“In the meantime,” he added, “why don’t you start giving some credit where credit’s due: to ME … for just becoming the proud owner of ten percent of that beautiful Texas longhorn herd.”
He turned to Henry Ellis, clasping the boy on the shoulder, pulling him closer. “And to my grandson, here,” he said with pride. “It was him that loaned me the dollar.”
Feather let out an ear-shattering rebel yell as they all threw their arms around one another.
Buster continued to bark.
Across the arena, a perspiring Rod Lightfoot, dressed in a disheveled secondhand business suit, and wiping his soiled hands on a greasy rag, was arguing about something with the auctioneer and his two associates.
With a final shake of the head, the auctioneer pointed off in Charley’s direction before turning away.
Rod stared across the dirt arena to where Charley and the others continued their early celebration.
Rod appeared to be rather embarrassed about his personal appearance at that particular moment. Still aggressive in his actions, he made up his mind. He straightened his rumpled suit, ran his fingers through his hair. Then he made his way toward the small group on the other side of the arena.
Charley and the others were laughing at the auction’s outcome when Lightfoot approached them.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for a Mr. Charles Abner Sunday?”
“You found him, son,” said Charley, grinning. “What is it I can do for you?”
Rod stood to his full height, holding out his hand.
The two men shook.
“My name’s Rod Lightfoot,” he said. “I represent the Pike Meatpacking Company. I was supposed to bid on these longhorns today, but I’m afraid my buggy didn’t know just how important it was that I be here. It broke down on the way and I had to fix it myself. I understand that you bought the cattle, Mr. Sunday. Now I’m prepared to buy them back from you.”
Charley smiled softly as the two stopped shaking hands.
“Sorry, son,” he apologized. “The longhorns ain’t for sale to nobody. They’re going back to where they belong … Texas … every last one of ’em, so help me God, just as soon as I can arrange for away to ship ’em. And that’s a fact!”
“I’m prepared to meet any price,” declared Rod, “over and above what you paid for the cattle.”
Sunday shook his head once again.
“Money ain’t gonna solve anything, son,” he replied. “Ten percent of that herd belongs to me now, and I’m obligated to someone else for the rest of ’em. I’m truly sorry if you’re in a fix, but there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now. So help me God.”
A look of utter desperation crept onto Rod’s face.
“Mister Sunday,” he began. “I’m working my butt off trying to get into law school … I’ve read all the law books I could get my hands on. Not too many Indians around here have ever tried anything like this before. In spite of my inability to obtain a law degree, the Pike Meatpacking Company is the first real job I’ve had where I can utilize what I’ve learned and still study the books in my time off. Now I’ll probably lose that job when my boss finds out I screwed up on this cattle deal.”
It was apparent that Charley felt compassion for the younger man, and Charley even felt obliged to give him another firm shake of the head.
“Like I said, son, I’m sorry that you’re in a fix. But I just got out of one myself… possibly a worse one than you’re in. Right now,” he continued, “my first and only priority is getting these animals properly delivered to the person that put up the money for ’em back in Texas.”
Rod stood silent, totally exasperated. There appeared to be nothing more he could either say or do. So he just shrugged and turned away, moving off toward the other side of the arena.
Roscoe looked at Charley, realizing that his old partner felt bad about the young man’s situation. But all he could do was shrug.
Feather and Henry Ellis both harbored deep sentiments about the position Rod had found himself in, but those feelings were soon laid aside as the celebration continued.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A black, box-shaped, covered buggy pulled up under a tree nearby and a very attractive woman stepped down. She was dressed in a plain blouse, short jacket, and long skirt, and she carried a small notepad in one hand. The man who had been driving the horse-drawn photographic darkroom got out after she did. When he had secured the one horse, he began to unload several boxes from a covered rear opening in the body of the rig. Those boxes contained camera equipment, which he began setting up on the grass that surrounded them all.
“Hello … My name’s Kelly King,” the woman told Charley. “I represent the National News Syndicate. You must be Mr. Charles Abner Sunday.”
Rod stood beside a wall crank telephone inside the auction’s main headquarters building holding the earpiece to his ear. He was listening as someone talked on the other end.
Rod had removed his coat, vest, and tie, revealing a shiny, brass US Army buckle.
Rod’s eyes were looking out a window where he could see the horse-drawn darkroom across the arena. He watched as Charley and the others stood by silently as they were photographed one by one.
“That’s right, Mr. Pike,” Rod said into the mouthpiece. “The old cowboy plans on shipping the entire herd to Texas. By the way, the National News Syndicate people just now showed up … No”—he shook his head—“I don’t know how they got wind of it so soon.”
“For Chrissake, kid,” said Sidney Pike into his primitive table telephone as he sat at his lavish office desk in his downtown Denver headquarters talking to Rod Lightfoot. “If they even think about talking to you, keep my name out of it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rod, nodding his head. “I’d never do that, sir.”
Pike squirmed in his plush leather chair as he carried on his conversation with Rod.
“Between you and that stupid auctioneer,” he continued, “I’m surrounded with incompetence. You have to get those cows back, Indian … My ass is on the line.”
