thought my ma wanted to tag me with something different just to be ornery. She was a real whip of a gal.”
Rule studied the moon for a moment, then changed the subject. “Did John give you any idea of what he thought you should do, after Emmett’s boys were safe?” Rule leaned against the rock and studied the night sky. A handful of stars were gleaming proudly.
Bartlett folded his arms. “Yes, make enough trouble that real justice is brought in.” He paused. “Lady Holt herself would have to be arrested. Ah, John always likes to be attacking.”
Rolling his shoulders, Rule nodded agreement.
“While I’m thinking about it, I want to thank you. For stalling Humphrey’s Two. At the end. Of that awful war,” Bartlett said, changing the subject in his mind.
Rule frowned and looked up from his cleaning.
“I was with Hill’s Third. We would’ve never seen them coming ’til it was too late.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Like yesterday. To me. In some ways,” Bartlett said. “Marshal Spake Jamison, he rode with Hood. Still doesn’t think the South should’ve quit. Lost an eye to shrapnel. Mean as a cold day. One of our best deputies.”
Rule shook his head. “Understand his feelings. Took me a long time to come to grips with losing.” He returned the revolver to its holster and drew the short-barreled Colt from his waistband and started the same cleaning ritual.
Bartlett shifted his weight against the rock and recited, “ ‘Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.’ ”
“I don’t know that. Tennyson, I presume.”
“Yes. From ‘The Princess.’ One of my favorites.”
Bartlett licked his lower lip. “Guess I’m not like you—and John. Or ol’ Spake, for that matter. You boys would charge hell…and bring back Satan in handcuffs.”
Rule smiled. “I think you misread the value of attacking. Can’t speak for the Rangers…but most of the time, the advantage goes to the attacker.”
“Well, maybe. Sounds like something John would say. Or Spake. He’s a tough old rooster,” Bartlett said.
Rule smiled. “Heard of him. Like John Checker.” He shifted his boots and looked at Bartlett. “John Checker is alive, A.J.”
“Well, maybe.”
Both were quiet again, retreating to yesterday in the shadows of their thoughts.
“Was John in the war?” Rule spun the gun in his hand and was satisfied with its handling, then began reloading it.
“Not like you or me. Younger than us to begin with.” Bartlett rubbed his stockinged feet. “Boy, there’s nothing like a good pair of socks, is there?’
Rule grinned, ignoring the break in thought.
Movement among their horses brought both men to alertness. Rule jumped to his feet and walked over. The sounds weren’t those of his mustang trying to warn him of someone coming; rather they were nervous sounds. Maybe a wolf or a mountain lion prowling.
A few minutes later, Rule returned, guessing there was a lion around. He suggested they move closer to the horses. Grabbing his boots and rifle, Bartlett walked over to the mesquite trees where Rule was already sitting. The famed gunfighter had already returned the Colt to his waistband and withdrawn the Dean & Adams revolver from his belt in back.
“Almost forgot what I was telling you about,” Bartlett said as he squatted beside the middle tree, set his boots carefully beside him and explained Checker had been in a squad of Union sharpshooters but didn’t like taking orders from officers he didn’t respect. After his tour of duty was over, he left.
“Had plenty of those on both sides.”
“Yeah, that’s sure the truth.”
Bartlett rubbed his feet again, brushing off pieces of dirt and sticks that had attached themselves to his socks when he walked over. Checker had run with a bad bunch for a while, with the outlaw Sam Lane before he straightened himself out and became a Ranger. He wanted to compare it to Rule’s time with Johnny Cat Carlson but didn’t.
“ ‘Howe’er it be, it seems to me, ’tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.’ ” Bartlett recited another Tennyson line and shifted his rifle to a more comfortable position on his lap.
“Easier said than done, my friend.”
They talked a few minutes longer with the Ranger sharing the fact that Lady Holt was fascinated with the myth of the phoenix. He thought it was something she had learned while she was in England. Rule listened and mouthed “fire.” Bartlett yawned and apologized. Rule told him to get some sleep; tomorrow would likely be a long day.
“Say a prayer for John, will you, Rule?” Bartlett said. “Figure you’re a might closer to the right fellow than I am.”
“I will do so, A.J.—but not for that reason. He listens to everyone the same. Give it a try.”
Bartlett blinked his eyes. “I will, Rule. Thanks.”
After a few more minutes of discussion about the phoenix myth, Lady Holt and the governor, Bartlett said he had better get some sleep. Soon the Ranger was stretched out on the ground under his blanket, using his saddle for a pillow. Next to him were his weapons. He was snoring softly.
Rule stood among the trees, letting their trunks provide additional cover. Here he was. The former, intense Confederate warrior. His name alone had brought fear to many Texans after the War, expecially Union soldiers and sympathizers. He watched a half-moon take ownership of the dark sky. In his thoughts, he was riding again in the Virginia woods. It was a cold February in 1865 and the collapse of the South was near. He was scouting alone and suddenly heard a Union battalion marching ahead of him along the Boydon Plank Road.
Behind that piece of yesterday came the Sunday morning when he challenged the Regulators and the “Sons of Thunder” came alive to stand with him. Men and women of his parish refusing to bow to their evil tyranny. Of course, the name itself had been a fake one he had used to make the state police think there was a whole band of guerrillas after them, when it was only one. Well, actually two. A traveling peddler had helped him greatly. Caleb Shank. Now a good friend. Folks called him “the Russian,” even though he wasn’t.
He jerked his head to send the memory into the shadows of his mind. Tomorrow they would have a better idea of what they were up against.
“I am a son of Thunder,” he muttered into the night.
Rule studied the dark land, glad to hear night sounds that should be there. Whatever was bothering the horses earlier had left. For the time being anyway. Their horses were standing three-legged and quiet. Another good sign. If anything was to come close, they would warn him. Moon had told him silence was sacred, a time when man listened to the Great Spirit talking to him.
A strange contentment was settling within him, a feeling he tried to ignore. He had felt the first sensation soon after Emmett and his family arrived. It was the contentment a warrior felt in battle or on the eve of it. Being a preacher had been an important transition in his life. A time for him and Aleta to begin their life together. A time to show his soul that his maniacal father was wrong. A time to put the wildness of the postwar years behind him.
Yet something was missing. He wasn’t meant for the pulpit. Or training horses. Not really.
He felt a certain rightness within when he undertook bringing the Regulators down to save friends.
He was good with a gun. Very good. Few could match him, especially in battle. The life of a gunfighter was not something he sought. He didn’t see himself as that. Rather, it was a strange sense God had placed him here— and now—to help those who couldn’t help themselves. War and its aftermath had sharpened him, but not hardened him, to caring about others. He hated the likes of the old Regulators, the former state police, who ran roughshod over Texas after the great war. He hated the likes of Lady Holt—and Governor Citale—who sought power and riches through the destruction of others.
Yes, this was what he was born for. He was a man of the time, a man of the gun. A Son of Thunder. Aleta knew it better than he did. She had encouraged his participation in Emmett’s battle.
“Yes, I am a Son of Thunder,” he said softly, and added, “And, Lady Holt, I am the fire you should fear. A fire you won’t rise from.”
