Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  CHARLEY SUNDAY’S TEXAS OUTFIT

  STEPHEN LODGE

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHARLEY SUNDAY

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MELWOOD G. “FEATHER” MARTIN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ROSCOE BASKIN

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  HENRY ELLIS PRITCHARD

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ROD LIGHTFOOT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  JOHN “PLUNKER” HOLLIDAY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  KELLY KING

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  FLORA MAE HUCKABEE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  1960

  A cold rain had been falling for most of the afternoon. The sky was so heavily overcast it could have been midnight. Nearly every family living in the 1950s post–WWII housing tract had turned on their interior lights. There was only one dwelling not glowing with illumination like the others. A faint flickering of gray-and-white light slipped smoothly through the half-closed slats of hanging venetian blinds, barely making it through to the glass of a sizable picture window facing the street. Plus, there were muffled sounds coming from inside the residence—the roar of a thousand hoofbeats and exploding gunshots echoed over a thrilling background musical score.

  Lightning flashed—followed by a loud clap of thunder.

  In the living room, a nineteen-inch, black-and-white Philco television set was showing an old 1940s western—Howard Hawks’s Red River. At that moment, John Wayne, playing Texas rancher Tom Dunson, was galloping on horseback, leading his outfit as they attempted to turn a runaway cattle stampede.

  “Hooray!” “Yeaaaa!” “Whoopee!” yelled the Pritchard children who were enjoying the movie. Noel, who was eight, Caleb, two years older at ten, and Josh, about to turn fourteen, were devouring popcorn by the gallon from a large red bowl on the floor in front of them.

  An older gray-haired man sat behind in a rocking chair. He cheered on the movie cowboys right along with the children.

  Suddenly the TV picture was replaced by a gray screen with little, jumping black-and-white specks all over. The sound turned into static. Immediately there were “boos” from everyone in the room.

  “Who in tarnation did that?” said the old man.

  A pleasant-looking woman wearing a yellow print apron over a light blue housedress stepped through the door leading from the kitchen. “It does that sometimes, Grampa,” she said, “especially during a storm like we’re having now. Besides, your great-grandchildren are going to ruin their eyesight if you keep letting them watch television in the dark like that.”

  “No, they won’t, Evie,” said the old man. “My grampa Charley let me read by campfire light when I was growing up and it never bothered my eyes one bit.”

  He turned to the ten-year-old. “Caleb?” he asked, “why don’t you turn off the television.”

  Caleb sauntered over to the TV. Instead of turning the TV off, he changed the channel. The picture came on again. A preview for the television series Bonanza flashed onto the screen. This advertisement, like the TV, was also in black-and-white.

  “Man,” said Josh, “it’s an ad for Bonanza this coming Sunday night.” He shook his head. “I sure wish we had a color TV. Since it began last year all my friends say Bonanza looks really great in color.”

  “Your grampa says we’ll buy a color set when they’re more affordable,” said his mother. “Color television is still pretty new, you know. They’ll get cheaper as time passes … besides, aren’t you really watching the same story, whether it’s in black-and-white or color?” She turned to the older boy, adding, “Isn’t that true, Josh?”

  “I like the stories Grampa Hank tells us,” said Noel, climbing into her great-grandfather’s lap. “When he tells us a story, I can imagine everything happening in my mind … in black-and-white, and color.”

  “Yeah, Grampa Hank,” said Josh, moving closer. “Why don’t you tell us one of your western stories?”

  The old man smiled—he leaned forward in the rocker, kissing his great-granddaughter on the nose. “All right then,” he said. “Why don’t the rest of you gather ’round and make yourselves comfortable.”

  He turned to his granddaughter.

  “Evie … Do you still have that old box of newspaper clippings your mother kept for me over all these years?”

  “I know they’re around here someplace, Grampa Hank,” she answered.

  “Good,” said Hank. “Then these kids’ll have some sort of reference when I’m telling my story.”

  “I think I remember where they are,” said Evie. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Hank shook his head.

  “I remember when uncle Roscoe used to say that.”

  Caleb turned the TV off completely. He and Josh moved over and seated themselves on the carpet in front of the old man’s rocking chair. Their mother joined them, carrying a cardboard box filled to the brim with yellowing newspaper clippings.

  When they were all settled, Hank began introducing his tale. “This one’s all about my grampa … his name was Charley Sunday … you all know that of course … and this story’s about how he brought the longhorns back to Texas.”

  “I didn’t know the longhorns ever left Texas,” said Josh, chuckling. The other kids laughed.

