Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  Charley and the others watched as the two steers helped pull what was once the rickety old two-seat buckboard into the center of the campsite.

  Rod and Feather moved over to help stop them.

  Roscoe tied off the rope-reins as Henry Ellis, Kelly, and Buster jumped down from the wagon seat.

  Charley scooped his grandson into his arms, hugging him tight.

  Rod moved over beside Kelly.

  “That’s one heck of a four-horse unmatched team you got there, Roscoe,” Charley chided.

  “Not much speed, either, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis, laughing, “but they sure did the job … and that’s a fact!”

  Charley laughed from his belly. He reached over and tousled the boy’s hair while the others chuckled. Then he looked over to Roscoe.

  “No luck with the wheel, huh?” he asked.

  Roscoe shook his head.

  “Threads are worn so thin we’re lucky we didn’t lose it back a ways,” he told him. “I’ll pick up some new parts in the next town we come to.”

  “Should be a junction with a blacksmith shop about eight miles up ahead,” said Charley. “There ought ta be a little general store close by, too, if I recollect correctly.”

  “Good,” said Roscoe, “’cause we’re gettin’ low on supplies, too.”

  That night, in numerous parlors across the nation, the final paragraph of Kelly’s daily syndicated newspaper account of the cattle drive was being read aloud to countless children who had also become fixated followers of the colorful characters in Kelly’s continuing story.

  That day’s tale had taken place somewhere on the road with the cattle drive. Kelly’s final remarks for that particular edition concluded with the words:

  The Texas Outfit will be moving off the main byways and into some pretty desolate country for the next week or so, and I’ll be without my customary means of communication. But I will keep on writing and taking photographs. We’ll get it all to you as soon as it’s feasible.

  Meanwhile back at the cattle camp, Roscoe continued to work on the wheels and axles of the chuckwagon by lantern light while Holliday slept beside him on someone else’s bedroll.

  Charley, Rod, Kelly, and Henry Ellis sat around the campfire near the dozing dog. A couple of the Colorado cowboys—one who sang and Sleepy on his harmonica—performed a soft Western ballad that flowed through the camp.

  When the song was over, the rattling of a newspaper drew everyone’s attention to Feather.

  “Hey, boss?” he called out, “can you give me some help with this word here?”

  Charley looked up. “Word?” he said. Then he saw the newspaper in Feather’s hands.

  He got to his feet and moved over to where the little cowboy was sitting.

  Several others followed out of curiosity.

  “Where’d you get that newspaper, Feather,” Charley asked.

  “Oh, I found it on the side of the trail today,” said Feather. “Some local cowboy must’ve used it to wipe his—”

  “Feather,” Charley called out, “remember we have a lady and a child in our company.”

  Feather showed his embarrassment. He handed the newspaper to his boss.

  “Here, you read it. It’s missing the last three pages anyway.”

  Charley called over to Roscoe, “Got my magnifier, Roscoe?”

  “I done forgot it this trip, C.A.,” said Roscoe.

  “Here, you can use mine,” said Holliday, handing Charley a pair of wire-frame reading glasses.

  Charley put them on, then started back toward his bedroll. Suddenly, he looked up with a big grin.

  “Hey,” he called out, “there’s a story in here all about us. And it wasn’t written by Kelly.”

  Everyone else left what they were doing and gathered around.

  Charley began reading out loud:

  “The cotton fields, the Alamo, the Rio Grande River, and the badlands of the Big Bend Country—these are all historical settings in Texas.”

  He took a breath, but before he continued reading the story he said to them:

  “It’s all about the history of the longhorn and how its popularity has dwindled so much over the years that hardly anyone remembers what one looks like anymore.”

  Charley went on with his reading. The story changed and was now talking about how Charley and his Texas Outfit bid on a few steers and ended up with all of them—and how Charley decided to drive the cattle back to their home state exactly like it was done in the past.

