by Cotton Smith
Before he could respond, a ruddy-faced farmer sauntered up to the general store owner and pronounced loudly, “Quite the she-bang yo-all got hyar, Taullery. Yo-all got any tobaccy plugs?”
Taullery pointed in the direction of the tobacco table without speaking. Not recognizing Cordell at first, the farmer jerked slightly when he realized it was the minister.
“Well, howdy, Preacher Langford, didn’t expect to see yo-all hyar.”
“Nice to see you, Eb.” Cordell extended his hand. The farmer attended church occasionally; his wife rarely missed.
“Why, thank ye, preacher.” He shook Cordell’s hand without meeting his eyes. The farmer’s grin revealed four missing teeth. “Glad to see yo-all be up ’n’ around after that tussle with . . . Captain Padgett.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper on the Regulator leader’s name.
Cordell nodded and the farmer left for the tobacco offerings, glad to be away from such close proximity to a minister.
Taullery spoke first. “Tell Billy I’m real sorry about his problems. You need any medicine for that wound—or the Ripton girl? Just take what you want. No charge.”
“We’re doing fine with some salve Aleta makes.”
“Well, I’ve got ‘Dr. Rober Byer’s Anti-Pain Plaster.’ Best there is. Even the drugstore doesn’t have it.” Taullery was staring at a display of dishes on the far side of the room. “Just a minute, I’ve got to do this.”
Without waiting for Cordell’s response, he strode across the store and straightened a stack of plates, then repositioned two sets of coffee cups and saucers. On his way back to Cordell, he turned to examine his work; satisfied, he continued.
“Sorry, Rule, I just can’t stand to see such a mess. Makes my back crawl.”
Cordell smiled. “What about it, Ian? You want to go with me to help the Riptons?”
Taullery took a deep breath to let the anger building within him find a better route than yelling at his friend. “No, Rule, I’m not—and you shouldn’t either. You’re damn lucky they didn’t hang you after you yelled out your name. Padgett’ll come with all his guns to find out who killed all his men. Dammit, you aren’t making sense.”
An awkwardness slithered between them, separating the two old friends as they had never been. To Cordell, it was a heavy bullet in his chest. At that moment, he realized things between them would be forever different. A fury swirled within him, but it came out as a forced chuckle. The back of his neck prickled and bile came to his throat that wanted out. Taullery joined him in laughter, hoarse and furious. He, too, knew what had happened. He had made a choice to turn away his oldest friend. There wasn’t anything else to do but laugh. Neither would cry. Their eyes stung with memories.
“All right. Give my best to Mary and little Rule. I’ll see you when I get back.” The smells and sounds of the store were suddenly stalking him, and Cordell knew he must leave before he blurted out something he would regret later. He shouldn’t have expected Taullery to drop everything and go with him. He told himself that Taullery had changed, but his mind shoved the thought away.
“Doesn’t Aleta’s school with those Negroes start tonight? I thought you were going with her.” Taullery’s face changed with the new subject.
Cordell said she was going to handle the teaching alone tonight while he went to Ripton’s. Taullery’s reaction was slow water coming from an old pipe.
“Say, maybe that black friend of yours could help the Riptons. Suitcase has more money than any white man I know.”
Cordell spun away from Taullery. He bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from talking.
“Don’t forget to get a jar of Dr. Robert Byer’s Anti-Pain Plaster.” Taullery’s voice boomed across the store as Cordell opened the door and stepped back into the aging sunlight. “It’s the best there is.” He walked to a table to pursue a forced realignment of canned goods. With a can in his hand, he straightened and bolted toward the door, nearly knocking over an incoming woman. He reached it as Cordell swung into the saddle.
“Wait, Rule, take one of the new Winchesters. Please . . .”
Chapter Eighteen
Rule Cordell hesitated, then kicked his horse harder than needed and was in a full gallop before he passed the town’s well. He never looked back. Taullery watched his friend until he disappeared over the rolling horizon, shook his head, and went back inside the store.
A few miles out of town, Cordell shook off the feeling of rejection, accepted the fact that he should have taken Taullery’s Winchester, and tried to think through what he could do to stop Padgett. Aleta’s suggestion of creating the illusion of “a gang” was taking root in his mind. He would use the night as his ally. Some ideas were taking shape, depending on what he found at the Riptons’—and how many Regulators.
