The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  The deserted line shack, where the Cropper Brothers and their gang had been holed up in since the wrong-way train debacle, had a roof that leaked and a stove that barely heated anything—food or human beings. They were all miserable, and some were even talking about leaving the gang.

  That changed abruptly when Dale Cropper showed up one day with a copy of the Juanita newspaper containing the story about the shipment of a hundred thousand dollars of spoiled currency that was going back to the mint in Philadelphia. Sam told them all this would be their next holdup. Planning for the event began immediately.

  The date for the shipment was fast approaching. Charley and the others knew they had to be in Del Rio before the train would stop to pick up its consignment, plus the guard detail of lawmen dressed as U.S. Army soldiers. So when everything had been packed away into Charley’s old two-seat buckboard—the one that had been converted into a chuckwagon for the cattle drive from Colorado the year earlier, and recently into a covered wagon for Kelly to drive—they all were allowed to celebrate. That was because, Charley told them, there would more than likely be some of them who wouldn’t be coming back.

  So, they had another “wing-dinger” in Flora Mae’s place. Everyone involved was invited—even Henry Ellis was allowed to attend. And that’s something Charley wouldn’t normally allow when he, personally, planned on getting pretty darn drunk himself.But the boy is old enough now to see his grampa in all his glory, isn’t he? he thought.

  While they were drinking, Flora Mae’s bartender, Bud Rawlins, edged over to Charley, nudging him.

  “Mr. Sunday,” he said. “Flora Mae said you were the one to ask this question, so here goes. Do you think it would be at all possible if I rode along on this one with ya?”

  “Do you mean, as one of the Texas Outfit?”

  “As anything, Mr. Sunday,” said Rawlins. “Just as long as I can be a part of capturing the Cropper Gang.”

  “Just two things might keep you from it,” said Charley. “One is, I know you can’t shoot worth a damn, because I saw you practicing one day a while back. And second is that we don’t have any uniforms left, and no time to get you another. But”—Charley stopped, just long enough to smile—“you can ride along in the passenger car with Kelly and my grandson . . . keep an eye out from inside there.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sunday,” said Rawlins. “I thank you with all my heart and soul.”

  “I’ll tell Flora Mae you’re going to be with us. I hope you have a horse.”

  The bartender shook his head.

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re taking the old chuckwagon along with us. You can ride in there with Roscoe, Kelly, and Henry Ellis. I’m sure you’ll enjoy their company.”

  The rain had stopped completely by the time they started out on their journey to Del Rio. Instead, the weather had become extremely cold. Along the way, Feather was prone to say, “It’s just too gol-dern chilly ta snow.” The clouds remained overhead, and they were still as gray as ever, but it stayed dry for the entire day and half of the night it took them to travel between Juanita and Del Rio.

  They made their base camp in an old, abandoned livery stable, on the far side of town. A perfect setting for them to don their uniforms and to finish up the last touches on Charley’s chuckwagon: they painted it Army green, then added U.S. ARMY on both sides, plus the tailgate, using a stencil Kelly had made for the money bags.

  The livery stable also gave them a place to sleep before the big day. And a lot of them took full advantage of that. Roscoe was in charge of the grub, as usual, and he’d made sure he had brought along some special items for the group—including several bags of peppermint candy and the ingredients to whip up a batch of corn bread.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  1961

  There was very little cleanup when TV dinners were served. Noel found a paper sack under the sink and used it to collect everybody’s aluminum tray. Then she put the utensils in the kitchen sink to soak. Josh and Caleb folded the TV trays and put them back on the stand, then they rolled them back into a small closet near the vestibule.

  When everyone had completed their chores, they took their old seats in the living room and waited for Grampa Hank to pick up the story from where he left off.

  “Where is Grampa Hank?” said Noel after she’d noticed his absence.

  “I don’t know,” said Evie. “He was here a minute ago.”

  “He might have just gone to the bathroom,” said Josh.

  “Well, I wish he’d get back soon. I wanna hear the rest of his story.”

  “Well, lemme see, now, just where was I?”

  It was Hank’s voice. Every head turned as the old man sauntered back into the room and sat down, facing his audience.

  “Does anyone remember exactly where I left off?” he asked again.

  Noel’s hand shot up in the air.

  “Noel,” said Hank. “Be my guest.”

  “Well,” said the girl, moving over to where Hank was sitting, then climbing up into his lap once more. “Grampa Charley and his friends were just about to board the train in Del Rio.”

  “That’s right, darlin’,” said Hank, giving her a hand up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  1900

  The guard detail of U.S. Army soldiers just seemed to appear on the main street of Del Rio, Texas. They were surrounding a strange-looking green wagon with a canvas covering. It had U.S. ARMY stenciled on both sides, plus the tailgate. It was being pulled by two shabby-looking brown mules.

  As the detail marched up the street toward the train depot, quite a few local citizens gathered around to watch. It wasn’t too often that so many American troops were seen in one place together in Del Rio, unless it was inside a saloon. The spectators, along with their jubilant children, followed the detail all the way to the station.

  When the train pulled in—almost on time—the bartender, Kelly, and Henry Ellis were the first passengers to board.

