The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  “So, do y’all know where you’re supposed to be?”

  “Yeah . . . Yes . . . You bet,” they all said.

  “Then get a going,” said Charley. “We’ll meet back here tonight.”

  As rain from the third storm of the day rolled down the kitchen’s windowpanes, casting eerie reflections everywhere, the Campbells, Ben and Eleanor, sat beside each other at Roscoe’s table. They were sipping coffee and reading a week-old San Antonio newspaper.

  Ben studied the front page—with all its big city stories, plus a few that passed for world news—while Eleanor flipped through the pages of the lady’s section, stopping every so often when something of interest caught her eye.

  Wolf McGrath sat across from Ben, cleaning his gun, while two of the other hired guns played a game of two-man poker on what space was left for them on the tabletop.

  From outside, the sounds of riders approaching could be heard over the constant rainfall.

  Wolf McGrath got up from his chair and went to a window, pulling back the curtain.

  “It’s Birdwell, with Acey and Bear,” said McGrath. “They don’t look no worse fer wear. I still don’t know why you had ta send two of our best guns inta town ta escort Birdwell out here. Holly Birdwell don’t need no protectin’ that I’m aware of.”

  “Right now, Holly Birdwell is my greatest asset,” said Campbell. “I got Charley Sunday, and his outfit, right where I want him because of Birdwell.”

  He chuckled.

  “I actually think old man Sunday is afraid of him. At least I know Birdwell will keep Sunday guessing for a while. Keep him and his friends outta my hair.”

  The screen door opened and Birdwell came in, followed by the other two. They removed their slickers, dropping them to the floor in puddles, before they all tramped their way into the kitchen.

  McGrath was waiting for them with three cups of steaming coffee. He moved his chair around and made room for the new arrivals, setting their coffee cups in front of them.

  “We stopped out on the back pasture, Mr. Campbell,” said Birdwell. “I think I found what you thought might be there.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Birdwell,” said Campbell. “We can talk about this when we’re alone.”

  Birdwell got the message and stopped talking. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

  “Now that’s good coffee,” he said. “Takes the chill off a man’s aches and pains.”

  The others went on about their business. None of them noticed the exchange of glances between Birdwell and Ben Campbell except for Eleanor, who just smiled softly to herself.

  Henry Ellis saw them riding back into town, led by Ben and Eleanor Campbell in their hired buggy. Their hired gunmen, the ones that stayed in town, trod solemnly along behind them.

  “Hey, Grampa,” said the boy. “Come over here, will you? The Campbells are back.”

  Charley left the pool table, where he was beating Rod, handed his cue stick to Kelly, then joined Henry Ellis at the window.

  “They’re dropping off Holly Birdwell here, at the front of Flora Mae’s place,” said Henry Ellis. “The Campbells are headed down the street to their own hotel.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Charley, “as soon as everyone gets back, we have things to do. Rod, Holliday,” he called out. “I want you two to go with me tonight . . .”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  If the moon was out you couldn’t tell, because the clouds still hung low over the countryside. Charley, Holliday, and Rod rode their mounts silently until they came to the gate to Charley’s ranch. After making sure that the access wasn’t being guarded, they moved in closer, while Rod dismounted and began working at the lock with a special piece of metal he’d taken out of his saddlebags.

  Once the lock was opened, Rod removed it from the hasp, then swung the gate open, just wide enough to let Charley and Dice through. Holliday and his horse followed, and Rod brought up the rear, closing the gate behind him.

  “We only got between now and an hour before sunup to get what we came for,” said Charley. “We have to be off this ranch on time, or we’re really pushing it.”

  The others nodded.

  “All right,” Charley went on, “we’ll have to take a roundabout way to the ranch house, in case they have someone watching the road. C’mon,” he said.

  Charley quietly spurred Dice away from the gate, sliding his Winchester from the scabbard as he moved off into the darkness.

