Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  At the pool table behind the others, Charley continued to shoot balls. Every so often he looked up from his game, focusing on the wrinkled and bewhiskered undersized cowboy. Sunday smiled to himself, remembering something from the past.

  Feather elbowed up on his second beer.

  Bull and Slim slid in on opposite sides of the little fellow, crowding in next to him.

  Bull started it off: “Did we hear you right?” he asked. “That you won at a ropin’ event or somethin’ like that?”

  Feather nodded.

  Then Slim asked him, “What’s yer main event, runt, cricket hoppin’?”

  The four cowhands roared at that one.

  The old codger tried to ignore the men, but they kept crowding in closer. He held out his mug; the bartender took it, filled it, and handed it back.

  “Ya know,” Bull said to Slim, “that ol’ player piano over there seems ta be jumpin’ pretty good. Maybe if we set this little feller up on it, we might just see ourselves a championship ride! If he gets lucky.”

  They all laughed again.

  Feather sipped slowly, paying them no mind.

  Slim started to take the old man by the arm.

  “C’mon, shrimp,” he urged, “inta the chutes.”

  Before Slim could move one more inch, his eyes bulged out and the veins in his neck ballooned, ready to explode.

  Feather had buried one of his Mexican spur rowels about three-quarters of an inch into Slim’s right calf.

  Feather yanked it free.

  “Ju-das Priest!” howled Slim as blood spurted.

  Bull turned in astonishment, just in time to get the full force of Feather’s beer mug flat on his nose.

  The mug’s thick glass did not shatter, but the distinct sound of crunching cartilage resonated throughout the room.

  Both Slim and Bull dropped to the floor. Bull, out cold for the moment, and Slim, holding his leg in an attempt to ease the pain.

  Feather shrugged, turned again to the bartender.

  “I reckon I spilt some of my cerveza,” he said nonchalantly. “Better fill ’er up again.”

  The other two trail hands who had been watching left their places at the bar and approached Feather.

  Before they could reach him, they were stopped cold with “Better hold it right there, gents. I wouldn’t want this ol’ hog leg to go off accidentally.”

  It was Charley Sunday. He had replaced the pool cue with his Walker Colt. It was out of his boot top and in his right hand, aimed directly at the two remaining cowboys.

  Charley, now in a very somber mood, moved in slowly with the outsized gun cocked and ready. He motioned for the injured men to get up. They did, with some help from their buddies.

  Feather slid in beside Charley, facing the foursome. Charley waved the gun’s barrel in the direction of the door.

  “Now suppose you boys get back on whatever you rode in here on, then get your butts off to wherever you’re going to,” he said.

  The others helped Slim and Bull find their footing. Disgruntled, the four men moved toward the swinging doors and out into the early summer evening.

  As they mounted, then rode off into the darkness, Slim was heard to say, “God-fearin’ folks, my ass.”

  Charley and Feather stood silent, side by side, waiting until the sound of the trail hands’ departing hoofbeats faded.

  Only then did Charley put the pistol back in his boot.

  Flora Mae had been watching Charley handle the entire situation from her office door. Now she moved in with three shot glasses and a bottle, setting them all on a small table nearby.

  “I’d say that calls for some of my private stock, boys,” she said, smiling. “C’mon over an’ join me.”

  She began pouring three healthy ones—a double for Feather. She motioned for the men to sit. When the glasses had been filled, she sat down with them.

  Charley and Feather knocked their drinks back.

  “How would you like to go to Colorado with me, Feather Martin?” Charley asked the little cowboy.

  “If they got beer an’ whiskey there, I might consider it,” said Feather, belching. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” he added, wiping his mouth with a dirty, long underwear sleeve. “I believe I might have offended you.”

  He was already showing signs of having had just a little too much to drink.

  Flora Mae threw Charley a cautious look.

  He hesitated.

  Then Flora Mae shook her head. “Yer the boss, C.A., you take whoever you want.”

  Charley looked Feather directly in the eye. He spoke to him in a very sober tone.

  “We’re goin’ up to Colorado, Feather, to get us a few longhorns. If you want to join up, you’d be welcome. I just might be able to use some of your, uh, livestock expertise.”