  Charley’s face took on a grim expression when he came to the next paragraph of the story. It informed the reader about a local Texas cotton combine that had promised they would not allow someone’s herd of filthy cattle to cross their pristine cotton fields due to crop risk, high loss, and property damage.

  Right about then Charley ran out of pages to read.

  Feather jumped in. “That’s gotta be where the guy tore it off so he could—”

  “That’s all right, Feather,” said Charley. “Spare us the details. We know what we’re facing.”

  Charley was thinking. Still sitting upright, he puffed on his pipe.

  “Shucks,” said Roscoe. “I reckon the Ol’ Boy Upstairs wouldn’t listen if it was just me a-talkin’ to Him.”

  “Oh, I reckon He just might, Roscoe,” said Charley with his eyebrows raised. “You and me are made of the same leather, and He sure listens to my prayers.”

  Charley turned the pipe over and shook out the embers, tapping the bowl against his palm.

  “Maybe you should give it a try,” he added.

  He looked at the ground. Then he looked at his friends around him. It was a long pause—then:

  “We’re going to have to cross those cotton fields, you all know that.”

  Kelly stepped in beside him. “Couldn’t we go around?” she asked.

  “’Fraid not, Miss Kelly,” said Charley. “It’d be the middle of next winter before we got the herd to Juanita if we done that.”

  Charley stared into the fire. Finally he said,

  “We’re crossing those cotton fields tomorrow, no matter what.”

  Roscoe scratched his ear.

  “Now, how’ll we do that, C.A.?” he questioned, “if them cotton combine folks won’t give us permission ta cross their land?”

  “We’re stopped right here dead in our tracks, ain’t we?” said Feather. “There ain’t no other choice.”

  Charley kept staring into the fire, but now his jaw was set—annoyance was building inside.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked impatiently. “Spell it out for you? … Draw you a picture?

  “Permission or not,” he told them all, “we’re crossing them cotton fields tomorrow, and no one’s going to stand in our way. No one! And that’s a fact!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Early the following morning—on a dusty, flat, West Texas, cotton combine plantation, surrounded by acres and acres of the fluffy, white bolls with stalks sowed deep in the dark Texas soil from horizon to horizon—a cluster of hired workers milled around an official T&T Cotton Combine wagon.

  Mel Porter, the cotton combine’s muscular foreman, stood firmly in the bed of the large horse-drawn vehicle talking to the assemblage through an outsized megaphone.

  “I just got the news from our higher-ups,” he was saying, “there’ll be a fifty-dollar bonus to any man who’ll help me keep that herd of cattle from crossing T and T Cotton property.”

  The men discussed the offer among themselves, a low murmur running through the gathering.

  Some called out:

  “I’m with ya, Mel.”

  “Count me in.”

  “We’ll stop ’em, brother.”

  “They won’t get past us.”

  “All right, let’s do it.”

  And other things similar.

  “All right then,” the foreman went on. “Y’all spread out across the road,” he ordered. “I don’t want an army of boll weevils to be able to get past you men.�
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  Carrying pieces of wood and pipe as clubs, plus ax handles and other tools as weapons, the cotton workers moved to take up their positions blocking the road.

  “Some a’ you boys cover the fences,” commanded Porter. “And some a’ you others protect the seed bins. The rest a’ you stay here and back me.”

  More than a few of the workers complied with the foreman’s order.

  Porter stepped down from the bed of the wagon and moved to the passenger side of the vehicle where Sidney Pike, the Colorado meat packer, was sitting. He leaned over, making eye contact with the foreman, smiling greedily.

  “Very good, Mr. Porter,” he said.

  “Forget the compliments,” grunted the foreman. “Just don’t forget, we have a deal.”

  “You’ll get your money,” said Pike. “Just stop that herd … Any way you have to.”

  Someone yelled, “Here they come!” causing Porter to glance back up the road. Porter quickly returned his attention to Pike.

  “You comin’ with me?” he wanted to know.

  “Not right now,” answered Pike with a cowardly smirk. “It’ll look better if you handle this alone.”