  Rod and Holliday also pulled their rifles, then they took off after Charley just as a crackling bolt of lightning lit up the ground around them.

  By the time the thunder exploded, seconds later, the three intruders had disappeared into the night.

  “Uncle Roscoe,” Henry Ellis called out as he stepped back into the darkened room after using the water closet down the hall. “Uncle Roscoe, are you awake?”

  Henry Ellis crossed over to Roscoe’s bed in search of his grandfather’s partner, but he found the bed to be empty.

  “I’m over here,” came Roscoe’s voice from the shadows. “Over here by the window.”

  The boy made his way through the pitch-dark room until he found Roscoe sitting in a chair beside a partially open window, with his Winchester in his lap.

  It was raining outside, so the gentle sound of the steady drops drifted into the room, along with some of the coldest air the boy had ever felt.

  “Do you hafta keep that window open, Uncle Roscoe?” asked the boy.

  “Gotta have a place ta stick my rifle barrel through in case I need ta shoot someone,” said the older man.

  “Who do you think you’ll have to shoot tonight?” said Henry Ellis.

  “Yer grampa asked me before he left ta make sure no one left this hotel after nine o’clock,” said Roscoe. “That way he won’t have ta be worryin’ that Holly Birdwell might be lurkin’ outside the ranch house when yer grampa pays it a little visit tonight.”

  “Grampa went out to the ranch?” said the boy. “That’s awful dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “A whole lot less dangerous than it could be if Holly Birdwell up and decided to ride out and join his friends tonight.”

  “But, if Birdwell does leave the hotel, what are you supposed to do . . . shoot him?”

  “Naw,” said Roscoe. “Feather’s waitin’ with Chigger across the street in the livery stable. If I see Birdwell leavin’, I’ll signal him, and he’s supposed ta ride out there before Birdwell to let yer grampa know it’s time ta get outta there fast.”

  “What’s Grampa doing out at the ranch?” asked Henry Ellis.

  “I sure dislike doing this to my own property,” said Charley. “But it seems like it’s the only way to get into the house.”

  Both Charley and Rod were inside Charley’s toolshed, while Holliday stood by the door, guarding the others.

  There were a few moments more while Charley and Rod stood at the small window and watched the house across the ranch yard. Charley took out a Lucifer and struck it on the workbench. The phosphorus tip exploded with a flare, causing tiny sparks to dance around the popping flame as the match began to burn. Next, Charley set a pile of rags afire, followed by several stacks of old newspapers near the wood storage bin. At each point of combustion, flames began to grow larger and larger.

  “C’mon, you two,” said Charley. “Let’s get outta here.”

  The threesome stepped out into the chilly night, took a look back at Charley’s handiwork, then moved off toward the front of the ranch house.

  It was between rainstorms, so the fire had no trouble spreading through the tiny structure.

  Charley, Rod, and Holliday ducked behind some bushes at the front of the house. They were still able to see the toolshed in the ranch yard, which was now burning brightly, lighting up the barn on one side and the house on the other.

  Cries of “Fire” . . . “There’s a fire out back in one of the out buildings,” came from the ranch house. Several figures of men buckling on their gunbelts raced across the yard to the well,
where a bucket brigade was set up.

  It was during all the confusion that Charley and the others made their way to the front porch.

  Charley had his house key out and was turning the lock before the other two realized what was happening. Within moments, they had all entered the house.

  “Follow me,” said Charley.

  The others did as they were asked, following Charley into a hallway. He led them to a door, which he opened, revealing the wood-paneled ranch office.

  “This is my office,” he told them. “I just hope the Campbells are using it for the same purpose as I do.”

  “What are we looking for, Charley?” asked Rod, whispering.

  “Anything that looks like a page from the county records office,” Charley replied. “The one that’s missing from the county records office in Austin.”

  Charley went over to several cupboards and started checking through them, being careful not to misplace any of the papers being kept there.

  Rod took the other side of the room, checking desk drawers and the several other cupboards on that side.

