by Cotton Smith
Laughter filled the house as everyone tried to catch up with the springy animal. It was Rule who finally secured the pet and returned it to Andrew.
Everything in the house was clean and in its place. The curtains were freshly washed, still smelling lightly of soap. In the adjoining kitchen was a large table with Mexican designs carved into the heavy legs. Matching chairs stood silently around it. A tablecloth of simple blue finished the presentation.
Emmett introduced Rule to Ranger A. J. Bartlett, who greeted him warmly. Rule introduced his wife, Aleta, and son, Ian, and daughter, Rosie, then said, “And this is Texas the Second. We call him ‘Two’ for short.” He patted the dog’s head and left unsaid that the name was a tribute to the first “Texas,” a cur he found during the war. The dog’s death during a battle nearly unraveled him.
“Mr. Cordell, I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” Bartlett said, “and yours, Mrs. Cordell. But I must excuse myself and return to find my partner. John would’ve caught up with us…if he could. I fear…” He didn’t finish, not liking his words.
“Please call us Rule—and Aleta. What happened?”
Bartlett explained with Emmett joining in. Rule glanced at Aleta, who excused herself and left for the kitchen. Rule had heard of Lady Holt and knew Texas Ranger John Checker by reputation. He said Comanche warriors called him Tuht-seena Maa Tatsinuupi, Wolf With Star, because he tracked them like a fierce wolf. He also knew Eleven Meade, Luke Dimitry and Tapan Moore, but not Sil Jaudon.
After listening, Rule said quietly, “Ranger Checker wouldn’t necessarily have followed your same route, A.J. He might have ridden in the other direction. To make sure they didn’t find you. He’ll catch up later. That would be savvy.”
“Well, he’s that. In spades,” Bartlett replied; his expression was one of a man who wanted to believe what he had just heard but couldn’t quite. His thinking tended toward the negative—and to worry. Almost the opposite of his Ranger partner. But this time, his concern seemed justified.
“There you go. Please eat first, and then I’ll ride with you…if you will allow me the honor, Ranger. We’ll find your friend, I’m sure,” Rule said. “You’ll need a fresh horse, too.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind. My horse thanks you, too.”
“I cain’t be askin’ ya to do this, Rule,” Emmett said. “I’ll be ridin’ back with A.J. This hyar’s my fight—an’ now his. Leastwise to find John.”
“It’s my fight, too. I’m going with you, Ranger Bartlett.” Rikor’s eyes were bright; his frown was keeping sleep from getting any closer.
Bartlett bit his lip. “I’d like that. Up to your pa, though.”
The young man was silent, looking at his father for approval.
The statement brought a clearing of Emmett’s throat. “Yas, son, I reckon ya’d better go with us. Yu’re already actin’ a warrior.” He shook his head and looked at Rule. “Don’ know what I was a-thinkin’, Rule. I may be bringin’ hell ri’t to your door. Forgive me. After we done et, we’ll be pushin’ on.” His face wore weariness and, for the first time, a lack of confidence.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Uncle Emmett. You’re most welcome,” Rule said. “You are my family. No one does this to my family. No one.” He glanced at a window to see the lessening rain outside.
“Wall, thank you, son, them’s the purtiest words I ever did hear.” Emmett shook his head. “If’n you could jes’ watch the two young’uns I’d be in your debt. Keep ’em safe for a while.”
Aleta hurried back into the main room, bringing mugs of hot coffee. “Of course we can. As long as it takes. Our kids would like that a lot.” She handed a mug to Emmett, the other to Bartlett, then returned for more.
As they sipped the hot brew, the older rancher explained more about what had happened. A hot meal of tortillas, slices of beef and eggs soon followed. Aleta served the food with a wide smile, observing that it had been too long since they had seen Emmett’s sons and how they had grown. Little else was said during the meal as everyone ate heartily. Both the Gardner boys and Cordell’s children sat around the hearth to eat.
When they were finished, she invited Emmett’s two smaller sons to get some rest in their main bedroom and asked Ian to show them. They followed eagerly with Rosie, Hammer and Two trailing after them.