  Porter nodded, then moved over to where his men stood impatiently watching as the cattle approached in the near distance.

  Charley’s small crew kept the longhorns moving toward the makeshift roadblock. Charley, Rod, and Feather could see the cotton workers up ahead, blocking their path.

  Roscoe pulled the old chuckwagon to a stop as Kelly and Henry Ellis squinted through the morning haze.

  Buster, in the wagon’s bed behind them, had his paws on the back of the front seat, also keeping an eye out.

  Charley spurred his horse on, loping ahead of the herd, reining up in front of the blockade created by the irate cotton workers.

  Mel Porter stepped out in front of the others, facing the old cowboy.

  “You’ve gone as far as yer gonna go, old man,” Porter warned.

  Charley ignored the man’s threat as he glanced around at the incensed expressions focused on his presence.

  He dismounted slowly, moving over to face off with the foreman and the cotton workers.

  He tipped back his hat, casually spitting some tobacco juice at Porter’s feet.

  “You boys have some kinda gripe with me?” he asked solemnly, pulling on his nose. “Because if you do, and it’s a fight you’re looking for, me and my outfit are ready for anything you might want to throw our way.”

  No one, including Porter, would answer.

  “Look,” Charley continued, “I ain’t searching for trouble. I’m just trying to get my cattle home, that’s all.”

  Porter sized up the older man.

  “There’s no tellin’ what could happen if those cows stampeded,” he told Charley. “Hell, they could wreck everything it’s taken us years to accomplish here.”

  Charley shot back, “That’s pure hogwash! They ain’t gonna stampede unless someone stampedes ’em.”

  “That’s what you say, old man,” countered Porter. “But I say that cattle and delicate cotton fields spell nothin’ but trouble.”

  “My longhorns have come over five hundred miles without a lick of trouble, mister,” said Charley, “no matter how you want to spell it.”

  “Well, you sure got trouble now, cowboy,” replied Porter, drawing a small-caliber pistol from his belt.

  He thumbed back the hammer, firing a shot into the air.

  The cattle spooked slightly at the gun’s sharp report, causing some of the longhorns to bawl uneasily.

  Rod, Feather, and Roscoe moved cautiously among the restless steers, trying to quiet them.

  At the rear of the herd, still in his position as drag rider, Plunker Holliday was also aware of the gunshot.

  He spurred his horse around the herd, galloping easily toward the confrontation at the front of the drove.

  Roscoe stood near some steers, talking gently to the animals, as Holliday thundered by.

  For some reason, Roscoe instinctively knew that things would soon be under control.

  At the front of the herd, Porter had the gun trained on Charley.

  “Now,” he was telling him, “I’d say you was stopped, old man.”

  Holliday rode up, stepping down from his stirrup while his horse was still in motion—at the same time sliding the horse to a butt-skidding stop.

  He adjusted his gun belt, slowly walking over to, then standing beside, Charley. Holliday showed no fear—he was just as calm as he could be.

  He touched the brim of his hat.

  “Mr. Sunday,” he said in a nonchalant, monotone voice.

  Charley smiled softly, also touching his hat brim.

  “Mr. Holliday,” he acknowledged. “This here fellow, and those men of his over there, are aiming to stop us from crossing this here cotton patch. What do you think about that?”

  Holliday looked at the large assembly of cotton workers, his squinting gaze finally falling on Mel Porter and the smoking revolver he held.

  Ever so slowly, Holliday stepped between Charley and the foreman.

  Unhurriedly, he thumbed back the skirts of his coat, revealing the mother-of-pearl handles of the Colts.

  Porter looked this mysterious stranger up and down.

  “Well now,” he joked, “who do we have here, Wild Bill Hickok?”

  Holliday’s left eyebrow began to quiver—his one good eye grew wider and wider, while the other continued to squint.

  “You got just ten seconds ta make up yer mind, sonny boy,” he warned.

  Porter chortled. “Make up my mind about what?”