  Feather tossed back his second shot of Flora Mae’s special whiskey, then looked Charley right back in the eye.

  “I’m used ta four-star accommodations,” he stated bluntly, “just as long as you know that in advance.”

  Sidney Pike rocked back and forth in his plush swivel chair, munching on a hard-boiled egg. His male secretary, Mr. Quigley, showed Rod Lightfoot in. “What have you got for me, kid?” Pike asked without looking up.

  “Uh, I’ve been doing some research, Mr. Pike, and I, uh, thought …”

  Pike cut him off. “Research?” said the meat packer. “What research? I didn’t hire you to do research, Lightfoot. I hired you to follow my orders.”

  “But Mr. Pike,” said Rod. “What you’re planning on doing to obtain those cattle may be illegal.”

  “Illegal, shmegal,” said Pike. “Just do as I say and we’ll have every one of those longhorn cows in my company’s pens by the end of the week.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Henry Ellis was helping Roscoe pin some wet laundry to the clothesline in the ranch yard when he spotted his grandfather returning on his paint horse. A motionless body was draped over the saddle of a black horse Charley was leading behind him.

  Buster was snoozing nearby at the bottom of the porch steps. He looked up, saw that it was his master, then he put his chin back between his paws and promptly went back to sleep.

  “Hey, Uncle Roscoe,” Henry Ellis shouted, “Grampa’s home. He’s got someone with him.”

  Roscoe, with his mouth full of clothespins, glanced toward the road. He saw Charley and the extra horse coming their way. He spat out the clothespins angrily. He muttered some Western obscenity under his breath while he slipped off the worn laundry apron he was wearing.

  Roscoe moved to meet Charley as he reined Dice into the yard, pulling up beside an old watering trough.

  “Just where in the devil have you bin all night, C.A.?” Roscoe asked sternly while the rumpled Charley stepped down from the saddle. “Henry Ellis an’ me got ourselves up an’ had a full-course Texas-size breakfast on the table. But when I went ta roust you, yer dang bed hadn’t bin slept in all night. We both bin worried sick about ya, C.A.”

  Henry Ellis nodded in agreement. “That’s right, Grampa,” the boy added. “I was really scared.”

  Charley held up his hands, stopping them both from speaking. He pulled out a bulky legal-size envelope and began fanning himself with it.

  When they finally showed some interest, Charley smiled a peculiar smile.

  “That’s better,” he told them. “One thing I never took too kindly to was a whole bunch of yelling when my head was about to explode.”

  Roscoe pulled on his earlobe.

  “What’d you do last night?” he asked. “Looks ta me like you tied one on pretty good.”

  “That’s right,” said Charley. “What about it? I had me a lot of serious thinking to do.”

  “’Bout what?” asked Roscoe.

  “Oh,” Charley hedged, “about our future, I suspect.”

  He stopped fanning himself and began to open the envelope.

  “Our future?” Roscoe echoed. “Just wha’d’ya mean by our future?”

&
nbsp; Charley pulled a thick sheaf of bills from the envelope, causing Roscoe’s eyes to bug out.

  “Now what’d you do,” he asked brusquely, “rob the Juanita Bank … all by yourself?”

  “Oh, I reckon you could say that.” Charley chuckled. “Only this was purely a legal transaction. Flora Mae Huckabee give it to me.”

  “What in the dickens for?” Roscoe wanted to know. “We might not be makin’ much of a profit on this ol’ ranch, but the bills is all paid. Ain’t they?”

  Charley leaned in close.

  “Flora Mae is backing us,” he explained. “We’re all going to Colorado to bid on them longhorns we read about.”

  “Yipee!” yelped Henry Ellis, clapping his hands.

  That got Buster to barking.

  Both boy and dog began to run in circles, carrying on like it was somebody’s birthday.

  Charley laughed out loud. It made him feel good to see his grandson letting off some steam.

  “Unload Feather off his horse, will you, Roscoe?” said Charley. “I have some important things to do inside. C’mon, Henry Ellis.”

  Charley turned and started for the house with the boy following right behind.

  Roscoe called after him crossly, “Important things ta do? You got things ta do?I got important things ta do, too.”

