The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  “Wow,” said Henry Ellis. “The three of you musta been working undercover on a big case for him to do that. Am I right?”

  “You’re wrong,” said Charley. “The governor just didn’t want the fame books like that brought to people going to our heads. Plus he wanted to set a precedent for the department.”

  “Why was that?”

  “The governor felt that a law officer working as a Texas Ranger had enough on his hands without adding the recognition factor to his job.”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Henry Ellis. “The governor wanted to keep you, Roscoe, and Feather incognito.”

  “In-cog-what?” said Charley. “Remember, son, I only have an third-grade education. We never got past five-letter words when I was in school.”

  “Incognito means that the governor wanted to make sure that no one could identify you as a Ranger, if you ever had a case that required you to work undercover.”

  “That’s true,” said Charley. “So I had to write Ned Buntline and tell him, no more dime novels.” He chuckled to himself. “It really hurt his feelings, because the first one . . . the one you’re reading . . . had been one of his best sellers, and he had hopes for the follow-up books.”

  “But he never published them, did he?” said Henry Ellis.

  “No,” said Charley. “He never did.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Ned Buntline wasn’t like a lot of those dime-novel writers, son,” Charley went on. “Ned Buntline kept his word. He understood respect.”

  They rode along in silence while Henry Ellis let everything Charley told him sink in.

  “He even offered to give me one of those ‘Buntline Special’ Colt revolvers like he gave Wyatt Earp and several others. You know, the barrel on it is about three feet long. I told him, thanks, but I don’t need it, Ned, I’m partial to my Walker.”

  “Too bad,” said the boy. “I’d sure like to have seen one of those Buntline Specials.”

  Charley turned to him with a grin.

  “Oh, you’ll see one, son,” he said. “Buntline had one made and shipped to me, anyway.”

  A sizzling streak of lightning touched down less than a mile away. It was followed immediately by a deafening crash of thunder.

  “Why do you think the Latimer Land Company is trying to force you off your ranch, Grampa?” asked Henry Ellis. “They seemed like such nice people.”

  “You can never be too sure about a man you’ve met on a train, son,” said Charley. “And that includes women, too.”

  “Do you think Miss Eleanor is a part of it, too?” asked the boy.

  “She’s the one who told you it was her cousin that left her a ranch, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Henry Ellis. “But—”

  “Ain’t no ‘buts’ about it, son,” said Charley. “They sucked you in. They did whatever they had to to get you on their side, so you’d get me to be on their side. So we wouldn’t be suspicious of their intended scheme.”

  “I liked them, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis. “I really did.”

  “Like I just said, they did whatever they had to do to get you on their side. They needed for you to believe them. It wouldn’t have worked any other way.”

  The surrounding rain began to fall much harder than before, so Charley spurred Dice into a slow gallop and kept the horse at that pace until Henry Ellis had caught up to him.

  “If you’re not afraid of your horse slipping and sliding,” he shouted, “keep up with me all the way into town. The quicker we can get there, the less rain we’ll have to put up with.”

  They tied off their horses in a covered corral that catered to Flora Mae’s hotel, then they ran as fast as they could for the door to the pool hall and bar, laughing all the way.

  Once inside, Charley hushed the boy by placing a finger to his lips. The room was near empty of customers, and its high walls and ceiling produced resounding echoes throughout the large structure.

  Charley saw Flora Mae poke her head out of her office door at the far end of the room, just long enough for her to see the two of them and beckon them both to join her in the private alcove.

  When they entered Flora Mae’s office, the woman quickly introduced them to a smartly dressed dark-skinned man with his hair parted down the middle and slicked back with a sweet-smelling tonic.

  “This is J.B. Ellison, Attorney at Law, Charley,” said Flora Mae. “And this is Charles Abner Sunday and his grandson, Henry Ellis, J.B.”

  Ellison stood only long enough to shake hands before he re-sat himself and began digging into a large briefcase that he kept on the floor at his side.

  “Flora Mae tells me that you were in our class at school, Mr. Sunday,” said the lawyer. “But, of course, I have no recollection.”

  Henry Ellis stared at the man as he slid a sheaf of papers out of the briefcase and started flipping through them.

  “Sit down, sit down, Mr. Sunday,” he began. “And you, too, son. I have the Vacate Property papers filed against you right here in front of me—”

  “You have what papers right there in front of you?” asked Charley.

  “The Vacate Property papers, Mr. Sunday. I took it upon myself to stop in at the county courthouse, down the street, to find out if anything official regarding ownership of your ranch had recently been filed, and they gave me these papers.”

  “Who filed ’em?” Charley wanted to know.

  “They were filed by a law firm in Fort Worth,” said the attorney.

  “I mean who filed ’em?” said Charley. “Just give me the name of the son-of-a-bitch!”

  “These papers were not filed by any one, single person, Mr. Sunday,” said Ellison. “They were filed by two people . . . a couple . . . a man and his wife.”

  “Their names, Mr. Ellison,” said Charley. “Give me their names!”

  “Oh, all right,” said the lawyer as he searched for the names somewhere in the stack of papers he still held. “Campbell,” he read, “Dr. and Mrs. Benjamin J. Campbell.”

