When he reached the front gate to the ranch, he had to stop for a moment to pull down another sign that had been posted. It read the same as the other sign, only this one came with a human warning.
“You can stick that sign right back where you found it, old man,” said a rough voice coming from the grove behind him, on the other side of the road.
Charley didn’t turn.
“The only place I’ll stick this sign, mister, will be where sunlight never shines,” Charley answered as his hand slipped slowly down his right leg to his boot.
“Don’t you threaten me, amigo,” the voice went on, “or I’ll drop you right where you are.”
Charley whirled around in the rain, pulling the Walker Colt’s trigger at the same time.
His bullet spun the man on the horse behind him out of the saddle and into a growing quagmire of mud that had gathered in the side ditch.
The three other men, who had been right behind the man in the mud, went for their guns.
The click of the Walker being re-cocked stopped them all cold.
“If you three want to try me,” said Charley, “make your choice. But I’ve got five more pieces of lead in this here Texas hogleg that says you’re all cowards. Do I have that correct?”
No one moved.
“Now, throw those revolvers of yours into the mud puddle your friend is laying in over there, and answer me one question.”
The men tossed their weapons into the ditch, one at a time.
“Thank you, boys,” said Charley with a smile. “Now, who is it put you up to all this?”
“It was Ben Campbell and his wife,” said one of the men.
“Shaddup, you fool,” said another. “No talkin’.”
There wasn’t another word from the first man.
“All right,” said Charley. “I can see you don’t want to cooperate, so why don’t you pick up your man there . . . not your guns . . . and put him back on his horse. Then, get the hell out of here before I put a bullet through every one of you.”
While the rain continued to pound as they were fetching their friend and loading him back onto his horse, Charley had one more thing to add.
“And don’t any of you come near this ranch ever again, or you’ll get ten times what you got today.”
Charley remained where he was until all four of them were mounted, then he watched as they rode off down the muddy road, moving away from Charley and his ranch, until the rain closed in around them like a solid gray curtain.
“We just had some more visitors,” said Charley as he entered the kitchen through the back porch, shutting the inside door behind him. He tracked in some mud. His jingling spurs were still attached to his boots.
Roscoe didn’t say a word. He could sense the level of Charley’s ire.
Henry Ellis sat at the table, sipping some hot chocolate and reading his dog-eared dime novel.
The pup was in his basket nearby, playing with a toy.
“What kind of visitors?” the boy mumbled as he turned a page.
“Some real-time, gun-toting visitors, that’s who,” Charley answered. “A lot more real than what you’re reading about there.”
Henry Ellis looked up. He could now see that his grandfather was steaming.
“I’m sorry that something’s got your goat, Grampa,” he said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Well, what about you?” he said to the still stoic Roscoe. “Can’t you see that we got trouble . . . right here on the ranch? Four gunmen stopped me at my own damn gate . . . my own gate!”
Roscoe began to tremble.
“We didn’t hear nothin’, Charley. It was rainin’ so hard outside, you couldn’ta heard a bull pass gas.”
“Well, one of ’em drew on me . . . but I got him first.”
“Are you all right, Grampa?” said Henry Ellis, getting up from the table and moving toward the old man.
“Oh, I’m all right, son,” said Charley. “I reckon I’m just still pretty angry.”
The boy could see that his grandfather was starting to cool down.
“Well, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis. “As soon as you’re calmed down a little more, why don’t you sit over here at the table and we can all talk about it?”
Charley turned to Roscoe.
“Where’s he learning that stuff? He sounds like a schoolteacher.”
“That particular sayin’,” said Roscoe, “about sittin’ down an’ talkin’ about it, he got from you.”
“You don’t say?” said Charley with the hint of a grin on his face.
Charley moved over to the table and sat. The others joined him in his thoughts.
“I had to shoot a man today,” he said. “The fella drew down on me when I was trying to enter my own property. So I shot him. Better call the sheriff, Roscoe, before he comes looking for me.”
“Don’t be too hasty, there, Charley, my amigo,” said Roscoe. “You did say this man drawed on you first, didn’t ya? I doubt there were any witnesses.”
“I reckon you weren’t paying attention to me when I said ‘visitors.’ That’s ‘visitors’ with an ‘S’ at the end. There were three others with him, and they sure aren’t going to be witnesses for me. Why, I’ll bet they’re all four of ’em over at the sheriff’s office right now filling out the proper papers to have me put in jail.”
“Before you go any further, Grampa,” interrupted Henry Ellis, “why don’t you let Uncle Roscoe make a telephone call to the sheriff’s office? If those men were here for a legal reason, you might just be in some trouble with the law. But if they were here for illegal reasons . . . like trying to force us off this ranch . . . I’ll bet they’ll never report the incident at all.”
“My little lawyer,” said Charley with a look of empathy in his eyes. He patted his grandson on the shoulder.
“Why don’t you let me make that call to the sheriff?” said Roscoe. “Before you scoff any more at what the boy has ta say.”
“Fine,” said Charley. “Be my guest. The telephone’s right there on the wall. All you have to do is crank it.”
