“You just cost me fifteen hundred dollars, old man.” Porter swore. “Now I’m going to make your life as miserable as you just made mine.”
“That’ll be the day,” Charley countered as he delivered a pounding left to Porter’s jaw, sending the foreman staggering back, almost falling.
Charley squared himself, ready for more. Both fists were now clenched.
“This old man,” he began slowly, “has plenty more where that came from … if you’re feeling up to it.”
He spit some tobacco juice on the ground at Porter’s feet.
Porter charged at Charley like an enraged bull, and the fight was on.
The two men crashed to the ground, rolling over and over, each trying to take advantage of the other’s weaknesses.
Porter pulled Charley to his feet, hitting him hard in the stomach.
The old trail boss doubled over.
But before Porter could deliver an uppercut, Charley drove his head into the foreman’s midsection.
Gasping for air, the beefy Porter staggered backward.
Charley was on him in seconds, swinging a roundhouse right that sent Porter flying backward before he went down.
Rod, Feather, Kelly, Holliday, Roscoe, and Henry Ellis could see the fight from their positions near the longhorns.
I sure hope I ain’t lost my touch, thought Charley while Porter was getting to his feet. I’d hate to look like a loser in front of Henry Ellis.
Porter took a wide swing.
Charley blocked the punch, driving his right fist straight into the big man’s nose.
Blood sprayed everywhere as Porter grabbed his gushing snout with both hands.
The big foreman watched the runny red goop pour out through the cracks between his fingers. He looked over to Charley.
Charley Sunday seemed annoyed, he stood ready—battered and roughed up—but still with mucho fight left in him.
All Porter could say was, “Oh, my God, ya broke my nose.”
Charley started for the man again, but Porter backed away quickly, holding up a hand up for Charley to stop.
“I’ve had enough,” Porter cried out. “It wasn’t my idea to stop you anyways. Pike!” he squawked, “it was him started all the trouble. He’s the one that got the combine owners all stirred up in the first place.”
Charley stopped in his tracks.
“Pike?” he questioned. “That little, piss-ant, con artist, SOB? … The Colorado meat packer? … Here in Texas?”
Porter was pointing to his wagon.
Charley turned—then he walked slowly over to the foreman’s vehicle.
When he got to the passenger side, he looked up cautiously.
And there he was, the squirming maggot—Sidney Pike—in all his manipulating glory, crouched low, almost under the seat, trying to hide as best he could.
His quivering hands were clasped together like a parish sinner asking for forgiveness.
When he realized he was being observed, he looked down slowly with a very weak smile, trying to cover his face.
Charley stepped on a spoke and reached up, dragging Pike down roughly from his perch.
“N-now you look here,” Pike stammered and sputtered.
Charley paid him no mind. He drew back, ready to smack the little worm.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sunday,” Pike yelped. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Sorry don’t cut it, Mister Pike,” replied Charley. “But I can sure blame a man for trying too hard.”
He relaxed his cocked fist.
He loosened his hold on the smaller man, shoving him back against the company wagon.
Turning, he walked back to his horse, mounted, and rode off toward the herd and his outfit.
As he passed Mel Porter, the defeated man called out, “Mr. Sunday?”
Charley stopped; he reined Dice around.
The foreman moved up to him now, holding the bloodstained handkerchief to his nose.
“You know,” he began slowly, “I’ve been punched and stomped a whole lot a’ times before, but I never fought a man like you.”
Charley thought a moment, then his eyes began to twinkle.
“I suspect,” he said as he chuckled softly, “that’s because you never fought a man who had so much to fight for.”
He touched the brim of his hat.
“And that’s a fact!”
ROSCOE BASKIN
by Kelly King
“I was born on a cattle drive,” says Roscoe Baskin, partner to Charley Sunday, foreman of his ranch, and chief cook and bottle washer—along with me, Kelly King—on the Colorado to Texas longhorn drive. “My mother was traveling to a larger town with my daddy where they had a doctor in residence,” Roscoe went on. “The little town they were from had no one to assist in birthing babies, not even someone with a midwife’s knowledge. The only way to get to this other town safely was to tag along with a small cattle drive where there was men with muskets.
