The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  CHARLEY SUNDAY’S TEXAS OUTFIT THE COMANCHEROS

  STEPHEN LODGE

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  1961

  “Hold your horses, I’m coming!”

  The youngest Pritchard child, Noel, stuffed a piece of half-eaten, jelly-covered toast into her mouth, turned around slowly, and backed off the couch. She’d been sitting there while watching a Saturday morning television program with her two brothers. Now she was on her way to answer the doorbell. Without taking her eyes away from the television screen, she shuffled to the front door, still in her robe, pj’s, and Flintstone’s bedroom slippers. She passed the Christmas tree, decorated to the hilt and all lit up. When she reached her objective, she had to struggle with the latch for a few moments until the door finally opened. A sharp blast of cold, icy air burst through the open portal, as Noel stepped back to let her great-grandfather, Hank, enter. The old man gave her some help getting the door closed behind them, and when he knelt to give her his greetings, Noel’s eyes were still glued to the television set across the room. Her two brothers, Caleb, the middle sibling, and Josh, the oldest, hadn’t moved an inch from where they had been sitting when Hank had first rung the bell.

  Hank leaned forward to give his great-granddaughter a kiss and got a grape-jelly imprint on his white-stubbled cheek in return.

  “What kind of a greeting was that?” he said, confronting not only the girl, but also the two boys. “That must be a pretty special TV program you’re watching for you to treat me like a secondhand uncle.”

  “It’s Fury, Grampa Hank,” said Noel. “It’s all about a boy and his horse, living on a ranch. And even though it’s a rerun, it’s still my favorite TV show.”

  “Mine too,” echoed both of her brothers without looking away from the TV screen.

  “Well,” Hank went on, “I can understand you kids liking anything about living on a ranch with horses. So, go on back to your TV. Can I get you kids anything? I’m assuming your mother’s in the kitchen.”

  When he got no answer from any of them, he turned and walked over to the kitchen door.

  With a quick knock, Hank entered the room. He found his granddaughter-in-law, Evie, with rollers in her hair, on the rotary phone, deep in conversation. She took a sip from her cup of hot chocolate, then looked up. She smiled, held up her index finger and mouthed one minute, then she went back to her conversation.

  Hank nosed around, looking at things on the counter: Evie’s keys, a small bowl containing some coins, and a couple of ballpoint pens beside a notepad. He blew some dust off a plastic flower display, then opened the refrigerator door. He checked out the contents of the fridge before closing it. He neared the stove where he found a Hershey’s hot chocolate container beside a simmering pot of water. He removed a cup from the cabinet above the stove, where it hung, and mixed himself his own cup of cocoa. He returned to the table where he sat opposite Evie. She was still talking on the phone. He noticed the daily newspaper, front-page up, on the table facing her, so he began to read upside down, mumbling the words to himself.

  “Coldest Winter Since the Turn of the Century Hits Texas,” he read out loud. He feigned a shiver as Evie concluded her phone call.

  Evie stood up, placed the receiver back in the cradle, then bent down, throwing her arms around Hank’s neck.

  “I’m so glad you could make it for Christmas, Grampa Hank. I’ve already made their lunch. It’s in the refrigerator, just under and to the right of the milk. I made y’all tuna fish sandwiches. There’s some potato chips on the counter, in case anyone wants any. Everything else you might need is in the fridge—milk, cookies for dessert. You know where it all is. Oh,” she remembered something. “If I’m running late, there’s some TV dinners in the freezer—Salisbury steak and chicken. The kids love ’em. I hope you do, too.”

  “Can I let ’em eat their lunch off of paper plates, Evie? Makes it a whole lot easier when I’m cleaning up.”

  “Whatever you want to do, Grampa Hank. You’re in charge until I get back later this afternoon. Oh . . . That was Ronice Thompson I was talking to on the phone. She’ll be by to pick me up in a few minutes, so I’d better go get changed.”

  She turned and disappeared down the hallway.

  Hank was left alone in the kitchen. The only noise he could hear was the muffled soundtrack of the TV show in the living room—a horse’s whinny and a kid’s voice saying Good boy, Fury, good boy. Hank took a final sip of his cocoa, set down the cup, then he stood up and went back through the door and into the living room.

  The show was over. The final credits were rolling as Hank crossed the room to where the three children were still laid out in a trance. He wove his way through the maze of human flesh that was stretched out on the couch and two chairs that had been pulled up close to the nineteen-inch screen. He turned off the set. The black-and-white picture whirlpooled itself away, leaving a blank screen.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” said Josh.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Caleb.

  “Grampa Hank’s here,” said Noel, having come out of her TV stupor much sooner than the other two.

  “Hi, Grampa Hank,” said Josh, jumping up to greet his great-grandfather, along with his younger brother, Caleb.

