He swung into his saddle.
“Now, let’s get moving,” he said.
The others mounted—after that they spread out, following Charley.
A mile or two later Henry Ellis galloped over to his grandfather, reining up.
“What’s on your mind, son,” said Charley.
“Me an’ Kelly found some more tracks over there,” he said, pointing back to where Kelly was waiting.
Charley could see that Rod and Roscoe had already dismounted and were studying the ground. He spurred Dice out and rode over to the others.
By then, every member of the search party had become curious and had ridden over to where the group was reassembling. Not one of them said a thing as Charley and his grandson rode in and dismounted, joining them.
Roscoe and Feather were on their knees following Rod’s finger as he pointed out the differences in the newly discovered tracks.
“Mr. Sunday,” said the young Indian as Charley and the boy moved in closer. “Those’re horse tracks all right … only they don’t belong to Feather, and they certainly aren’t Indian ponies … because they appear to be wearing shoes.”
“Tell him about the other ones,” said Feather.
“We did find two sets of horse tracks back aways that are unshod. At first I thought they were Indian ponies, but now I’m not so sure.”
By then Charley had dismounted. He also knelt down to look at the tracks for himself.
Henry Ellis was right behind him, down in the dirt at his grampa’s side.
Kelly stayed in her saddle, watching over the goings on.
“These look to me to be shod horses,” said Charley. “I never reckoned that Indians … or anyone else, mind you … would think that thirty longhorn steers, out here, all by their selves, were running free … or just left to fend for themselves. Look,” he pointed, “three of the unshod horses joined the thirty right over there, but the cattle don’t change direction one bit.”
Rod said, “But the two unshod horses we tracked were with the cattle the whole time. Do you think it could be white men and Indians working together?”
“Looks ta me like whoever it is are drivin’ ’em to Palo Duro Canyon fer sure,” said Feather. “Maybe they got a camp down in there.”
“Naw,” said Charley. “The JA Ranch has owned damn near all the land in and around Palo Duro Canyon for years … ever since Charles Goodnight and John Adair partnered up to found the JA Ranch back in ’76. Over the years they’ve been buying up the other Palo Duro ranches to enlarge their spread. And please believe me when I say that not one Indian has set foot in that canyon since 1874. That was when the U.S. Army was ordered in to remove all the Indians that had settled there and send ’em back to their reservations in the Indian Territory. No,” he went on, “if there’re any cattle in Palo Duro Canyon … they belong to the JA Ranch.”
Rod stepped in closer. “So there’s already a ranch in Palo Duro Canyon, that’s fine with me,” he said, “but the evidence is right there in front of us … the tracks show us that five horsemen, two of them without shoes, are now herding thirty of our longhorns straight into Palo Duro Canyon.”
“Well then,” said Roscoe, “what are we all standin’ here wastin’ time fer? We need to be follerin’ them tracks to wherever they’re gonna lead us.”
“Roscoe’s right,” said Charley, standing, then lifting Henry Ellis back into his saddle before remounting himself. “The only way to figure this out is to continue on doing what we’re doing.”
He reined Dice around. The horse made a small circle while the others remounted. Then they all moved away, following the cattle’s hoofprints, which were still headed due east.
No more than fifteen minutes later, while they were still following the breakaway longhorns’ tracks, they came across the JA Ranch. They could see the spread from where they sat horseback about a mile away.
“Y’all keep up the search,” said Charley to the others. “Me and Henry Ellis’ll go on over to the ranch and pay ’em a visit … find out if anyone’s seen our missing longhorns.”
Several JA cowboys were breaking in a string of mustangs when Charley and Henry Ellis rode up. Two of the men watched as a big palomino mare bucked her rider off in mere seconds.
The other cowboys who were participating in the horse-breaking exercise gave the new arrivals several looks, but nothing that Charley found offensive or worth bickering about.
As the cowboy in the corral remounted the mare with the assistance of two other men, Charley called over to another ranch hand sitting on a corral fence.
