear next to his tall desk, like some crowned prince viewing his court. Perhaps he was in the back storeroom. Cordell knew he kept an open jug and tin cups for selected male customers to enjoy. That was likely, and he headed for the rear of the store.
The pain in his arm was growing more intense, but he tried to ignore it. There was no time for pain now; he and Taullery had to ride to their friends before it was too late. Cordell slipped past separate areas displaying farm and ranch tools, containers of coal oil, ropes, hats, boots, spurs, and gloves. Tables were crammed with canning jars, candles, kerosene lamps, blankets, flat irons, copper boilers, stoneware water dispensers, coffee grinders, and clocks. Even a baby carrriage. Cordell smiled. Even better stocked than the last time he was here. How like his friend to gather an array of homestead treasures to rival any Northern store. If Taullery’s store was any indication, the region must be doing better, he told himself.
A small section contained rifles and handguns, gunpowder, and ammunition. He couldn’t help pausing to stare at two shiny Model 1866 Winchesters. He had heard about this improvement over the Henry repeating rifle, with the loading from the side instead of the awkward tube beneath the muzzle. He wondered if it jammed as easily as his Henry, then shook off the thought and moved on. Several saddles and bridles lay across empty barrels, with an open box of “good ’nough” horseshoes next to them. He glanced down at the box and mentally assessed if he needed more at home.
Taullery had created a special medicinal section in the far corner. A stray beam of light from the only window in the back accented a collection of patented medicines, along with several kinds of croup syrups and salves for babies; a half dozen bottles of variously labeled female remedies, worm destroyers, and stomach bitters; but mostly home remedies of Epsom salts, cod liver oil, opium, paregoric, camphor, and snake root. Cordell couldn’t help looking to see if any reminded him of the salve Aleta made. They didn’t. He wished he had some now, for his arm and his head. A pain drove through him, as if it recognized his closeness to medicine. He grimaced and walked on.
Chapter Seventeen
Across a long table was a colorful array of bolts of cloth. Rule Cordell walked around the woman examining a roll of calico. On the wall behind the table were displayed bonnets, ready-to-wears, s
ewing patterns, and boxes of needles, thread, and thimbles. Even pairs of black silk gloves and green gauze veils. Self-conscious, he held his right hand over the bloody slit in his coat sleeve. But it wasn’t necessary. The woman’s expression was distant as she imagined herself at a fine place in a beautiful gown.
Close by were boxes of cigars, tobacco plugs, and a few sacks of shredded Durham tobacco on its own stand. Shoved into a corner were Bibles, school books, a lone volume of Shakespeare’s plays, two poetry books, and a leather-bound Robinson Crusoe novel. The books were propped up by a box of canned oysters on one side and a case of whiskey bottles on the other. This was the one thing that seemed out of place. Cordell couldn’t help smiling, and he muttered, “Maybe there’s hope for Ian yet.”
Four chairs in a semicircle around a cold potbellied stove, in the center of the store, served as a meeting place for men waiting on their wives. A half-filled cracker barrel completed the area, with a small hand-written sign reading “For customers only.” Two farmers rested there, chatting about the weather and, in hushed tones, about problems with Northerners. One spat tobacco juice at a box of cold ashes and missed twice. Both stopped their conversation to acknowledge Cordell as he walked toward the back. He nodded, and they returned to their discussion.
Ten feet away and directly in his path was a tall, pale woman staring at him. She balanced a copper bowl in both hands but appeared to have no real interest in it. Cordell had the feeling she had been watching him for some time. She didn’t look familiar, but he didn’t know all of his parishioners well yet. Light-blue, crystal-like eyes didn’t seem to go with her straight black hair, cascading over her shoulders and nearly reaching her waist. She could have been twenty or forty, he couldn’t tell.
A simple homespun dress was accented with a necklace of thin silver holding a bear claw mounted in a gold and silver band. He continued toward her. It was the most direct way to the back room. She didn’t blink or acknowledge his approach; her eyes were locked, like those of someone in a séance or a daydream. Maybe he had mistaken daydreaming for staring at him, he told himself.
He stopped a few feet in front of her and touched the brim of his hat, and turning his left shoulder slightly away from her, said, “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Reverend Langford.”
Her gaze met his, but she said nothing.
“You haven’t seen the owner—Ian Taullery—have you?”
She shut her eyes for a long breath, opened them, and met his attention with a knowing glint. A tremor was barely visible at the corner of her mouth.
When she spoke, her voice was soft and low, like words echoing from a deep well. “Why are you here? You are thunder. You are lightning. You are a storm to clean the land.”
Instinctively, Cordell reached out to touch her arm, as if it would stop her announcement. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
She repeated the statement and stared at his face. “Why are you here? You are thunder. You are lightning. You are a storm to clean the land.” She hesitated and added, tilting her head to the side, “But someone comes . . . from another time, he comes . . . seeking the storm . . . to destroy it.”
He stepped back to keep the words from reaching him. “I—I am a man of God.”
She said no more and looked down at the bowl, aware of its presence for the first time. He couldn’t hold back the shiver that shot through him. He took another step away from her, grabbed his aching arm, and hurried on. As he passed, she muttered in a singsong voice, “God brings thunder and lightning. God brings the storm to clean the land. But someone comes . . . from another time, he comes . . . seeking the storm . . . to destroy it.”