  “On whether ta use that little peashooter yer holdin’,” he slowly challenged, “or ta put it where the sun don’t shine.”

  Holliday’s hands slid to the butts of his matched weapons.

  Porter was no longer smiling. He didn’t quite know how to take this man dressed in all black.

  For the next moment or two it became a staring match.

  “You don’t look so tough to me, mister,” said Porter, talking through gritted teeth.

  Holliday continued to eye the foreman. He began to pull off his black leather gloves—one finger at a time.

  He turned to Charley with a sly grin on his face, speaking loud enough for Porter to hear.

  “Sort a’ reminds me of the time Sam Bass pulled on me,” he recalled. “I shot ’im dead six times ’afore he hit the dirt.”

  He tucked the gloves into his belt.

  Porter turned to Charley.

  “You’d better get this cockeyed half-wit outta my way,” he demanded.

  “Oh?” said Charley, tilting his head. “I think Mr. Holliday knows what he’s doing, all right … and he means what he says, you know.”

  He raised an eyebrow, adding, “And that’s a fact!”

  Porter looked over to Holliday one more time.

  The old gunfighter’s one walleye appeared to roll in its socket as he stared back at the foreman.

  “Now,” Holliday said bluntly, “I’m gonna turn my back on ya, an’ then I’m gonna step off twelve paces. Mind ya,” he went on, “I can hear a fly land on a cotton boll at fifty yards, so, if ya get ta feelin’ froggy, just go ahead an’ try me.”

  He spun on his heels and began marching slowly back in the direction of his horse.

  He stopped after twelve strides, his back still turned away from Porter.

  Holliday drew his .45s, one at a time, spinning each of the cylinders as if he were checking the bullets. After that, he twirled the heavy Colts, dropping them back into their holsters at the same time.

  Only then did he turn to face the confused foreman, still holding his hands barely a horsehair’s width above the hammers.

  Out of the side of his mouth, he cautioned Charley.

  “You best step outta the way, Mr. Sunday, I’d hate ta see you get hit by one a’ his wild shots.”

  Charley didn’t quite know what Holliday had up his sleeve, so he stepped back slow and
easy.

  Holliday, both hands at the ready, squinted even harder at Porter.

  “Any time ya feel the itch, amigo,” he told the man, “just let ’er rip. It’s all up ta you now.”

  Porter’s smile was long gone, erased completely from his troubled countenance. Still holding the small pistol at his side, he looked to Charley for help—then back to Holliday.

  “Now you look here—” he started to say.

  Holliday was really living the part. He was at center stage, enjoying every golden, dramatic moment.

  “Draw, or back off,” he challenged, “one or the other.”

  Porter coughed—he looked around at his men nervously.

  “Hell,” he sputtered with a hollow laugh, “we don’t wanna kill nobody, do we, boys? I can’t see no harm in lettin’ these men and their cattle cross the cotton fields.”

  The workers mumbled to each other, then they began moving away.

  Porter turned and started to follow them.

  He only got a few yards before Holliday called out to him.

  “Just where do you think you’re goin’, amigo?” he asked.

  Porter stopped in his tracks. He tucked the pistol back into his belt, then turned to face the gunfighter once again.

  “Why, nowhere,” he floundered. “I—”

  Holliday was still standing—legs apart—hands at the ready.

  “I’d say you owe Mr. Sunday here an apology,” he told the cotton boss.

  Charley moved in closer to Holliday, whispering harshly into his ear.

  “I asked you not to load them guns.”

  The old gunfighter whispered back, “They ain’t loaded.” He whispered again, “But he don’t know that.”

  Charley sighed to himself.

  “Go on back with the others, Holliday,” he said in a very low voice, “before he gets wise to your game.”

  Holliday continued to stare hard at the burly foreman, then he slowly turned and walked back to his horse.

  Holliday mounted with a simple swing into the saddle. He wheeled around and rode off back to the herd.

  Charley crossed over to where Porter was standing. The foreman had decided he could hold his own with Charley, now that Holliday was out of the picture.