The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  “Prepare to be boarded,” yelled one of the men, who interestingly enough, had a voice that sounded a great deal like Dale Cropper.

  “That’s him,” whispered Charley. “Sam Cropper. We need to take him alive if we want to find out just who it is behind this all.”

  The two old Rangers had already begun to climb down from the surrey. Charley indicated to Henry Ellis that he should hunker down in the backseat, then they both continued on, on foot, moving out onto the road with their Walker Colts drawn.

  They came up directly behind the waiting riders without being heard, and when Sam Cropper stuck his upper torso out from behind the sliding door of the baggage car, Charley shot to wound, and wound he did.

  Sam took the Walker’s conical bullet in the right shoulder. He fell back into the car. The other two train robbers never even got off one shot before they, too, had intercepted several of those handmade lead projectiles.

  The other two outlaws in the engine compartment realized that something was amiss. They jumped to the ground and began running away. By then, several railroad employees had made it to the ground. They became the heroes of the day by chasing down the two runaways, and after a brief struggle, subduing them completely.

  At the baggage car, Roscoe had his gun out and cocked, just in case the two men on horseback Charley had wounded tried anything else.

  Charley moved in closer.

  “All right, Sam Cropper,” he ordered. “You can come out of there right now. I reckon a dirty coward like you . . . a man who shot his own brother from ambush . . . won’t try any more tricky shenanigans.”

  Slowly, Sam Cropper’s face appeared from around the sliding door. His gloved hand covered the bleeding wound in his right shoulder.

  “Shot my brother?” he said. “Now, why would I want to shoot Dale, for heaven’s sake?”

  Charley spent the next hour questioning Sam Cropper, but he just couldn’t get the leader of the train robbers to admit that he had shot his own brother to keep him from talking.

  In the middle of the questioning reality appeared to set in, and Sam Cropper began to cry like a baby.

  “It wasn’t me, damn you,” he said. “Besides being my brother, Dale was my best friend. He may have been a tad slow, but he was my blood, and we always stuck together.”

  “Then who shot him?” Charley asked bluntly.

  “There’s only one other man who could’ve done it,” said Sam. “The person who was giving us confidential information about the railroad’s important shipments.”

  “And just who would that be, Sam,” said Charley. “Just give me the name of the man who shot your brother.”

  “You oughta know his name, Sunday,” said Sam Cropper. “When we were spyin’ on you back in Cline, you spent some time with him . . . in his big ol’ fancy railroad car.”

  Since it was the very beginning of the twentieth century, and the telephone was replacing the telegraph system, all Charley had to do was telegraph his friend Dee Kuper, the assistant sheriff back in Cline, from the train’s telegraph setup in the baggage car. Then Dee, in turn, placed a telephone call to the marshal in Hondo, and Edwin J. Madison, a major, participating partner in the railroad’s ownership, was arrested in his own private car by the marshal of Hondo, Texas, before he could reach San Antonio and the safety of his expensive lawyers.

  Sam Cropper, along with his brother, Dale, and what remained of the Cropper Gang, was sent on to Del Rio, where a federal marshal was stationed. Once in federal custody, Sam and Dale Cropper would be tried in a federal court of law—just as Edwin J. Madison would be tried back in San Antonio.

  After the fuss with the Croppers was over, and the westbound train had been sent along its way, Charley let Roscoe handle the reins for the rest of the trip back to Juanita. He sat in the backseat with his grandson, Henry Ellis, where they allowed themselves to talk about anything but what they had all just been through.

  CHAPTER TEN

  1961

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get on another train in my entire lifetime, unless someone paid me a million dollars,” said Caleb, the middle child.

  “Oh, you would, too,” said Noel. “What if we won a free trip to Disneyland. I’ll bet you’d take a ride on the train they have out there.”

  “Would not,” said Caleb.

  “You would, too,” said older brother Josh. “Ever since Disneyland opened, you’ve always said, ‘If I ever get the chance to go to Disneyland, I’ll ride every ride they’ve got to ride on there.’”

