“And you’re putting up a fight just to save that raw silver, are you?”
“Well,” the conductor finally said, “rumor has it that the Croppers are killin’ innocent folks these days. I don’t rightly know how Alex over there feels about bein’ a living target for that gang, but I surely don’t want no part of gettin’ killed without puttin’ up a fight.”
“Why are you here, mister?” asked the conductor. “Only one gun barrel at a time’s able ta shoot back at ’em.”
“Like I said, I’m just here to collect information.”
He turned to the door he had come in.
“So, if one of you could just unlock this sliding door . . . I’ll make myself scarce and get outta your hair for a while.”
He slid the door open, then he jumped onto Dice’s back outside.
“Keep that door closed and locked, no matter what happens,” Charley told them.
“Oh,” said the conductor. “We know that.”
He nodded, then pulled the door shut behind him.
Twenty minutes later, Charley had managed to skirt the gang as before. He was once again at the top of the low, tree-lined rise overlooking the train robbery, sitting his saddle beside the sheriff and the rest of the outfit.
The scene below them hadn’t changed much since Charley had first ridden down nearly an hour earlier. But now that he’d had the chance to observe the layout, he felt he had a better understanding of just how to handle the situation.
“What I think we’re going to have to do, Willingham, is simply back that train up . . . all the way to Juanita, if we have to.”
“Back it up?” said the sheriff. “An’ just how do ya expect ta do that?”
The engineer and his fireman lay unconscious in the cab of the locomotive. Two members of the gang were guarding them at gunpoint. No one was talking. They were both trying to listen to the muffled voice of Sam Cropper, who continued to shout his threats to those behind the closed door of the mail car.
Without any previous sounds, two Walker Colts appeared behind the ears of the two gang members. The sounds of the weapons being cocked was all it took for the outlaws to realize they should lay down their own weapons.
Charley and Feather moved on into the cab. It was a tight fit, but they were able to exchange positions with the gang members. Feather motioned for both of the men to turn around, and when they did, both he and Charley laid their gun barrels across the men’s heads, producing a double whack that Charley figured would wake the devil himself.
The two gang members were shoved out of the cab, then Charley took the controls. At the same time, Feather signaled with his hand, and the rest of the posse members who had snuck around to join them began climbing onto the train from the same side.
Charley closed a steam release valve and waited. When he figured he had enough pressure, he reversed gears and gave it the throttle.
With a giant chug, which included a couple of spine-rattling screeches, the drive wheels turned, causing the train to lurch backward.
The conductor and clerk inside the mail car grabbed for something to hold on to. As the locomotive chugged once again, the mail car moved another few feet to the rear.
The Cropper Brothers and their gang were all stationed right outside the sliding door. They edged their horses back as the third chug was distinctly heard, coming from the engine up front.
Then a fourth chug, and a fifth.
Sam Cropper glanced toward the locomotive at the head of the train. Before he could say anything, he saw the prone bodies of his two men lying on the ground beside the left drive wheel.
The mail car clerk fired off several shots from inside, which made the robbers back off even more.
The train had started to roll backward, and posse members began to appear from everywhere on the train, firing their weapons at the gang.
Even though they were confused, the Cropper Brothers and their gang knew that the sudden movement of the train could only be controlled from the locomotive. So, on a signal from Sam, they all reined their mounts around and spurred out toward the engine.
Charley and Feather, still in the cab, had been joined by Roscoe. They all huddled down, preparing for an onslaught by the gang.
The rest of the posse turned their weapons on the pursuing gang as the train kept gathering more speed. One gang member tried a running transfer from horse to train car, but he was knocked out of his saddle by one of Holliday’s better shots.
Another man tried the same, leaping from his saddle to the platform between the engine’s cab and the stacks of wood in the fuel box behind it.
One of Charley’s well-placed conical bullets caught him in the belly before he concluded his desperate relocation, and he fell beneath the locomotive’s wheels, leaving an echoing scream as his final word.
The train went faster and faster in the reverse direction, and the robbers began to pull away until the train was on its own—a wood-burning missile that was proving to be uncatchable.
They had left the Cropper Brothers’ Gang well in their wake.
By the time they rolled to a stop at the Juanita station—still pointed in the wrong direction—the sheriff found Charley, who was being congratulated by everyone around him for eluding the Cropper Gang. He reminded him that their whole purpose had been to stop a robbery in progress and capture the Cropper Gang.
“Well,” said the old cowboy, “at least we got it half right.”
It had been left up to Henry Ellis and Kelly to get the horses back to the Juanita depot. When they showed up a half hour or so after the train had come to a rest in front of the station, Charley, the sheriff, and darn near the whole posse had tipped back a few in celebration.
“Don’t you fellers get too stinky on me, now,” said the sheriff. “We still got another job ta do.”
There were some verbal complaints from certain posse members, but even so, the sheriff continued.
“We still hafta ride guard on this train until we get it ta Sabinal. I’m havin’ a livestock car attached so we can bring our horses with us. And you might wanna slow down on yer celebratin’, because I’ve been told it’s a long hard ride ’tween Sabinal an’ back here.”