  Holliday placed himself by a window where he could keep tabs on what was going on out back.

  “They’re all out there, Charley,” he said in a loud whisper. “They got a bucket brigade goin’.”

  “Are you sure of that, Holliday . . . that all of ’em are out there?”

  “Well,” said the tent-show gunfighter, “it looks like all of ’em are there. And they’re startin’ ta get the best of the flames.”

  Charley took that as a chance for him to run into the kitchen.

  Once there, Charley meticulously went through every cupboard while light from the fire outside danced on the walls around him.

  Just when he was about to give up, something on the table caught his eye. He leaned forward and picked up a piece of paper from a pile that was spread across the tabletop’s surface.

  A quick look told him he’d hit the jackpot. He folded, then tucked, the paper into his pocket and hurried back to join the others.

  “I found it,” said Charley, for Rod and Holliday to hear. “Let’s get outta here.”

  The two other men followed Charley, both coming out of the office down the hall, and through the parlor, until they were out of the building.

  Charley checked on the fire one more time, just to be sure all of the men were still involved in extinguishing the dwindling flames. Then he led Rod and Holliday back the way they had come.

  They found their horses behind the barn where they’d left them, then they walked them way around the house and yard to avoid detection.

  When they arrived back at the gate, they mounted up. Rod stayed on foot for a few moments so he could relock the lock and make it look as if it’d never been tampered with. Then he swung into his saddle, and with the others at his side, he galloped away, back toward town.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Charley, followed by Rod and Holliday, barged their way through the batwing doors that opened into Flora Mae’s pool hall and bar.

  “Flora Mae,” Charley called out before he realized it wasn’t that late, and before he observed several customers still drinking and shooting pool in the room.

  Flora Mae broke away from the bar where she’d been having a conversation with her bartender, Bud, and rushed toward the overly loud threesome. She indicated to Charley with her facial expression to shut his mouth.

  He did. And when the woman got close to him, she indicated with her eyes that someone was over by the end of the bar.

  “Charley Sunday,” she said out loud, “I wasn’t expectin’ ta see you in here tonight.”

  She was still busy using her eyes to point out the man at the end of the bar.

  But that wasn’t necessary, any longer, when Holly Birdwell left the bar and crossed over to where Charley stood with Flora Mae.

  “So, ye’re the great Charley Sunday I bin hearin’ so much about since I got ta this little flytrap of a town.”

  “That’s me,” said Charley, who was still smiling. “And you’re Holly Birdwell, I suppose.”

  The two men were sizing one another up.

  “Bigger’n life,” said Birdwell. “You were a Ranger some years back, am I correct?”

  “I was,” said Charley. “But I don’t remember ever running into you.”

  “That’s probably because I wasn’t even a spark in my old man’s eye when you was Rangerin’.”

  “You can stop with the insults any time, Birdwell,” said Charley. “I may be long in years, but I ain’t dead. Besides,” he added, “years have only made me better . . . in everything I do.”

  “Is that so,” said the hired gunman. “Can ya still hold yer whiskey?”

  “Drink for drink with the likes of you,” said Charley.

  “Ha!” said Birdwell. “I haven’t met the man yet who can drink as much as I can . . . ever.”

  “Meet Charley Sunday,” said Charley. “Flora Mae,” Charley called out. “This gentleman and myself . . . are going to have us a little drinking contest.”

  “Set ’em up,” said Birdwell. “I’ll buy, since I don’t think there’s any chance you can keep up with me, old man.”

  Flora Mae got the go-ahead wink from Charley. Then both she and her bartender, Bud, set up a few bottles on the bar top, along with two, normal-size shot glasses.

  “We got rules for this game here in Juanita,” said Flora Mae. “It’s shot for shot, not the amount of liquor consumed. That’s the way we do it, mister. If ya don’t like it, go have yer contest in another town.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Birdwell. “Shot fer shot works fer me. Let’s get this thing goin’,” he said. “Start pourin’.”

