Feather tapped the brim of his hat, wheeled Chigger around, and galloped through the herd to help the other cowboys haze the longhorns toward the small opening he had just created.
Rod was working alone beside a farm to market road, keeping any strays from crossing the narrow dirt strip.
A large horse-drawn carriage pulled up behind him; the driver nudged the team over to the side of the road next to the young Indian.
Pike leaned out of the window.
“Well, Lightfoot,” he said sarcastically, “I wasn’t sure whether you’d still be here. I haven’t read about you in the newspaper.”
It was obvious that Rod didn’t feel comfortable being seen in the company of Pike. He reined his mount around and, with rope in hand, hazed a wandering maverick back in the direction of the herd.
His horse jumped and reared as he turned its head back toward the carriage, a hoof coming dangerously close to Pike’s cigar.
The meat packer ducked back.
“Geezes,” he yelped. “What are you doing? Trying to kill me?”
“Oh, no sir, Mr. Pike,” the youthful Native American answered blandly. “But I still want you to know I’m a part of them, just like I told you I was. But I—”
“Good going, kid,” said Pike, cutting him off.
Rod had been ready to call off his association with the meat peddler, but he was unable to get the right words out.
“Just keep doing whatever you’re doing, Sitting Bull,” Pike continued. “I’m in the process of calling in an old favor I’m owed … a political favor.”
Pike couldn’t help laughing to himself. “By this time next week,” he went on, “that herd will be one hundred percent, grade A beefsteaks and on its way to becoming authentic, mouth-watering, Eastern restaurant specials.”
Before Rod could reply, the meat packer nodded to his driver and the carriage jerked away in a cloud of dust. The clatter of the horses’ hooves plus the rumble of the carriage wheels overrode the peal of Pike’s contemptuous laughter.
Rod watched after the departing vehicle, feeling quite miserable about his covert involvement in Charley Sunday’s longhorn cattle drive.
After a few moments, Feather rode up, reining in a few yards down the road.
“Hey, kid,” he called out to Rod. “Better get on through the hole in the fence; we’re about ta close ’er up.”
MELWOOD G. “FEATHER” MARTIN
by Kelly King
“If I hadn’t been so dang small when I was born I suppose I wouldn’t a’ got the name Feather stuck ta me right off like I done,” says Feather Martin, a cowboy on the Colorado to Texas drive. “‘This’n here’s a real featherweight, ’ the midwife that helped birth me was supposed ta have said when she picked me up fer the first time. Thank God they didn’t call me Tiny … though there’s bin times when some ranahan or another has called me that. ‘And a loud one, too,’ the midwife added. Because I came into this world cryin’ like a bullet-shot coyote.
“I was born in what eventually became Spofford, Texas,” says Feather, “down the road from Juanita. Back then it was just a gatherin’ place fer poor pioneers that settled there ’cause they had run out a’ money all at the same time. They had nowhere else ta go. But I lived in Juanita nearly all my adult life … ’ceptin’ the years I was off ta war fightin’ them damn Yankee S.O.B.’s. We still had ta do battle with them danged yellow-bellies again after the war was over when we came home. Once the great General Robert E. Lee signed them surrender papers the danged carpetbaggers swarmed inta Texas like the locusts done ta Egypt. Only thing that kept me out a’ one of their makeshift jails back then was on account a’ my association with the Rangers. First thing those lousy Lincoln-lovers done was ta close down the Rangers and start a state police force of their own. My daddy died fightin’ ’em. I lost a couple a’ brothers who got inta the mix, too.
“I sure was glad when us Rangers was called back ta full duty. That allowed me ta work again with my friends Charley and Roscoe fer a spell. The three of us busted up some pretty well-organized criminal outfits over the years. I’m told there’s a cell block in the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville dedicated to the three of us … Naw, I’m just jokin’ about that … but if they ever was gonna build some add-on sections at Huntsville, namin’ one of ’em after the three of us would be all right by me. We sure did send a heck of a lot a’ bad actors down ta Huntsville Penitentiary over the years.”
