That first shovel full of
dirt falling into the shallow grave on top of his parents made him sick
to his stomach.
He didn’t even have a blanket to wrap them in. All he could
do was lay them side by side on the stone cold ground at the bottom
of the
single shallow grave and cover their faces with his blood-soaked
shirt.
Fourteen-year-old Cody Cordell stood beside the grave with
the shovel in hand. He stared through tear-drenched eyes
at the mutilated bodies
of his ma and pa and felt as if his heart was being ripped
from his chest.
But he had it to do.
Somewhere between the first shovel full and the last, Cody
Cordell became a man: a man full of bitterness and hatred;
a man convinced that
life was unfair and that only the strong survive in this
world; a man who had made up his mind that whatever it
took, he would
be a survivor.
When the heart-wrenching task was finished he sat down
beside the fresh mound of dirt. He was exhausted. Not
only physically,
for he hadn’t
slept a wink since he’d discovered the bodies, but he felt
completely drained, shattered, abandoned.
It happened two days before. He was off in the woods several miles from
the house hunting turkey when he saw the smoke. The thick black plume
billowed and climbed toward the blue sky. He knew something was bad wrong.
He dropped the gobbler and lit out as fast as his legs could
carry him. He was too late. By the time he got to the house
it was nothing but
a roaring ball of flames.
He screamed at the top of his lungs for his ma and pa. The
only answer he heard was the loud crackling of hungry flames
as they boiled higher
and higher. He ran as close as the heat would allow. He raced
around the house, then back again, screaming frantically,
searching for a way to
get inside to save his parents. Then he saw his pa.
He was tied to the split rail fence of the empty corral.
Arrows were buried deep into his chest. It looked like
they had used
him for target
practice.
Where his pa’s sandy hair should have been there was nothing
but a bloody skull. His stomach laid cut open and his intestines
stretched
across the dusty yard.
Cody fell to his knees and emptied his stomach at the gory
sight. Wave after wave of vomit racked his body until
there was nothing left inside
him.
He struggled to his feet and stumbled crazily to the
watering trough. He ducked his head into the ash-covered
water and
held it there for a
long time.
He found his ma lying on the other side of what was left
of the barn, and wished he hadn’t.
What he saw no fourteen year old should ever see. He
couldn’t bear
to look. He stripped off his shirt and covered as much of his ma’s
naked body as he could.
After the burying was done Cody spent two whole days carving the letters
into boards ripped from the side of the barn. He lashed them together
with some wire and drove them into the ground at the head of the single
grave.
He went back for the turkey he had killed and cooked it over an open
fire and lived on that while he worked on the crosses.
Grief and barely controlled panic tore at his heart and boiled
just below the surface of his mind, threatening to explode.
He moved about
in a dazed awareness, his mind a mass of tangled, confused
thoughts. He was having trouble sorting things out, deciding
what to do next.
He was tired, so tired. He curled into a fetal position beside
the mound of fresh dirt and stared up at a pale blue sky
for a long while.
Finally, exhaustion took control of his body and he slept.
* * *
He awoke. It was coming day. He had slept the night away.
He sat up and crossed his legs and leaned his elbows
on his knees
and stared off
into eternity for a good, long time.
His mind was a jumbled maze of thoughts: he had no home,
no family, no money, nothing. What would he do? Where
would he go?
How would
he live? Who could he turn to for help? He was alone,
the last one left
of his
family. His ma and pa were dead, most likely his big
brother was dead too, since they hadn’t heard from him for over a year.
These and a thousand other questions went unanswered in his young
and confused
mind.
Finally, he tried to blink reality into focus. He let
his slow gaze survey his surroundings. The Indians
took everything,
and what they
hadn’t
taken they destroyed. The two Cordell horses, two mules, and even Sadie,
their milk cow was gone. They killed Collie, Cody’s dog. Cody
buried him near Ma and Pa since he was like part of the family and
all.
All he had left were the clothes on his back, a pocketknife
and his pa’s double-barreled shotgun with four shells. It was ten
miles to the Johnson place, their nearest neighbor, and another ten
to the
isolated Hondo Trading Post down on the Hondo River. In the other
direction it
was forty miles to San Antonio, the nearest town.