“This was in the 1820s, in Ohio’s Scioto Valley, and they only drove cattle for short distances back then, I’ve been told … within the state and sometimes to neighboring states. I was born right there on the trail, so I’ve never had a real place to call my home.”
I asked Roscoe how he met Charley Sunday. “Me and Charley have been together for so long I forgot just how we did meet. But I’m sure it was when we was Rangers together. The Rangers weren’t that big of an outfit back then … so you pretty well knew everyone who was serving when you wore the badge.
“Me and Charley … and old Feather Martin were assigned a few cases together and we done good. Our superiors decided we made a good team so they kept us three together for a long, long time.”
Says Roscoe, “I was never married, you know. I reckon I just couldn’t find the right woman … or one who could cook to my likin’.
“I killed only four men in my time with the Rangers,” he says. “Some people say it don’t count if they was Indians or Mexicans or Negroes, but believe me, a person drawing down on you is still a man trying to take your life. So I say it don’t matter what color he is if he’s the one trying to kill you. That’s why I count those four I done in as honest-to-goodness brave men. Being born a white man don’t ever make a person any braver when he’s chosen gunplay as his life’s work. That’s why those I killed were undeniably brave men in my book.”
Besides myself, Roscoe let Charley’s grandson, Henry Ellis, help him with the cooking and other chuckwagon chores during the longhorn drive. “I’ve known that little button since he was the size of a … little button,” Roscoe says about the boy. “He’s always bin a good kid … You know that, Kelly. Minds his manners, always willin’ ta give his all … And he attends church on a regular basis, or so his grandfather tells me. Besides, I need him there to keep a watch on you so you don’t go messin’ with my daily menus.”
Roscoe continues, “Now, Feather Martin and me have been best of friends on and off for a lot of years. Besides the both of us fightin’ on the same side during the War Between the States, he’s always been a good drinking buddy, too … until a few years ago, that is. When he showed me he can’t be trusted to handle the stuff anymore. He ain’t touched even a sip since we been on this drive, though. Maybe some of the things that were botherin’ him inside don’t seem so bad now that he’s been sobered up for a while.”
Roscoe told me that he enjoys working for Charley. “Charley an’ me ’re supposed to be equal partners when it comes to the ranch, because I helped him out one time by lending him a few dollars to pay part a’ his mortgage. But it never did really seem fair to me … me becoming half owner in his spread just for lending him a few dollars. That’s why I help out around the place. Charley’s still the ranch owner is how I look at it. I can only do what I can for the man who’s remained my only true friend for all these years.”
Were you ever a cowboy yourself, I asked him. “You mean, did I ever drive cattle like these other yokels around here … ? Sure I did,” he s
aid. “But when I was cowboyin’ I watched all the others complaining all the time about the hours and conditions out on the trail so I decided to become a cook instead. As the cook you’re up early every day and you can spend some time by yourself with no one else around. Same as when you’re driving the chuckwagon … gives you time to think, or just daydream. My bedroll stays inside the chuckwagon … only this time out I gave up my sleepin’ spot in the wagon to Henry Ellis. Even though, I’ve never been the type who enjoys sleeping on the ground.”
What are your feelings about outsiders? I asked him. People like Holliday, the Colorado cowboys, and Rod and me? “I reckon I never gave that much thought,” he says. “I’ve always said that if a man … a person,” he corrected himself, “could pull his … or her … own weight, then I had no complaining to do. Just as long as they don’t grumble about my cookin’, I’m fine with everyone I meet.”
