A rifle barrel poked through the vertical gun port and fired. The gang’s horses reared back at the sight and sound of the black-powder explosion.
Inside the mail car, Roscoe fired off a second shot through the port.
Charley did the same on the opposite side of the car.
Outside, Dale and his men backed way off, dismounted, and took cover behind some rocks.
Up on the roof, Feather slid flat-bellied over to a ventilation pipe that was protruding through the roof. He got as close to the opening as he could, then called out quietly.
“Charley . . . Charley Sunday . . . Can ya hear me?”
Inside the mail car, Charley heard his name being called. He looked to the ceiling.
“I can hear you, Feather,” he said, just as quietly. “What’s going on?”
On the roof, Feather continued talking into the ventilation pipe.
“Sheriff’s deputy just got here. He gimme a message for ya.”
Inside, Charley answered, “What is it, Feather?”
On the roof: “He said the sheriff told him ta tell ya that Flora Mae owns the warehouse. Whatever that means.”
Back inside the mail car, Charley only had moments to figure out the connection.
“Flora Mae’s bartender,” he pondered. “Bud Rawlins.”
Roscoe turned.
“What’s that, C.A.?”
“The bartender. He’s the connection.”
“Ain’t he up in the passenger car with Kelly and Henry Ellis?”
Charley looked up to the ceiling.
“Feather? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, Boss, I’m still here,” answered Feather.
“Count off thirty seconds. Then open fire.”
“You got it, Boss.”
Charley turned and ran toward the front door of the mail car. He stopped just long enough to unlock the lock, then he started moving through to the outside.
With a bullet to the lock on the car in front, Charley entered. Between the cars, Bud Rawlins had stepped back and drawn his gun when he’d felt the handle turning on the car door behind him. Now he stood with his back to the passenger car door, his weapon cocked and ready.
As Charley stepped out onto the platform, Bud Rawlins stopped Charley in his tracks.
“Hold it right there, Sunday,” said the bartender. “Set that old hogleg of yours down, and be quick about it.”
Charley did what the man said. He knelt down, placing his Walker Colt on the platform beside his feet.
“You just saved me a lot of time, Sunday. Openin’ the door for me like you did.”
“I always like to oblige a man who’s turned on his own, Rawlins. Conspiring with the Cropper Brothers . . . now, that about takes the prize.”
“Well, the only prize you’re going to get, Mr. Sunday, is this piece of lead, right between your eyes.”
He thumbed back the hammer of his gun.
The door behind him flew open and there was a quick, swirling movement behind him. Rawlins cried out in pain, and the gun discharged. Then Bud Rawlins toppled forward, his body slipping through the opening between the two platforms. He grabbed for the coupling, but he hadn’t the strength to hold on. The continuation of the fall took him to the rail bed below.
About then, all hell broke loose as the counterfeit soldiers started shooting from the train car roofs.
Charley stood facing the passenger car door and the person in front of it. Henry Ellis stood there, looking back to his grandfather. In his hand he held a large pair of bloody scissors.
“I needed a weapon, Grampa. And the only thing Kelly and I could come up with were these scissors she found in her purse—the same ones we used to cut up the newspaper with for bait.”
“Thanks,” said Charley. He stooped to pick up his Walker Colt and was down the side steps in a single leap.
Henry Ellis watched after him for a moment, then bent down to retrieve Bud Rawlins’s revolver, which had landed on the platform. The boy checked the cylinder, then jumped to the ground, running after Charley.
Charley reached the gang’s position within seconds. He immediately shot Sam Cropper out of his saddle. Then he waded into the fracas with gun blazing. A gang member jumped him from behind and Charley tossed him off easily, before putting him down permanently with a bullet from his Colt.
In the meantime, Sam Cropper had managed to crawl his way to the sidelines of the fighting, where he got to his feet and started to run away.
A single bullet to the shoulder brought him to his knees. As he was struggling to get to his feet, he looked up.
Standing directly in front of him was Henry Ellis. The gun in the boy’s hand was still smoking.
Cropper began to sweat. He raised his hands as high as his wounded body would let him.
“You ain’t thinkin’ about killin’ me, are you, son?” he asked.
Henry Ellis took a step closer. He cocked the gun, aiming it at Sam Cropper’s forehead.
“You killed my parents, back at the depot,” said the boy.
“They musta been caught in the cross fire, boy,” said Sam Cropper. “Someone else shot ’em. It’s true.”
“You, your brother, your gang . . . even somebody shooting back at you. It doesn’t matter. It was you that killed them, just the same.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, kid?” said Sam Cropper.
“Are you really sure you want to do it, Henry Ellis?”
The boy turned slightly. His grampa was standing only feet away.
“Killing Sam Cropper won’t bring your mother and father back, boy,” said Charley. “Remember, I lost my daughter, too. And I ain’t going to kill the man.”
Henry Ellis glanced at Sam Cropper, then he looked back to Charley.
“But he killed ’em, Grampa . . . Someone’s gotta pay.”
“I s’pose I’ll have to leave that choice up to you, then, son.”
Charley took a step in closer to his grandson.
“But if I’m remembering correctly, you aren’t too proud of the other men you’ve killed. Plus, getting rid of Sam Cropper will only add another demon to those you already have . . . the ones that haunt you every time you close your eyes at night to go to sleep.”
Sam Cropper, still on his knees, his hands covering his bleeding wounds, continued to look back and forth between Charley and the boy.
Charley stared directly into Henry Ellis’s eyes, searching for the forgiveness he knew was inside the boy.