“Uh, sir,” said Rod carefully. “I do realize that this is a serious matter—”
“You bet this is serious,” screamed Pike, cutting him off. “I’ve already received full payment for that meat, plus my Chicago distributor has already sunk I don’t know how much into their sales campaign. That’s a lot of money, Lightfoot.”
Rod was beginning to perspire. “I really am sorry, Mr. Pike, I—”
“Face it, Indian,” Pike told him bluntly, “you screwed up.”
He struck a match, lighting a large cigar. Then he reached over and poured a stiff drink from the carafe on his desk.
Rod attempted a remedy.
“Maybe if you returned the money,” he suggested.
“Are you out of your mind?” Pike howled. “I already spent the money, you indigenous idiot. Do you think I’m some kind of a schmuck? I’ll go ahead and call the railroad and the trucking companies and put the kibosh on any chance that old Texan might think he has of getting those longhorns out of this state.
“And YOU, Flapping Eagle,” he added, “YOU work on getting those cows back for me … Any way you can.”
“Y-yes, sir, Mr. Pike,” said Rod. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You do EVERYTHING you can!” shouted the meat packer, slamming the earpiece back where it belonged.
After a long moment, he lifted the earpiece again and waited for the operator’s voice.
Minutes later Pike waited for the table phone to connect. When it did, his expression changed abruptly to one of saccharine verity. He smiled a nauseatingly sweet smile to himself and spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Hello, Interstate Livestock Transportation?” he began. “This is Sidney Pike of the Pike Meatpacking Company. You remember me, don’t you? Five hundred big greenies every month … on the hoof?”
Later on, inside the auction’s headquarters building, Kelly King was talking on the same wall crank teleph
one Rod had used. “Just take this down word for word, boss. I’ll have a lot more to fill you in on tonight after I check into a hotel.” She cleared her throat: “This is Kelly King for the National News Syndicate,” she began, “reporting from Denver, Colorado. Headline: An Old-Time, Texas Cowboy Has Just Purchased a Herd of Three Hundred Longhorn Cattle … Saving Them from the Butcher’s Cleaver.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rod, looking more depressed than ever, sauntered along beside the corral fence thinking to himself. Finally he stopped where Feather and Roscoe were helping several Colorado cowboys haze some of the longhorns from one of the holding pens into another.
Henry Ellis sat nearby stroking Buster’s coat, watching from an old three-legged stool someone had left there.
Rod moved up beside the boy and leaned against the fence, his mind swirling with absolutely no solution to his problem.
After a moment, Henry Ellis took notice of the unhappy man’s presence.
“Hello,” he said simply, throwing the stranger an easy wave.
Rod glanced over to the boy, acknowledging with his own “Hello.”
“Did you get some bad news?” asked Henry Ellis.
Rod shrugged. He wasn’t that interested in casual conversation right then, especially with a ten-year-old.
The boy took Rod’s silence for what it was and picked up the dialogue himself.
“That’s my grampa,” he said. “The cowboy who bought the longhorn herd.”
He pointed across the arena to where Charley stood, concluding an interview with Kelly King.
The photographer held his flash powder high, and when he activated the camera’s lens control the powder exploded, illuminating them both.
“That’s him over there being interviewed for the newspaper,” Henry Ellis continued. “My grampa’s famous, you know.”
Rod glanced over in Charley’s direction, his interest drawn immediately to Kelly King.
“Uh-hum,” he mumbled. “What’s he famous for?”
Henry Ellis abandoned the dog and stood up. He took a step forward, leaning on the rail beside Rod.
“Oh, a lot of things … in Texas,” he boasted. “My grampa was a Texas Ranger in the olden days.”
He pointed over to Roscoe and Feather.
“Them too,” he added. “The three of them rounded up a whole lot of outlaws way back before I was born.”
Rod was only half listening. He was still staring at Kelly across the way.
“That’s nice,” he muttered, then he caught himself. “About your grandfather and his friends, I mean.”
Another flash went off as the photographer took another photograph.
Suddenly there was a loud commotion near the transfer pens. Some “whoops” from the cowboys and the frenzied braying from a frightened steer—followed by the sound of splintering wood.
Rod and Henry Ellis turned quickly, just in time to see that one of the longhorns had crashed through a gate and had run into the arena.
Almost without thinking, Rod broke for a horse that was tethered nearby. He stepped professionally into a stirrup, swung into the saddle, and kicked out after the runaway.
The longhorn steer appeared to be running in a direct path across the arena; more than likely he was heading for the area where he’d seen the flash.
Rod, astride the galloping horse, pursued relentlessly.
Charley and Kelly King were still in deep conversation when Charley looked up and blinked—he saw the approaching threat and shook the newswoman’s shoulder.
“Better stop it right now, miss,” he warned. “Here comes trouble!”
The photographer heard Charley’s alarm and scrambled.
Charley grabbed Kelly, pulling her aside, just as Rod dove from the moving horse’s back onto the stampeding steer. Rod grabbed it by the horns, bulldogging the animal, twisting its head, and dropping it to the ground within inches of Charley and the startled lady.