  “Everything but the train,” said Caleb.

  “Have it your way, son,” interrupted Grampa Hank. “But if I ever got the chance to ride that train out at Disneyland, I’d do it in a minute . . . twice. Then I’d run down the street to Knotts Berry Farm and ride their train, too.”

  “I’m with you, Grampa Hank,” said Noel. “I like trains.”

  “So do I,” said Josh.

  “Have you ever been on a train, Josh?” asked Hank.

  “Just one time, when I was really young. Mom took me to visit Daddy at the base where he was stationed.”

  “Why didn’t you fly?” said Caleb.

  “Because it was too expensive to fly in those days,” answered Josh. “Besides, you went with us, Twerp. But you were just a little baby back then.”

  “Don’t call me Twerp, Bonehead,” said Caleb.

  “I won’t, unless you stop calling me Bonehead,” said Josh.

  “Hey, you guys,” said Hank. “I’ll bet your mother doesn’t allow name calling when she’s around.”

  “She doesn’t,” said Noel, cutting in. “If they’d said what they just said in front of Mommy—”

  “You aren’t gonna tattle on us again, are you?” said Josh.

  “Tattletale, tattletale, tattletale . . .” said Caleb, trying to start something.

  “All right,” said Hank in a much louder voice. “You keep this up, I’m going to cut my story short right now and send every last one of you to bed . . . That means no TV, no playing, and like I just said, no more story.”

  “Sorry, Grampa Hank,” said Josh.

  “I’m sorry, Grampa,” echoed Caleb.

  “Me too,” said Noel.

  “All right then. Everyone settle back, because I’m about to continue on with my story.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  1900

  Because the threesome had been gone longer than the time Charley had allotted for their trip into San Antonio and back, they skirted the town and drove straight to the ranch.

  The sky overhead had grown much darker. A sharp wind had begun to blow.

  Feather Martin—the other ex – Texas Ranger who had helped make up the trio of friends that rode the range together for law, order, and justice in the early years of the Republic—had been put in charge of the ranch in Charley’s and Roscoe’s absence. He should have been staying in the main ranch house. But upon their arrival, Feather sat astride his horse at the main gate entrance to the ranch, down by the road. He carried a double-barrel shotgun and looked to those in the approaching surrey like he was guarding the place from an unseen enemy, instead of just caretaking.

  As the trotters grew closer to the gate, Roscoe slowed them some before stopping completely beside the little horseback cowboy with the shotgun.

  “What’s the matter, Feather?” said Charley from the backseat. “We got trouble?”

  Feather tipped his hat back. He winked at Henry Ellis, just to acknowledge him, then he gazed at the surrey and team as a whole.

  “That’s one good-lookin’ surrey, Charley,” he said. “Makes you look like a gentleman. I can’t wait ta see her when you get her all unwrapped.”

  “She is unwrapped,” said Charley. “What you’re looking at is the all-weather-repellant isinglass cover we put on her because of the bad weather. What are you doing all the way down here?” Charley wanted to know.

  Feather leaned in closer.

  “We’ve had visitors,” he said.


  “Visitors?” repeated Charley.

  “More than once,” said Feather.

  “Anyone we know?” asked Charley.

  Feather shook his head.

  “No . . . don’t think so,” said Feather. “They looked like hired gunnies ta me. An’ they left this.”

  He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a poster with printing on one side. He held it up for the others to see.

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  Until further notice:

  This Property is off limits

  to any persons without

  special permission

  from the

  LATTIMER LAND COMPANY

  Austin, Tex.

  “Feather,” said Charley. “You know where that big trash pile is that we keep for burning once a month?” asked Charley.

  “Sure do, Boss.”

  “Take that sign over there and set it right on the top of that pile, will you?”

  “With pleasure, Boss.”

  “Then throw some kerosene on it and set fire to it.”

  Feather reined around and was about to spur out.