Returning to the table, she said, “You have ze mucho fine sons, Emmett.”
The tired rancher hunched his shoulders and told her about each. He was obviously proud of them and she said he should definitely be.
“Not so sure I’ll git to see them growed up, though.” Emmett bit his lower lip. “This hyar Lady Holt’s just about got everythin’ bottled up her way. Wants my land—an’ the few others left—for herself. Got the law ag’in me. Even got that chicken-livered governor in her pocket.”
Watching his children return from the bedroom, Rule took a deep breath and looked at Bartlett. “And you haven’t seen Ranger Checker since he rode off to stop those men?”
Aleta rose from her chair and directed the children outside to play, noting first that the rain had completely stopped.
“No, we ain’t. Must’ve stopped ’em for a piece anyway, I reckon. Heard gunshots an’ nobody showed up to stop us,” Emmett said, rubbing his unshaven chin. “He wanted us to keep goin’. Made that real clear. So we did.”
“One against six…” Rule didn’t finish the thought and avoided looking at Bartlett.
The Ranger’s response was to take another gulp of coffee and stand. His action was an indication of the desire to leave and look for his partner. Guilt and pessimistic thoughts about letting his friend take on Holt’s men alone gnawed at him, even though Checker had insisted.
“Better get riding,” he said, pushing away the chair. “Thank you for the fine meal, ma’am. It surely tasted good.”
Aleta smiled. “I weel geet some food together for you to take.” She paused and brought up a new idea. “Mío love, maybe you should buy ze ranch from Uncle Emmett.” She winked. “Until thees ees over. Then he buys eet back. That weel make eet mucho tougher for them, I theenk.”
His eyebrows raised, Rule turned to the old rancher. “Makes good sense, Emmett. Keep them off stride. They wouldn’t be expecting anything like that.”
“Yah, it do.”
Rule looked at Rikor and the young man nodded agreement.
Rule looked across at the standing Bartlett. “What do you think, A.J.?”
“No offense, Rule,” the Ranger said, “but your past—as an outlaw—will be dragged into this if you do. This Holt woman’s ruthless—and she’s got the governor’s office in her fist. She’ll get Citale to revoke your clemency sure as can be. You’ll be charged with being a part of the rustling.”
That brought the room to silence.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Rule said, “but I like the idea anyway. We’ll ride to Clark Springs first. I’ve got a friend who runs the land office there. He can be the witness and make sure the paper is in order. We’ll take it to Caisson. After we find your friend.”
Emmett chuckled in spite of the seriousness of the moment. “I’d sure like to be thar when that awful woman hears the news.” He found himself saying, “Yu’re gonna like John Checker, boy. The two o’ ya are cut from the same tree.”
Rule nodded and stood as well. “Let me get my war clothes on.” He put an arm on Emmett’s shoulder. “After we find Ranger Checker, we’ll figure out our next step. All right?”
His comment was far more confident than he felt. Why wouldn’t John Checker have caught up…if he could?
At the other side of the table, Rikor struggled against the lack of sleep, but wanted to show his maturity. His eyelids blinked rapidly as he resisted the urge to shut them for just a minute.
Stiffling a yawn, he finally asked, “Should we get our wagon out of sight? You want us to put our milk cow in your barn?”
“Good idea, Rikor,” Rule said, walking toward the bedroom. “We’ll take care of it before
we leave. You’ve done plenty, son. Maybe you should stay behind and get some sleep. We’ll be back in a couple of days.”
The young man shook his head negatively and asked the questions hovering over the room like vultures. “What if John’s…dead? What’s going to happen to our ranch?”
Softly, as if it were a song, Bartlett said, “ ‘Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.’ ”
Rule stopped in the doorway to their main bedroom. “Tennyson, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes, he’s rather a favorite of mine, I must say.”
“I like ‘If God be with us, who can be against us?’ Romans, chapter eight, verse thirty-one.”
Bartlett smiled. “Hard to trump that, I suppose.”
