“I don’t rightly know about this time, Henry Ellis,” he said softly. “It seems the more I want to start thinking, the more that thinking doesn’t come to me.”
“Well, maybe if we all put our heads together, and thought on the same subject, we’d come up with a solution.”
“That might work, Boss,” said Feather.
“I’d be willin’ ta give it a try,” added Holliday.
“Why, putting all of our heads together, we’re bound to come up with something,” said Kelly. “Thank you, Henry Ellis.”
She motioned for the others to gather around Charley, and they did.
“All right, now,” she went on. “Let’s all put our heads together and see what we can come up with.”
“What’s our next move, Dr. Campbell?” Wolf McGrath wanted to know. McGrath had been the leader of the Campbells’ henchmen since their first visit to Charley Sunday’s ranch, a week, or so, earlier.
“After Mr. Birdwell disposes of Charley Sunday tomorrow,” said Campbell, “all that’s left will be to move my, and Mrs. Campbell’s, personal belongings out here permanently. Plus, I’d like to keep a few of you boys on as my regular employees, if that’s possible. After all, there is a small herd of longhorns, and a few horses, that need regular care here on the ranch.”
“Plus this young dog,” said Eleanor Campbell, who had just entered the room carrying Henry Ellis’s pup.
“Cute little feller, ain’t he?” said Wolf McGrath, moving over closer so he could pet the animal.
“Not so rough, Mr. McGrath,” said Eleanor. “Right now, this pooch needs something to eat.” She turned to her husband. “Ben, why don’t you send Mr. McGrath out to the barn to look for something for the dog to eat.”
“You heard Mrs. Campbell, Wolf. Go see what you can find,” said Campbell.
McGrath nodded. Then he headed for the screen door, out on the back porch, where he stepped out into the rain.
“Speaking of food,” said Holly Birdwell. “I ain’t had a bite to eat since I was on that train.”
“Well, I found the larder,” said Eleanor. “It’s on the north side of the house, with a wire grid on it to let in the cool air from outside.”
“See what you can find, Eleanor, and fix us all up with something nourishing,” said Ben.
Charley Sunday, Roscoe Baskin, and Feather Martin rode along together beside the gently flowing Rio Bravo. It was one of those lazy Texas days, and the first time their captain had allowed Feather Martin to go along with them. They were pursuing some renegade Comanche Indians, who the governor thought might be hiding in the Chisos Mountains, located in the Texas Big Bend.
The three Rangers had ridden away from the town of Marathon, where all three were stationed, and arrived in Alpine the following day.
In Alpine, they’d picked up a scout—a middle-aged Mexican vaquero called Esteban Ortega. He had lived in the Big Bend for all of his life. Ortega could still remember the first few years of his life as a boy, when literally hundreds of Comanche warriors would use the Big Bend as an unobstructed passage into Mexico, where they would raid and steal cattle—plus abduct women and children—from the Mexican villages and haciendas.
With the expansion of white settlement into the West, plus the killing and dying off of the Comanche, mostly attributed to disease, the U.S. Army, and the Texas Rangers, the Indians ceased using the Big Bend as their access into Mexico.
There had been one exception—a small band of outlaw Comanches who had remained in the Big Bend. They raided the local settlements and outlying ranches in the area, and they continued to ride into Mexico on occasion, to bring back provisions for their survival, plus Mexican women for their personal pleasure.
Their Ranger captain had told the threesome that the band of Comanches numbered no more than twenty-five, or so—some of them women and children. So, before they left Marathon behind, Charley knew their opponents would be few, but still, the Comanche were one of the most intelligent, yet brutal, forces he’d ever had to contend with.
The captain had recently learned that this dwindling tribe made their home in the Chisos Mountains. A small area in the usually flat land that had been pushed up by underground seismic activity thousands and thousands of years earlier, when most of the present-day desert had been a vast swampland.
