The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  When Charley saw the place from a distance through his old Army field glasses, he was surprised by how much the landscape around the tiny building had changed since he was last there.

  As Rod had told him, the horse rustlers had constructed several sturdy corrals near the saloon, one of which was only half filled with horses. And the old two-story hotel, up the street behind it all, now had quite a few saddle horses tied in front of it, as opposed to the scattered number Charley had remembered from before.

  They were waiting. Waiting for Feather to get back. Charley had sent the little cowboy on ahead so he could check the layout inside, then bring the information back to Charley and the others.

  Charley lifted the Army binoculars to his eyes once again, and after several jerky, searching movements, he found the under-size ex-Ranger, riding along slowly through the desert fauna, still a few hundred yards or so away from the saloon.

  Charley moved his look forward, down the road in front of Feather, to frame the Jersey Lilly. Several men slept in chairs on the front porch with their hats pulled over their eyes, while others worked lazily around the corrals.

  One of those men spotted Feather as he got closer and closer to the saloon. Other members of the horse-rustling band gathered together in front of the building, while one of their number climbed the steps, then entered the building.

  Sticking his head inside, the man called out from the door.

  “Tell the Jefé someone’s comin’. So far, he don’t look like he’ll be any problem. Barkley, Guterrez. You two go out back, now. Cover the front, just in case there’s more comin’ behind him.”

  “Whatever you say, Fernando,” someone yelled back to him.

  The door to the back room opened, and the white-bearded face of Judge Phantly Roy Bean Jr. appeared. He had been beaten—puffy eyes, red stains in his white beard, and several black and blue bruises around his nose and left ear told the story.

  He was only there for a few moments before someone shoved him violently from behind, causing him to stumble forward into the arms of one of the gang members. Immediately, the judge was shoved to the floor.

  Bean lay there on the floor, breathing hard, unable to move. Blood dripped from his nose onto the floor in front of him. Stepping through the same door the judge had just passed through came a bull of a man dressed in an all-leather outfit. His clothing was not the usual backwoods hunting garb seen on many men of the day. Instead, it was a hand-sewn, tailor-made getup—one that helped show off his muscular build. He also wore a black eye patch over his left eye, and topped it all off with an old beaver-skin top hat that he’d probably taken from the judge when they had first met.

  “Whoever it is comin’ our way,” said the man, who was obviously their Jefé, their chief, “just leave him alone ’til he gets inside. When we figure out just who he is, then I’ll tell ya what ta do with him. Fernando,” he said in a louder voice, “tell the men out front what I just said. I wouldn’t want whoever this person is comin’ ta see us ta get killed before I even get ta meet him. Now, you others, take the judge in the back room again, where he was, and watch him good.”

  The two nearest men took hold of Bean by his boots and started to drag him away. The one called Fernando headed for the front door, tipping his hat to the large man in the leather outfit as he passed.

  From his vantage down the road, where he waited with the rest of the outfit, Charley was still watching Feather through his Army field glasses. As the little cowboy reached the front of the Jersey Lilly, he was met by two members of the New Comancheros. Charley watched as they talked and could tell by the friendly faces that Feather was doing a pretty convincing job.

  Feather was eventually allowed to dismount. One of the men took his horse to a hitching post and tied it off, while the other led Feather up the steps to the porch, then over to the door.

  Feather was ushered inside by Fernando. Most of the men had moved over to the bar, which ran parallel to the back wall. Their leader—the man in the leather outf it—stood slightly in front of them all, and he chuckled loudly when Fernando shoved Feather toward him, removing the little cowboy’s revolver as he did.

  Feather made a grab for the weapon, but his hand landed on an empty holster. He shot a look to the man who’d taken his weapon.

  “Just who do you think you are, mister, takin’ away a man’s gun like that?” he said.

  The large man took one step closer to Feather, until he towered over the much shorter man.

  “They call me Zeke Cassidy,” said Cassidy. “And I will ask you to direct anything you have to say only to me, and me alone.”

  Feather stared at the man. He was trying to gain some insight into this bull moose of a human by looking directly into his one eye. Instead, he only saw death.

  One of the other men anxiously waved his hand for recognition. When Cassidy pointed to him, he stepped forward.

  “Zeke,” he began. “This here’s a Whitneyville Walker Colt,” said the one called Ortega. “This is the weapon that they used to issue to every rookie Texas Ranger.”

  Feather saw Zeke Cassidy’s large fist coming his way, but he didn’t quite move fast enough.

  Charley lowered the binoculars and turned to the others.

  “How long’s he been in there now?” he wanted to know.

  Holliday pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket and glanced at the face.

  “’Bout an hour, by my old Nelly here,” he said. “But sometimes she can run slow.”

  “Anyone else?” asked Charley.

  “Holliday’s pretty close ta right,” said Roscoe, holding out his own pocket watch for Charley to see. “It’s never lost nor gained a minute since you give it to me on my fiftieth birthday.”

  “What was so special about yer fiftieth?” Holliday wanted to know.

  “That was my thirtieth anniversary with the Rangers,” said Roscoe. “Charley give it to me.”

