Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  He turned to Rod.

  “I don’t suppose that could be your boss, could it?” he added.

  Rod shrugged. “Pike’s got the means … and the power,” he answered politely.

  Charley sat up straight. He cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.

  “It don’t really matter who done what,” he told them all. “There ain’t going to be any shipping of those cattle. At least not around these parts, there ain’t. And that’s a fact.

  “Now,” he continued, “I’ve just been talking on the telephone to my financial partner, Miss Flora Mae Huckabee, back in Juanita. And me and her decided we’d drive these horns all the way to Texas if we have to. And now it looks like we have to, don’t it?” he said, and sighed.

  Roscoe did a double take.

  “Drive ’em?” he said.

  Henry Ellis, like the others, had been standing mouth agape at the idea. Now his lips widened into an excited grin.

  “Y-you mean like you did in the ‘olden days,’ Grampa?” he stammered. “A real, honest-to-goodness ‘cross-country cattle drive’?”

  Charley nodded slowly. “Longhorn cattle drive,” he said.

  He smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Like you said: Just like we done it in the olden days, son.”

  Charley looked to the others for their reactions.

  Roscoe and Feather appeared to be hemming and hawing.

  “So what’s the matter with you two?” he asked. “You both did it all the time when you were young men. Are you afraid that you’re too old now to give it one more try?”

  Roscoe and Feather were still showing some hesitation.

  Kelly whispered something to Gerald—then he turned and disappeared around a corral.

  Kelly stepped in closer to the group.

  “Of course you should drive them,” she concurred. “It’s mostly open country between here and Texas.”

  Rod stepped in closer.

  “The law’s on your side, too, Mr. Sunday,” he told Charley. “Most counties in these parts still have livestock right-a’-ways on their books.”

  “What are livestock right-a’-ways?” asked Kelly.

  “Those are legal directives that give livestock precedence over anything else on a public thoroughfare,” he answered.

  Charley gritted his teeth.

  “Me an’ Flora Mae know that, son,” he said.

  He turned to Feather and Roscoe. “And so should these two mule-faced jackasses … Now I said we was gonna drive them brush snakes to Texas, and that sure as hell is what we’re gonna do.”

  He sighed again.

  “It’s a dirty job,” he reminded them, “but someone’s gotta do it. And we’re all we have right now.”

  “B-but,” Roscoe faltered, “we ain’t got enough hands, C.A.”

  Charley turned to Rod.

  “What about you, Indian?” he asked. “I just saw what other talents you have. Are you willing to gamble on an old Texas cowman?”

  Kelly stepped in before Rod could answer.

  “I’d be willing to come along,” she said. “I can ride, rope, and I can cook, too. I’d just like to have Gerald, my photographer, allowed to follow along with us, if it’d be all right with you. This should make one heck of a great human interest story, believe me.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Miss Kelly,” said Charley, “as long as the both of you can pull your own weight.”

  He turned back to Rod.

  “Son?” he prodded.

  Rod hesitated, then: “Sure, sure,” he told Charley, “I’ll come along with you … Why not?”

  Charley turned back to Roscoe and Feather.

  “These two youngsters ain’t afraid,” he told the pair. “And I know I don’t have to ask Henry Ellis. I know the both of you’ll have to do the work of three, and that’s a fact, but—”

  Roscoe cut in. “At my age, my butt and a saddle don’t stick to one another like they used to, but we’ve bin ridin’ river fer too long together fer me ta unsaddle just yet, C.A. Sunday,” he told Charley. “I’ll go.”

  Charley threw a wink to Roscoe, nodded, then turned to the smaller cowboy.

  “Feather Martin,” he asked. “What about you?”

  Feather continued to vacillate, then realized he was the only one left.

  “Well,” he grumbled, “I still say yer barkin’ at a knot.”

  Nevertheless, Feather didn’t seem to be that amused. He took the final swig from his pocket pint of whiskey and nodded to Charley in agreement. “Hell,” he said, “I reckon I’ll come along with ya … even if it’s only ta see the elephant.”