“You boys seen any longhorn cattle hereabout this morning?”
The closest cowboy shook his head, scratching an ear, then rubbing his sunburned nose.
“I ain’t seen nothin’ but angus,” he answered. “Angus is what we breed here on the JA. I ain’t seen a Texas longhorn in years, mister.”
“You don’t suppose Mrs. Adair is home right now, do you?” said Charley.
The man took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He chuckled.
“Not at this ranch house, mister,” he said. “This ranch you’re on now is just one of the original ranches in the area that Mr. Goodnight and Mr. Adair bought up for expansion. The JA is just too big now to have but one main ranch house on it, anyways.”
“Like I said earlier,” Charley went on, “we’re looking for some lost longhorns. Do you think anyone would mind if we kept on following their trail? I got no idea where it’s gonna take us.”
“That’s fine by me, mister. Just let me make a telephone call to the main ranch across the canyon over in the next county. I’m pretty sure it’ll be all right with Mrs. Adair. She’s stayin’ here on the ranch until next week. Then she’ll be off to Ireland and England to check up on her overseas properties.”
As Charley and Henry Ellis tried to comprehend the vastness of the woman’s holdings, the man added, “Longhorns don’t look nothin’ like angus anyhow. So believe me when I say that nobody on the JA spread will shoot you for rustling when you find your missing cattle.”
The longhorn tracks belonging to Charley’s ten percent of the herd led them next to a cattle trail that took them to the canyon’s bottom. On their way down they passed several small herds of angus cattle being driven out of the canyon by JA cowboys.
When asked, these JA Ranch employees answered that they had seen nothing out of the ordinary on JA property that morning. When questioned about the longhorn hoofprints that were obvious to anyone who knew cattle, the JA cowboys could only shake their heads and mutter something like, “Them’s sure tracks of a bunch a’ unfamiliar cattle, but we still ain’t seen no longhorns down here in the canyon. Only angus.”
It kept up like that—the questioning of the JA cowboys, and the headshakes they always got in return.
Shortly after noon they stopped while Roscoe rustled up something for them all to eat. It was during this meal that Henry Ellis and Buster decided to go climbing to see what they could see from the higher bluffs that surrounded them.
Henry Ellis and Buster puffed their way to the top of one of the mesas and sat for a spell, catching their breath. It was during this break that the boy looked up to take in the view and saw the missing longhorns corralled in a blind canyon off a trace of a road by the river.
Going down the mountain was much easier than the climb to the top had been. But when Henry Ellis and Buster slid down the last twenty-five feet of shale on their rear ends to get to the area where the search party was eating their midday meal, Henry Ellis still had breath enough to say, “We seen ’em, Grampa … The longhorns! … They’re right over there.” He pointed. “Right down that way about a quarter of a mile or so.”
As far as Charley could tell, his ten percent of the longhorns were being guarded by a gang of barely grown boys.
From his position behind a small outcropping of boulders where he had positioned himself after secretly approaching the cattle with the other members of his outfi
t, he could only see two of the rustlers.
He caught a glimpse of Roscoe, who had concealed himself on the other side of the thirty head of longhorns, and he raised two fingers to let him know the number of rustlers he had in his sights.
Roscoe pointed to his left and raised three fingers, meaning he had spotted three more rustlers near his position.
Charley raised his look to a higher position on the canyon’s wall where Feather had settled in behind some saplings. The pint-size cowboy had a view of the entire steep gully containing the cattle. From there he could see both Charley’s and Roscoe’s rustlers—there were no more. He raised five fingers and made a slashing movement across his throat, meaning five was all he could see in total.
Rod, who was about to enter the small chasm on horseback, read Feather’s message from high on the hill, so he knew in advance what they were up against. First he nodded to Charley and got a nod in return. Then he threw nods to both Roscoe and Feather.
He waited a moment or two, then spurred his horse into the rift.
Rod’s horse had taken no more than five or six steps when a squeaky, teenage voice halted his progression.