  The door to the Jersey Lilly’s back room opened and Zeke Cassidy peeked inside. The judge was laying on the mattress of his bed. His eyes were closed and he was breathing hard. Feather’s head was hanging down; he had been tied securely to a chair nearby.

  From Charley’s vantage point, he was still watching the front of the building with the field glasses. His stomach took a good jolt when one of the men came out of the front door, walked down the steps, then loosened the cinch on Feather’s horse. He went on to unsaddle it right there, letting the leather-covered tree and stirrups drop to the ground. Then he led Chigger over to the first corral, removed the horse’s harness and bit, and turned it loose with all the other horses.

  Charley lowered the binoculars.

  “Roscoe, Rod, Holliday,” he said. “We’re going in.”

  Before Charley and the others could make a move, Kelly spoke up.

  “Just you hold on right there, Charley Sunday,” said the woman. “What about Henry Ellis and me? Did you forget your own plan that quickly? Now it’s our turn to go on down there.”

  “They’ve just turned out Feather’s horse into the corrals with the other horses. That has to mean—”

  “That don’t have to mean anything more than they’re putting the horse up for the night. Did they put Feather’s horse in the small corral or the bigger one?”

  “The smaller one, Miss Kelly,” said Charley, knowing what she was leading to.

  “Well, don’t most folks who build a large and a smaller corral use the big one for their herd and the smaller one for their personal horses?”

  “Yep,” said Charley, “s’pose they do.”

  “Then you’ll have to agree with me, Charley, when I say isn’t it just possible that Feather was invited to join them for supper? Maybe even to spend the night there? Now, you know who you’re dealing with, so why’s my idea not worth thinking about? C’mon, Charley,” she urged. “Let Henry Ellis and me do what you trained us to do.”

  “Please, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis, who was now standing between the two. “I know
we’ll be all right. I really do.”

  Charley rubbed his stubble, eyeing the two by half closing his other eye.

  “It’ll be all right, Charley,” said Rod. “They won’t harm a woman and child.”

  Charley drew in a large breath, then he expelled it real slow.

  “All right,” he finally said. “But instead of acting like you’re a pioneer woman who’s looking for her lost husband, all alone with just your son . . . You’ll now be accompanied by your grandfather.”

  Before she could object, he continued.

  “I’m going in there with you, too.”

  The redone vehicle, now posing as a covered wagon, rolled along peacefully, being pulled by two horses. Charley was in the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a blanket and trying to look even older than he was. Beside him, dressed in a heavy coat, calico dress, with matching bonnet, was Kelly, who drove the team. Behind them, with his legs and lower torso still in the wagon, but with his face poking through between them, was Henry Ellis.

  As they neared the Jersey Lilly, Roscoe, still some distance away, lowered the spy glasses and turned to Rod and Holliday.

  “I sure hope this works,” he said softly. Then he nodded to the others, and the three of them got to their feet and mounted their horses.

  “Just remember what Charley told us ta do,” he said. Then the three of them split up in different directions, riding away slowly.

  Kelly drove the covered wagon straight for the Jersey Lilly. They all watched as one of the New Comancheros turned around and went inside the building. Then, as they drew even closer, a different man came back outside and said something to the others.

  When the team reached the space in front of the saloon, two men stepped forward and took control of the horses’ harness and bits. Fernando stepped in front of them. He looked up, eyeing the young woman, the boy, and the older gentleman.

  “Is there something we can do for you, ma’am?” he asked. His eyes flicked back and forth between Kelly and Charley.

  “Yes,” said Kelly. “It seems that my husband has gone missing. He was scouting ahead for us yesterday, and he never came back to our campsite last night.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall. In his late twenties. Brown hair, blue eyes. He’s wearing a gray wool coat, a rough, leather waistcoat, and a tan Stetson hat. His horse is a black, brown, and white pinto,” she added.

  “Since none of us know how to make more than our mark, would you care to come inside so you can write that description down on paper for us?”

  “Ta tell the truth,” said Charley in an older man’s voice, “if ya got anything ta wet a man’s whistle with inside, I’d kinda like ta come along, too.”

  Thinking to himself about just how easy this was turning out to be, Fernando answered:

  “That will be fine, Viejo,” said Fernando. “And as long as you are both coming inside, you may as well bring with you the muchacho.”

  Charley climbed down from the wagon. Fernando assisted Kelly, while Charley gave Henry Ellis a hand getting down. Then Fernando stepped back and he let the boy lead the way.

  The threesome entered the saloon with Fernando behind them.

  “Go and bring the Jefé,” he asked one of the men, who got up, then entered the back room.

  The three of them stood together in the center of the room with all eyes staring. Finally, the door to the back room opened and Zeke Cassidy stepped out. He glanced at Charley and the boy, but gave Kelly a really good looking over.

  “Why didn’t any of you idiots tell me there was a young lady with them?” Cassidy asked all the men present.

  “Sorry, Jefé,” said a few embarrassed voices.

  Cassidy’s eyes continued to roam over Kelly’s body.

  “Are you married to this old . . . man?” he asked her.