As tired and liquored up as some of them were, Charley and his Texas Outfit rode along on the train, guarding the silver shipment all the way to Sabinal. That was where they dropped off the shipment and unloaded their horses for the ride back to Juanita.
Only one time on the way to Sabinal did something upset Charley. That was after they had just passed through Uvalde, and the rain had started to come down even harder. Henry Ellis thought he saw a small band of horsemen riding parallel to the train. He had turned away to call for his grampa to come and see, but when he turned back, the rain had obscured everything within fifteen feet of the car in which he was riding.
On their way back home, the leftover posse members looked like a stiff bunch of funeral-goers riding in single file after the burial, as they followed Charley and the sheriff along the trail to Juanita.
The pup put on a show for them when they arrived back at Flora Mae’s Pool Hall & Bar. He raced from Henry Ellis, to Charley, to Roscoe, then into the center of the room where he twirled around, barking and whining, before repeating the same greetings to the sheriff, Kelly, and the rest of the outfit. They were all straggling in, one after the other, from the hitching posts out front, batting water from their hats and slickers and sounding like a flock of wet chickens.
“I’m fer a good bath an’ a warm nighttime of sleepin’,” said Feather.
“Me too,” echoed several of the others.
Charley called over to the owner.
“Flora Mae,” he said. “Would you mind if we all stayed here for another night? We’re gonna have to come back into town again tomorrow morning, anyway.”
“Be my guests, Charley,” she said. “I’m runnin’ a tab on everything ye’re eatin’ an’ drinkin’, too.”
Charley moved over closer to the woman.
“Are you serious, darlin’?” he asked. “I thought you were givin’ from your heart when you said we could stay here. And now that we’re giving of ourselves for the town . . .”
“That was before you were here a second night . . . and a third . . . and a—”
“All right, all right,” said Charley, jumping in to silence her. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll pay any charges after the first night we stayed here. How’s that?”
“Includin’ the bar bill.”
“Including the bar bill,” confirmed Charley.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
That night, when Charley, Roscoe, and the boy had finally settled in for a restful sleep, Henry Ellis’s voice rose above the silence of the room to ask his grampa a question.
“Grampa?” he whispered.
“Humph,” said Roscoe as he rolled over, turning his back to them.
“Grampa?” whispered Henry Ellis, just a little bit louder this time.
“What is it, son?” came the old man’s reply.
“When I die, will I go to heaven?”
“Why, sure you will, Henry Ellis,” answered Charley.
“That’s good. Because I want to be able to see Mother and Father again . . . and I know they’re both in heaven.”
“Now where in the world did you get the idea that you wouldn’t be goin’ to heaven, son?” Charley whispered. “Tell me.”
The boy raised his eyes to the ceiling—thinking.
“Oh,” he began. “Probably because I killed those men.”
“That was a while back, son,” said Charley. “And you killed them while saving my life both times, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy. “I did.”
“Then there’s nothing more to worry about. As long as a feller kills another man . . . a bad man . . . who’s trying to kill a good man . . . I’m pretty sure the Good Lord has forgiven you, way before your finger had even pulled the trigger.”
Henry Ellis pondered what Charley had just said, then he turned his head toward his grandfather.
“That gives me peace of mind, Grampa, it really does.”
He scooted over in the bed he was sharing with Charley and cuddled up closer to him.
Charley wrapped his arms around the boy, pulling him as near as he could.
“If you ever have one of those easy questions again,” he whispered, “don’t be afraid to ask me.”
“I won’t,” said the boy. He pulled the covers up over both of them.
There was a blinding flash of lightning outside the hotel room, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. The rain began again, making a gentle pattering sound on the porch roof just outside the windows.
Charley was racing his mount, just as fast as it could run, heading for the adobe ruins that were still about a quarter of a mile away.
Comanche arrows and the occasional rifle bullet whistled past him in his bid to get to the only cover on the vast plateau that surrounded him. Puffs of black-powder smoke appeared every so often, coming from behind the ruins’ walls. Charley knew his fellow Rangers, Roscoe Baskin and Feather Martin, had already concealed themselves behind the pile of adobe bricks, which had at one time been Roaker’s Wells—a stagecoach stop and passenger rest before the Indians had attacked and burned it to the ground several months earlier.
The Comanche were having a difficult time of it, giving up their old ways. Even though their chief— Quanah Parker—had signed a treaty that would send all Comanches to a reservation in Indian Territory.
This must be one of the last raiding parties left, thought Charley. Most of the Comanches in Texas had turned themselves in at the nearby forts, but there were still several small bands who hadn’t gotten the message—or had just refused to believe that their warring days were over. They still held out and kept on killing the white man.
That’s who these fellers are, thought Charley, just as an arrow slammed into his horse’s neck beside the pommel of his saddle. While still riding at a breakneck speed, the Ranger reached forward and jerked the arrow free, tossing it aside.