“Hold it right there, mister … and drop any weapons you might be carryin’.”
Before Rod could do anything, Charley moved up behind the rustler and dropped him with a tap from the barrel of his old pistol.
Rod watched as his trail boss moved back out of sight, then appeared again dragging the other unconscious young horse thief.
After a few more seconds, Roscoe appeared—he had disarmed the other three boys and was bringing them over at gunpoint to join up with the others.
When they were all gathered at the entrance to the small gulch where the longhorns were being held, the two boys Charley had captured were just coming out of their stupor. Charley helped the one who had accosted Rod to his feet.
“Well, well, well, now … it looks like we’ve been chasing rustlers that’re still a little wet behind the ears, don’t it?”
Roscoe nudged one of his captives with the barrel of his Colt.
“What are your names,” asked Charley.
“I’m Jeeter Richards,” said the one who seemed to be the leader. “My friend over there is Eddie Parsons. These other three are just some Amarillo street kids we’ve been hanging around with lately who agreed to give us a hand when we told them our plan.”
Roscoe stepped in closer.
“You better have a pretty good reason fer stealin’ our longhorns,” said Roscoe.
The cattle thieves were all standing together by then so Charley lined them up side by side. They all looked to be no more than a few years older than Henry Ellis.
“Who wants to spill the beans?” said Charley.
The one named Jeeter stepped forward. He appeared to be more embarrassed than frightened.
“We saw you and the longhorns when you drove ’em through Amarillo. At first we were just going to have some fun. We bet each other that we could steal some of the longhorns without getting caught. And when we saw that your nighthawk was sleeping in his saddle, we run off as many as we thought we could handle.”
Roscoe threw an I-told-you-so glance Feather’s way.
The smaller man looked down sheepishly.
Charley continued with his questioning.
“Where did you get your horses?” he asked. “I’ll bet you right now that two of ’em ain’t wearing shoes.”
Jeeter cleared his throat.
“Me an’ Eddie have never owned a horse … Our parents say we’re too young for a responsibility that large.”
Eddie, the other boy, cut in. “We went out on our own and roped some wild mustangs … broke ’em all by ourselves, and now we ride ’em bareback.”
“We keep ’em out at Barlow’s barn … it’s been abandoned for years. These other guys hang out there … that’s where we first met up with ’em.”
“So you just up and decided to steal our cattle?” said Charley.
“We aren’t rustlers, mister,” said Jeeter. “We were gonna bring ’em, back … Honest we were.”
Ed tried to back up his friend’s statement.
“That’s right, sir,” he said. “We were gonna hide ’em here all day, then sneak ’em back into your herd tonight … when everyone was asleep.”
“Includin’ the nighthawk,” said Roscoe, glancing Feather’s way.
Feather glared.
“Naw,” said Jeeter. “We figured it would be a lot easier to move the cattle we took in close to the rest of your herd, then the others, sensing that these longhorns were close by, would let ’em mingle in with the rest of ’em … all by themselves.”
About that time, Henry Ellis and Kelly rode up to see what was going on.
When Jeeter and Ed saw Henry Ellis, they both turned away.
“Hey,” said Henry Ellis, after getting a quick look at the two boys, “those are the kids that shot at me with their slingshot back in the park.”
Charley immediately turned again to the ruffians. “Is that so?” he said. “And to think I was about to let you and your friends off with only a warning. But now I think we’ll be taking all five of you back to Amarillo and turn you over to the proper authorities. I reckon I don’t have to guess about Amarillo having a juvenile court, because I somehow feel that all of you have been there before.”
Later on that same day Charley and the other searchers came out of the main double doors of the Potter County Courthouse in Amarillo, stopping at the bottom of the steps to listen to Charley who had a few words to say to his grandson.
“Lying, stealing, and injuring others and their property don’t ever get a person ahead in this life, son, as you just saw in that courtroom,” he said. “The last thing I ever want to do is be any part of a blemish on the record of a child. But those boys gave up being children when they committed their first crime. And as we all found out from that judge, stealing our longhorns wasn’t the first time those boys have been in trouble with the law.