What makes you happy? I asked Roscoe. “A good stove, a comfortable bed, a hot meal, and nothing to interfere with my sleepin’,” he answered.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Back in open country again, the cattle were progressing slowly down a long draw, low hills on each side. Roscoe, now on horseback, rode to the front of the herd, joining Charley and Henry Ellis. Buster followed at their heels.
“Uncle Roscoe,” beamed the boy upon seeing him. “What happened to the chuckwagon? Did it break down again?”
Charley chuckled. He reined to a stop.
The others reined in, too.
“Look at his horse, son,” said Charley. “Don’t you recognize the animal?”
Henry Ellis took a harder look at the mount Roscoe was riding, then his eyes lit up.
“That’s Rod’s horse,” he exclaimed. “You let Rod drive the chuckwagon?”
“Sure did, by golly.” Roscoe laughed. “Your grandpop an’ me thought we’d let Rod an’ Miss Kelly have some time alone ta get ta know each other a little better. So we sent ’em both on up ahead fer supplies. We even give ’em time off from Buster,” he added, indicating the panting dog on the ground beside them, scratching at a flea.
Sunday smiled.
“Those two’ve been actin’ like a couple of natural-born lovebirds ever since the first time they met,” he explained. “Ain’t that so, Roscoe?”
“They sure have, by golly,” he said with a chuckle, backing Charley’s story. “Ain’t bin much time fer either of ’em ta get together since we left Colorado, so we thought we’d give ’em a chance.”
He winked at the boy.
Henry Ellis grimaced at the thought of it all. “Uuuuugggggghhhhh!!” was all he could manage to utter.
Roscoe and Charley laughed out loud at the boy’s reaction.
The three of them rode on a little farther—then Charley said soberly, “Keep lookin’ straight ahead.”
“Huh?” whispered Roscoe.
Charley’s eyes didn’t waver.
“Don’t look around,” he said in the same low voice. “We got some company. Bad company, I imagine,” he added.
Silhouetted against the Texas sky, on a low hill in the very near distance, was a procession of leather-clad Indians on horseback, moving parallel with the longhorns.
Roscoe casually flicked his eyes in their direction. He spoke through the side of his mouth.
“Who do ya suppose they are, C.A.?” he asked.
“Hush now,” warned Charley. “Just keep on riding.”
The Indians moved on past the herd.
When Henry Ellis finally had the courage to look over, all that remained were several swirls of dissipating dust.
Besides being one of many stops on a stagecoach route, Pepper’s Station also included a roadside general store and a blacksmith shop out in the middle of nowhere—an oasis for the overland traveler and those who had lost their way.
Rod Lightfoot hadn’t actually lost his way, he was just doing what every red-blooded American man eventually found themselves doing—waiting for a woman.
Rod leaned against the side of the chuckwagon, the only vehicle tied to the single hitching post that stood in front of the rest stop. He had watered the team and filled the canteens, and he was now killing time wiping dust off the horses’ harnesses while Kelly finished up the shopping inside the adobe building that housed the general store.
A two-horse conveyance appeared on the horizon of the cracked, dirt-covered road that passed the insignificant establishment, growing into Pike’s familiar team and carriage.
When it reached the store, the driver turned the horses so the vehicle could pull over, then it moved on toward the chuckwagon.
The sound of wheels crunching on gravel finally helped Rod to notice the carriage’s approach.
The luxurious coach swung in beside Rod, coming to a stop.
Pike leaned out of the window behind the driver with a brand-new cigar between his teeth.
“Well, well, well,” he smirked, squeezing out a sly smile, “if it isn’t my trusted assistant, the Indian who wants to be a lawyer.
“Whether you know it or not, Lightfoot,” he went on, “you’re one of the best cards I’ve got going in my deck … the only ace in the hole I have up my sleeve right now.”
He slipped a match out of a sterling silver matchbox, striking it on the side of the case, igniting the cigar’s tip. He puffed several times until it glowed.
“Those longhorns are getting just a little too close to home for my comfort,” he advised. “So I sure hope those old Texans trust you by now.”