  Evie hushed them with a finger to her lips. “Don’t interrupt your great-grandfather,” she said. Turning to Caleb, she added, “I certainly wish you’d act more like your older brother.”

  The old man smiled. “That’s all right, Evie. I was just about Caleb’s age myself when this story took place … In fact I was probably more naïve than Caleb is, too.” He drew in a deep breath. “Now, where was I?” he said. “Oh, yeah … It all started in my grampa’s hometown, Juanita, Texas. Over the years since, some of the old-timers involved filled me in on a bunch of the things that went on when I wasn’t around, including some things that happened before I even arrived. And now that your mom just found the box of newspaper stories all about the event, when I put all those accounts together, along with my personal recollections … what you’ll hear should more’n likely be pretty close to how it all went down.

  “Now
, like I was saying, the story begins on a Sunday morning way back at the end of the last century … 1899, to be exact. Church bells were ringing, and the choir had just begun to sing …”

  CHAPTER ONE

  1899

  Yes, we shall ga-ther at the ri-ver

  The beau-ti-ful beau-ti-ful ri-ver

  Ga-ther with the saints at the ri-ver

  That flows by the throne o-of God

  Listening contentedly as church bells pealed in perfect confidence behind the escalating voices of the Juanita, Texas, Cavalry Missionary Baptist Junior Choir, Charles Abner Sunday just knew this particular Sabbath Day was going to bring something special.

  The silver-haired Charley, riding along comfortably with his friend and cohort of many years, Roscoe Baskin—who also lived and worked on Charley’s ranch—were on their way into town for weekly, Sunday-morning services.

  They were in Charley’s old double-seat buckboard—a rickety old bucket of bolts Charley had won in a pool game many years earlier—calmly bouncing along, with Charley driving the two-horse team.

  Charley was dressed in his best three-piece pin-striper, topped off with the same “John B” Stetson hat he’d worn for more than a few years—the highlight of his customary Sunday-go-to-meeting garb.

  Charley’s experienced, raw-boned visage, etched from countless years of exposure to the Texas elements—and on a normal morning adorned with three or four days’ growth of pure white stubble—was on this day sparkly and clean shaven.

  Charles Abner Sunday was a tall and lanky man, sinewy and able bodied. He was built like many other older men who had worked daylight to dusk on the open range all their lives. Now in his early seventies, Charley had become sensible and sober minded over the years, having put his hard-living ways behind him when he met and married his wife, Willadean, those oh so many years earlier. The couple had lived a good and moral life together. They had four sons, all of them stillborn, and one daughter, who had lived. And even though Willadean had passed on some years ago, Charley still kept his memories of her as close to his heart as if she were still right there beside him.

  Roscoe Baskin, Charley’s salty, beer-bellied ranch foreman, a cowboy somewhere close to Sunday’s age, was snoozing peacefully as they rolled along. He’d thrown on an old, threadbare dress coat and a frayed string tie for the special occasion. But that was as dressy as he’d let himself get—he refused to give up his old, worn, and faded work hat.

  As they rode slowly up the main street of Juanita toward the glimmering, white façade of the local house of worship, Charley made his usual mental note: they were passing through a town that dripped heavily with a unique nineteenth-century mode of living—even though it was a way of life that was changing rapidly.

  The local barbershop, closed on Sundays. The corner drugstore, also shuttered—except for the fountain where people were allowed to gather for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat on the Lord’s Day after services. The Juanita hotel, closed completely ever since a newer caravansary had been constructed several streets over. Even the livery stable, weathered and beaten. It now boasted a single glass-top gasoline pump where a once fine, hand-carved hitching post stood sentry. The fuel was for local farm machinery or the infrequent horseless carriage that might pass through Juanita, plus, there was a large sign nearby advertising a brand-new automobile dealership that would be opening soon in Del Rio, some thirty miles to the west. Even so, every one of these deep-rooted establishments appeared to be falling apart in one way or another.

  As they climbed a slight incline, nearing the church on that particular day of rest, they passed yellowing lawns going to weed that were desperately trying to grow alongside once white and now just as gray, paint-peeled houses.

  Some other things that caught Charley Sunday’s eye were the few ancient wagons and rusting farm equipment that dotted more than several of the withering homesteads.

  Charley nudged his friend.

  “Better wake up, Roscoe,” he said softly. “We’re almost there.”

  The sleepy old wrangler’s eyes opened with a blink. Roscoe straightened up. He adjusted his wire-rimmed eyeglasses, pulled at his handlebar mustache, straightened his hat, then stretched.