“Are we gonna make Terlingua our base?” asked Feather. “Or are we goin’ ta be stayin’ in Lajitas? You know, my father still has some business interests down there.”
“How could I forget, Feather?” said Charley. “That’s where I found you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, Boss,” said the newest Ranger. “An’ remember, I still know this country like the back of my hand.”
“How much do you know about the Chisos?” asked Charley.
“I used ta do a lot of huntin’ up in them mountains,” said the little man.
“Any roads into those mountains?” asked Charley.
“No,” said Feather. “Just deer trails, plus some passageways left there by the ancients.”
“Ancients?” said Charley.
“The ancients were human beings who lived here way before Jesus ever set foot on this earth,” said Ortega. “Some say their spirits still haunt those mountains.”
“I been up there a whole bunch a’ times,” said Feather, “and I ain’t never seen any ol’ spirits, anywhere.”
“So you won’t mind sleeping on the ground up there,” said Charley, nodding in the direction of the mountain range.
“Ahhh, Boss,” said Feather. “And here I was lookin’ forward to a nice featherbed every night while we tracked them cold-blooded, killer Comanches durin’ the day.”
“We need ta be up in the mountains with ’em, mule-face,” said Roscoe, cutting in, “so they can’t get away from us once we spot ’em.”
“And I suppose your back never hurts from sleepin’ on the ground, either?” said Feather.
“I got me one of the best backs ever made fer ground sleepin’, my friend,” said Roscoe. “My back is just like my feet . . . flat. Makes ground sleepin’ feel like I’m floatin’ in one of them featherbeds you was talkin’ about a minute or so ago.”
Charley reined Dice away from the road, setting a new course toward the mountain range now directly ahead. The Chisos were partially blocking their view of the Mexican cliffs on the southern horizon.
“I figure for sure that if we can keep on moving now, the way we have been,” said Charley, “we can be close to halfway up that mountain by nightfall.”
“Can you lead us to a good place to camp, Señor Ortega,” Charley asked the Mexican scout.
“Sí,” said Ortega. “I will take you to a safe place where I have personally made my camp many times before. The Comanches do not know of this place.”
The three Rangers followed Ortega into the mountains. They continued to ride over small rises, passing deep gullies and grotesque rock formations, until the inclines they traversed grew steeper and steeper, leveling off, every so often, to produce a flat, verdant meadow. At times, they would find free-flowing water in these small grassy areas, which attracted many forms of wildlife that scattered as the four men spurred their horses upward.
It was during the crossing of one of these meadows that Feather saw something move in the grass, about a hundred feet away.
“Don’t nobody stop what yer doin’,” said Feather, continuing to look straight ahead. “But I got a hunch we got company.”
The other men stiffened, then they relaxed and continued to ride on, as if nothing had been said.
“Where?” Charley whispered, wanting to know.
“About forty yards to the west,” said Feather as the horses continued to plod along.
“What do you think we should do about it?” said Charley.
“Well, I’m goin’ ta get off my horse like he’s havin’ trouble with a shoe,” said Feather. “Just maybe, my bein’ alone’ll bring ’em out in the open.”
“Good idea,” said Charley. “We’ll
keep on going and try to keep an eye on you. Yell out if you need us.”
“Will do,” said the little cowboy. Then he reined up and stepped down from his saddle.
The others continued on, moving away from Feather and his horse. The little man knelt down and picked up one of Chigger’s hooves to check it.
It wasn’t long until Feather’s hunch was proving to be correct. The pint-size cowboy sensed something moving through the high grass, coming toward him. So all he did was draw his Walker Colt, cock the hammer, then lie back in wait.
“It’s been a while,” said Roscoe to the others. “Do you think Feather’s all right?”
“Feather knows what he’s doing,” answered Charley. “Feather’s going to handle this just fine.”
KA-BOOM!
Feather’s Colt could be heard discharging behind them. They turned to see a cloud of black-powder smoke drifting up from the position they had last seen their little partner. About then, there was another loud retort from Feather’s gun, and even more smoke rose toward the sky.