Rod shook his head. He was about to take a firm stand.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you anymore, Mr. Pike,” he confided.
“What?” answered the surprised meat packer.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Rod continued, “but I’ve had a lot of time to think things over, and I’ve made up my mind. I just can’t be a party to this game of yours anymore … or to anything else you might want me to do for you in the future.”
Pike cocked his head, squinting down his nose.
“Game?” he said. “Do you realize what you’re saying, kid? Do you realize how much money you’re throwing away?”
“I don’t look at it that way, Mr. Pike,” said Rod.
Pike’s eyes slowly began to tighten.
“Am I supposed to take this as your official resignation?” he wanted to know.
“What do you think?” said Rod.
“I think you’re out of your mind,” snapped Pike. “I was paying you a lot more money than most people of your kind have ever dreamed of being paid.”
He looked Rod up and down disgustedly.
“But I’m sure I can find somebody else who won’t turn rabbit on me,” he went on, “someone who’ll understand exactly what a huge bundle of dinero can buy.”
There was a long look between the two, with Rod unable to hide his abhorrence for the little chiseler—and Pike’s expression growing more and more venomous with each moment.
Then Pike nodded to his driver and the carriage drove away, leaving a wake of spattering gravel.
Rod watched after the carriage until it was just a speck on the flat West Texas skyline.
He had done it—Rod had finally stood up to Sidney Pike.
“Rod, can you give me a hand?”
It was Kelly’s voice.
Lightfoot turned around to see the attractive newswoman coming from the store. She struggled to carry several gunnysacks filled with supplies.
He went to her side and took the bags, moving over and setting them down on the ground by the chuckwagon’s tailgate.
“Sorry, I guess I didn’t think you were buying that much,” he said.
Kelly helped him as he unpacked the groceries, finding a special place for each item in the cook’s cupboard that was located beside the toolbox Roscoe stored in front of some other supplies in the wagon’s rear end.
“You sure don’t talk much about yourself,” said Kelly as they sorted and stored the provisions.
“Naw,” said Ro
d, shaking his head, “there’s not really that much to talk about.”
“Oh,” Kelly went on, “I don’t know about that. Charley Sunday says you’ve really pulled yourself up by the bootstraps, that you’re actually making something of yourself … All on your own.”
Rod chuckled as he kept on rearranging the groceries. Then he dropped the rolled tarp covering down over the entire cook’s pantry and began lashing it in place, securing it with tie downs.
“More like, ‘moccasin straps’ to be honest,” he replied with a laugh. “I aim to put myself through law school … if I can find a school that’ll take me. I’ve nearly earned my tuition fees from my exhibition winnings. If that’s what Mr. Sunday’s talking about.
“I always had a dream that maybe I would be the one who would lead my people out of their oppression.”
He chuckled to himself at the silly thought.
“You know …” he went on, “the Great Indian Law Counselor, defending the helpless Native American indigent against the white man’s lies.”
“And?” questioned Kelly.
Rod looked away, a somber expression creeping onto his countenance.
“And,” he repeated, “real life isn’t exactly like it was in my dreams.”
Kelly moved around, adjusting herself so she could see his face.
“Have you really tried?” she asked softly. “Tried to help your people?”
Rod was finding that he couldn’t look at her directly. He just shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said in a whisper. “I haven’t.”
Kelly asked, “Why not?”
Rod finally managed the courage to face her.
“Because my people haven’t asked me to,” he said with some embarrassment.
He drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
“With Indians,” he explained, “a boy has to prove that he’s a man, even in these modern times. He has to do something … something worthy in the eyes of his people, so they can trust him … be proud of him … as a man. I was trying to do that something,” he told her, “by doing whatever I could to get into law school, and proving I was completely serious by working for Pike’s meatpacking company.”
They held a look between them for a long moment, with Kelly desperately wanting to take him in her arms to let him know everything would be all right.
Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit Page 17