  “Well by golly,” he said, yawning and extending his arms. “I see we finally made it. How late are we?” he added.

  The buckboard was approaching the church, with its hitching posts almost full to capacity. Charley swung the team into a small space between several tied-off buggies. He pushed the brake with his boot and reined in the horses.

  Once stopped, he dropped a tethered lead weight to the ground before he climbed down to tie off the horses.

  While he was doing so, one of his team took a real good nip out of the strange horse that was tied next to Charley.

  The surprised animal let out a very loud squeal. Then it swung its head around to return the bite.

  Caught in the midst of it all, Charley got knocked off balance and had to grab on to a handful of harness to keep from falling down.

  “Damn son-of-a-bitch!” he said to the horse.

  Inside the house of worship, the good reverend, Caleb Pirtle III, stood silently, clearing his throat, mouthing the words to his upcoming sermon—rehearsing.

  Upon hearing Charley’s muted profanity through the several open windows, he tried his best to ignore the curse words his congregation had all heard before. Most of the members knew only too well that muffled vulgarities coming from outside always announced Charley Sunday’s arrival.

  As the junior choir continued on with their singing, several more loud horse whinnies echoed from outside, causing the congregation to again turn their attention away from the celestial chorale.

  The good reverend’s face flushed once again. It was apparent this had happened many times before.

  Outside, once the buckboard and team were resting, Roscoe climbed down and put on the horses’ feed bags, adjusting the head straps. When he finally walked over to Charley, both men shrugged at the still bickering animals.

  “We’re not that late, Roscoe,” Charley told his friend. “They’re still at the singing part of the service. Soul saving always comes later on.”

  One of the horses shook in its harness. That made a loud jangling sound that echoed in the early summer air. Charley patted the horse’s rear end while at the same time noticing Roscoe was looking rather uneasy.

  “Somethin’ wrong, Roscoe?” he said.

  “I don’t know, C.A.,” replied the senior cowhand. “I reckon I just wasn’t raised on prunes ’n’ proverbs like you was. I really don’t think bein’ a regular churchgoer is truly in my nature.”

  Charley patted Roscoe on the shoulder, similar to the pat he had given the horse. He smiled softly.

  “I expect a lot of folks have second thoughts,” he said. “I’m sure the Good Lord will understand if you miss one more Sunday meeting.”

  Roscoe nodded, looking quite relieved.

  Charley threw him a wink. He had been through Roscoe’s hemming and hawing about his personal religiosity on more than one Sabbath in the past.

  Roscoe grinned.

  “Thanks-a-plenty, C.A,” he said humbly, expressing his gratitude. He was even more than relieved—he figured he’d actually been saved.

  “Why don’t you run on down to the fountain at the café and get yourself a cup of Jamoka,” suggested Charley. “Catch up on the town gossip. Read the newspaper. Pick me up in about an hour, all right?”

  Roscoe began removing the feed bags and untying the horses while Charley chuckled to himself.

  Roscoe continued to smile gratefully as he moved on around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

  “Hey, C.A.?” he called back as he reeled in the lead weight, “say a little prayer for me, will ya?”

  “Always do, Roscoe.” Charley smiled. “Always do.”

  Charley watched as his friend of many years backed the team expertly, reined them around, then drove off. Charley turned and started wa
lking toward the church.

  As he passed a nearby planter, he extracted his ever-present wad of chewing tobacco, depositing the smelly brown lump on the edge of the wooden box that held some drooping shrubbery trying to grow there.

  Charley took off his hat and entered the church vestibule as quietly as he could, almost tiptoeing into the sanctuary. From there he moved unhurriedly down the side aisle, his hat in hand. Good thing I remembered to take off the old “John B,” he thought. Old Caleb always pitches such a conniption fit if I don’t.

  By the time the good reverend stepped up to the pulpit, Charley had stopped for a moment, still searching for a seat. As usual, there were none left unoccupied in the rear.

  “Mr. Sunday,” Pastor Caleb Pirtle snapped from the pulpit, “why don’t you try pew number three right up here in front of me? I’m sure Mrs. Livers will scoot over an inch or two for you … to let you settle in proper-like. Then I can begin my sermon.”

  Charley nodded awkwardly before he proceeded down to the front, aware that all eyes were on him. He reached the third row and smiled to the older lady who had moved over to make room for him. He sat down, nodding to the pastor.

  “You can go ahead now, Caleb,” he told the man of the cloth. “And thanks for the nice seat. I couldn’t have bought a better one if you were chargin’ money. Plus, I plumb forgot to bring my hearin’ horn.