  “No,” she said. “He’s my husband’s grandfather. I just told this kind gentleman . . .” she referred to Fernando “. . . that my husband has gone missing. We were searching for him when we saw your small settlement.”

  “I can send some of my men out to look for him,” said Cassidy. “Would that help you, ma’am?”

  “No,” said Charley in his old man’s voice. “We’ll be all right lookin’ fer him ourselves. But would you happen to have some spirits for sale? I could sure use a drink.”

  “What’s to yer liking?” said Cassidy as he moved on around the bar.

  Outside, one of the men sleeping on the porch got a quick gun barrel to the head. The same thing happened to the second man. They were both left where they were because they still appeared to be sleeping.

  Another man, who was enjoying a smoke beside the corral, suddenly pitched forward onto his face. A Bowie knife’s handle was protruding from his lower back. The killing had been so silent that none of the others had even turned around. A hand reached in and removed the bloody knife.

  From behind another rustler, a thin piece of baling wire was slipped around his neck and pulled tight before he could make a sound. The wire remained taut as blood began to flow from the man’s nostrils. By the time his eyes closed and his body slumped, Roscoe released his grip on the wire and stepped away.

  The third and final horse thief flinched as the noose of a thick rope fell around his neck and tightened quickly. Rod was at the other end of that rope, and he’d looped the rope over a corral fence before he’d thrown it. All that was left to do was for Rod to jerk the noose, as hard and as fast as he could, and the man’s neck snapped just as fast as if he’d been dropped through a trapdoor.

  The three of them gathered at the side of the building. Rod looked up the street to the hotel. He could see that all the horses were still tied where they had been an hour earlier. He suspected the gang members who had been out all night stealing horses were resting by day, leaving only the few they had already dispatched, plus several more inside, to guard the stolen horses.

  It was Holliday’s idea to approach this dilemma from the rear of the building. They moved around to the backside of the Jersey Lilly, where they discovered the wooden addition that made up the back room.

  Holliday was chosen to look inside because he was the tallest, so he went to the room’s side window and stood on his tiptoes, leaning his chin over the bottom of the window frame until he could see inside. He held that awkward position for as long as he could bear it, then fell back on his heels. The others gathered around him.

  “Well,” said Rod. “What did you see?”

  “Anyone in there?” asked Roscoe at the same time.

  “Feather’s in there, tied up. And the judge is sprawled out on a bed.”

  “Anyone else?” Rod wanted to know.

  “That was it,” said Holliday. “Just them two.”

  “Well, c’mon, then,” said Rod. “Let’s go see if there’s a way all three of us can get inside.”

  Inside the front room, Zeke Cassidy was offering Kelly and Henry Ellis some fresh cider from behind the bar. Charley was already sipping on a half a glass of rotgut whiskey that Cassidy had poured for him moments earlier.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Kelly, taking the glass of cider from his hand.

  “It’s Zeke, ma’am,” said Cassidy. “You can call me Zeke.”

  “And I thank you, too,” said Henry Ellis, when he got his glass. He immediately chugged it down.

  “Boy, was I thirsty,” he said, setting his container down on the bar.

  “If any of you would care to refresh your drinks, just let me know,” said Cassidy. His eyes continued to stay focused on Kelly.

  “If you folks’d care to spend the night with us, I can also offer you some fine horse meat steaks,” said Cassidy.

  “’Fraid not,” said Charley. “We still got some daylight left, and we oughta continue our search.”

  “I told you earlier that I’d have my men do the searching for you,” said Cassidy. “Here,” he said to the woman, “let me pour you another glass of cider.”

  He moved over to
take Kelly’s glass so he could pour her a refill, but his hand brushed against hers, and remained there for another moment.

  Henry Ellis noticed the contact immediately.

  Kelly threw a glance to Charley, then pulled her hand away gently.

  “I’ll have some more cider, too, mister,” said the boy, holding out his empty glass.

  “Anything your heart desires, son,” said Cassidy. “So won’t you change your mind and join us for supper?” he asked them all again, though his eyes never left Kelly.

  “Sorry,” said Charley, “but we gotta be gettin’ on down the road.”

  “Jefé,” said one of the men in the room. “The Viejo carries a revolver in his boot. The same kind of pistola the other one had.”

  Charley threw a roundhouse right and clipped Cassidy a good one on the jaw.

  The leather-clad leader dropped to one knee, but no more. He got to his feet while he held out a hand to keep his men back.

  “Another Ranger, are ya?” he said, moving in on Charley.

  “No, sir,” said Charley, “It’s ex-Ranger. And where is my partner?”

  “I’m right here, Boss,” said Feather, who had just opened the door to the back room. He held one of Holliday’s Colts.

  One of the rustlers made a move for his gun, and Feather shot him point blank. The outlaw dropped to the floor—dead.

  Zeke was on his feet, facing Charley.

  “I’m sorry that you’re such an old man, mister,” he said. “Because I really don’t like hurting old folks.”

  Charley brought up his left boot, connecting with the leader’s crotch.

  Zeke’s eyes crossed, and he went all the way down this time.

  By then, Rod, Roscoe, and Holliday had entered behind Feather. They fired their weapons with ease, picking off the rest of the rustlers who were in the room.