Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  Inside the darkened mail car nothing moved except Buster’s hind leg. The dog had begun scratching himself behind his left ear.

  “Can’t you hush him up?” whispered Charley.

  Henry Ellis took hold of Buster’s rear paw and the scratching stopped.

  The boy’s eyes widened considerably as the rear door opened slowly.

  Sam Cropper, followed by his brother Dale and the other three outlaws, stepped quietly into the darkened mail car.

  Their only source of light was the orange glow of the tiny flame inside the lantern’s globe on the box that had been used as a card table. Nothing moved—no sound was heard—until a loud snore cut the air.

  Five revolvers were cocked in unison. “What was that?” said Dale.

  Another snore was heard—all eyes turned in the direction of the obtrusive reverberation.

  And there he was in all his glorious splendor—Feather Martin. He was still passed out cold, only now he lay faceup on a pile of empty mail pouches. And right there on the other side of Feather was the iron strongbox containing the mine payroll.

  “There it is,” said Sam Cropper.

  “So far this has been like slicing butter … real smooth,” said Brother Dale.

  “Well, don’t just stand there waitin’ for it to come to you,” said Sam. “Go on over there an’ get it, Brother Dale.”

  “Obliged,” said Dale, motioning for the three henchmen to follow.

  As they all decided at once to step over Feather instead of going around him, Feather passed some gas and turned over so he was facedown. One of the bandits stopped in his tracks directly over Feather where he got a good whiff of Feather’s recently expelled vapors.

  “Oh, hell,” he said, gagging. “That’s enough to strangle a maggot.”

  “Don’t be wasting time,” said Dale. “Get your butt on over here.”

  Since Feather’s spurs were now positioned “rowels up,” it didn’t take that much for them to hook on to the outlaw’s own spur rowels. When the bandit reached out to regain his balance, he grabbed hold of a large piece of Dale’s shirtsleeve. Dale reached out for something to grab and latched on to the other two bandits’ shirt collars, causing all four of them to fall on top of Feather in a mangled pile.

  “Geeezus God!” yelled Feather, and a shot rang out.

  A few more bullets were expelled with their black powder flashes lighting up the mail car with each shot.

  From where he’d hidden himself at the other end of the car, Henry Ellis could barely make out what was happening those few yards in front of him. The one thing he could feel was the long hair of Buster’s coat, reminding him that the dog was still at his side.

  “Go get ’em, Buster,” he urged. “Go help Grampa and Uncle Roscoe.”

  Buster let out a nasty growl. He began barking as loud as he could.

  Eventually the confusion and tumult of the sightless fight came to an end.

  Someone found the lantern and turned the wick up. As the flame grew larger and the interior grew brighter, it was apparent Roscoe, Feather, Wally, and Buster had everything under control.

  At first Henry Ellis grinned in relief, but when the door behind the others swung open to reveal the two marshals with their weapons cocked and ready, his smile faded completely.

  “Everyone hold it right there,” the first marshal shouted.

  “You’re all covered,” said marshal number two.

  Buster hadn’t moved an inch. He remained standing in the same place and continued barking.

  Relief was now showing on Sam and Dale Cropper’s faces as well as their three henchmen.

  Roscoe, Feather, and Wally raised their hands as soon as they figured out whose side the marshals were really on.

  Sam moved over to the near wall and pulled on the emergency brake cord.

  The engine’s wheels locked and the train screeched to a steaming stop.

  Sam turned to his brother. “Dale … you and those other three open the side sliding door so we can shove that payroll box off the train when it’s time.”

  Dale and the men nodded. Dale took care of the door while the others went to the locked iron box and began their struggle to slide the heavy load across the floor planks. It wasn’t an easy job.

  One of the marshals turned to Sam. “Don’t you think you better have someone go back and tell the rest of the gang what’s happened?” he said.

  Sam nodded. “I’ll have them send the wagon up here for the strongbox. Dale,” he called over to his brother, “jump off a’ this train right now. Wait for the others, then we’ll use the wagon to haul this strongbox.”