One thing for sure, he couldn’t stay here. The Indians might
come back. What good would four shotgun shells do against a pack of
murdering
savages? No, there was nothing or no one left for him here. He
had to move on to somewhere, but where?
Deciding, he pushed to his feet. He would walk
to the Johnson place. Mr. Johnson was a good
man and would
know what to
do. Besides, he hadn’t
seen Sarah Johnson in a long while. A picture of her flashed into
his mind and stayed there for a time.
Having made up his mind, Cody rummaged around
what was left of the barn and found an empty
fruit jar
with a
rusty lid.
He washed it in the
water trough and tied a length of wire around
the neck so he could carry his makeshift
canteen over
his shoulder.
After he drew a fresh bucket of water from
the dug well, he filled the fruit jar,
drank its contents, and refilled
it. It
would be a long,
hot walk through the desert-like country
between their house and the Johnson place.
He stuffed what was left of the cooked
turkey, which wasn’t much,
into a pocket of his bib overalls and retied one of his brogan work shoes.
He draped the wire holding his jar of water over a bare shoulder. He was
shirtless since he had used his shirt to cover his ma and pa’s faces
during the burying. Taking one more look around and deciding he hadn’t
forgotten anything, he picked up his shotgun and patted his right
front pocket that contained his four shells.
He struck out.
© 2006
Dusty Rhodes - all rights reserved
LONGHORN
Book III
“The Prodigal Brother”
by
Dusty Rhodes
As Cody stood there in the middle of the dusty street, facing the
most deadly gunfighter alive, the words of his old blind Mexican mentor,
the man that taught him everything he knew about the gunfighter profession,
flashed from his memory.
First,
you pick the time and place to fight. If daytime, keep your back
to the sun. If there is no way out of the fight,
the only thing
left is to kill him before he kills you. Last, and most important
of all, watch his eyes and face. A nervous eye flicker, a tightening
of the lips, clenching of the mouth, bulging jaw muscles; any
of these natural actions will be your warning that your
opponent is about to
draw.
That will give you a split second warning. Use it; it could
make the difference in living and dying.
This was the defining moment of the endless hours of instruction
and practice. This was the apex of his entire life. Cody’s mind,
senses, and body focused their total energies on one thing and one
thing only—the moment.
His hearing shut off all sound. His mind rejected any distraction.
His hands and arms were relaxed and ready. His eyes locked
on Longley’s
eyes like a beacon with a fixed, unwavering, and unblinking stare.
For a small slice of eternity, time stood still.
Then it came.
The slightest hint of a thin smile wrinkled one corner of
Vance Longley’s top lip. In that instant, Cody’s practiced hand
moved instinctively. The bone-handled Colt, that had become a mere
extension of his hand, leaped from the greased holster. His thumb
instinctively raked back the hammer, his finger feathered the trigger,
and the weapon bucked in his hand. Once, twice, three times, the jarring
explosion radiated past his hand, journeyed up his arm, and rocked
his shoulder. All this—in less than an eye blink.
But what was wrong? Vance Longley was still standing!
Cody was puzzled. How could he have missed at point-blank
distance?
The famous gunfighter stood there, not twenty-feet
in front of him, his pearl-handled Colt in his hand.
Blue smoke
curled like
a serpent from the nose of the barrel that was pointed—toward
the ground!
No, this can’t be possible, Cody’s mind screamed. He’s
too fast. There must be some mistake. I don’t understand.
Then he saw it again, that same thin smile. The
one he had seen just before the draw. Longley’s eyes suddenly glazed and went
foggy. His gaze dropped to his chest. A shocked, unbelieving look
crept across his face at the sight of three thumbnail-sized holes.
He lifted a weak, confused and questioning gaze up into Cody’s
face.
Slowly, as if kneeling in prayer, he sank to
his knees, still staring at Cody. Then, as
if in slow
motion, he toppled onto
his face in the
street. A small puff of dust feathered around
where he fell.