“Now, c’mon,” he said, “let’s all get mounted. We got three hundred longhorn cattle that need every one of us.”
They all went to their horses, which were tied in front of the county building, and mounted up. Just before Charley turned Dice around to spur away, he yelled, “Oh, I’ll be needing to have a little talk with you later, Feather Martin.”
The pocket-size cowboy was caught off guard yawning. He turned to Roscoe. “What’d the boss just say?” he wanted to know.
This time, one of the rear wheels on the old chuckwagon had stopped turning. Roscoe, beside his open toolbox, worked on the hub, packing it with grease. Buster was sprawled under the canopy in the bed of the chuckwagon, snoozing, while Kelly and Henry Ellis watched from the front seat.
Charley rode in and reined up.
“Again?” he questioned, tipping back his hat. “What’s wrong with it now?”
Roscoe stood, wiping his red face with his neckerchief to rid it of some active perspiration.
“W-well,” he stammered, “I don’t rightly know, C.A… . This time the wheel up an’ stopped turnin’ … Period. I reckon it don’t look that good at the moment, but I’m doin’ my best.”
“We’ll be setting up camp in about an hour,” Charley told his friend. “I’ll send Feather back to give you a hand.”
“I can make it on my own, by golly,” maintained Roscoe with some visible frustration. “I’ll be all right … an’ I sure don’t need no help from that pint-size saddle tramp.”
Charley nodded, then he turned and rode off.
Roscoe wiped his hands on the neckerchief, and then he picked up the toolbox and moved around to the driver’s side, climbing up beside Kelly and the boy. He slapped the reins to the team.
There was some heavy screeching but the wagon wouldn’t budge. Roscoe stepped down from the seat and knelt by the offending wheel, totally frustrated.
About then, the herd began to pass the immobilized wagon. Roscoe stood up. He once a
gain grabbed his toolbox and circled back to give his full attention to the wheel hub one more time.
That was when Plunker Holliday galloped over. He looked down at the sweating, exasperated Roscoe bent over the reluctant wheel.
“You can always ride a longhorn,” he suggested with a chuckle. “I’ll help ya rope one, if yer a mind ta.”
He rode off after the cattle—laughing.
Roscoe watched after him. Suddenly he had an idea. He went to the side of the wagon and pulled two coiled ropes out of the tack box. Henry Ellis,” he said, “come here.”
“What are you doing, Uncle Roscoe?” asked Henry Ellis.
“Never you mind, sonny,” said Roscoe. “Go on, get on down from there an’ gimme a hand.”
Just as Charley had predicted, within the hour the herd was grazing, and the members of the outfit had a nice campfire going, though there was still no sign of Roscoe, Kelly, Henry Ellis, Buster—and the chuckwagon.
Charley looked off in the direction from which the herd had come. He turned to the others with some concern.
“One of you better saddle up and go back an’ look for ’em before it gets too dark,” he suggested.
Feather countered with, “If that ol’ chicken plucker said he’d be here, then he’ll be here, boss.”
“Chuckwagon comin’ in!” echoed a familiar voice from outside the camp just moments later.
It was Roscoe—and he sounded like he was pretty close.
Everyone turned in the direction of the voice to see the old chuckwagon as it screeched and rumbled into camp—but it was not moving under its usual two-horse power. Two longhorn steers had been tied to the front of the wagon in makeshift rope harnesses—they were pulling as hard as they could alongside the two horses.
The wagon’s team and the longhorn steers trudged along faithfully, pulling the chuckwagon behind them. Roscoe walked beside the wagon, urging the large creatures along, using the long rope ends as reins. Henry Ellis drove the horses from the front seat, a grinning Kelly at his side.
Buster had his front paws up on the back of the front seat, helping him to stand on his two back feet. That way, he could look over Henry Ellis’s shoulder at Roscoe as he maneuvered the longhorns, just to make sure all was going well.
Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit Page 15