Finally, Henry Ellis let the gun slip out of his hand. It fell to the ground.
“I can’t do it, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis. “When it comes right down to it, I just can’t do it.”
“Then,” said Charley, “why don’t you go back to the passenger car . . . see how Kelly’s getting along. I’m sure Rod would like to know that.”
Still making direct eye contact with his grandfather, the boy nodded.
“I’ll do that, Grampa. I’ll go and see how Miss Kelly is doing . . . Thank you,” he added.
He turned back, heading for the steps to the passenger car.
Charley waited for a quick moment to make sure the boy made it to the platform, then he nudged Sam Cropper.
“You can’t be that bad off that you can’t walk. Now, get the hell up!”
Cropper struggled to his feet, and with a jab of Charley’s Walker Colt’s barrel, Sam Cropper stumbled toward the side of the mail car, where the Texas Outfit, dressed as soldiers, were rounding up the last of those who were still living.
Roscoe slid the side door wide open. The clerk was opening the opposite door at the same time. When Charley was able to take a look through the car, from side to side, he could see more men in Army uniforms rounding up more train robbers over there. Rod and Feather stood with guns out, both pointed at Dale Cropper, who had already been put under arrest.
Henry Ellis walked down the aisle inside the passenger car, pushing his way through the chaotic jumble of people who had been aroused by
all the confusion.
“Everything’s all right, folks,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “It’s all over now. The Cropper Gang has been taken into custody. They’re all under arrest.”
By the time the boy reached where Kelly was sitting, the passengers had begun to calm down. He slid into the seat beside Mrs. Rod Lightfoot, who pulled him even closer. She let his head slowly fall onto her chest, then Henry Ellis Pritchard began to cry like he’d never cried before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The parlor of Charley’s ranch house had been decorated for the Christmas holiday. The large tree stood in one corner. It had been strewn with shiny ribbon, homemade ornaments, cranberry strands, and garlands. On each outer limb, a candle burned brightly as Flora Mae lit the final candle from a burning stick.
The outfit, Roscoe, Feather, Rod and Kelly, Holliday, Sergeant Stone, and Mitch Pennell, were sitting in a circle, drinking cider and eating cookies. They had just finished singing a carol, when Flora Mae moved in with a suggestion.
“How about this one next?” she said. “I’ll start it off, then you can follow along.”
She began, “Si-i-lent Night . . .”
Everyone stopped talking and began to sing along with Flora Mae.
“Ho-ly Night. All is calm . . .”
Outside, it was indeed a silent night. Snow was falling, and strains of the carol could still be heard softly seeping out of the ranch house, into the cold, crisp night.
Henry Ellis stood beside his grampa Charley, with snowflakes softly falling all around them. They had just placed two small Christmas ornaments on the snow-covered graves of Kent and Betty Jean.
“Merry Christmas, Mother . . . Father,” said the boy.
Charley put a gloved hand on his daughter’s headstone.
“Merry Christmas, darlin’,” he said in a raspy whisper.
He rubbed his fingers over his daughter’s engraved name, then turned to his wife’s headstone. “Merry Christmas, Willadean,” he said.
Then he turned to the boy.
“Come along, Henry Ellis,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “They’re all waiting for us inside.”
Charley Sunday took his grandson by the hand, and together they started walking back through the snow-covered, horse-and-buggy-filled ranch yard, to the snow-covered ranch house, only a few yards away.
The singing continued inside.
“Sleep in Heav-en-ly Peace,
Sleep in Heav-en-ly Peace . . .”
EPILOGUE
1961
Grampa Hank’s story was over. He stood up to stretch while the children stayed sitting with their mother.
Hank found himself walking over to the Christmas tree. The multicolored, blinking lights cast a kaleidoscope of hues across his wrinkled countenance. He stopped for a moment to re-hang one of the decorations that seemed to be slipping. He glanced out the front window to see snow falling.
“It’s snowing,” he said. “Why don’t you kids come over and take a look?”
Evie grimaced as Noel jumped out of her lap. The girl joined her brothers, who were already at Hank’s side watching the neighborhood turn white.
“It sure is pretty,” said Josh.
“Yeah,” said Caleb. “It sure is.”
By then, Evie had joined them all beside the tree.
“Your great-grandfather and I have a surprise for you children,” she said. “If you can get this house cleaned up in short order, Grampa Hank is going to sleep over.”
The kids turned in her direction.
“We can do that, Mom,” said Noel.
“I’ll go get the vacuum,” said Caleb.
“Now, if Josh’ll just run out to Grampa Hank’s car and bring in his overnight bag.”
Hank handed his keys to the older boy, and Josh was out the front door in a flash.
Evie turned to Hank, placing her fingers on his stubbled cheek.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Hank. Whenever you’re with the kids, they’re angels. Every time you tell them a story about the old days, they’re on their best behavior for at least the rest of the month.”
“Mom?” It was Noel’s voice. “We’re going to go out in the front yard and let it snow on us.”
“Just be careful, sweetheart,” said Evie. “And stay off the sidewalks . . . they’re probably icy.”
The door opened, then closed, and they were gone.
“You know what?” said Hank. “This’ll be the second White Christmas I’ve spent with family in my entire life.”
“I’ll get some sheets and blankets for you, dear. When the kids come back inside, they can clear off the couch, then help me make up your bed. And don’t let me forget to bring out a couple of pillows from the linen closet for you.”
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
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Copyright © 2016 Stephen Lodge
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3393-5
First electronic edition: February 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3394-2
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3394-0
The Comancheros Page 27
