The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  “Have you?” said Charley.

  “Six times, for sure,” said the conductor. “In the beginning, they used ta only rob the passenger cars. It was just later on that they started going after our shipments . . . our money shipments, mine payrolls, and things like that.”

  “Where do you suppose they get their information from, when those shipments are going to be shipped?” asked Charley.

  “Oh, we’ve discussed that,” said the conductor. “And we even made up a list of who we thought might have a good reason to be workin’ both sides. But we couldn’t agree on any one man.”

  “So the information still gets leaked to the Croppers, and the Croppers continue robbing your trains,” said Charley.

  The conductor shrugged.

  “It’s the railroad owners who don’t really seem to care about it, Mr. Sunday,” said the engineer.

  “Now don’t you start giving away any company secrets,” said the conductor.

  “It ain’t no company secret that the Cropper Brothers always seem to know when we’re gonna be carryin’ anything of value.”

  “Did you have any of the railroad owners on that suspect list of yours?” Charley asked.

  “No, sir, we never did,” said the engineer. “It was the owners . . . one particular owner . . . who had the idea for the suspect list in the first place.”

  There was a long moment.

  “What do you two think?” Charley asked the two Hondo deputy marshals.

  Not thinking that they were going to be brought into the conversation, the two deputies could only hem and haw.

  “How about you, Buck?” said Charley to the deputy he knew the best. “What do you think of the suspect list being started by one of the railroad owners?”

  “It does sound a little fishy now that you brought it up, Mr. Sunday.”

  “Does anyone know this owner’s name?” asked the constable.

  No one said a thing.

  The constable continued, “Mr. Sunday has made a very good point, and now I’d like to know the name of the railroad owner who came up with the idea of the suspect list.”

  “It was Mr. Madison,” said the conductor. “Mr. Edwin J. Madison. And he’s the only one of the three owners that lives here in Texas. The others make their homes in the East.”

  “Is there any way I might sit down with this Madison fellow for a talk?” asked Charley.

  “He rides in his private car from El Paso to San Antonio on occasion, or the other way around.”

  “Do these two trains pass somewhere on the line?” said Charley. “What I mean is, when one train leaves San Antone, does the other one leave El Paso at approximately the same time, or thereabouts?”

  “I believe so,” said the engineer. “Yes, yes they do, Mr. Sunday. When they turn this train around in El Paso, the following day our departure time will be the same as it was in San Antonio. That’s right. The other train, with the executive car, should have left El Paso the same day and time we left San Antonio.”

  “I want to have a little talk with this Mr. Edwin J. Madison, if it’s possible. Do you think he’ll be in his personal car?”

  The conductor answered, “Mr. Madison rides from El Paso to San Antonio, and back, once or twice a week. He’s the hands-on partner of the group . . . the one who’s directly in charge of all railroad business in the absence of the other two partners.”

  “I’ll still be driving my surrey behind you tomorrow,” Charley told the engineer. “If you see that other train coming our way, toot your whistle to let me know, will you?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Sunday,” said the engineer. “I’ll do ’er.”

  Charley turned to the constable.

  “My friends and I’ll need a place to bed down for a few hours, just like we done in Hondo.”

  “The passengers are all staying at the Texas House Hotel over on Main Street. Overflow is at the Oriental, two blocks this way. Soon as I get back to my office I’ll send a man over there to see if they have any rooms left. Where’ll I find you, Mr. Sunday, if there’s a room available?”

  “Right here by this stove, Constable,” said Charley. “Right here beside this beautiful hot, stove. My partner will be here, too . . . and so will my grandson. Oh, is there a livery close by where I can get my horses out of the weather?”

  “Right over there,” he pointed. “Red Mullins owns that stable across the way. Tell ’im I sent you, an’ he should give you a deal on the oats.”

  Charley, Roscoe, and Henry Ellis were sitting around a table in a small restaurant that was a part of the Oriental Hotel. Those who had joined them for supper were the conductor, the engineer, and the Uvalde constable.