Rod held the longhorn down until some other cowboys could get a rope on it. Only then did he release the horns so the cowboys could lead the animal away.
By then, Henry Ellis, Feather, and Roscoe had run over, followed by Buster.
Rod picked himself up as Kelly twirled a finger and called to her photographer, “All right, Gerald, wrap it up; I’m sure we’ve got plenty of photos.”
Charley stepped over to Rod, offering his hand. The two men shook.
“That was some real fine horsemanship, son,” he told the younger man. “Where in tarnation did a citified man like you ever learn to ride like that?”
Rod appeared to be somewhat embarrassed, but he still answered: “I learned to ride on the reservation, sir. One of the ways I’m raising money for my law school tuition is by entering small town riding and roping exhibitions.”
Charley caught a glimpse of Rod’s US Army buckle, and he nodded his approval.
“My friend Roscoe over there,” he began with a subdued chuckle, “he used to wear a special buckle kind of like yours. But he got so tired of lifting up his belly every time someone wanted to see what it looked like. So he got the same thing tattooed on his left arm, instead. That made showing it off a lot easier.”
Roscoe turned a bit crimson.
“That ain’t true, C.A. Sunday, and you know it.”
The others all chuckled at Charley’s humor.
“Were you involved in our recent conflict with Spain?” asked Charley.
“Yes, sir,” said Rod. “I fought my way up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt.”
“So you were a Rough Rider.”
“It was Roosevelt who personally signed me up in the Menger Hotel Bar, across from the Alamo in downtown San Antonio. I don’t think I knew what I was getting myself into except it was the first time in my life where being an Indian was considered a good thing and not something bad.”
Charley shook his hand proudly, then turned back to Kelly King.
“Miss Kelly,” he began. “This here’s Mr. Rod Lightfoot… that lawyer fella I’ve been telling you all about. And might I add, he’s one heck of a cowboy, too … As you just witnessed.”
Kelly held out her hand. Rod shook it. Both of them locked eyes on the other for a very long moment—something was definitely clicking.
“Kelly King,” said Kelly with a blush, “National News Syndicate.”
Rod smiled. “I know,” he answered awkwardly. “I’ve read some of your stories before.”
Charley sensed the mutual attraction right away. He nodded to Roscoe, who reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out some bills, handing them to Charley.
“Say, youngsters,” Charley began, “while I contact the railroad and set up a shipping time, why don’t you two see if you can find us all some vittles. There must be somewhere around here to buy some food.”
Neither Kelly nor Rod seemed to hear what Charley was saying; they were much too distracted by one another’s presence. So Charley just stuffed the money into Rod’s shirt pocket anyway. Then he moved away.
Henry Ellis, Feather, and Roscoe were left standing beside the enamored couple.
“Gee, Rod,” said the boy, “that was really great!”
Roscoe added, “That sure was some nice cowboyin’, son.”
All Feather could think of to say was, “Couldn’ta done it better myself.”
Buster just barked.
Before an hour had passed, Roscoe had fashioned a canvas covering for a canopy beside the buckboard. Feather was nurturing a small campfire nearby.
Rod, and the photographer Gerald, had eventually gone out in search of some food. Charley and Henry Ellis were nowhere to be seen. Kelly sat talking to Feather, while Buster slept under the buckboard.
It wasn’t long before Rod and Gerald drove up in the horse-drawn darkroom. They climbed down before entering the small campsite carrying several neatly tied boxes of Chinese food.
Buster followed along, sniffing at the boxes, hoping, of course, that there would be something inside with his
name on it.
Everyone helped themselves to the boxes before finding a place to sit.
A tired looking Charley entered the camp, holding his grandson’s hand.
Roscoe jumped up to greet the two, stuffing some noodles into his mouth with a pair of wooden chopsticks.
The others looked on with interest.
“When do we load ’em out?” mumbled the excited Roscoe, still chewing.
Charley threw him a look of sheer exhaustion before moving to one of the Chinese boxes and opening it. He sniffed and made an awful face.
“Are we gonna get a-goin’ in the mornin’?” questioned Feather. “Before sunup? Is that when we’re gonna start transferrin’ these butt heads into the railroad loadin’ pens, boss?”
Charley could only shake his head slowly as he moved on past the group and climbed up into the buckboard, where he sat.
Henry Ellis slid in beside his grandfather.
Charley’s head hung low—so did the boy’s.
“There’s not going to be any shipping,” he informed them.
There were surprised looks from everyone.
“No one will do it,” Charley added, shaking his head.
Roscoe slowly slid his hat back on his head, then he moved over, standing below his old friend.
“You mean ta say there ain’t no trains in this town?” he questioned. “No cattle cars? No nothin’?”
Charley shook his head again, drew in a long, deep breath, and let it out.
“Oh,” he began, “there’s transportation all right. I just didn’t get any cooperation.”
“What’s that supposed ta mean?” asked Feather.
Charley answered, “Just that there’s someone with a little more grease than I have hereabouts who doesn’t like the idea of us coming into possession of that longhorn herd.”
Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit Page 8