  Charley, wearing the stripes of a master sergeant, had his men load the gunnysacks into the mail car. Then he gave the order for the other soldiers to take their positions on the roof of the mail car and on the other railroad car roofs in front of, and behind, the mail car.

  A conductor—employed by the railroad, but in on the whole plot—waited until all the soldiers were settled before giving the engineer the go-ahead signal.

  Bud Rawlins, Kelly, and Henry Ellis waited on the platform between cars after boarding. They found they would only have a view of the mail car when the train went around sweeping curves. Otherwise, Kelly advised, they should probably stay inside the passenger car where Charley wanted them to be.

  The engine released some steam, and the drive wheels were put into gear. Within moments, the locomotive began to move, pulling its load of cars—one of which contained the bait for the Cropper Gang—on down the tracks, until it grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared from sight.

  Laban, one of the sheriff’s deputies, moved swiftly through the door of the sheriff ’s office, then stopped when he saw the sheriff sitting at his desk.

  “Something I can do for ya?” asked the sheriff.

  “I just came from the bank, Sheriff, and old Farley Workman showed me the ownership records on that old warehouse you wanted me ta get for you.”

  “And . . . ?” said the sheriff.

  “And,” said the deputy. “That old warehouse is owned by . . . Flora Mae Huckabee. The title’s clear.”

  “Go get your horse, Laban,” said the sheriff. “I need you to run that information out ta Charley Sunday at the depot.”

  “Uh, that train they was all goin’ ta be on has already left the station, by my recollection.”

  Willingham glanced at his pocket watch.

  “Then find that train. Charley’s in the mail car. Just make sure he gets that message.”

  Laban bolted out the door, leaped to the cross-rail of a hitching post, then straddled his saddle, d
ropping into it. He spurred out, rein-whipping his mount down the length of the street, until they both disappeared into a cloud of fog that had begun to form at street’s end.

  Laban nudged his horse into a high-speed run across the wide-open Texas landscape. Overing and undering, he kept the animal on a straight path, all the way to the depot.

  As the young deputy slid his horse to a stop in front of the train station, he could see that the eastbound was long gone. He dismounted and found a baggage handler.

  “Hey, how long since the eastbound pulled outta here?”

  “’Bout seventeen minutes ago,” answered the man.

  Laban turned to his horse, and with a slap on the rump to get him moving, the deputy pony-expressed into the saddle and was on his way before the baggage handler knew what had happened.

  The eastbound train moved rapidly down the tracks, still gaining momentum. Black smoke spewed from its stack, leaving a dissipating tail of smoke in its wake.

  The large drive-wheels of the locomotive turned faster and faster, finally settling into a refreshing speed as they hummed along the tracks.

  Inside the mail car, Charley and Roscoe, both dressed in military uniforms, rode along in silence, with the mail car clerk standing at the sorting table nearby, doing his job.

  On the roofs of the train cars, Rod, Holliday, Feather, Sergeant Stone, Mitch Pennell, and the supply sergeant lay flat on their bellies with their rifles right beside them.

  The wheels of the cars rolled along with no problems, sending their clickety-clack rhythm resonating through the floor of the passenger car.

  Inside that car, Kelly and Henry Ellis sat in their seats, eyeing everyone else riding in the car. They were doing their job. Nothing appeared to be out of the norm with the two of them on watch.

  The hooves of Laban’s horse dug into the damp ground beside the shiny rails. Every so often the horse would veer a little bit to the right, kicking up gravel from the bed beneath the tracks.

  The Cropper Gang, led by Sam and Dale Cropper, edged their horses through some tall cactus before coming to a clear trail that would lead them to the spot Sam had chosen for the ambush.

  Charley, standing side-by-side with Roscoe in the mail car, pulled his pipe from a pocket and began to prepare a load. The clerk, over at the sorting desk, happened to glance around. When he saw Charley’s pipe, he threw the ex-Ranger a disgusting look.

  “I don’t think the mail clerk over there cares too much about you havin’ ta smoke in here,” whispered Roscoe.

  “I don’t give a hoot what he cares, Roscoe.”

  He scratched a match on the U.S. Army belt buckle he was wearing and held it over the bowl of tobacco, drawing in the sweet flavor, then letting the smoke trickle out through his nostrils.

  The wheels of the passenger car continued to turn with the steady sound of steel on rail. Above them, on the small platform between cars, stood Henry Ellis. He was trying to catch a glimpse of the mail car as the train swept around a wide curve in the tracks.

  Suddenly, the door behind him opened and Flora Mae’s bartender stepped out on the platform beside him.

  “Oh, sorry, Henry Ellis,” said Bud Rawlins. “I thought I’d come out here for a smoke. If you don’t mind.”

  “That’s all right,” said the boy. “I was just leaving.”

  Henry Ellis slipped back into the passenger car and took his seat beside Kelly.

  “What’s up?” she asked the boy.

  “Nothin’ much,” said Henry Ellis. “Except Bud just stepped outside for a smoke.”

  Kelly smiled, accepting what the boy was telling her.