  “I sure hope those coins are in a safe place,” said the conductor.

  “They’re sittin’ in my most trusted jail cell with those two Hondo deputies,” said the constable. “I believe between Buck and Stan, that’s the other one, at least one of them should be able ta stay awake through the night.”

  The waiter had taken their orders twenty minutes earlier and was now serving the main course to his customers.

  “And the glass of milk is for . . . let me guess. The milk is for the boy, am I right?” the waiter was asking.

  “That’s right,” said Charley. He watched as the foaming glass was placed directly in front of his grandson.

  Henry Ellis’s eyes widened. He picked up the glass of milk in both hands and took three giant gulps of the ice-cold liquid from the container.

  “Thank you,” he said to the waiter. “You better bring me another glass, because I’m sure I’m going to be needing more of it real soon.”

  The waiter nodded to the boy before he turned to the others.

  “Does anyone else need anything while I’m in the kitchen getting the lad’s milk?” he added.

  “I’ll have some more of them buttermilk biscuits, if you still got some,” said Roscoe.

  Most of the others shook their heads . . . they were satisfied with what was on their plates.

  Twenty minutes later when everyone was busy scraping their supper plates clean, the constable called out.

  “Oh, waiter, if you have any of that blueberry pie this restaurant’s famous for, I suggest everyone try a slice.” The waiter pulled out his pad, writing down the order.

  “If you give me a few other extra long minutes, I can crank you up some vanilla iced-cream to top off the blueberry pie. Anyone game?” he said.

  “Too cold outside fer iced-cream,” said the engineer along with both the conductor and the constable.

  “It’s never too cold for iced-cream,” said Charley. “Give my partner a big scoop on his pie. My grandson, too, if you don’t mind.”

  The conductor went for the iced-cream topping, too.

  When he was done writing, the waiter disappeared into the kitchen one more time.

  Charley leaned back and began packing his pipe from the pouch he always carried.

  The constable took a skinny cigarillo from his inside pocket and bit off the tip.

  A couple others did the same.

  When Charley finally had his pipe ready for fire, the constable scratched a large Lucifer match somewhere under the table, then brought up the flame. Everyone who had prepared for smoking leaned in close to borrow some of the Lucifer’s spitting flame.

  With all that puffing going on at one time, that portion of the restaurant’s dining room became smoke filled within moments.

  Henry Ellis began to cough.

  “Why don’t you go on out into the hotel’s lobby, son,” said Charley. “Take Roscoe with you.”

  Roscoe got to his feet.

  “That’s right fine by me,” he said. “I never much cared fer the smell a’ cee-gars anyways.”

  He nodded to Henry Ellis, then the two of them left the room together.

  Henry Ellis called back through the curtain of smoke, “Let us know when the pie and iced-cream gets here.”

  “Don’t you worry, son,” answered Charley. �
��Better yet, when it gets here, I’ll bring it out there to you two.”

  Henry Ellis sat down on a divan in the hotel’s foyer. Roscoe took a comfy chair across from the boy.

  They both just sat there, eyes darting around the room like anxious animals. Neither of them had stayed in that many fancy hotels before, and now, being in one without Charley by their side—Charley, who always seemed to know his way around—was making both of them a little nervous.

  After a few minutes, the front door opened with a rush of cold air, producing Ben and Eleanor Campbell. They were in quite a bustle, having just walked up the street with the cold wind following them all the way. Lightning crackled behind them—thunder rolled.

  “Dr. and Mrs. Campbell,” called out Henry Ellis from across the room.

  They both turned. And when they recognized the boy, they moved over to where he was sitting across from Roscoe.

  “Why, Henry Ellis,” said the woman. “We weren’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you two, either,” said the boy. “I figured you’d be staying at the other hotel.”

  “That’s where they put us at first,” said the woman. “But when we asked around and learned that the Oriental, even though it’s older, was a classier caravansary, we asked if we could make a change.”