He started to respond but didn’t. He guessed she was one of those so-called séancers who seemed to be thriving in the South since the War. He wasn’t sure why, but there were more important things to worry about. When he reached the back storeroom door, he looked back. She was gone. A shiver went through him again. The copper bowl rested on a table, apart from a cluster of canned goods. To Cordell, all the light in the room rushed to huddle against it. He wondered if anyone else saw it that way.
Cordell stood next to the closed storeroom door, trying to refocus on his mission. From the rear, Taullery’s voice could be heard if Cordell concentrated. There was another voice. It was a woman’s. Cordell didn’t think it was Mary’s. Too cheerful for her.
“Ian. Ian Taullery. It’s Rule. Ah, Rule Langford. I need to see you.” His voice was low to avoid attracting attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small boy tiptoe over to the cracker barrel, grab a handful, and dash away. Inside the storeroom, there was sudden silence, then scuffling noises, a woman’s giggle, and finally Taullery attempting to sound businesslike.
“I’ll be right out, Reverend. I’m, ah, helping a customer.”
“You can help me anytime.” The woman’s voice was a whisper, followed by a giggle.
“Shhhh.”
The door opened and a tall, golden-haired woman with painted sloe-eyes, wearing a dark green, fitted dress, stepped out. Her clothes were wrinkled and a button had been missed at her bodice. She smiled warmly at Cordell without stopping and waltzed through the store, pausing to fondle an apple in a barrel before putting it back. Taullery came through the doorway a few seconds later. He was fiddling with his collar.
“What’s up, my friend?” Taullery asked as casually as he could.
“I could answer that it’s something in your pants, my friend,” Cordell replied. “But I’ve got more important things to talk about it.”
“At least you didn’t say ‘bigger.’” Taullery’s grin was wide. “Ah, you won’t mention this to Mary, will you?”
“Mention what?”
“Thanks.” For the first time, Taullery concentrated on his hard-faced friend before him. “What happened to you? You’ve been hurt.” Taullery touched Cordell’s coat sleeve. “And what’s with the rose? You look an awful lot like a man I used to know.” He pulled back his hand as if the coat was hot. “My God, your coat pockets—they’ve got holes blasted through them! Did you shoot guns through them?”
“Yeah. Had a little run-in with three of Padgett’s men. I’m all right, they’re not.”
“Are you sure? You look a little pale.” Taullery wondered why his friend had been carrying guns again in the first place. What had happened?
“It’s just a scratch, really.”
At the store’s front entrance, the woman turned her head to see if Taullery and Cordell were watching. Pleased that they were, she winked and went outside. Cordell waited for his friend’s attention to return to him, then explained what was happening to the Riptons, including Lion Graham killing Whisper, Lizzie Ripton being wounded, the cover-up at the ridge by Caleb Shank, and the gunfight on the trail with the three Regulators. He didn’t mention the strange woman in the store but wanted to.
As they talked, Taullery examined his own dark blue coat and vest, removing an occasional strand of hair. “I hate hair. If Mary’d let me, I’d shave it all off of me.” He chuckled nervously. Cordell shook his head, chuckled in response, and resumed his story.
When Cordell was finished, Taullery’s first reaction was a criticism of the traveling merchant, saying “the old Russian” just wanted to strip the dead men of things he could sell.
Cordell frowned and pushed the hat brim back on his head. “I doubt that, Ian. He’s a friend. A good one, I think. I’m riding to Riptons now to see if I can help. Will you ride with me?”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“Rule, I’ve got a wife and baby and . . .”
“That didn’t seem to be slowing you down earlier.”
“Oh, come on. That’s different. What are the two of us going to do against an army of Regulators? An’ you know Lion’s going to be there too.”
“We’re going to make them think they’re outnumbered.” Cordell’s expression reminded Taullery of another time in Virginia.
The gunfighter-turned-minister explained what he had in mind.
Taullery glanced around the store to see if anyone was close enough to hear their conversation. Satisfied, he said, “This isn’t Virginia, Rule. We got lucky then.”
“We’ll think of something,” Cordell said. “We always do.”
Taullery took a deep breath. “I can’t leave the store.”
“We’ll go after you close.”
“These clothes aren’t for riding—or fighting.”
“You can go home first and change.’
Oily, yellow light bled across Taullery’s taut face, his furtive eyes avoiding Cordell’s steady gaze. He looked away like a man not wanting to be trapped against the truth. What came out was close. “Those damn Northerners are just looking for a reason to take away businesses from Southerners. You know that. I can’t be trotting around, butting into everybody else’s business.”
“Billy Ripton is our friend. Whisper was.”
“That was then, this is now, Rule. Hell, you’re the one always talking about forgiving. Let it go.” With a shrug, Taullery went on to explain that he was in the back room closing a deal to purhase Lady Matilda’s small pleasure house at the far end of the main street. He and another businessman had gone together to make the purchase. He didn’t want anyone knowing, and he didn’t mention the name of his partner. Cordell didn’t ask.
“I take it that was Lady Whatshername.”
“Matilda, yeah.” Taullery glanced left and right to assure himself no one was close enough to hear their conversation. “Mary doesn’t know about it yet—but she won’t complain about the extra money. I’ll make more from that whorehouse than I do from this whole store. Can you believe that?”
Cordell studied his taller friend without judging him. They had been through too much together to do that. What he had just heard was something he never expected. He told himself to be understanding, this was his best friend since childhood. It had taken him a while to recognize the need to take a stand. Taullery would come around. He always did. It was just his way to be more methodical, to examine every nook and cranny before making a move.