After a brief pause, Feather continues, “Before I joined the Rangers and met up with Charley an’ Roscoe, I worked my granddaddy’s farm outside a’ Spofford for him. My granddaddy had been wounded severely in a battle with Comanche raiders back in the early part a’ this century when Texas was still a part a’ Old Mexico. They shot him up badly, they did … with arrows. So bad a friend a’ his had ta cut off his left arm and leg. He worked that land fer a long time on his one crutch ’til there wasn’t much left of him to be a farmer anymore. So his son … my daddy … took it upon hisself to volunteer me for the job. I worked on granddaddy’s farm from the time I was seven ’til I turned seventeen—even though granddaddy had passed on when I was twelve, I believe.
“At age seventeen … that was when I seen the notice nailed to the local general store’s bulletin board askin’ fer volunteers fer the Texas Rangers. I had a fella write ta my daddy fer me tellin’ him the farm had bin left to him in his daddy’s will. Then I signed those rangerin’ papers and never looked back.”
Feather says he spent some time in San Antonio. “Then they moved me up ta Amarillo for a spell. That’s where I run inta Charley Sunday fer the first time. Some of the local Indians that’d bin sent off inta Oklahoma Territory as punishment for burnin’ down a pastor’s privy thought they’d jump the reservation and ride back to their old huntin’ grounds to see if there was still any buffalo left below the Canadian River. That’s when me an’ Charley was assigned ta move them Indians back north inta Oklahoma Territory. Durin’ that little escapade was when we met Roscoe Baskin fer the first time. Roscoe’d been delegated to move them Indians, too … only by a different Ranger district. Anyhow, the two of us joined up with ol’ Roscoe and betwixt the three of us we rounded up them renegades an’ took ’em all back to their reservation where they belonged.
“I’ll bet by lookin’ at me you’d never guess that I had me a wife once … not no white woman, mind ya, but a Indian squaw. I loved that woman, I did, but her older brother found out about us and instead of dyin’ like a hero fightin’ fer her honor, I just give her back to her family when the brother and five other family members showed up one mornin’ to revenge my marryin’ her without her pappy’s permission. We never had any papooses … that I’m aware of. She was a mite chubby so when her brother came fer her, I wouldn’t’ve bin able to tell if she was with child or not.”
This cowboy’s story continues. “I bin workin’ on and off as a cowhand fer over half a’ my life, it seems. It was never steady work … but whenever I could catch a herd headed north that wasn’t in conflict with my rangerin’ duties or the other important things that come up in a man’s lifetime every now and then, I’d take to the saddle an’ follow cattle instead of outlaws for a spell.
“The danged likker caught up to me a few years back and fer a while there I thought I might become the town drunk of Juanita, Texas. That never happened though, because Juanita already has a town drunk. And when a little town like Juanita finds out it’s got more’n one town drunk in their midst, havin’ a town drunk stops being fun to ’em and wakes ’em up to the fact a’ how easy it could be fer any one of ’em to be the town drunk. Honest to God, Kelly,” he tells me as an afterthought… “I ain’t even had the thought of whiskey in my head ever since we started this drive. I must be blessed, or somethin’ similar. I bin thinkin’ I might even go to a church service with Charley and Roscoe when we get back ta Juanita. On second thought, maybe that’d be too much fer them ta handle all at one time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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A couple of days went by without too much difficulty as the longhorns moved passively through the picturesque Colorado countryside.
Kelly and Gerald sent their daily reports back to New York by telegraph, telephone, and the good old U.S. Mail, while the drovers continually wore themselves to a frazzle pushing the three-hundred-head longhorn herd relentlessly—and with an understaffed crew.
By nightfall, all anyone could do was chow down as quick as they could, set out their bedrolls, and fall asleep. Morning—which was usually four a.m.—came before a person could blink.
The average American Joseph and Josephina, whether they were local-or national-news followers, were getting to know “Charley Sunday’s Texas Outfit” pretty well. There were at least two Extra editions per week in most syndicated newspapers on the longhorns’ progress, with Kelly having written the details. And a fairly good amount of the readers were beginning to buy every edition with astute regularity.