  “Are you just now coming from the other hotel?” asked the boy.

  “Heaven’s sake, no,” said Eleanor. “We found a nice little eating place down the block . . . home cooking, it said.”

  “But it didn’t taste like anything I ever had at home,” said Ben. “We were going to take our supper here, but Eleanor thought somewhere quieter would be better . . . considering.”

  “Considering?” said Roscoe, who had been following the conversation since they had joined them.

  “Oh,” said Eleanor. “Considering how hectic this whole journey has been from its inception.”

  “For two nights in a row now, we’ve been taken off the train and put up in unfamiliar surroundings,” said Ben. “And my wife is just getting fed up with it, that’s all.”

  “Well, tomorrow could be more than just another day,” said Roscoe. “The boy’s grampa is hoping to meet up with one of the owners of this here railroad.”

  “How’s that?” said Ben.

  “Oh, you’ll see,” said Roscoe. “And if everything works out the way we expect it to, those Cropper Brothers may never hit another one of this railroad’s trains again in our lifetime.”

  “That’s all well and good about the railroad,” said Ben. “But my wife and I were just wondering when we’ll get to Juanita. We do have some business to take care of once we arrive, and we’d like to get it out of the way as soon as we can.”

  “Well, we only got forty miles ta go ’til we get ta Juanita,” said Roscoe. “That ain’t countin’ Cline. Cline’s a little bump in the road by Turkey Creek. The town sits about halfway between Juanita and here. Once we’ve passed Cline, it’ll be clear goin’ all the way.”

  Several gunshots were heard coming from the street outside, with one of the projectiles shattering a pane of glass in the front window of the hotel.

  Roscoe grabbed hold of Mrs. Campbell and Henry Ellis at the same time, taking them to the floor.

  “You two stay right here,” he told them. “I’m going to run outside for a minute to see who’s doin’ that shootin’.”

  As Roscoe got to his feet, Charley came running in from the adjoining room, his Walker Colt cocked and ready in his right hand.

  “Follow me, Roscoe,” he said. “Sounds like someone’s shootin’ up the town.”

  The front door of the Oriental Hotel flew open as Roscoe and Charley burst through. They immediately came to a stop at the edge of the boardwalk to avoid the heavy rain, which was now coming down again. Both men backed themselves up against the hotel’s facade and scanned the street, up and down, with their highly trained eyes.

  Nothing was visible, except for the rain and the ever-present mud.

  “Don’t look like anyone’s out in this weather at all,” said Roscoe.

  “Sure don’t,” echoed Charley. “Over there,” he pointed. “The constable’s office. Do you see it?”

  “Sure do,” said Roscoe. “There’s a lamp alight inside, and there’s still some daylight left.”

  “I was referring to the half-open door, Roscoe. No one leaves their door open when it’s this cold outside.”

  “Maybe we oughta take a look,” suggested Roscoe.

  “You two need any help out there, remember I’m right behind you,” came the constable’s voice from just inside the hotel door, where he now stood with his gun in hand.

  “So are we,” said the conductor’s voice seconds later. “Me and the engineer, here, have yer backs covered, so go ahead and do what ya hafta do.”

  Charley and Roscoe exchanged glances.

  “Maybe we’re mistaken about where those gunshots came from,” said Roscoe.

  “No-sir-ee, Roscoe, my friend,” said Charley. “Those shots came from over there, sure as I’m Henry Ellis’s grandpa.”

  “Maybe it was the constable’s office,” said Roscoe. “Is that where the mint’s coins are being kept tonight? Bein’ guarded by those two deputy marshals from Hondo.”

  Charley gave the constable’s office one more look, then they both started off across the muddy street, headed for that particular building.

  Henry Ellis had found a place in the corner of one of the hotel’s front windows, where he was peering out between several other onlookers. He watched anxiously as the two men trudged slowly through the mud and rain while attempting to cross the street.