  “When did you get here?” asked both boys at the same time.

  Hank moved to his great-granddaughter, lifting her up into his arms.

  “A little bird let me in,” he said, tweaking her nose.

  He winked.

  Noel grinned. “Tweet, tweet,” she said. “That little bird was me. Are you here to babysit for us, Grampa?” she added.

  “I like to think of it more as ridin’ herd if you don’t mind, sweetheart. Makes your brothers feel better having me around when I call it that.”

  “Mommy’s going to a Christmas party.”

  “I know that, darlin’.”

  “She won’t be back until it’s dark,” said Caleb.

  “Did that ever happen to you when you were a kid?” asked Noel. “Did your mother ever leave you with someone while she went away?”

  “Can’t rightly say that she did,” said Hank. “Oh, wait. Wait just a minute. It did so happen to me. But not quite for the same reason your mother is doing today. Believe it or not, it was arou
nd Christmastime, too . . . and it happened in the middle of a record-setting cold spell, just like we’re going through now.”

  Sensing that one of Hank’s stories was about to be told, the boys turned their chairs around to face their great-grandfather, who still held Noel in his arms.

  The double-tap of a horn honking came from outside. Everyone looked up as Evie, dressed in rubber boots and a calf-length, heavy wool coat, made her way to the front door. Before leaving, she turned to the others who were all looking her way.

  “You all know where I’ll be. I left an emergency number by the phone in the kitchen, Hank, if you think you need it.”

  She opened the door to the icy wind, pulled her wool scarf tighter around her neck, then she slipped out as fast as she could, pulling the door closed behind her.

  “Anyhow,” said Hank. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, I remember now. It all started one day, on my grampa Charley’s ranch, when he received a letter from my mother . . .”

  CHAPTER ONE

  1900

  A sharp wind was blowing as a single horse, pulling the local U.S. Post Office delivery wagon, trotted its way up the road toward Charley Sunday’s Juanita, Texas, ranch house. The frisky animal blew steam from its nostrils after every breath taken. The postman who drove the mail wagon, as it was called back then, had passed the all-metal mailbox, secured to a wooden post that stood beside the entrance gate. Charley and his partner, Roscoe Baskin, had shed sweat and tears over that mailbox when putting it in during early fall. It replaced the old, paint-peeled, all-wooden mailbox that had been doing its job just fine for more than eighteen years.

  Roscoe Baskin was cleaning his wire-rimmed spectacles with a dishcloth when he heard the noise outside. He peeked through the curtains, then wiped at the steamed-up window glass to watch the postman jump down from his buggy and tie off his horse. He climbed the steps to the back porch, where Roscoe met him at the screen door, having pushed it open to greet the frigid little government worker.

  “Mornin’, Roscoe,” said the postman. “I got a letter here for Charley . . . it’s from his daughter, Betty Jean, in Austin.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what she wrote, Toby. You seem to know so much about what’s in it.”

  “I get all my information from the return address on the corner, right there. You know me better than to accuse me of snooping inside the envelope.”

  “Implying,” said Roscoe. “I only implied that you was snoopin’.”

  He turned and called back inside the house.

  “Charley! . . . Toby’s here with the mail, an’ he’s got a special letter here for ya from yer daughter.”

  Charley’s voice echoed from down the hall.

  “I’ll be right there, Roscoe . . . and don’t let Toby leave just yet.”

  Roscoe turned back to the postman.

  “You heard him, Toby. He’ll be right here.”

  The sound of the indoor toilet flushing could be heard, then Charley appeared, coming from the hallway. He was still buckling up his trousers, pulling his lime-green suspenders up over his shoulders. When he reached the back porch screen door, he took the envelope from the postman’s fingers and circled back to the kitchen, where he sat at the table and called out, once again, for Roscoe.

  “Roscoe,” he yelled. “Can you bring me my magnifiers?”

  Roscoe was at his side in an instant with the reading glasses in hand.

  “Thanks,” said Charley, taking the wire-rimmed reading spectacles from Roscoe and slipping them on, one ear at a time.

  “Danged woman,” he mumbled to himself. “I don’t know why she insisted that I have a telephone put in here when she never uses it.”

  By then, Toby, the postman, had followed along into the kitchen, and he casually pulled up a chair on Charley’s left. Roscoe took the right-hand seat, then both men leaned in as Charley slit open the envelope with his pocketknife.

  “What’s she say?” said Roscoe.

  “What does she say?” echoed Toby, the postman.

  Charley threw back his arms, puffing his chest, to give himself more room before he started reading.

  “She ain’t going to be saying nothing until you two nosy old maids learn to mind your manners and give me the proper space a man needs to read, for heaven’s sake.”

  The two observers slid their chairs back a few inches on both sides.