“Rikor, your ranch is going to be yours for a long time,” Rule added. “Why don’t you pick out some horses while I get ready? Everything in the big corral is saddle good. Twenty saddles each—and slicker and rope broke. Aleta did the final polishing, so they handle good—and can run all day.”
Bartlett nodded.
Emmett tried to smile.
“Be real quiet, mío love, the boys are in the bedroom. Sleeping,” Aleta urged.
“I will.”
Inside his bedroom, Rule dressed quickly in a black broadcloth suit and white collarless shirt. On the bed, Andrew and Hans were soundly sleeping. Beside the bed was a handmade, waist-high cabinet, accented with hand-carved flowers. Once it had been a strange display of guns when he first began his new life as preacher, leaving the vestiges of the war and the lost time as a renegade gunfighter behind. The placement of pistols and rifles had been a measured one, almost ceremonial.
Now the guns were kept in his closet, high enough to avoid the curious hands of his children. He stepped past the half-century-old cabinet now displaying a Bible. Beside the book was another gift from Moon. An eagle feather fan.
Inside the closet, on a high shelf, were seven .44 revolvers of mixed origin and a five-shot, Dean & Adams pistol. Two of the big pistols were settled in holsters with their bullet belts wrapped around them. Another brace of pistols were silver-plated and pearl-handled. They were Aleta’s guns. Stacked on each side of the cabinet were two Henry rifles, a Winchester and a shotgun. All were cleaned regularly.
He strapped on one gun belt, checked the .44 revolver and reholstered it. A short-barreled Colt was shoved into his waistband, then the Dean & Adams pistol into his back waistband. Carrying four or five pistols was something he had learned in the war; it always seemed comforting.
Into his mind sneaked an ugly memory. It was a few days before he left for the war and he had caught his father, the Reverend Aaron Cordell, hiding money from the donation plate. His mother had long since left the clutches of this terrible man. The evil preacher spun toward his young son, spitting righteous phrases that meant nothing and raising a silver-topped cane to strike him. The look in Rule’s eyes had stopped him.
Later, his father ridiculed Rule’s leaving to fight for the Cause; the evil man showed up once more in his life, siding with the Regulators. That Sunday had brought many surprises and much pain. His best friend died, trying to protect him. His mother, long gone from his life, appeared in church to ask for his forgiveness. His father ran—and hadn’t been seen again. An entire congregation stood up and shouted they were “Sons of Thunder.” He announced to them that he wasn’t James Rule Langford, he was Rule Cordell—and they didn’t care.
He recalled a strange Indian woman, Eagle Mary, telling him, “You are thunder. You are lightning. You are the storm to clean the land. Nanisuwukaiyu. Moon is watching over you.”
He shook his head to clear away the awful cobwebs.
After putting on his riding coat, he grabbed a Winchester from the rifles, then stopped. Laying it against the wall, he went to his drawer and withdrew a small stone earring.
A medicine stone from Moon. A piece of Mother Moon herself, the old man had said.
He slipped the leather thong over his ear and let the stone settle beneath it. Nodding approval to himself, he left the room. The tiny symbol had gotten him safely through the war, the anguish of postwar Texas and his earlier fight with the Regulators. He had only spent one day with the dying Comanche shaman, but it was enough to give him much to remember. God was everywhere and in everything. Seeing miracles in everyday things. Resurrection was not uncommon; a man just had to look for it. Just as every man could be his own priest. The highest calling was to care about others.
In that strange encounter, they had become as father and son.
Without thinking about it, he touched the small medicine pouch under his shirt; the shaman told him that it carried the medicine of the owl, the moon’s messenger. Yes, Moon had watched over him.
Aleta was waiting in the main room; the others were outside, selecting new mounts.
“Hasta luego, mío love,” she said. “I know you must do thees. Eet ees family. Hurry back to us.”
“I will.”
“I see you wear the strength of Moon.” She glanced at the stone earring. “That ees good.”
“Yeah. I thought it would help bring me back quicker.”
They kissed and held each other tightly.
She stepped back and her hand touched his cheek. Her words were of war. “You must geet them off balance. Attack where they don’t expect eet. You must become a son of thunder. Again.”