  Dale nodded. He turned to the open door and jumped.

  There was a moment—then:

  “Ahh shit.” It was Dale’s voice. “I think I broke my toe … Sam!”

  Buster’s barking was incessant. The dog wouldn’t stop.

  “I’m going to shut that dog up once and for all.” Sam raised his revolver and pulled back the hammer, aiming it at the defiant canine. Buster stood his ground with Henry Ellis’s arms wrapped tightly around him.

  “Get out of the way, kid,” said Cropper, motioning with his gun’s barrel.

  Like Buster, Henry Ellis wouldn’t budge.

  “I said get away,” repeated the gunman. “I’m going to shoot that dog and I don’t want to hurt no kid while I’m doing it.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  It was Charley’s voice coming from behind a shipping crate where he’d been concealed. He slowly stood up with the Walker Colt aimed directly at Sam Cropper.

  The outlaw realized it was all over. He immediately cocked his gun.

  BLAM! BLAM!

  Charley’s Colt had blazed only once—yet two shots had been fired.

  Everyone turned in complete surprise.

  Finally Charley spoke up. “I didn’t gun Sam Cropper,” he said. “I was aiming to. But that marshal over there on the floor beside Sam shot him by mistake trying to draw against me. My shot hit the marshal when he stepped in front of Sam.”

  All heads turned again. The first marshal, with smoking gun still in hand, lay crumpled on the floor. Marshal number two, along with the other three train robbers, already had hands raised high.

  “Sam,” echoed Dale Cropper’s voice from outside the sliding door, “Sam … Can ya gimme a hand? … Sam!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The mail car door slid open to reveal a small New Mexico railroad siding. It was the middle of the night. Several local lawmen escorted the handcuffed and bandaged Cropper Gang from the mail car to several waiting police wagons. Charley, Roscoe, Feather, Henry Ellis, and Buster watched from the sliding door as the wagons pulled away.

  The bandaged conductor moved in beside Charley.

  “After all that,” he began, “I’d reckon you folks might like a nice, comfortable bed to sleep on in the Pullman car.” Before Charley could speak the conductor continued, “That’ll include your dog, mister,” he said, smiling … “plus the smelly little guy, too, I reckon.”

  Every one of them slept halfway through the next day.

  It took them until Friday to get to Colorado. Henry Ellis had the time of his life riding in the passenger car, sitting between his grandfather and his uncle Roscoe, laughing and joking with the older men and listening to their tales about the Texas Rangers and the good old days.

  Feather had opted to continue his ride in the mail car along with Wally the guard and Buster the dog. Feather had asked the conductor politely if the train could stop in one of the small towns they passed through so he could pick up some more “refreshment” for himself.

  After he’d been allowed to do that, the pint-size cowboy was able to slug down his favorite whiskey all the way to the Rocky Mountain State. Though, more often than not, the crusty little cowpoke was passed out cold.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Charley, Henry Ellis, and the others stepped off the train it was early Sunday morning, barely two weeks sinc
e Charley and Flora Mae had seen the longhorn story in the local Juanita paper.

  It wasn’t long after they’d unloaded the horses and buckboard that they found someone who showed them the way to the cattle pens where the auction was going to be held.

  The three hundred Texas longhorns had been crowded into at least a quarter of the corrals that made up Denver’s stockyards.

  Charley led the way on Dice. He was followed by Feather on Chigger. Roscoe, Henry Ellis, and Buster, riding in the buckboard, tagged along behind.

  While Charley and Feather dismounted, Roscoe and Henry Ellis climbed down from the buckboard and moved to the nearest fence where Roscoe lifted the boy up, placing him on the top rail so he could have a better view of the longhorns.

  Feather stumbled over, joining them. Buster followed. The dog was enjoying the cooler climate; he found a nearby fence post where he raised a leg and then relieved himself.

  For a long time, the small group stared in awe at the enormous—to them—herd of cattle.

  “Will ya just look at ’em,” declared Feather, interrupting the silence. “Real, honest-ta-goodness Texas longhorns. Hot damn!” he yelped. “It’s sure bin one hell of a long time since I seen one a’ them critters.”