Roscoe stood up and went to the phone hanging on the wall, beside the stove. He cranked the handle several times for the operator. “Can you put me through ta Willingham Dubbs’s office, Mildred?” he said when she answered.
When he finally got through to the sheriff, he asked point blank if anyone had been in to see him lately about a dispute over the ownership of Charley’s ranch. He stood there for a few moments more while the sheriff relayed his answer. Then the lawman asked the expected follow-up questions. There were a few “Yups,” from Roscoe, followed by nods of the head, plus just as many, if not more, “Nopes,” all said while shaking his head. Finally Roscoe hung up the earpiece and turned back to the others.
“Now wasn’t that easy?” he asked Charley.
“What did he say?” Charley asked loudly.
“Yeah, Uncle Roscoe,” said the boy. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“You were right, Henry Ellis,” said Roscoe. “No one has been there to accuse your grampa, or anyone else, of shootin’ anyone. But, boy did Willingham have a lotta questions he wanted ta ask me about why I was callin’ him.”
“None of his business,” said Charley.
“Well,” said Roscoe, “it was us that called him, an’ got him interested in the first place, wasn’t it?”
“That’s true,” said Charley, rubbing his day’s growth of stubble with a callused hand. “I think I’d like to go wash up.”
“Supper ain’t goin’ ta be ready for quite a spell, Charley. No need ta wash up now.”
Charley stood up from the kitchen table. He held his hands out in front of him.
“I said I wanted to go wash my hands. It feels like I still got blood on ’em. And I don’t care how long it’s going to be until you have supper ready,” he added.
When he lay himself down to sleep that night, Henry Ellis found he wasn’t able to doze off right away, as usually happened. All he could
think about was what had happened at the supper table that afternoon when his grampa Charley had returned from town.
It was hard to believe that someone had sent four hired gunmen to the ranch to repost the Keep Off sign advising readers not to trespass. It was just as hard to believe that, due to the timing, the men were there just as Charley was arriving home for the day. And for one of them to have actually drawn down on his grampa . . . Well, that was pretty stupid, Henry Ellis thought. His grampa Charley was no one to tussle with, that was for sure . . . and Charley had drawn himself and outshot the intruder. Then he’d held the others at bay until he’d told them to skedaddle and never show their faces around the ranch again.
But, through all the stories he’d heard over the years about his grampa Charley . . . and all the times he’d seen his grampa in action himself . . . he’d never seen his grampa affected by a confrontation like he’d encountered at the front gate.
Henry Ellis was lying there in his bed thinking, when the bedroom door opened a crack, letting a slice of light leak in from the hallway.
“You still awake, Henry Ellis?” Charley said in a gruff whisper.
“Yes, Grampa,” the boy replied. “I’m awake.”
“Mind if we talk for a spell?” Charley asked him.
When the boy said “No, c’mon in,” Charley moved on into the room, turned the light switch on, then sat himself down on the bed beside his grandson.
At first, no words were spoken between the two. Charley just reached over and began running his sausage-like fingers through the boy’s hair.
“Did I make a mistake tonight?” he asked. “I was still pretty riled up when I got to the house. I think I owe you and Roscoe some apologies . . . some amends.”
“Well,” said Henry Ellis, “you were a little grouchy.”
Charley switched from toying with the boy’s hair to rubbing his shoulders with both hands.
“Well, I’m sorry, son,” he said. “And I’ll make my peace with Roscoe in the morning. I had this feeling I was out of line, and I didn’t want to go to bed without saying something.”
“That’s all right, Grampa,” said the boy. “I know you have a lot of things on your mind right now, and if your head wasn’t so cluttered with—”
Charley put a finger against Henry Ellis’s lips. The boy showed some surprise at the action, but he didn’t pull back or anything. He just sat there and waited for his grandfather to speak.
“I’m afraid, Henry Ellis,” said Charley. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself into something that I don’t remember getting into. I’ve always heard that old folks start doing things like this when we get up in years. And now, someone’s claiming that my ranch don’t belong to me, and I have no recollection at all why that would be.”
“You’re not crazy, Grampa, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll bet you could tell me right now what the name of your first horse was.”
“Rango,” said Charley. “No, it was Ringo,” he said, sounding sure of himself. He smiled. “I got it right, but it took me two guesses to answer correctly.”
“See what I mean?” said the boy. “It may have taken you two guesses, but you still remembered. I don’t think you forgot anything concerning your ranch, Grampa. I think someone has set their sights on stealing it from you.”
“That’s what Flora Mae thinks, too,” he said. “How would you like to ride into town with me tomorrow, Henry Ellis?”
The boy nodded at the opportunity.
“Then rain or shine, the two of us are going into Juanita tomorrow,” he said.
Henry Ellis laughed, then he threw his arms around his grampa Charley, and the two of them squeezed each other tight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next storm rolled in around midnight and continued on for the rest of the night and into the morning. So when Henry Ellis woke up just before dawn and finally rolled out of bed in his ever-present long underwear, something he’d taken to wearing on a regular basis since the cold weather had begun, he made it a point to glance out the window.