  “That’s better,” Charley announced. Then he pulled the one-page letter out of the envelope, shook the paper to get the folds out, adjusted his glasses, and began reading out loud.

  “My dearest daddy,” the letter began. He hesitated when he noticed Toby, the postman, leaning in from his side, trying to read along with him.

  “What are you doing here, Toby?” he asked.

  “It was you that asked that I stay,” said Toby.

  He started to get up.

  “But I can leave any time you want me to, Charley,” he said. “It’s just that . . .”

  “Just what?” said Charley.

  “Just that . . . there’ll be no one to spread the news around town unless I hear what your daughter has to say in her letter.”

  “Oh, all right, Toby. You can stay. Just be quiet while I’m reading, that’s all.”

  Charley started again.

  My dearest Daddy

  I know it’s unusual that I’d be writing to you again . . . so soon after we both agreed on our plans for the Christmas holiday. But sometimes plans must change. Something very important has come up for Kent. His employer has requested that he be in Kansas City on Christmas Day, and I have decided it is my wifely duty to accompany my husband wherever he must go. Unfortunately, our son, Henry Ellis, has a different idea when it comes to where he’d like to spend the holiday. His wishes are to be with you, Daddy, on your ranch there in Juanita.

  His school allows the students a month off for Christmas vacation. That is because it is a private academy, and most of the pupils live such a great distance away, and must travel many miles to reach their homes for the holiday.

  Kent and I have discussed this matter, and we both feel that Henry Ellis has proved he is capable of traveling by train all by himself.

  Please let me know how you feel about this, Daddy. I think it would be proper if you telephoned me. In our house, that service is paid for by Kent’s company, so, you calling me is the better idea. That way, Kent’s company won’t be charged for the call.

  Sincerely,

  Your loving daughter,

  Betty Jean

  After Charley finished reading, there was silence for a few moments while he refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope.

  “Well,” said Roscoe.

  “Well, what?”

  “Are we gonna be havin’ a guest here over Christmas, or not?” asked Roscoe.

  “Now, what do you think?”

  “I think I’d better finish my route,” said Toby.

  “You do that,” said Charley. “And make sure you tell everyone howdy from Roscoe and me.”

  “Oh, I surely will,” said the postman.

  “Oh, I bet you will,” said Charley.

  The two old Texans watched through the window beside the back porch door as Toby, the postman, untied his horse and climbed into the buggy. Once he was settled into the leather seat, Toby backed the horse, then turned the little wagon around before retracing his path down the entrance road to the farm to the market road that ran parallel to Charley’s property line.

  “Reckon I’d better telephone Betty Jean so we can make plans concerning Henry Ellis’s visit,” said Charley.

  “Before you make that call,” said Roscoe, “don’t forget we’re supposed ta take the train to San Antone next week anyway so we can pick up the new surrey.”

  “Damn,” said Charley. “I’d nearly forgotten all about that. Maybe we can work it out so we meet Henry Ellis at the train station in San Antonio, and he could ride back here to Juanita with the two of us.”

  “He’d like tha
t, Charley. He really would.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Charley Sunday’s grandson, Henry Ellis Pritchard, dressed in his brand-new winter suit and overcoat, made his way down the aisle of the passenger car until he found an empty seat toward the rear. It was a window seat, which seemed to brighten his day. He removed a dog-eared dime novel from his side coat pocket, settled back, and began to read.

  Something was wrong. He was too warm. He started to take off his overcoat, but a thought stopped him: If I take off my overcoat, everyone will see that my mother still makes me wear knee pants and stockings, instead of ankle-length trousers like a man. His thinking was interrupted by a well-dressed gentleman sitting in the seat behind him.

  “I don’t think removing your overcoat is such a good idea, son,” said the man.

  Henry Ellis turned around to see just who it was that was talking to him. He came face-to-face with the middle-aged gentleman in the seat behind him. The man was slight of build, foppish, and wore meticulously trimmed sideburns, plus a well-groomed mustache. A handsome woman was sitting beside the man, and she nodded in recognition of the boy.

  The man continued.

  “Once this train gets moving,” he said, “every unsealed crack between wood frame and glass, both doorways at each end of the car, and the abundance of loose floorboards beneath our feet will let in a tremendous amount of freezing air from outside. As you can see, both my wife and I find it much more comfortable traveling in this weather with our topcoats on. Sorry, let me introduce myself and my wife.”

  He leaned in closer to the boy.

  “I am Dr. Benjamin J. Campbell, and this is my wife, Eleanor. You can call me Ben.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ben . . . ma’am,” said the boy. “I’m Henry Ellis Pritchard, from Austin, Texas.”

  “On your way for a Christmas visit somewhere, it appears,” said Ben.

  “On my way to meet my grandfather. I’ll be staying with him over the holiday.”

  “How long has your grandfather lived in San Antonio?” asked the woman.