  Bud uncorked the first bottle, pouring equal amounts of the brown liquid into each sparkling shot glass.

  When he had finished, both Charley and his challenger stepped up to the bar. Each man reached out and took a glass in their hand. Then, after a long wait, as they looked one another in the eye, Charley winked, then downed his glass.

  Birdwell threw back his first one just as fast as Charley had. That drew a small reaction from what was becoming a crowd.

  The glasses were refilled, then both men downed their second.

  Refilled for a third time, the men tossed down that one, too.

  A half hour later, the two men were still drinking—playing the game, but at a slower pace. The first and second bottles had both been emptied, and now they were on the third.

  “How ya feelin’, Sunday?” said Birdwell between drinks.

  “Doing better than you are, Birdwell,” said Charley. “Hell, you’re starting to slur your words. I can hear you.”

  “That’s bullshit, Sunday,” said Birdwell as both sloshed down another shot. “I’ll make you eat them words, too.”

  Bud continued to pour.

  “Belly up, Mr. Birdwell,” said Charley. “Time’s a wasting.”

  They both threw back another shot.

  “Are you feeling any of the effects of this alcohol, Sunday?” asked the gunman.

  “I’ve been going drink for drink with you, Birdwell. What do you think?”

  “I think ye’re cheatin’ somehow,” said Birdwell.

  Charley lifted his next shot and tipped it back.

  “That ain’t cheating,” said Charley. “It’s your turn now, Birdwell.”

  Birdwell picked up the glass, then swallowed its contents in a single gulp. When he looked up, Charley was reaching for his next shot.

  Birdwell reached for his glass but had to wait until Bud had finished pouring. Then he threw back his shot.

  Charley drank his next.

  Birdwell followed suit, only this time, his hand seemed to be a bit unsteady.

  “I think it’s about time I call you,” said Charley.

  “Call me?” said Birdwell. “We ain’t playing a game a’ poker here, Sunday,” said Birdwell, “and if we were, I ain’t about ta throw in my hand.”

  “No,” said Charl
ey. “I’m just calling on you to stop drinking. Neither one of us is going to drink the other one under the table tonight, so why don’t you go for your gun right now? That’s what you wanted in the first place, isn’t it?”

  The expression on Birdwell’s face turned ugly.

  “You think I’m too drunk ta draw, don’t ya? Well, I’m not.”

  Birdwell went for his pistol in the holster at his side, and when he pulled the gun, he lost his grip on the weapon.

  Charley stepped forward and easily took the gun out of Birdwell’s hand, and without as much as the blink of an eye, he had the hired gunman’s own weapon pointed back at the man. Charley’s own Colt was still in his boot.

  “H-how in the hell did you do that?” said Birdwell.

  “Let’s just say it had something to do with how you hold your liquor,” said Charley, twirling the gun around and handing it back to the gunman.

  Holly Birdwell was astounded.

  “First ya take my gun away, then ya give it back ta me.”

  “That’s so there ain’t no hard feelings,” said Charley. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “You gotta be outta yer mind, Sunday,” said Birdwell. “I just wanna get outta here.”

  He stopped directly in front of Charley, putting a drunken finger in his face.

  “You just made a fool outta me, Sunday . . . and no one does that to Holly Birdwell and gets away with it. Now, I’m goin’ up ta my room fer a little shut-eye. Just don’t let me catch ya out in the open, ya hear? ’Cause if ya do, it’ll be all over for you, Mr. Charley Sunday. All over.”

  Birdwell began to back away. And when he felt the batwing doors at his back, he quickly slipped through them. Then he stumbled over to the hotel proper where his bed was waiting.

  Flora Mae turned to Charley.

  “I never knowed you to be able to hold that much whiskey,” said the woman.

  “I never knew I could hold that much, either,” said Charley. “But I reckon I found out I can hold more than he could.”