  Gerald, the photographer, who had left earlier, walked back into camp and sat down beside Kelly. He whispered something in her ear.

  The newswoman smiled; she stepped forward.

  “My powers that be in New York City just gave me permission to cover your cattle drive as a continuing feature story, Mr. Sunday.” She beamed. “That means what I observe and write about every single day will appear in every single newspaper my company contracts with. So, you men better make this a good one.”

  Charley threw her a wink before he turned to the entire group.

  “All right, you men, let’s get going,” he commanded. “We’ll trade, tack, and grub up this afternoon. We still got some time before dark. And tomorrow we’ll brand them critters. We’ll move ’em out the following day.

  “Oh, and we still got some serious alterations ta make to the buckboard,” Charley added.

  “Why’s that?” questioned Roscoe.

  “It’s gonna be our chuckwagon,” said Charley. “We need to pull out the backseat, build some sides on it to make it a wagon, change out the axles and wheels, and build a cook’s cupboard in the back for our grub and other supplies.”

  “And I suppose I’m gonna be the cook,” grumbled Roscoe.

  “Do you want to eat my cooking?” asked Charley. “Or Henry Ellis’s? Or maybe Feather’s?”

  “All right then,” Roscoe eventually confirmed. “I’ll do the cookin’.”

  “I figured you’d understand.” Charley chuckled as he took a large bite of the Chinese food. He chewed a while, then said, “Rod? Feather? I’ll be needin’ both of your professional know-how if we’re gonna do some savvy horse tradin’. So, let’s get our butts in the saddle; I want to be back here before suppertime. And that’s a fact!”

  CHARLEY SUNDAY

  by Kelly King

  He was born in Northern Mexico in 1829—that same massive area of Northern Mexico that would one day become the Republic of Texas after Sam Houston defeated the Mexican army at San Jacinto.

  “My parents migrated to this new land in 1820,” says Charley Sunday, “when Stephen F. Austin convinced the Mexican government to allow three hundred American families to settle in the territory. Three years later, in 1823, Austin decided these pioneers needed some kind of armed force to protect them from hostile Indians and other dangerous elements.

  “The Mexican government,” Charley went on, “allowed Austin to form a group consisting of not more than ten volunteers who would be allowed to range over the vast territory, keeping an eye out for the bands of renegade Indians that could only bring trouble to the settlers.

  “In 1846, when General Zachary Taylor needed men to follow him across the Rio Grande into Mexico to once again wage war with America’s southern neighbor,” Charley told me, “I was inducted into the Texas Ranger organization at seventeen years of age and was immediately sent off to Mexico with the Rangers as a part of Taylor’s army. We fought and defeated the Mexicans in due course.

  “Over the next forty years, or so,” he says, “during the War Between the States and in its aftermath … the reconstruction period … when Texas was governed by the Northern Army of the United States, I kept up my relationship with the Rangers, riding with them when we legally could, and standing by with them when the Yankee lawmakers would shut us down.

  “In 1876, when the agency was cal
led back to duty full time, to again serve as protectors of the citizens of Texas from the daily hazards involved just by living on Texas soil,” he says, “I went back to work with the Rangers on a regular basis … until I retired, three years after my wife Willadean died.”

  During that early period of ups and downs for the Rangers, Charley had met and married the woman whom he’d hoped would become his lifetime companion. Her name was Willadean Clarke, soon to be Sunday. Willadean became the mother of their only living child, a girl, Betty Jean (born 1862). Until Willadean’s death from pneumonia in 1887, the couple was inseparable—that is, when Charley wasn’t away with the Rangers or out of town on cattle business.

  “Just before the War Between the States broke out,” continues Charley, “I bought myself a spread of my own … five hundred acres of grazing land on the outskirts of Juanita, Texas, where me and my Willadean raised our daughter and tried to breed longhorn cattle.”

  From 1862 through the duration, Charley fought bravely for the Confederacy. He returned to Juanita in July of 1866. “It was a long walk back from Virginia, where I found myself at war’s end,” says Charley. “Plus, I had to work my way home if I wanted something to eat. That took some time.”