  “And, Feather,” he said. “Meet us up at the house, will you? There’re a few more things I’d like to ask you about our . . . visitors.”

  Within the hour, the three men were gathered around the kitchen table putting a brand-new pot of coffee to good use. A recently made cup of hot chocolate sat on the table in the spot reserved for Henry Ellis.

  The men were deep in conversation when the back porch screen door slammed behind Henry Ellis. The boy walked swiftly through the screened-in area, then entered the kitchen. At his feet was the puppy he had acquired in Mexico at the beginning of the year. Because the pup had become a replacement for Charley’s old dog, Buster, this one’s name was Buster Number Two.

  “What’d I tell ya, Charley,” said Roscoe. “I said that it wouldn’t be more than two minutes after Henry Ellis got here that he’d have that dog in my kitchen.”

  The boy reached down and picked Buster Two up into his arms, holding the pup for all to see.

  The dog appeared to be smiling, with its tongue hanging halfway out of its mouth. But to top things off:

  “That dog has mud on its feet,” yelled Roscoe. “I don’t need him to be tracking up my floors—”

  “Hey, pardner,” said Charley. “Calm yourself down. I reckon you’re just going to have to get used to tracked-up floors. Just like you did with Buster Number One.”

  “Sorry, Charley . . . Henry Ellis,” said Roscoe. “Sometimes I forget not everyone’s a perfectionist like me.”

  “Come on over here, button,” said Charley to the boy. “I want you to be in on this talk. You’re getting to be old enough now to be involved in family matters, don’t you think?”

  Henry Ellis, still carrying the pup, moved over to the table and sat down where the hot chocolate was steaming.

  “Thank you, Grampa,” said the boy. “Thank you for noticing that I’m growing up.”

  “Just remember, growed up or not growed up, there’ll still be no spurs worn at the table.”

  That caught Feather by surprise, but within seconds, he had pulled his spurs off his boots and was holding them behind his back, trying to muffle the rowels from jingling.

  “Now,” said Charley, “let’s get down to business. Why don’t we start off by letting Feather tell us all about the ‘visitors’ we had while we were off in San Antonio, and the likes.”

  “Well,” began Feather. “I moved my stuff into the downstairs bedroom like you said I should before you left. Then I went about my chores . . . you know, keepin’ the back porch swept, milkin’ the one cow you have, even paintin’ the screen door out back. After a few days, I’d finished with them particular chores and was lookin’ fer others ta start on, when three men on horseback rode up from the front gate and served me with some ‘Rightful Ownership’ papers.”

  “Rightful Ownership papers?” said Charley. “You still got them, don’t you, Feather?”

  “Sure I do,” said the little cowboy. “I got ’em in my room. Gimme a minute, I’ll go get ’em, for ya.”

  Feather made a beeline to his room, through a door that led to the hallway, and returned with the papers in no time at all. He unfolded them and handed the official-looking documents to Charley.

  “Roscoe,” Charley called out. “Can you get me my magnifier?”

  “You bet,” said Roscoe.

  Roscoe rummaged through several kitchen drawers, and he finally came up with Charley’s old magnifying glass.

  Charley held it up so he could read the small print on the papers Feather had produced.

  “Why,” he said quite loud, “this is an Eviction Notice. Someone’s trying to evict me off of my own damn property.”

  “Let me see that,” said Roscoe.

  Charley handed him the legal papers. Roscoe took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and put them on, then he shook the papers to smooth them out. With that done, he began to read.

  “Well, I’ll be hogtied and butter-greased,” he muttered.

  “What was that you said?” asked Feather.

  “Oh, never mind,” answered Roscoe, still reading. He turned to Charley.

  “I think you’d better take these papers into town and let Flora Mae Huckabee take a look at ’em, Charley. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Can I see them?” said Henry Ellis. “I’ve taken a few courses in school on how to deal with legal matters.”

  Roscoe handed him the papers. Henry Ellis began to read, walking around the room as he did. The boy’s face kept changing expression as he got deeper and deeper into the legalese.