  “Just unload Feather,” Charley told him.

  Still confused, Roscoe turned to the other horse with Feather slung over the saddle.

  When he took hold of an arm, a half-empty bottle of whiskey could be seen in Feather’s hand.

  “Oh, Lordy,” moaned Roscoe. “If the world could only see the famous Kinney County Championship Calf Roper like he really is.”

  Henry Ellis could see Feather open his eyes a crack. He blinked a couple of times in the bright noonday sun. Finally, the old cowboy was able to make out the double images of Roscoe Baskin and the boy standing in front of him.

  “Howdy, ya ol’ turd-bird,” he muttered in Roscoe’s direction. He held up the bottle.

  “Care ta join me fer a nip fer old-time’s sake?”

  Roscoe’s eyes narrowed. He could only stare at the crumpled excuse for a cowboy he’d seen in the same condition so many times before.

  “No, by golly,” he told the little man. “Ain’t you noticed the boy is here? But I can give you somethin’ else fer old-time’s sake, if that’s what you want.”

  He grabbed him by the nape of the neck, lifting Feather out of the saddle.

  He got a better hold on the squawking old coot by grabbing on to the seat of his tattered trousers with his other hand.

  Roscoe picked the little man up and carried him over to the watering trough, dumping him into the moss-covered reservoir.

  Feather came up sputtering, the bottle still grasped securely in his hand—its spout expertly covered by a practiced thumb.

  He stood up shakily, knocking some water off his hat.

  “Now, what’d ya want ta go an’ do that fer?” he asked.

  “Because I don’t know what’s goin’ on around here,” answered Roscoe, “an’ I want ya sober so maybe I can find out.”

  A half hour later, Feather was snoring away again—this time he chose Henry Ellis’s bunk. Across the room, moving upward, on a map of the southwestern United States, Charley’s pencil landed on Denver, Colorado, and there it stopped.

  Charley, Roscoe, and Henry Ellis sat around a small table set up hastily in the center of the room. The group munched on sandwiches and peanuts as Charley went over the chart, showing them the entire route he planned for them to travel.

  Lucky old Buster, under the table—beneath everyone’s feet—was surreptitiously accepting tidbits whenever one was offered.

  “I figger if we leave on the morning train,” Charley was telling them, “we ought ta be able to get to Denver in a few days.”

  “It’s still a crazy idea, C.A.,” muttered Roscoe. “Wantin’ ta bid on them longhorns.”

  “Well,” Charley said with a sigh, “I figure if I’m lucky, and the good Lord’s bidding on them longhorns along with me, I’ll come out with ten or fifteen of ’em. Maybe I’ll even find me a bull in that bunch. Who knows?”

  Roscoe shrugged.

  “What makes you so sure you’ll find a bull?” he said. “Let alone any cows … in a herd a’ steers?” he asked politely.

  “That herd didn’t grow to three hundred head over the years by magic,” said Charley. “Plus, that’s a chance me and Flora Mae decided we’d have to take. Now finish up yer san’wich,” he added.

  “What about Feather?” asked Roscoe.

  “Better we keep him drunk until we get there,” said Charley. “If he sobers up and finds out what he’s got himself into, I’m sure there’ll be a lot more than just hell to pay.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Charley led the small caravan riding his paint horse, Dice, out front. Following behind were Henry Ellis and Buster in the buckboard driven by Roscoe. Feather’s horse trailed behind, tied to the tailgate—a small, pie-faced black he called Chigger. For the moment, Feather was still out cold on the buckboard’s backseat behind the boy and the dog.

  The procession crossed a railroad siding before turning and continued on, finally aligning itself beside a stretch of side-by-side wooden corrals. A sign nailed to a post said they were THE KINNEY COUNTY CATTLEMEN’S STOCK ASSOCIATION LOADING PENS—most of them were packed full of bawling cattle.

  Henry Ellis could see to the far end of the loading pens where there was a yellow building with a green roof. A crowing-rooster weather vane topped a four-foot cupola rising from its peak. Several sidings held puffing engines with their strings of cattle cars. Cowboys urged the livestock into narrow chutes that led the animals up wooden ramps and into the waiting cars.