  During the years he had been away at war, Charley’s ranch had fallen apart, he told me. And the U.S. government had confiscated every longhorn he owned when the Yankees moved in to preside over Juanita and her citizenry.

  “My wife and daughter had survived the war years and were still living at our ranch when I finally got home,” he says. “They had been feeding themselves from our fruit orchard and a small vegetable garden Willadean had maintained since I rode off to war in 1862 … and they had somehow gotten possession of a milk cow that was still producing.”

  On several occasions while Charley was away Willadean had to use his Walker Colt to defend herself and their child from marauders that seemed to run wild while the menfolk were off to war, plus she even used the weapon to challenge the Yankee-appointed local sheriff when he was sent to remove them from their own property—something Charley took care of only days after his homecoming.

  “I hunted that blue-coat local ex-lawman down and shot the yellow-belly with my old Ranger Colt,” he says with subdued anger as well as a lump in his throat. “I reckon I shouldn’t have done it,” he goes on. “But I was angry that someone local was messing with my family, and my property, while I was off fighting for the Confederacy.

  “For the last twelve years I kind of let everything continue to fall apart, including me,” he says. “Plus, I lost the cattle I’d been able to start over with in the great drought of 1893. Since then me and Roscoe, my foreman, get by on a small income I get from leasing some of my acreage. My only living kin is my daughter, Betty Jean, and she has lived up in Austin since she got married after her mother died. But Betty Jean’s given me a grandson, with the name of Henry Ellis. And when I get to see the boy, which is usually every other summer, I do whatever I can to teach him a little more about my life and the history of Texas … the way it was.

  “I never had a son that lived past birth, you know,” Charley tells me with tear-rimmed eyes. “And Henry Ellis is probably as close to being my son as a real son would have ever been. Like I said before, I’d do anything I can for that boy … Anything.”

  Charley told me that this Colorado to Texas cattle drive more than likely wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for Henry Ellis. “When we were up there in Denver and everyone thought we were at our rope’s end, I decided that we’d drive the longhorns home to Texas … just so the boy could see how we done it in the olden days.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Hell, I’m only gonna be using ’em for a month or so,” Charley was telling Ned Baylor, the owner-operator of Baylor’s Barn, one of fourteen livery stables where horses were traded and sold in Denver, Colorado.

  Twelve of Baylor’s best geldings stood tied to several hitching posts beside the two men.

  Roscoe, Feather, and Rod stood nearby, listening, waiting to assist if Charley needed them.

  Henry Ellis and Buster observed from the buckboard, while Kelly sat beside the boy and watched as Gerald photographed the course of events from a position near his photography buggy.

  “Makes no mind ta me,” answered Baylor, a sloppily dressed horse wrangler wearing an untucked, long-sleeve, dirty and patched cotton shirt, and a worn-out felt derby to shade his weather-wrinkled face. “I still ain’t gonna rent ’em to ya. So there. If ya wanna buy ’em, then we can deal.”

  He saw Gerald’s camera out of the corner of his eye. He smiled and nodded to the lens.

  “Oh, all right,” said Charley, knowing he hadn’t time to bicker. “How much for these twelve we’ve been talking about?”

  Baylor scratched his chin. “Well,” he pondered. “Them’s twelve a’ my better stock.”

  “The hell you say,” countered Charley. “I’ve seen healthier horsemeat inside a bowl of dog food.”

  “They ain’t no prize winners,” Baylor apologized, “that’s for sure. But I guarantee ya they are good cow ponies. Some a’ the best in my barn.”

  “So, how much do you want for them cow ponies?” Charley asked again. “And please give me a fair price … one that’ll allow me to do some dickering.”

  Baylor toed the dirt with his boot.

  “Oh,” he said, hesitating. “I might just sell ’em to ya at a good price, mindin’ ya sell ’em back ta me when yer through.”

  “That’s the same as renting,” bristled Charley. “That’s what I wanted to do in the first place.”

  “I don’t rent,” recapped the stubborn Baylor. “I sell.”

  Frustrated, Sunday spat some tobacco juice.