  Charley smiled. “Campbell,” he said winking at the boy. “Those are your friends, ain’t they?” he asked Henry Ellis.

  “They told me that Mrs. Campbell had inherited a ranch here in Juanita, from a distant cousin, but nothing about you, Grampa,” said the boy. “Something must be terribly wrong, I’m afraid.”

  “You can bet your boots it is,” said Charley. “I’m beginning to get this feeling that Dr. and Mrs. Campbell are nothing but two-bit four-flushers.”

  “Who are these people?” asked Flora Mae.

  “Just a married couple Henry Ellis met on the train coming from Austin,” said Charley. “They were on the train to Juanita, too.”

  He suddenly raised his eyes, looking directly at his grandson.

  “And it was Dr. Campbell you saw shoot that gambler fella on the train, wasn’t it, Henry Ellis?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy.

  “They took that gambler fella’s body off the train in some little town south of Austin, didn’t they?”

  “San Marcos,” said Henry Ellis.

  Charley turned back to the attorney.

  “Then don’t you think someone oughta be checking with the authorities in San Marcos to find out if they ever identified the dead man?” said Charley.

  “There were two dead men,” said Henry Ellis, correcting him.

  “We want ’em to check out the one—”

  “Who was wearing the blue suit,” said Henry Ellis, interrupting.

  “I don’t think I understand what you’re trying to get at,” said Ellison. “How does a dead man in San Marcos tie in to these people trying to steal your ranch here in Juanita, Mr. Sunday? Can you tell me that?”

  “You’re my lawyer, ain’t you?” Charley asked the man.

  “Well,” said Ellison. “We haven’t signed any contracts yet . . . plus, you haven’t given me any cash or collateral to seal my intention to work for you—”

  Charley looked at Flora Mae.

&nbs
p; “Give him—”

  “Two hundred dollars—” said Ellison.

  “Give the man two hundred dollars, Flora Mae,” said Charley, “so he can get started.”

  Without question, Flora Mae went to her safe, dialed the combination, then took out two hundred dollars in crisp, twenty-dollar bills, handing them over to Charley, who in turn gave them to Ellison.

  “Are you working for me now?” asked Charley.

  “Do you want me to telegraph the authorities in San Marcos?” said Ellison. “Or use Miss Huckabee’s telephone?”

  It had stopped raining for their ride back to the ranch. Henry Ellis felt good not having the rainwater dripping down his neck every minute of the journey. And it made him proud of his grampa that this ranch mishap was going to be handled in a court of law, rather than his grampa Charley’s usual way of handling a situation that affected him personally.

  When they reached the front entrance to Charley’s ranch, the gate was wide open. There was another Keep Off This Property sign posted, with a large padlock and coiled chain wrapped around the gateposts.

  “This isn’t funny anymore,” said Charley as he leaned forward for a better look.

  “There’s only one way to handle this, Henry Ellis,” Charley told the boy. He reached down and pulled his Walker Colt from his boot. “Get behind me.”

  He aimed, cocked, and fired!

  The lock spun away with a resounding ricochet, and the chain and sign went flying after it.

  “I reckon that’ll show ’em,” he said.

  “You can’t be breaking any laws by going through your own gate,” said Henry Ellis.

  “And onto my own property,” added Charley, closing the gate behind them.

  As the two started up the road toward the ranch house, they heard two distinct gunshots coming from that direction.

  Charley pulled his Walker again, then he turned to Henry Ellis.

  “You stay here,” he said. “Find yourself some cover . . . and don’t stick your head out, no matter what happens.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy.

  And Charley was gone. Slapping leather to old Dice, man and horse were off at a run, heading toward the ranch house at the far end of the access road.

  Henry Ellis watched after his grampa for a few more moments. Then he turned and spurred his mount over to a small cottonwood grove by a stream. He dismounted, then tried to blend into his surroundings as best as he could.

  As Charley rode into the ranch yard at a full gallop, he could see Roscoe behind a broken window in the kitchen as he raised his rifle and fired toward the barn.

  Charley reined up quick, setting Dice down on his rump. He sprang out of the saddle, keeping his eyes on the area by the barn where Roscoe had been returning fire. Then he ran up the steps, across the narrow porch, and through the screen door, disappearing inside.

  “Roscoe, don’t shoot,” he yelled from the screened-in porch. “It’s me, Charley. I’m coming in.”

  Charley ran to the kitchen door and burst through.

  Once he was in the kitchen, he could see Roscoe across the room by the broken window. He was reloading his rifle from an open box of shells on the table.

  Roscoe turned and threw his partner a grin.

  Charley winked back.

  “What’s going on, pardner?” asked Charley as another bullet clipped some broken glass by Roscoe’s head, causing him to duck away.

  “Two men . . . rode into the ranch yard . . . they ordered me, and whoever else was in the house, to vacate the premises pronto. I was here alone, and I didn’t want them knowing that. So I answered them with a bullet from my rifle. They took off for the barn, and we’ve been tradin’ lead fer close to an hour now. I sure am glad you’re back.”