Ahead, late-afternoon sun washed over the hard prairie and painted a layer of gold on the underbellies of clouds. Darting among the gilt-edged fluffiness was a red-tailed hawk, appearing like a copper dart. To Cordell’s right was a small box canyon where dark shapes indicated that wild longhorn were grazing. Beyond was a belt of rolling hills, distinguished only by a thin topping of yellowish rock, and connected to a line of blackjack, post oak, and juniper stretching for miles across grassy plain. Scattered longhorn and sagebrush were interrupted by gatherings of wild flowers. Over the second rise was the Ripton ranch, rich in water and grazing land.
He cleared a washed-out buffalo stand and saw a wagon in the distance. It was not moving, off to the right of the trail. Even though it was only a gray shape, he knew it was Caleb Shank. Was the strange traveling merchant waiting for him? How could he know? Or was this just a coincidence? After all, the man traveled all over this area, selling his wares and trading for more.
Wary of what the big man wanted, Cordell’s right hand slid inside his coat and moved the English pistol from the back to a quicker position in his waistband; the gun butt was inches from his belt buckle, resting on his left hip. His further assessment assured him that the waiting merchant was alone and both hands were visible. Still, the sight of the man who had altered the tracks at the ridge unsettled him. Not because of his size, though.
Although Shank stood six feet four and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, he was no bigger than the Confederate infantryman who had called Jeb Stuart “a fancy-dressed coward.” That had triggered a vicious “soldier’s fight” between Cordell and the confident bully. Afterward, Taullery offered to split his winnings with his victorious friend. He got twenty-to-one odds from many of the big man’s comrades. Cordell wasn’t able to move well around for three days.
The Reb however, was in a hospital for two weeks with cracked ribs, a severely bruised stomach, and a broken jaw. Taullery wasn’t surprised that his friend whipped the much bigger man. He’d seen Cordell win bare-knuckle fights all the time back home—partly because his father made him work like a dog, adding hard muscle to his lithe frame, but mostly because Cordell had an intensity that drove him beyond pain, beyond reason. That and a devastating left jab. But Cordell wasn’t expecting a fight with the big merchant. The day had already brought unpleasant surprises. His stomach was churning from not knowing what Shank intended to do with his knowledge of what happened on the ridge—and if that included recognizing that he and Aleta were there.
Cordell eased the stallion into a walk to give him more time to study the situation. The powerful animal surprised him by sliding into the slower gait without resisting. Shank sat on the wagon seat, smoking his pipe with a hand intertwined in one of his suspenders, and looking for all the world like a man enjoying the silence of the prairie. His two unmatched horses looked like they might be sleeping, barely acknowledging Cordell’s approach. The huge man waved his hand in a friendly salute as Cordell headed toward him. Cordell wondered if the greeting was to any rider—or in recognition of him specifically.
Shank’s dark eyes brightened and a wide smile took over his black-bearded face as Cordell closed the distance between them. “Good afternoo
n to ya, Reverend. Bin a-hopin’ you might be comin’ along.”
Cordell reined in his horse beside the wagon and Shank motioned toward the bounty in the back of the wagon. Sunlight gingerly sought the rings on each finger of his gesturing right hand. Piled behind him, on top of the regular assembly of cooking utensils, jewelry, food-stuffs, clocks, toys, medicines, and clothing, were the weapons taken from the dead Regulators at the ridge. Three Winchesters were particularly evident, and so was Aleta’s hat.
“Came across some interestin’ stuff this mornin’, don’t ya think? Look at them fancy new ’Chesters.” Shank looked at the new items as if seeing them for the first time. A faint smile flickered under the thick hair on his upper lip.
“I see,” Cordell responded without showing any emotion in his voice or his face. Was this a subtle attempt to blackmail him?
Taking the pipe from his mouth, Shank continued to smile as he spoke. “Reverend, I do reckon I kin read sign ’bout as well as any man. No offense, but not far from your place, two folks dun stopped a bunch o’ Regulators from catchin’ up to somebody. By the looks of the brand on a fine dead hoss, I’d say they was a-chasin’ one of the Riptons.”