Charles Abner Sunday sat near the campfire, cleaning his old Whitneyville Walker Colt.
Roscoe was finishing up the supper dishes nearby, while Buster caught forty winks on a horse blanket beside Charley’s feet.
One of the Colorado cowboys, Sleepy, played a pleasant tune on his harmonica, while the other two snoozed.
The news syndicate wagon was gone. Rod, Kelly, Henry Ellis, and Gerald were nowhere to be seen.
After a moment, Feather rode into camp, dismounted, and slowly walked Chigger over to where Charley was sitting. He appeared to be just a wee bit agitated.
Charley glanced up. “Feather?” he said out loud, just a little startled to see the undersized cowboy back in camp. “Who’s minding the store? Aren’t you supposed to be riding first shift nighthawk?”
“That Injun saddle-slicker was ’sposed to relieve me, boss,” Feather whined.
Charley took out his pocket watch, then checked the time.
“Not until ten o’clock, he ain’t,” said Charley, spitting a stream of juice into the fire where it sizzled and steamed. “Besides, I let Rod and Kelly take Henry Ellis back into that town we passed by today so they could take in a minstrel show. Gerald, the photographer, took ’em all in his traveling photography darkroom. He had some developed photographs he needed to mail back to New York.”
Charley spun the gun’s cylinder, then began to reload each of the .44-caliber’s six chambers with the required fifty grains of black powder, followed by the conical lead bullets he had made himself.
“They’ll be back soon, Feather,” he said. “Don’t you be worrying your suspenders off over it if they are just a little bit late. If they are, I’ll send one of the Colorado boys out to spell you.”
He winked at his old friend. “A man gets along in years like you, Feather Martin, he’s entitled to a warm corner when it starts getting chilly.”
Before Feather could remount, a gruff voice boomed out of the darkness: “Hold it right there! And drop the gun, Tex!”
All heads turned as two badge-wearing county sheriff’s deputies stepped into the campfire’s light, their weapons trained on the old cowpunchers.
Buster’s ears perked: he let out a seasoned growl.
The head deputy nodded to Sunday.
“Call off the dog and drop the gun, cowboy,” he commanded. “I said, drop it!”
Charley nodded to Buster and the dog backed away, then he looked down at the old Colt.
“This here thumb buster?” he asked politely. “Would you mind at all if I just set her down gently? She’s a family heirloom … an antique that’s been with me for a lot of years.”
The deputy nodded.
Charley carefully put the Walker aside.
The deputy stepped in closer, pulling an official-looking document from his shirt pocket.
“I have a warrant for your arrest,” he said. “All of your arrests.”
Not that much later, Charley, Roscoe, Feather, and Buster sat side by side on a lower jail cell bunk, all looking very depressed.
“Ain’t that eatin’ the drag dust,” mumbled Feather, “a couple a’ Colorado badges gettin’ the bulge on three Texas peso packers like us.”
“That’s ex–peso packers,” said Charley, correcting him. “We’re all retired, remember? None of us has worn a Ranger star in ages.”
“Must be somethin’ personal, too,” said Roscoe. “They let them Colorado rawhiders ya hired off the hook. Neil said they’d stay at the camp an’ let Rod an’ Kelly know where we were when they got back.
“Oh, an’ by the way,” he added, “one a’ them deputies that arrested us told me that whoever got the judge ta sign that warrant was only interested in us three.”
Buster’s ears perked again—he let out a warning bark.
“That’s right,” said a voice from behind them. “Just you three!”
It was Sidney Pike.
He stood outside the holding cell with a deputy sheriff at his side.
The three Texans stood up slowly, turning around.
Charley pointed for Buster to stay on the cot—the dog lay down, putting his chin on his forepaws.
The men moved over to the bars. Charley squinted at the slick little city dude standing beside the law officer.
“Who in the hell are you?” asked Charley.
“Sidney Pike, of Pike’s Meatpacking Company,” the dubious businessman answered with more than a little self-importance. “I asked Judge Procter to issue that arrest warrant myself.”