  “See any bulls?” asked Charley.

  Feather squinted. “I see some cows,” he answered. “Mostly steers.”

  “Well,” said Charley, pointing across the arena, “I reckon I better go on over there and sign up.”

  “Hey, there’s a bull!” shouted Feather, pointing to another corral.

  “C’mon,” said Roscoe. “They’re packed into them corrals so tight together, how can you tell it’s a bull?”

  Feather smirked, strutting his stuff. “By the contented look in his eyes,” he confirmed.

  Charley smiled and moved away.

  Henry Ellis jumped down from the fence and ran after him. So did Buster.

  Roscoe stepped in beside Feather, leaning on a rail.

  “You wanna know somethin’, Feather Martin?” he asked with a straight face. “The only thing you know about bulls is how many shovels it takes to fill you up.”

  A little later on, a few eager observers were sitting here and there in the rodeo bleachers behind the auctioneer’s podium. Others strolled casually toward the auction area.

  Red, white, and blue pennants fluttered in a light breeze from every corral fence.

  Charley, Roscoe, Feather, and the boy were now seated on a closer fence rail, watching as the people arrived for the event.

  Buster, of course, was curled up on the ground below the humans, licking his fur and paying no attention at all.

  The auctioneer, a potbellied man with gray hair under a slick tan Stetson, appeared to be involved in some last-minute paperwork, while a couple of his associates were putting the final touches on the podium.

  Roscoe checked his pocket watch while Feather took a small bottle from his rear pocket, turned away from the others, and took a long swallow.

  “You go gettin’ yerself roostered again,” Charley told the peewee cowboy, “and I’ll personally nail your hide to a barn wall.”

  “Just cuttin’ a frog outta my throat, boss,” coughed Feather. “Little hair of the horse.”

  Charley and Roscoe exchanged glances.

  Charley nodded toward Henry Ellis who appeared to be caught up in all the color of the occasion.

  Roscoe winked at Charley as the auctioneer, across the arena, checked his pocket watch one more time, noting that the bleachers were still pretty empty.

  He raised a megaphone to his mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “May I please have your attention?”

  All eyes turned to the podium.

  The announcer went on: “Can I see the hands of all those registered as official bidders?”

  Charley raised his hand.

  After a moment, he looked around, realizing that he was the only one in acknowledgment.

  The auctioneer saw this as a potential problem, so he bent down and whispered something to one of his associates.

  The associate whispered something back and the auctioneer raised his megaphone again. “Is there a representative from the Pike Meatpacking Company in attendance?” he asked.

  There was absolutely no response to his question, only a slight murmur from the sparse crowd.

  The auctioneer again bent down and whispered something to his associate. The man nodded, then disappeared into a nearby building.

  The auctioneer turned back to the meager crowd.

  “The Pike Meatpacking Company has made a pre-auction offer for the entire herd of three hundred head,” he revealed. “The State of Colorado’s Livestock Auction Official Rules say that we must allow fifteen additional minutes for a Pike representative to make their presence known before we can proceed.”

  Charley was taking it all in, thinking deeply, when Roscoe turned to him.

  “What about us?” he said.

  Charley peered across the way to the auctioneer. He raised his hand.

  The auctioneer looked up, squinting. “Yes, sir?” he inquired through the megaphone.

  Charley yelled back to him, “I seem to be the only other bidder, mister.”

  The auctioneer smiled gently. “By Denver, Colorado’s, Livestock Auction official rule number one sixty-seven,” he explained, his words echoing across the empty arena, “the herd must be sold as an entire lot … if a pre-auction bid has been submitted to that effect. The Pike Meatpacking Company has, in fact, made a pre-auction bid of fifty thousand dollars. This is an entire lot bid, sir.”

  He referred to some legal papers on the podium in front of him. “I have my instructions right here if you’d like to read them.” He went on, holding up some documents for Charley to see.

  “But that ain’t what it said in the Juanita Centennial newspaper,” shouted Charley.