  When they were nearing the building, Charley could see that the door was cracked open a few inches, and a kerosene lamp glowed from within.

  Charley held up a hand of caution for Roscoe. Both men continued their move toward the office, but much slower than before. When they got to the porch, they both stopped again.

  Charley called out: “You two fellas’ inside . . . you Hondo deputy marshals. Buck Wadell? Stan? Is everything all right in there?”

  There was a long moment with no answer, then: “Who is that out there? Constable, is that you?” came a voice from inside the partially open door.

  “It’s me . . . Charley Sunday. I’m the retired Ranger from down Juanita way. My partner’s here with me.”

  “I can hardly hear you, mister, with all that rain out there. Can you step up closer?”

  Charley stepped up onto the boardwalk.

  “I’m Charley Sunday,” he repeated. “I’m the retired Ranger from Juanita. My partner’s with me.”

  “Then c’mon inside . . . slow and easy. I’m armed with a shotgun, so walk easy . . . and keep your hands away from your weapons.”

  Using all the caution necessary, Charley slipped his Walker Colt back into his boot. He held his hands out in front of him and stepped inside.

  What he saw totally confused him. Two bodies lay faceup on the wooden floor. One was the deputy marshal, Stan. Charley had been able to tell that immediately by the man’s badge, which was similar in shape to the Texas Ranger badge he’d worn for so many years. The other body on the floor was an outlaw, Charley had to assume.

  Behind them both, in the same cell, were the several iron strongboxes containing the newly minted coins. It rested safely beside Buck Wadell, the other deputy marshal. And on the floor, with his neck held firmly beneath Buck Wadell’s boot, was Dale Cropper, younger brother to Sam Cropper, who was the co-leader of the Cropper Brothers’ Gang.

  Within minutes, the constable had joined Charley and Roscoe inside the office. When others tried to follow him, the constable locked all the doors and pulled the shades.

  It was only then that the constable confronted the remaining Hondo deputy.

  “Damn it, Buck. How’n the hell did Stan get killed? And who’s the other dead one? . . . plus who’s that you got underfoot?”

  “I never let Stan get kille
d, Constable,” said Buck.

  He pointed to the dead outlaw.

  “That son-of-a-bitch shot ’im dead when he first come through the door . . . the dead one right there. I was the one kilt him. Most likely he’s a member of the Cropper Gang, too. And how I know that, is, because this here is one of the Cropper Brothers, Dale hisself, for sure, who I got my boot on, holdin’ him down.”

  Along with the constable, Charley and Roscoe moved closer to the Cropper brother under the deputy’s boot.

  “You say that’s Dale? Dale Cropper?”

  The deputy nodded.

  “Let that man up offa the floor, Buck,” said the constable. “You oughtn’t be holdin’ him down like he was a snake or somethin’ evil such as that. Let ’im up, now. Show the man some decency.”

  Slowly, the deputy removed his boot from Dale Cropper’s throat. Having done that, the local lawman watched as Dale Cropper managed to get to his feet.

  “Now, are you one of those folks who’ve been trying to rob the railroad for the past few days?” asked the constable. “Are you?”

  Dale nodded sheepishly.

  Upon seeing Dale Cropper’s admission of guilt, the constable swung a roundhouse right that caught Dale Cropper directly on the left temple, and the younger Cropper brother hit the floor with a resounding thud.

  An hour or so later, some of the other townsfolk had joined them. Everyone was throwing around suggestions, all headed in different directions again.

  “I surely can’t keep him here,” said the constable.

  “And if we take him with us on the train,” said the conductor, “his brother and the gang will have even more reason to attack us . . . and steal the shipment from the mint, too.”

  “Don’t any one of you suggest that I can fit him into my new surrey,” said Charley. “Four’s what she was built to carry, and four is all that I mean to haul.”

  Roscoe cleared his throat, nudging Charley.

  “We’re only carryin’ three, Boss . . . You, me, and Henry Ellis. Remember?”