Charley turned to his left just in time to see a running, knife-wielding Comanche brave, who had just taken Feather’s bullet, knocked backward into the grass.
Charley called out a warning to the others.
“There’s more of ’em out there! Be careful.”
Ortega drew his rifle, then he spurred his mount toward another attacking Comanche.
One shot from his Winchester stopped that one in his tracks, then he moved out after another one.
Roscoe had still another Indian in his sights. A quick pull of the trigger sent that man tumbling until he stopped rolling at Roscoe’s horse’s hooves.
Charley spotted two remaining members of the scouting party, who had seen their brothers die, and were now running away. He stuck the spurs to Dice’s underbelly and took off after them.
Within moments, Charley had ridden the two Comanches down. He drew Dice up to one side of them and dove off the horse, just like he had always done to a runaway steer that needed stopping.
When all three of them hit the ground, he unwrapped his arms from around their necks and drew the Walker quickly.
KA-BOOM . . . KA-BOOM!
Charley’s bullets hit their marks almost at the same time. That was a good thing for Charley, as one man carried a feathered tomahawk and the other was brandishing an old Navy Colt.
Charley watched as the second Comanche he’d shot ceased to breathe. The other one had died from the first bullet’s impact.
Charley stood up and saw that Feather and Roscoe were waving in his direction, kind of an all-clear signal, meaning that they had gotten them all.
In the near distance, Charley could see Ortega riding toward them. The Mexican scout had taken off toward the end of the skirmish, following another Comanche who was trying to get away.
Now he was returning. He carried a bloody machete in one hand. The other held, by the hair, the head of the Comanche he’d been chasing. Blood dripped from where it had been severed from the body.
“Do not worry, mi amigos,” said Ortega. “This was just a small hunting party. We will pray that they are not expected back for another few days. Their lack of any freshly killed game tells me that they had only just begun their hunt.”
He pulled his horse up to Charley, then dropped the head beside the other Comanches’ bodies.
Roscoe and Feather dragged over the bodies of the other dead Indians, then left them with the others.
“It is probably not such a good idea to stay around here too long,” said Ortega. “That special campsite I was telling you about is not that far from here. I suggest we go there as soon as possible.”
The campsite Ortega took them to was located off the main trails, set back away behind a large rock formation, with a strangely shaped monolith on its top that Ortega called Alsate’s face—a name the Comanches themselves had given the gargantuan boulder.
“It was more than likely named after one of the early Comanche chiefs,” said Ortega, answering a question from Feather.
“He sure must have been ugly,” said the little man. “’Lessen I’m lookin’ at him all wrong, ol’Alsate looks more like the ass-end of a sick Mes’can burro than a respected Indian leader.”
“Well, that’s the story going around, Feather,” said Charley, “that the rock was named after an old chief.”
Charley then changed the subject. “If nobody minds, I’d kind of like to throw out my blanket and get a little shut-eye.”
“Thank the Lord somebody said it,” said Roscoe. “Because hittin’ my blankets is probably all I have left in me today.”
He tore his bedroll from his saddle and threw it on the ground at his feet, then he gently melted into the blankets with his entire body.
Feather and Ortega spread their bedrolls out near the others. Only, the two of them stayed awake, smoking and telling each other old tales until the wee hours of the night.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Feather woke up with a start. He was still standing upright—on his feet. He had drifted off to sleep when they’d all put their heads together to think. He was now coming out of his slumber after a vibrant dream had appeared to him during his extended catnap.
The others were breaking up the circle—unaware that Feather had not been with them during their group think, that had lasted close to twenty minutes.
“Anyone come up with any solutions?” asked Charley.
Heads shook all around. There was a general feeling of despair, until Feather slowly held up his hand.
“Feather Martin?” said Charley. “What is it that you thought of that might save my ranch?”