  “I’m going to leave again, Roscoe,” said Charley.

  “Now why would you want to do that when yer pretty safe right here?” said Roscoe as he triggered off another round in the direction of the barn.

  “I’m going to go out the front door,” he said, “then see if I can get around in back of them. You stay here and keep on drawing their attention.”

  “Will do,” said Roscoe, ducking back as another bullet flew past his head.

  He moved closer to the window to return some fire. When he turned back, Charley was gone.

  From the eastern corner of the front porch, Charley had a view of the barn’s right side. The attackers were located at the front of the barn, and from what Charley had observed when he rode in, one was firing through the unlatched barn doors, while the other had worked his way up to the loft above.

  It won’t be difficult to beeline it for the barn without being seen, thought Charley. But getting around behind them might present a different set of problems.

  He stopped right there. No reason to defeat my purpose before I’ve even tried, he thought.

  So he stepped off the front porch, took a few steps toward the barn, edged around a flock of chickens, then ran like hell.

  He slid to a stop. That was to keep his body from slamming into the side of the barn. Then he crept along toward the rear and slipped around the corner with caution.

  Once he was on the far end of the barn, he checked the large double doors only to find that they’d been latched from the inside. The only other conceivable way inside was through the smaller hayloft doors, ten feet above his head.

  There was a hook and combined pulley system attached to the center beam that stuck out over and beyond those doors, which he and Roscoe used to load hay bales into the loft. Now, all Charley had to do was climb that series of ropes to the top, then swing into the loft.

  To do so he had to put the Walker back in his boot, because when performing such a feat, one needed to use both hands.

  He found an old crate they sometimes used to carry oats into the barn for feeding. He used it as a makeshift stool so he could reach the hook at the bottom of the pulley that hung down just above his head. He took a slight jump up and grabbed on to the hook at the bottom of the combined pulley system. That sent him to spinning, and he had to wait a few moments longer until his body had stopped rotating before he was able to start climbing.

  Hand over hand he went, until he was at the top. He swung into the loft, stood up straight, then carefully released the rope and pulley so it wouldn’t bang against the back of the barn and draw attention to him.

  When that was done, he again drew his Walker Colt and began moving silently toward the front.

  All the while he was gaining entrance to the loft, he could hear the aggressors as they kept up their rifle barrage against Roscoe in the house.

  By the time he had gone about a third of the way to the front, he had come to the open space between the front and rear lofts. From that position, he could look down and see one of the aggressors firing his rifle out the barn doors at Roscoe. He glanced toward the front of the loft, on his level, and spotted the second shooter hiding behind some hay bales, using them as cover as he fired down at Roscoe from that hidden perch.

  In the middle of the barn, hanging from the center beam, was another combined pulley system. This one was used for lifting the bales of hay down from the loft to the first level, where they fed the livestock.

  Charley drew in a long breath of air, then he began walking toward the back of the man in the loft who was shooting from behind the hay bales.

  When he was close enough, Charley brought the barrel of the Walker Colt down hard on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

  He turned abruptly, then moved back to his previous position, pivoting again so he could see the second man below.

  The man still had his back to Charley, and he was firing on the house every time Roscoe returned a shot in his direction.

  Charley looked around him, trying to figure out the best way to approach this particular problem.

  That’s when he remembered the steps that led from the lower level to the loft. In his haste, he had nearly forgotten about the steps. He thanked God under h
is breath, then turned slowly and started down.

  There were subtle creaks with every step taken. But he had to assume that the shooter would think the noises were being made by his partner in the loft above.

  When Charley finally reached the dirt floor of the barn, and stepped cautiously out of the crude stairwell, he had an almost perfect angle between himself and the rifleman.

  He did not want to kill the man, only subdue him. So he could not call him out at that distance. What he did instead was to move slowly over to the hook and pulley in the center of the barn, where he started increasing the length of the ropes used by the combined pulley system, until he figured it was long enough to accomplish what he had in mind.

  He took hold of the hook at the bottom of the lower pulley and backed up several paces. He guessed it to weigh around seven pounds. When he had figured he was far enough away from the gunman to make his plan work, he swung the large hook and pulley directly at the man. At the same time he opened his mouth and let out just one word:

  “Hey!”

  The gunman, his rifle at the ready, turned at the sound of Charley’s voice, and he was hit dead center in the face with the swinging hook and pulley.

  He dropped as if he were made of lead, his rifle discharging as it fell to the side.

  Charley immediately rushed to the slightly parted barn doors. He stuck his face out cautiously, calling to his partner inside the house.

  “Roscoe,” he yelled. “You can come out now. There’s no more threat.”

  Inside the house, Roscoe backed away from the shattered glass and headed for the screen door.

  He stepped out onto the small landing, then moved down the steps to the muddy ranch yard. He could make out Charley’s form as he dragged one of the aggressors out of the barn. Then he went back inside to get the other.

  By the time Roscoe got to the barn and peeked inside, Charley had the second man hooked to the combined pulley system by his gunbelt, and was lowering the still unconscious shooter to the floor below.

  Roscoe gave Charley a hand dragging the man outside, where they left him beside his partner.