  “Oh, hell’s bells,” he muttered, wiping his mouth. “Just what do you think a good price might be then?”

  “One hunnert a head,” said Baylor casually.

  Charley reared back, puffed his cheeks, and blew out a whistle.

  “That’s highway robbery,” he howled. “The last horse I seen advertised for that kinda money won the blue ribbon cup at the Ken-tuck-y Derby.”

  “Now yer pullin’ my leg,” said Baylor. “Let’s trade.”

  Charley thought a minute.

  “Fifty,” he offered.

  Baylor couldn’t help grinning.

  “Seventy-five a head,” he countered. “And that’s final.”

  Charley glanced over to where his friends stood watching.

  Feather shook his head.

  Rod did the same thing.

  Roscoe just shrugged.

  “Uh,” said Charley to the barn owner. “Will you excuse me for a minute? I need to discuss this matter with my business partners over there.”

  “You feel free ta do whatever ya have ta, mister,” Baylor told him, “I’ll still be here.”

  Charley sauntered over to the group and they huddled for a few moments.

  It was Feather who finally turned and walked back to where Baylor waited.

  The man of small stature took a long minute to look Baylor up and down, sizing him up.

  “We ever met before?” he asked the larger man.

  “Don’t think so,” answered the horse trader.

  “Yep,” said Feather. “We did … a long time ago.”

  “Really?” said Baylor. “And when would that have been, shorty?”

  “Back when us kids all called you a snake on stilts, or a fat ol’ tub a’ lard. Is that what they call ya now? … a fat ol’ tub a’ lard? Or is it still straw man?” he taunted. “Gawd, you used ta be twig-thin, ya ugly ol’ buffalo.”

  Baylor’s eyes narrowed. He took a closer look at the miniature cowpoke—then his eyes lit up.

  “Why, yer Melwood Gene Martin, ain’t ya?” he said. “We went to the same schoolhouse together back in Spofford, Texas. It was you that used ta beat me up every day after school. Sure, I remember you.”

  Feather stood on his tiptoes to make eye contact with the larger ma
n. He leaned in real close.

  He said, “It’s ‘Feather’ Martin these days, high pockets . Now, how ’bout you an’ me doin’ some real horse tradin’? Before I get ticked off. And let’s start things off right by you throwin’ in all the saddles and tack we’ll be needin’ … fer nothin’.”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted a woman’s voice from behind.

  It was Kelly.

  The two men stepped back from each other, doffing their hats to the woman, smiling.

  “What can we do for ya, ma’am?” asked Feather.

  “Well, uh.” She blushed, showing some embarrassment. “I was standing quite a distance away and couldn’t really hear what you two were saying.” She raised her pad and pencil, ready to write. “Do you think you could repeat your last conversation over again for me … and after that, pose for a newspaper photograph?”

  That evening, while Feather, Roscoe, Henry Ellis, and Charley unloaded, sheltered, and fed the twelve new horses, Rod found his way over to the auction headquarters building, a short distance from the campsite, where he made another call to Sidney Pike.

  He waited anxiously as the operator went about putting the call through, and with the longhorn cattle braying all around him, he was sure no one could hear what he was about to say.

  There was a click, indicating the phone had been answered.

  “Hello?” It was Pike’s voice on the other end.

  “I’ve been trying all evening to reach you, Mr. Pike,” Rod explained. “I thought you’d like to know that the old cowboy intends to drive those cattle all the way to Texas.”

  “What?” roared the meat packer. “He’s got to be out of his mind … He can’t do that, can he? Legally?”

  “I’m afraid he can,” Rod affirmed. “And he is … starting the day after tomorrow. We’ll be moving out before sunup.”

  “We’ll be moving out?” questioned Pike with the slight rise of one eyebrow. “‘We’ll’ sounds like the whole fuc-kow-ee tribe. Does that mean you’re going along with them, too, Cochise?”

  “That is correct, Mr. Pike,” said Rod. “Mr. Sunday asked me to join them, so I said yes. I assumed you’d want me to stick close to the longhorns,” he added as an afterthought.