  “There’s the depot,” said Roscoe, nodding toward the building.

  “And there’s our train,” said Charley, pointing to a swirl of black smoke approaching from the east.

  “How do ya know that one’s ours?” said Roscoe.

  No cattle cars … it’s the only weekly passenger run north they’ve got.”

  As the group pulled up to the railroad depot Henry Ellis could see a fine-looking white carriage, with its matched team of pure white horses and uniformed driver waiting by the loading platform. When Roscoe jumped down to anchor and tie off the buckboard and team, the boy watched as his grandfather nudged Dice, then trotted over to where he dismounted beside the carriage. Charley used the iron step to raise himself up so he could put his head inside. Then he proceeded to have a conversation with the vehicle’s passenger.

  Henry Ellis continued to watch until he heard his grampa’s laugh, followed by a female’s high-pitched giggle. He looked away quick. A feeling of embarrassment had come over him as if he’d been caught spying on someone and heard something he had no right to know about. He put his arm around Buster and gave the dog a loving squeeze. “That sure sounded to me like Grampa has a lady friend,” whispered the boy, “didn’t it, Buster?” The dog whined, then licked his face. “Kisses from you are all right, Buster,” he said, “but not from no women.”

  Charley pulled his head out of the carriage window. He looked over toward his grandson, smiled, and called out, “C’mon over here, Henry Ellis. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Henry Ellis jumped down from the buckboard, making sure he helped Buster, who followed after him. Both boy and dog made their way over to where Charley stood by his horse. Charley ruffled the boy’s hair—then he took Henry Ellis by the arm and both of them walked over closer to the carriage.

  Henry Ellis hadn’t taken his eyes off the open window since he had jumped down from the buckboard. Even now, as Charley stopped beside the carriage, placing his grandson beside him, Henry Ellis could still see nothing but darkness inside the window.

  The golden handle of the carriage door began to turn slowly. Within moments the door started to open and a lady’s foot—encased in a black velvet slipper—appeared, finding i
ts way to the footstep. Charley let go of the boy’s shoulder and reached out for the gloved feminine hand that was being extended from the inside.

  The boy watched in awe as his grampa Charley assisted the well-dressed woman to the ground. When they were all facing one another, Charley made the introductions.

  “Flora Mae Huckabee,” he said, “I’d like to introduce you to my grandson, Henry Ellis Pritchard … Henry Ellis, this is Miss Flora Mae Huckabee.”

  Henry Ellis removed his hat. “Uh … nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said, dipping his head.

  Flora Mae countered with a sweeping bow. “My pleasure, Henry Ellis. Your grandfather has told me all about you.”

  As she came out of the bow, standing to her full height again, one of the longer peacock feathers on her hat nearly swatted the youngster across the face.

  Henry Ellis ducked back, swatting back at the feather’s intrusion.

  Flora Mae made an awkward attempt to put her arms around him, but Henry Ellis kept ducking away from her advance.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you, boy … I just wanted to give you a little peck on the cheek.”

  That’s what I thought you were trying to do, thought Henry Ellis, looking over to his grandfather for help.

  Charley made a choking sound as he stepped between the two. “What Henry Ellis means, Flora Mae, darlin’ … I mean, what he’s being so shy about is, uh, well, he ain’t never been that close to a woman of class before … with the exception of his own mother.” He turned to the boy. “Ain’t that right, Henry Ellis?”

  Henry Ellis held steady eye contact with his grandfather as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Grampa,” he said, “I thought she was going to kiss me.” He made a face while turning to Flora Mae. “I don’t like no kissing, ma’am,” he added, “unless it’s from my ma or Buster here.”

  Charley and Flora Mae broke out laughing. The boy just stared at them, dumbfounded. He didn’t have a clue about what they found so amusing.

  Charley stepped in between them, taking each by the arm. “C’mon, you two … let’s go help Roscoe get the buckboard and the horses loaded up for our trip.”

  With a little help from some freight workers, Roscoe had already loaded the buckboard and tied it down securely on the end of a splintery flatcar. Now he was leading the unhitched team up a heavy ramp and into a boxcar linked to the front of the flatcar.