Charley eyed the man up and down, then he turned his look to the deputy.
“You’re a lawman,” he said. “It can’t be legal. It doesn’t matter who signed it.”
Pike cut in.
“Oh, it’s legal, all right. Judge Procter just happens to be a very old and dear personal friend of mine, Mr. Sunday,” he boasted. “It just so happens that you’re right in the middle of Procter’s judicial district at this very moment, so, it’s all official. Believe me, it’s legal,” he snickered.
Charley still directed his question to the deputy.
“What in the devil are we being charged with, then?” he asked.
The deputy shrugged, turned away.
Pike took out a cigar, bit off the tip, and made his point with his usual saccharine smile.
“It doesn’t really matter, cowboy,” he said. “Not in Judge Procter’s county. You see, right now, my dear old friend, His Honor, just happens to be drawing up an injunction that will temporarily quarantine those longhorns… and hold you three right where you are until he can come up with something, shall we say, more permanent.”
“And,” mimicked the now steaming Charley, “what’re we s’posed to do until then, sit here makin’ horsehair bridles? What’s gonna’ happen to my longhorns ’tween now an’ then?” he added.
Pike edged in close and whispered, “Judge Procter will order the cattle moved back to my pens in Denver, right beside my slaughterhouse.” He winked at Sunday, then smiled wickedly. “Just in case,” he added.
On that note, Pike turned abruptly, walking away. The deputy followed right behind.
Charley gripped the steel bars, calling after the departing meat packer.
“Those are my longhorns you little pip-squeak, and you know it!” he shouted. “You touch one hair on those hides an’ … Pike?!! You’re a goddamn thief, damnit! A goddamn cowardly, little thief!”
The outer door clanged shut and the cell block was quiet once again.
Roscoe turned to Charley.
“Don’t let it get to ya, C.A.,” he told him. “Little slick sum’bitch like that could put anyone on the peck.”
Sunday began to pace.
Roscoe and Feather followed suit, step for step.
Buster, still lying on the cot—chin on paws—began following his master’s movements with his eyes.
Finally, Charley stopped. He turned to Roscoe and Feather with irritation in his voice.
“Will you two quit tailing me like two mule-footed horses to a sway-back mare?” he
asked. “I got me some serious thinking to do. And that’s a fact!”
An hour later, the chuckwagon, which used to be Charley’s old buckboard, was tied off in front of the county sheriff’s office.
After a moment, the front door opened and Charley, Kelly, Rod, Henry Ellis, Roscoe, and Feather moved down the steps—followed by Buster.
Feather walked his horse over and tied him to the rear of the chuckwagon. Then he climbed into the bed behind the driver’s seat, the dog bounding in after him.
Henry Ellis hesitated, then he turned to his grandfather who was tightening Dice’s cinch. “Can I ride in the chuckwagon with Uncle Feather and Buster?” he begged.
Charley winked at his grandson.
“Go ahead.” He smiled. “Just sit down and keep your feet and arms inside, all right? Roscoe’s going to ride in the back there with you,” he added. “Rod and Kelly will be up front. Rod’ll do the driving.”
Roscoe helped the boy up, handing him off to Rod on the seat of the wagon—then he climbed in himself.
Charley helped Kelly climb up to the passenger’s side of the seat.
“Excuse me, Miss Kelly,” said Charley, “but how did you do it? … Get us out of there, I mean.”
Kelly smiled coyly. “Pike was still here when Rod and I arrived,” she explained. “He was very polite and made it clear just what was going on … and that the judge was his ‘personal’ friend. So, I just told him that I had a personal friend, too … and that my friend was Joseph D. Sayers, governor of the great state of Texas.”
Kelly handed some of her notes through a window to a telegrapher in a small town somewhere near the southeastern corner of the state of Colorado. The man moved over to a table and sat. Then he began tapping out her message in Morse code.
The telegraph wires hummed with Kelly’s electronic words.
At the headquarters for the National News Syndicate in New York City a man listened to Kelly’s written phrases in Morse code, writing them down on a piece of paper as fast as they came over the wire.
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