From her pocket, she withdrew a slim stem of what had once been a rose. Without asking, she pinned it to his long coat lapel. “Theez weel bring you back pronto.”
The rose stem had long ago been a rose given by the widow of General Jeb Stuart to his officers at his funeral. He had worn it through the rest of the war and into his nightmare in Texas, refusing to take it off long after the petals had fallen away.
“I didn’t know you had this. Where—?”
“Adios, mío love. Ride hard and come back to us soon.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ranger Captain Hershell Poe sat behind his desk in Ranger headquarters and reread the governor’s directive. It was the sixth time he had read about the firing and arresting of Captain Harrison Temple, the subsequent release of the entire Special Force of forty Rangers and the appointment of Sil Jaudon as the new captain with the authority to hire his own Rangers for that group.
He and Temple were equals, although some perceived Poe to be the superior officer. Temple was a fighter leading a squad of fighters; Poe was a politician managing a squad of fighters. A considerable difference. Temple never did understand the need to pay attention to the winds of politics. Or the newspapers. He attracted men like John Checker and Spake Jamison, who would rather charge than discuss.
“Just like that,” he muttered. “I should have seen it coming.” He knew Governor Citale was easily encouraged by money. So it was only a matter of time.
“But the entire Special Force?”
He looked around for his pipe, filled the bowl from a small leather pouch and lit it. Smoke slid from his clenched teeth and toward the ceiling.
The Special Force was the unit charged with protecting the border from rustlers, bandits and Indians. His own force, the larger one, was charged with protecting the rest of the state; his men were spread out in all corners of Texas. He was good at keeping them where they needed to be. At least most of the time. Texas was a huge place and no one could be everywhere at once. He had done a good job of securing credit for their efforts; most often with him making the statements.
Puffing on his pipe helped him think. Should he inform his own men of this abrupt change? Regular wires kept his Rangers moving on their assignments—and their return telegrams kept him informed of their progress. What would they think? He knew what they would think and didn’t like it.
“Temple should have known better than to send Rangers into Lady Holt’s territory,” he declared. “And John Checker no less. Damn.”
He hadn’t seen any of Temple’s Rangers since the word went out. Nor had he seen Temple waiting in jai
l for a hearing. Without knowing the details, he understood the charge against Temple was false. If anyone could be trusted with public money, it was Temple. The charge had to be political, an easy way to get rid of him so this Sil Jaudon could take over. He didn’t know Jaudon but knew who he worked for. It wasn’t hard to figure out where this whole mess had come from. Lady Holt. She was scary. There were whispers that her empire might even become greater than the huge King Ranch one day.
Still, Captain Poe worked for the governor and at the governor’s request.
What should he do? He pushed himself away from his desk and went for more coffee. No one was in Ranger headquarters today, except him. There were rarely a handful at any given time. A majority were on the trail somewhere, bringing justice. He liked it that way. A good time to catch up on paperwork and redirect his forces. He had no illusions about his job; it, too, was political. So far, he had been able to keep it in spite of two governors. The trick was to compliment the leader every chance he got—and to keep him informed of things happening around the state. It wasn’t really his job, but it made good sense.
The door to the small office opened and three Rangers stepped inside. All three were Temple’s men. Each had just received a wire notifying of his immediate release.
“What’s going on?” the chunky lawman yelled, and waved the wire over his head.
“I just heard Captain Temple’s been arrested,” the bearded Ranger said.
The third Ranger, a lanky man with mostly gray in his close-cropped hair, rubbed his unshaved chin and shoved his wide-brimmed hat back on his forehead. His left eye was covered with a black patch, a result of the war.
“This is Citale’s doin’, ain’t it?” he asked without expecting an answer. “Somebody’s shoving gold into his pocket real deep this time. That no-good sonvabitch.”
Captain Poe stood and removed the pipe from his mouth. He didn’t like this Ranger. Spake Jamison was a hard man and a longtime Ranger. A tough older breed of lawman. A lot like an older John Checker. Honest and no-nonsense. An eight-gauge, sawed-off shotgun was carried in a quiver over his shoulder to go with his belt gun.