Feather cleared his throat. It was apparent that he was hemming and hawing.
“Uh,” he began, “I had me a dream. An’ it was all about that time we run them Comanches outta the Big Bend together . . . Remember?”
“Sure, I remember,” said Roscoe.
“Tell us about your dream, will you, Feather?” said Charley. “And how you think it relates to the trouble I’m in right now.”
Feather took a few minutes to describe his dream to the others. And only when he had finished did he speak.
“We ignore ’em,” he said. “We ignore the fact that they’ve taken over Charley’s ranch. An’ we jest keep usin’ Flora Mae’s place as our headquarters. Their lack a’ knowin’ what we’re up to should bring ’em out into the open before we know it . . . Just like them Comanches in my dream, their curiosity’ll get the better of ’em, and they’ll come out ta see what we’re doin’. Just like them Indians done when I stopped ta check my horse’s hoof,” he added.
“Sounds logical to me,” said Charley. “How ’bout you others. Do any of you have a better suggestion?”
There was some additional thought given to the problem, but in the end, no one had spoken out.
“I think Feather’s idea just might have a chance of workin’,” said Roscoe.
“I do, too,” said Henry Ellis.
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Charley, tousling the boy’s hair. “And just why do you think it will?”
“’Cause Feather got the idea from a dream,” said the boy. “And the Bible says you should put a lot of faith in your dreams.”
“Where exactly does the Bible say that?” asked Roscoe.
“Somewhere,” said the boy. “It’s in there somewhere.”
“All right, then,” said Charley. “We’ll do it like Feather’s dream. We’ll just lay low at Flora Mae’s for a while. Don’t show ourselves anywhere except town . . . and by all means, we won’t go anywhere near my ranch.”
“They’ll hafta come lookin’ fer us,” said Feather, grinning.
“What about Holly Birdwell?” said Kelly. “He’s staying in Flora Mae’s hotel, too . . . just like we are.”
“We’ll just have to keep an eye on him and not show ourselves until he’s gone off to the ranch to join the others every day,” said Charley. “Then, we can hang out in Flora Mae’s poo
l hall or bar all day until he comes back at night. We just have to be careful not to let him see us . . . not any one of us, at any time.”
“What about the Campbells?” asked Rod. “What if they come back to town every night, too?”
“My gut feeling says that those two will stay at the ranch, now that they have possession of it,” said Charley. “After all, they’re using their custody of the property to keep the law away, right now, so I expect they’ll be living out there twenty-four hours a day.”
“Does anyone have any idea where their lawyer is staying?” asked Charley.
“I seen ’im eatin’ breakfast over at the other hotel yesterday,” said Feather.
“Good,” said Charley. “He’s staying close to the Campbells like I thought he would. Feather, I’m appointing you to keep watch on him from now on. Let me know if he makes any move to go out to the ranch . . . or if he tries to leave town.”
“Will do, Boss,” said Feather.
“But don’t let him see you. That’s an order.”
“Yessir,” said the pee-wee cowpoke.
“And, Rod,” said Charley. “I want you to find a place near the south end of town, and keep an eye out for whoever leaves and comes into town. I want to know where every single member of that Campbell gang is, morning, noon, and night.”
“What about me?” asked Kelly.
“You stick with your husband, Mrs. Lightfoot,” he said. “I’m sure he can use your help.”
“Roscoe, Holliday, and Henry Ellis. You three stay here with me . . . just in case Holly Birdwell finds out we’re rooming here, too. It ain’t that I’m afraid to go up against Birdwell, it’s just that I like to hedge my bets. It makes me feel a lot safer with Holliday around.”
“So, those’ll be our positions every day, from now on,” he continued. “We’ll be watching them, but they won’t know we’re watching them. That way, we’ll keep one step ahead of ’em, no matter what they’re up to. And if any trouble does start, we’ll be right on top of it before they know what hit ’em.”
The Comancheros Page 15