  The three men found that they could only stare at the boy as he read; none of them had an inkling as to how he could understand any of it.

  Finally, Henry Ellis handed the papers back to Charley.

  “I think you should definitely talk to Flora Mae about this, Grampa, and hopefully she can direct you to an attorney familiar with these types of cases.”

  “Cases?” shouted Charley. “The only way I ever handled cases like this was with my Walker Colt and six lead bullets.”

  “That’s right,” echoed Roscoe.

  Feather nodded.

  “Grampa,” said the boy. “We are now in the twentieth century. As much as I’ve always respected the way you three fought for law and order, it’s just not that simple anymore. You’re going to have to fight this one in a court of law, Grampa. I’ll bet on that.”

  “So you think Flora Mae might be able to help me find a good lawyer, do you?”

  “She’s a businesswoman, isn’t she?” said the boy. “And she runs a corporation to boot. She ought to know who’s a good attorney or not.”

  “I just don’t want a flannel-mouth liar,” said Charley.

  “January B. Ellison,” said Flora Mae Huckabee. “He’s the most honest lawyer I know.”

  “But is he the best lawyer you know?” asked Charley.

  “I said he was the most honest. Isn’t that what you wanted? He’s not the best, by far. But I still suggest that you hire him for the situation you’ve found yourself in.”

  They were in Flora Mae’s Pool Hall & Bar. Charley sat across from the lady hotel owner and entrepreneur, while she advised him about legal representatives. The two of them had known each other since childhood. It had been Flora Mae who financed Charley for the Texas Longhorn auction, and also for the cross-country cattle drive that followed. They both trusted one another absolutely.

  “So it’s January B. Ellison, is it?” said Charley. “I seem to remember a kid called January that we went to school with. Am I right?” asked Charley.

  “He’s one and the same, Charley. Only he doesn’t go by the name of January anymore. He’s just plain J.B. Ellison, Attorney at Law, now. And he has his offices in Del Rio.”

  “Del Rio’s thirty miles away, Flora Mae,” said Charley. “That’s almost a full day’s ride.”

  “And you’re gonna r
ide it, Charley Sunday, more than one time. I’ll lay odds on that . . . that is, if you don’t want your ranch stolen out from under you.”

  “Do you think that could really happen to me, darlin’?”

  “If you don’t get yourself some legal assistance, you can bet your damn life it could.”

  “Would you telephone this January fella for me, Flora Mae?” asked Charley.

  “Why should I have to spend my money on your telephone call?” said Flora Mae.

  “I’ll pay for it,” said Charley. “Honest I will. It’s just that you know him—”

  She cut him off. “You went ta school with him, too, Charley Sunday. I can’t help it if you’ve forgotten who he was. But I’ll let you use my phone, if you want to, providin’ you do all the talkin’ . . . and all the payin’”

  “Well?” said Charley.

  “Well what?” said Flora Mae.

  “Where’s your telephone?”

  “You don’t think you’re going to call him on the telephone now, do you?” said Flora Mae. “But when you do make that call, you’ll need to have that . . . that ‘phony’ eviction notice with you so he’ll know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Charley. “I forgot about that. “Will I need the sign, too?”

  “What sign?” said Flora Mae.

  “The Do Not Enter sign they posted on my front gate.”

  Flora Mae drew in a long breath, then she sighed.

  “Yes, Charley. You better bring that, too. Any evidence January might need. It’s for your own good, you know. Come by around ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll be here.”

  Charley stepped out of the pool hall and bar into the little patio behind Flora Mae’s hotel where he would sometimes tie his horse. Dice was there now, and Charley took his slicker from behind the saddle where it was tied and put it on. The clouds were swirling overhead, and he knew the storm would certainly hit before he had the chance to get home.

  He aimed for the stirrup with his boot, jumped, then swung over into the saddle just as the first drops of rain began to fall. For the rest of the trip back to his ranch, the rain came down in buckets, making it difficult to see, at times, for both man and animal.