  “The only thing funny,” said Henry Ellis, “is that as long as we stayed at Flora Mae’s, I never saw Bud smoke anything . . . not even a roll-your-own.”

  The galloping hooves of Laban’s horse were now pounding across a small bridge. And as they got to the far end, the deputy could see the tail end of the locomotive’s smoke, hanging low above the flat land that surrounded. He jabbed his spurs into the horse’s flank, trying to make him go faster.

  Up the tracks, a short distance in front of the train, the Croppers and their gang had stopped. They all had their heads turned in a westerly direction, when the faint sound of a train’s whistle cut through the air. That caused everyone to take notice.

  “Break it up, men,” said Sam Cropper. “Dale, take some of the boys to the other side of the tracks. Me an’ the rest of the men will stay here on this side. Now move!”

  The gang broke off into two factions. Dale and his group crossed the tracks and found cover in a small grove of pecan trees. Sam led his men over behind an outcropping of rocks where they could conceal both themselves and their horses.

  Bud Rawlins came back through the door of the passenger car. He passed Kelly and the boy, then took a seat on the opposite side of the car beside a window, leaning back and feigning sleep.

  “Did you notice that he didn’t have that awful tobacco smell about him when he passed us by?” whispered Henry Ellis.

  “To tell the truth, I didn’t,” whispered Kelly. “Do you think he’s up to something?”

  “He’s just acting very suspicious,” the boy whispered back.

  The train was approaching a narrow gap between some rocks. Laban knew that if he didn’t board the train right then, he would be out of luck. So he nudged his horse over and spurred through the gravel until he was close enough to grab hold of a ladder attached to the rear of the last car. Then he transferred from saddle to train with ease. His horse veered off, and he immediately started up the ladder.

  When Laban reached the roof of the final car, he flattened out on his belly and took a look up ahead of him. What he hadn’t been able to see from ground level stared him in the face from his roof-top perch. Soldiers . . . United States Army troopers . . . were spread-eagled on top of the first three cars behind the engine. That must be where Charley Sunday is, he thought. I’ll just go on up there, introduce myself, and give him the sheriff’s message.

  He got to his knees, but that was as far as he went. A bullet, fired by one of the soldiers in front of him, glanced off his forehead on the right side, and the deputy passed out cold.

  On his stomach on the roof of the mail car, Holliday re-cocked his rifle, blowing smoke out of the chamber.

  “There’s one member of the Cropper Brothers’ Gang that won’t be giving us any more trouble,” he said.

  “Get down,” hollered Feather as Sergeant Stone physically shoved the old gunfighter’s face down on the roof.

  At that point, gunshots could be heard coming from both sides of the tracks. The make-believe soldiers flattened out even more as the sound of galloping hooves joined the gunfire.

  Inside the mail car, Charley was looking out through a horizontal gun port.

  “It’s them, all right,” he said. “Looks like our little scheme is working out just fine.”

  Like clockwork, two gang members rode up on either side of the locomotive, pointing their pistols at the engineer and fireman.

  The engineer got the message and immediately shut down the throttle. The train began to slow.

  Inside the mail car, Charley turned to Roscoe and the clerk.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  Both he and Roscoe pulled their Walker Colts.

  On the roof of the mail car, the members of the outfit lay still. All were apprehensive as the train continued rolling to a stop.

  What they didn’t see was Laban, the deputy, clawing his way toward them, inches at a time. Blood flowed freely from the wound on his forehead.

  Inside the mail car, Charley was still looking out the horizontal gun port. From this vantage, he could see Sam Cropper and his portion of the gang, riding along beside the train, their horses gradually slowing to a walk as the engine slowed the train’s movement even more.

  Then there was the irritating screech of steel sliding against steel as the brakes finally locked and the train came to a halt. As Charley stepped
back from the narrow gun port, Sam Cropper put two expertly aimed bullets through the port, crashing through anything that got in their way once they were inside.

  Shots started to ring out on the other side of the car. Roscoe made it to the horizontal gun port on that side. He took a look, then shouted back to Charley.

  “It’s Dale Cropper and the rest of ’em on this side, Charley.”

  The two men exchanged looks.

  In the passenger car, Henry Ellis glanced over his shoulder.

  Bud Rawlins’s seat was empty. The boy looked up just in time to see the bartender disappear through the door at the far end of the car. Henry Ellis turned to Kelly.

  “You stay here. I’m going after him.”

  Before she could stop him, the boy ran toward the rear of the car. Then he cautiously peeked outside, using a small vertical window at the side of the door.

  Feather, still laying flat on the roof of the car next to the mail car, felt something tugging on his pants leg. He turned to see the bloody face of the deputy.

  “I got a message for Charley Sunday,” gasped Laban through the stream of blood coming from his head wound. “I-it’s from the s-sheriff.”

  Henry Ellis stood beside the rear door to the passenger car. He was still watching Bud Rawlins through the vertical slit of etched glass beside the door.

  Out on the platform, between the two cars, Bud Rawlins was working at the lock on the door of the car behind him—the door to the car in front of the mail car.

  Sam Cropper and his men edged up closer to the mail car’s sliding door.

  “Whoever’s in there,” yelled Sam, “this is a holdup. Open the door.”