Cordell said nothing, but laid his right hand on top of the saddle horn, inches from his pistol. From this angle, he doubted the merchant could see what lay inside Cordell’s coat. It didn’t matter; the move didn’t appear threatening. His stallion snorted its impatience and pawed the ground. Cordell’s left fist pulled on the reins to quiet the animal. His eyes studied the huge man, who folded his arms over his massive chest, straining the fibers in his faded shirt even more than normal. Cordell remembered that the man carried a throwing knife in a sheath held by a rawhide thong around his neck, down the inside back of his shirt. He didn’t appear to have a gun of any kind close to him, although Cordell couldn’t see his back where a pistol might be shoved into his waistband. If his reputation with his fists—and knife—was accurate, Shank probably rarely used one, Cordell guessed.
If possible, Shank’s smile became wider. “Say, that be the he-hoss I traded ya, ain’t it? Lawdy, that’s a fine-lookin’ animal. Does he do like he looks?”
“As good as any I’ve ever been on. A mite edgy, but that’s to be expected. He can eat up the miles, though.”
“Yessiree, a fine one—an’ I reckon you’d be knowin’. Thought o’ you the minute I laid eyes on ’em. Don’t act staggy or nothin’, do he? Yessirree,” Shank said, and returned to his tale of the morning like it was one continuous statement.
He explained that signs of a battle were discovered while making his regular rounds. He changed the appearance of the ridge so it would look like the ambush had been done by many men. “Figgered I could be a mite o’ help by changin’ the slant o’ them signs,” Shank said, making imaginary marks with his hands. “Make it look like a whole bunch o’ owlhoots were a-waitin’. How’d I do?” The question carried no accusation, more like a man asking to have his performance evaluated.
Shank was eager to talk, explaining that the real signs indicated a woman had helped turn the Regulators away, judging from the smaller-sized boot prints. Either that or a small man. He was certain it was a woman, though, because the hat left behind smelled sweet inside. It was in his wagon now, for that reason. He thought someone else might come to the same conclusion.
But he was impressed that she walked among the downed riders and did most of the final killing where it was needed. At least, the smaller footprints indicated she was the only one who got close. He figured she realized a wounded Regulator would’ve had a closer look than those who ran and might identify them. He observed that such a woman was well worth keeping and followed it with a chuckle. Cordell licked his lower lip. Obviously Shank knew it was he and Aleta. Should he admit as much?
“Caleb, I’m a preacher and a horse rancher, not a gunfighter. Why are you telling me this?” Cordell leaned forward in the saddle, fingers brushing against the butt of his hidden pistol. His eyes narrowed, waiting for more.
Rubbing his beard with his right hand, Shank looked away, as if selecting what he should say next. His heavy eyebrows locked together in a long frown. Thick shoulders rose and fell. That choice had been made when he left the ridge and decided to wait for the minister. His heartfelt speech was rambling but clear. The unwarranted hanging of Douglas Harper and the cold-blooded murder of his brother had disturbed him greatly. He grieved for the children and for their mother. He was certain Padgett had an arrangement with a buyer who wanted the Harper land. He didn’t know who that villainous person was. Yet. Of course, proving the connection in a court would be unlikely, even if a fair Northern judge could be found.
Relighting his pipe brought an awkward silence as Cordell showed no inclination to respond. A few hearty puffs delivered a stream of new smoke and more explanation followed. He considered getting a petition signed by area landowners to have Padgett removed from office. But he knew people would be afraid to sign, because they wouldn’t believe Governor Davis would act on their demand, leaving them exposed to Padgett’s revenge.
He puffed again, frowned at the pipe’s lack of response again. Searching for a match preoccupied him with a successful discovery coming from his pants pocket. Cordell smiled at the big man’s easy distractions but wondered what the talk had to do with him. Did he expect Cordell to push for a petition from the pulpit? It wasn’t a bad idea, but it wouldn’t help the Riptons now.
Showing signs of nervousness as he got closer to his conclusion, Shank swallowed, rubbed his nose, and drew deeply on the pipe. His voice wavered, and the announcement hurled itself toward Cordell with all the anger that had been building within his massive frame.