The rain was still pounding the old ranch house, yard, and barn like a band of synchronized blacksmiths.
He pulled on his trousers and a new wool shirt, slipping the suspenders over his shoulders even though he knew he would be soaking wet before noon. He put on a pair of socks before pulling on the pair of boots his grandfather had given him for the trail drive a year earlier. The boots had started to feel tight the last time he had visited his grampa, but when he was with Charley and Roscoe on the ranch, he wouldn’t think of wearing anything else.
He put on a leather vest, which also felt tight, then he tied a yellow neckerchief around his neck. He grabbed his wool jacket out of the closet, and he didn’t forget to grab his western-style hat, with the leather strings you tied it on with. Then he ran out the door.
When he got to the kitchen it was getting lighter outside. Not like it did on a normal, sun-shiny day, but a lighter gray than the day had been when he’d looked out the window from upstairs.
The kitchen was empty. At first he thought he might have been the first one up, but when he peeked out the lower-level window, he could see the light from a lantern in the barn, where Grampa Charley and Roscoe were feeding the horses.
There was a pot of coffee going on the stove, so he got himself a cup from the cupboard and poured himself a little sip.
When he brought the cup to his lips, it felt as if he had scalded himself. So he did what his grampa always did and added some cold water to the cup from the tap by the sink.
He was trying to figure out what he could make himself for breakfast when he spotted the old, covered pot on a back burner, simmering. He knew it was Roscoe’s mush. And he knew he had better eat some of it if he knew what was good for him, because his grampa always had Roscoe put on a pot of mush when he was in a hurry.
There was a large spoon laid out beside the pot. Henry Ellis found a bowl in the cupboard and a smaller spoon in a drawer, then he scooped out a medium-size portion for himself before sitting down at the table.
The dime novel he’d been reading the night before was still on the counter by the icebox. He picked it up, found his place, then began spooning the mush into his mouth while reading.
It wasn’t too long before he heard some boots on the outside steps, and the door to the screened-in porch opening. He kept eating and reading until he heard the kitchen door open behind him and his grampa’s voice.
“We sure could’ve used your help out there, Henry Ellis.”
He started getting out of his slicker and jacket before he sat down.
“How many times do I have to tell you that chores come first around here, Henry Ellis . . . then we eat breakfast?”
The boy closed—he almost slammed—the book. He slowly turned around to face his grandfather.
“I’m sorry, Grampa,” he said. “I really am.”
“Well, I’ll forgive you this one time,” said Charley as he went to the stove, found a cup, then poured himself some coffee. As he sat down opposite his grandson, he noticed the coffee cup in front of the boy.
“Since when have you been a user of Arbuckles?” he asked.
“Oh,” said the boy. “I just thought that since I was here on the ranch, working with you—”
“First of all,” said Charley, “we’ve already discussed the fact that you aren’t working. You aren’t doing a thing except reading that New York trash in front of you that spews nothing but baloney about . . . about—”
“About you, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis. “This book is all about you, Roscoe, and Feather, and your adventures as Texas Rangers in the middle of the last century. And you’re calling that ‘baloney’?”
“Where did you get that book?” Charley wanted to know.
“Mother gave it to me,” said the boy. “It’s not new. It belonged to her. She told me your friend Ned Buntline gave it to her when she was a little girl, when you invited him to the ranch for a visit . . . or don’t you rem
ember? Mother said Mr. Buntline wrote it himself as a tribute to you, Roscoe, and Feather. The book is all about you three brave men, Grampa. Heroes. Men I can be proud of. Men who never give up. Men who always stand up for what they believe . . .”
He threw the book on the table, next to Charley, then he began to sob. He rose up from the table and ran down the hallway, up the stairs, and to his room.
“Henry Ellis,” said Charley in a soft voice as he entered the boy’s bedroom. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I don’t ever want to do that to you.”
The boy was lying facedown on his bed with his head buried in the pillow. After a moment, he rolled over, revealing red and swollen eyes. He wiped away a tear.
“Can I still go along with you to Flora Mae’s this morning?” he asked.
“If you clean up your face and blow your nose, you can,” said Charley.
Henry Ellis rolled over completely, then he sat up.
“Give me a minute or two, will you, Grampa? Then I’ll be right with you.”
The two rode horseback into town. Even though they faced frequent rain showers, the oil-skin slickers they both wore kept them as dry as their heavycoats underneath kept them warm. The stormy weather was showing no change. If anything, the rain was continuing to fall without as many letups between downpours.
“Grampa Charley?” asked the boy.
“What is it, Henry Ellis?”
“Why did Ned Buntline only write one story about you?”
Charley wasn’t expecting that particular question, so he cleared his throat several times to give him time to think, then he turned to the boy.
“Buntline did write another story or two about me, Roscoe, and Feather, but the governor of Texas asked him not to publish ’em. Seems he didn’t want the world knowing who we were back then.”
The Comancheros Page 9