Several more wooden projectiles whizzed past him, and his friends up ahead returned more fire, knocking two nearby Indians from their running horses.
Charley removed his neckerchief, wadding it up, then packing the horse’s wound to prevent more bleeding.
Charley’s Walker Colt had run out of its conical bullets long before the chase had even begun. It was his own choice to go out scouting just after the trio had decided to make their camp at Roaker’s Wells.
Now, as he hunkered low in his saddle, rein-slapping his mount to get more speed out of her, he figured that he may have scouted just a little too far away from their camp. Coming over a low rise, he’d run directly into the small hunting party, who were coming up the rise from the other direction.
Out of instinct, he emptied the Walker Colt of every bullet it held, killing four of the Comanches outright. The others had been taken by such surprise it gave him time to reverse direction and spur out for the camp.
Then they were after him, whooping and hollering with every breath taken, all while firing their arrows, and the one rifle they had between them, at the departing Texas Ranger and his rapidly galloping mare.
When Charley figured he was getting close enough to the adobe ruins, and those who were defending his getaway, one of those arrows buried itself into some more solid horse flesh, directly behind the saddle. The flint arrowhead sliced just deep enough to puncture an equine kidney. The horse let out a shriek, lost its footing, and threw Charley to the other side of the adobe wall he was preparing to jump.
As the animal rolled to a stop beside another portion of the crumbling wall, Charley picked himself up and dove in beside his two fellow Rangers, who were still popping off shots at the advancing Comanches.
Now it was the Indians who had to reverse direction, and as they rode away, back toward from where they had come, Charley grabbed an extra Winchester and assisted his friends in finishing off the last three Comanches. That left only their confused horses, all running in different directions on the flat surface of the sandy ground.
Charley awoke in a sweat. He had to pee. He tiptoed down the hall to the water closet, but to his dismay, it was in use. The rain was still coming down, so he decided to stop by the room where he slipped on his slicker over his longjohns before he made the trip downstairs to visit the outhouse. Just the thought of standing there over that sawed-out black hole, in the near freezing darkness, made him think about cracking a window and relieving himself on the porch roof below.
But what if Henry Ellis woke up? Or Roscoe—that was even worse. Both of them were so modest that even on the trail, they both had to hike away from what they believed were prying eyes. That made stopping for a quick pee, anywhere, into something much bigger than it was ever meant to be.
He pulled on his boots, so he’d be able to keep his feet dry, while at the same time provide a holster for his Walker Colt.
Then it was down the stairs and out the side door. He stepped into the freezing alleyway that ran between Flora Mae’s Pool Hall & Bar and the rear of a small warehouse that faced the next street over.
As Charley opened the outhouse door to enter the wooden cubical, he noticed that there was a lamp glowing in the back room of the warehouse. He made sure he peed as quietly as was possible, and he listened, through the rain, to some low voices that appeared to be coming from that back room, across the narrow passage.
The only words that he could make out were, railroad, Del Rio, and Cropper Brothers. The rest he had to fill in with his mind.
When he stepped out of the lopsided structure, he noticed that the lamp in the back room of the warehouse had been extinguished. He also could not hear any more anonymous talking, so he ducked under a working rain spout and went back inside.
“Is that you, C.A.?” came Roscoe’s hoarse voice as Charley re-entered their hotel room and began to remove his slicker and boots.
“I�
��ve just been downstairs for a quick pee,” whispered Charley as he found his bed and climbed back in.
“Hell,” whispered Roscoe. “If ya wanted a quick pee . . . and a dry one . . . all you had ta do was raise the window and piss on the porch roof down below.”
The following morning, after Charley, Roscoe, and the boy had finished breakfast with Flora Mae, Charley and the others stopped by the sheriff ’s office. Charley wanted to find out just who it was that owned the warehouse that backed up to Flora Mae’s establishment.
“I can get that information for you, Charley,” said the sheriff, “just as soon as the bank opens. Farley Workman keeps that kind of information locked up in his real estate office that’s right next door to the bank. Pretty smart of old Farley, owning the bank like he does, to connect his real estate business to the bank building. Guess who ends up makin’ all the loans?”
“Well,” said Charley, “when you find out, can you leave that information with Flora Mae? The three of us’re going to ride out to the ranch and check to see if everything’s all right.”
“Are you takin’ yer pup back with ya?” asked the sheriff.
“No,” said Henry Ellis. “The pup’ll still stay here with Flora Mae. We’ll be coming right back to Juanita for another night.”
“No word on the Croppers yet, Charley,” said the sheriff.
“Of course not,” he said. “They could be anywhere after that trick we played on ’em yesterday.”
“Well,” said Charley, “knowing Sam Cropper like I do, Sam’ll want to get back at us for making a fool of him.”
He started for the door.
“Oh, Willingham,” he called back. “When you find out that information for me, could you also relay it to Rod Lightfoot and his wife. They’re still sleeping up in their room at Flora Mae’s as far as I know.”
“I’ll do ’er,” said the sheriff.
Charley closed the door behind all three of them.
The Comancheros Page 24