“T-that s-sonvabitch Padgett—an’ his rattlesnake Graham—they’ve bin hurtin’ good people long ’nuff. Bin a-hopin’ somebody with . . . the doin’ in ’im . . . would stop ’em. When I saw the sign, I knowed it were you I’da bin waitin’ fer. Had me a feelin’ when I heard ’bout you a-fightin’ ’em in church.” He paused again, tried to swallow but his throat was too dry, coughed, and summed up his thoughts. “Unless I’m mighty wrong, you be a-headin’ for the Ripton place. I want to go along—if you’ll have me.” Relief shimmered in his eyes, then changed to concern for the reaction he might get.
Something in Cordell told him that he needn’t be cautious around this man. Shank was trying to be a friend. Nothing more. Shank’s reasons for helping were sincere. His offer to go along to Ripton’s ranch was genuine, if not realistic. Cordell’s right hand dropped to his side and he sat up straight.
“Thank you, Reverend, for the trust.” Shank nodded toward where Cordell’s hand had been.
Involuntarily, Cordell looked at his waistband, then back at the merchant, and grinned. Shank’s smile was hopeful, and he used the moment to add some levity. Returning his pipe to his mouth, the eccentric merchant explained that he had buried the dead Regulators in a single grave not far from the battle, but in a place Padgett and the others weren’t likely to think of. It was right next to an old Comanche burial ground. He laughed out loud telling the story, and Cordell had to smile in spite of himself.
Shank planned on giving the weapons and saddle gear away to anyone who needed them, first making sure none could be identified. He certainly didn’t want to hand off a problem to someone. With no urging from Cordell, he explained how a change of pistol handles took away most distinctive marks. He always had extra walnut handles in the wagon. There was one Colt with the trigger guard removed and the sight cut off, so he left it in the grave along with the original marked handles. Rifles were no problem unless the stock had been carved upon. If they were, he used a hot running iron to change initials into other letters or symbols. With saddles, branded identification was changed the same way or the marked piece was replaced. It was a thorough exercise, and clearly one Shank had done before, Cordell noted to himself.
Shank was suddenly quiet, and Cordell knew it was his turn to talk. He explained what had happened with th
e Ripton girl, about Padgett trying to force the Riptons from their land, Lion Graham shooting his friend Whisper, about Aleta going on to her day school and starting Eliason’s school for some black children tonight, and that he was on the way to the Ripton ranch. He skipped over Graham being a boyhood friend and his run-in with the Regulator scouts. Instead, he told about planning to go with his wife tonight to the factory, but that she had insisted on his riding to help the Riptons.
“I reckon she kin take care o’ herse’f ri’t smart-like,” Shank observed, and winked.
“Yeah, I think she can. Still, there’s been strong talk against it.”
“Heard that. Hard to figger some folks an’ their hate.”
Shank told of Eliason coming to him secretly and paying for food and supplies for several black families, as well as pairs of good boots. The successful black businessman didn’t want them to know it was charity. Agreeing, Shank accepted knife sharpening and other work projects in return for the goods, as Eliason wished. In return, Eliason gave him some boots at no cost; they carried minor flaws because they were made in initial trial runs, after Shank reopened the factory. The talk focused on the problems of Texas for a few minutes, with Shank finally getting up the courage to ask what had happened to Cordell’s arm. He told about the run-in with the three Regulators and that his handguns were now in his saddlebags, another suggestion from Aleta.
“I’ve always made it a habit never to ask a man about his back trail,” Shank observed, unwrapping his reins from the brake handle. “But I reckon there’s a lot of gun behind yours, Reverend. Made me remember your friend, Ian, a-callin’ ya Rule a time or two.”
“That’s my middle name. James Rule Langford. I used to be called ‘Rule’ some when I was a boy.” Cordell spoke through gritted teeth.
“Reckon so. Fella I remember wore a rose like that, come to think on it. Near the tail end o’ the War, I ran into him, a Reb cavalryman—name of Rule . . . Rule Cordell. I was with Longstreet. In Virginia, it was. This hyar Rule Cordell was the wildest-lookin’ son-of-a-wolf I ever seed. Made me wonder how we ever got beat with men like him.” Shank fiddled with the wagon reins, staring at his fingers as they manipulated the leather strips.