  The auctioneer shook his head, continuing to hold up the papers. “I have my instructions,” he repeated, “right here in my hand. It’s an all or nothin’ auction, sir. I have to abide by the rules.”

  Charley settled back on the fence, appearing more than a little upset.

  “Sounds like a fix ta me,” mumbled Feather.

  “They do pre-arrange these things sometimes, I’ve heard,” added Roscoe.

  Suddenly, Charley jumped down from the fence. He looked back to the others with a determined expression.

  “Anybody seen a telephone around here?” he said. “I need to talk to my pardner.”

  Henry Ellis climbed down beside his grandfather. “I saw a telephone on the wall at the place where we signed up, Grampa,” he said. “You just tell me the number you want to call, and I’ll have the operator get it for you.”

  A ripple of anticipation ran through the small crowd as they waited. Roscoe and Feather were still sitting on the fence. The smaller cowboy took another sip on his bottle. He handed the container to Roscoe, who downed a swallow himself.

  Suddenly Feather pointed toward the auction podium, where Charley—with Henry Ellis and Buster at his side—could be seen talking with the auctioneer.

  After several moments of intense dialogue between both parties, the auctioneer nodded. Charley, his grandson, and the dog moved to a small building nearby and went inside. The auctioneer went to the podium and began to go through some more of his papers.

  It wasn’t long before Charley, Henry Ellis, and Buster returned to the corral fence; Charley and the boy climbed up beside the others.

  Questioning looks from Feather and Roscoe got no response from the stoic Charley—or the boy.

  The auctioneer once again picked up his megaphone. “There’s still no sign of a Pike representative,” he told the audience. “And, by the rules, I must begin this auction on time. High bid is fifty thousand dollars from the Pike Meatpacking Company for this entire herd of three hundred magnificent, longhorn cattle.”

  Before he could go on, Charley raised a finger. All eyes went to the old rancher.

 
; “Fifty thousand … and ONE,” he bid with a determined shout.

  More murmurs ran through the undersized crowd.

  Roscoe’s and Feather’s looks snapped around to Charley.

  “I have a bid of fifty thousand and ONE dollars,” said the auctioneer. “Do I hear another bid?”

  All were silent. Only the breeze whipping lightly at the patriotic pennants made any noise at all.

  The auctioneer looked around apprehensively for any other bidders, knowing that there were none, stalling for more time.

  The associate poked his head out of the tent flap, got the auctioneer’s attention, shrugged, and shook his head.

  The auctioneer again raised the megaphone.

  “Fifty thousand and one going once,” he said, his eyes still searching the crowd. “Fifty thousand and one going twice …”

  The crowd’s eagerness swelled as the marvel of what was happening before their eyes began to sink in.

  “Going three times,” the announcer said with a sigh.

  Then: “SOLD to the cowboy in the white shirt, sitting on the fence beside the good-looking young man … with the sleeping dog at their feet.” He slammed down his gavel to finalize the deal.

  Some light applause rippled from the spectators, along with several “Whoopees” from Roscoe and Feather.

  They both jumped down from the railing, converging on Charley and Henry Ellis who had beaten them to the ground.

  Of course, the sounds of excitement woke Buster, and the old dog began to bark, even though he didn’t know what he was barking about.

  Charley picked up his grandson and swung him around in a circle. Charley was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Did I do all right?” he asked his grandson.

  Henry Ellis, also grinning, said, “You betcha, Grampa! Now you’re a real cowboy again.”

  Roscoe moved to Charley’s side. “What’ve you done now, C.A.?” he asked. “Gone crazy? That fifty thousand was ’sposed ta include the transportation money ta get them sons-a’-bucks back home ta Texas.”

  Charley started to show some irritation with his pal.

  “Hold your horses, Roscoe Baskin,” he began. “Just a few minutes ago, I talked to Flora Mae on one of those telephone contraptions and she told me to ‘Go for it’ … so I did. She’s calling a special Huckabee Enterprises board meeting right now this very minute to try and get us some transportation money. So don’t go getting your long john butt flap tangled in your spurs before you got all the facts straight, all right?