Suddenly there was the building rumble of galloping horses slicing the still air.
They both looked up the road to see a long line of Indians galloping toward them—the same group of Indians that rode past the longhorn herd—now converging on Pepper’s Station.
Rod took Kelly by the arm. He led the confused woman to the chuckwagon’s passenger side and helped her climb up. He untied the team and in seconds he was around to the driver’s side and in the seat. He grabbed the reins just as the first Indian swung his horse onto the gravel, sending a shower of pebbles raining down on the chuckwagon’s canvas top.
“I don’t recognize this tribe,” he told her. “We’d better get back to the herd quick. If these guys find out where those longhorns are … there could be some serious trouble.”
Another Indian literally slid his horse into the gravel area, swinging off to the ground—holding his clenched fist high as he let out a ghoulish scream.
“I-EEEE-HA!”
“Hey, I agree,” said Kelly. “Let’s get going!”
Rod released the brake and slapped leather to the team of horses. The old chuckwagon/two-seat buckboard moved out and onto the road, just as the rest of the rowdy Indian bunch swarmed Pepper’s Station, yelling and appearing to be all-around obnoxious.
As Rod whipped the chuckwagon’s horses into a gallop, the last Indian rider dismounted in the space where the chuckwagon had recently been located. On the Indian’s back was a sign reading, JOHN WALKING BEAR AND HIS AUTHENTIC INDIAN DANCE TROUPE.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Several miles away from the road Kelly and Rod were using as they left the store in their escape from the Indian troupe—in the low hill country to the west—the herd was still moving along slowly, both cattle and cowboys becoming increasingly aware of the churning, black clouds rolling in angrily overhead.
Every so often, lightning would flash and distant thunder would roll.
Within minutes, an inhospitable wind blew in from the north and began to gust unsympathetically. Shortly thereafter, gravel-size raindrops began to plaster everything in sight.
Feather and Lucky, one of the Colorado cowboys, rode up to Charley and Henry Ellis at the front of the herd—both men holding on to their hats for fear of losing them.
Charley and the boy had put on their yellow slickers by then. Buster was already drenched to the bone, as the rain had begun to come down in solid sheets.
“There’s a sad excuse fer a box canyon ’bout a half mile back yonder,” Feather yelled to Charley over the shrieking wind and driving rain. “More like a rift,” he shouted. “But we can corral the herd in it. An’ I seen a shack near there where we can take cover ourselves ’til this gully-washer blows over,” he added.
“Just be glad we’re out of that creek bed,” hollered Charley. “This looks like it could be a real toad choker.”
Now it was Feather and Lucky who pulled yellow slickers from their saddlebags, putting them on quickly as the rain pummeled with horrific ferocity.
Charley held up his arm for the cowboys behind him to see. He made a circling motion with his hand, signaling the men to reverse the cattle’s direction.
Lightning flashed again, followed closely by a much louder clap of thunder.
The storm continued to rage.
The rain fell in blinding layers, whipped by the unrelenting wind. After the demanding three-mile drive back to where Feather had suggested they would find safe harbor, the longhorns were now milling around, clustered together in the small “box canyon”—a natural enclosure located at the base of a steep escarpment.
A hastily built, brush ramada had been constructed across the entrance to the fissure to keep the animals confined as the thunder and lightning continued its discordant symphony in the dark, gray sky overhead.
At the nearby line shack Feather had told them about earlier, the nonstop, driving rain kept beating down with concentrated fury on the structure’s roof.
The figure of a horse and rider stumbled toward the small broken-down cabin through the hammering downpour, both man and beast nearly obliterated by the drenching cloudburst.
The rider dismounted near a ramshackle corral beside the line shack where he unsaddled his horse. He slung the saddle over his shoulder, then opened the gate, turning his mount out with some other horses that stood with their rumps to the storm in a far corner of the enclosure.
The man turned, leaning into the wind as he moved hastily toward the door of the shack.
Inside, with the rain pounding the tin roof, Roscoe had a small blaze going in the ancient stone fireplace. Feather was checking out the wooden cots and storage shelves. Henry Ellis had found an old kerosene lantern, and Holliday was doing his best to get the prehistoric contraption going.
The three Colorado cowboys were drying everyone’s clothing on a makeshift line they had strung in every which direction. Buster, of course, was already asleep and snoring near the hearth.
The door flew open with the howling gale as Charley entered the tiny enclosure. He dropped his saddle to the floor and closed the door behind him. As soon as it was latched securely he turned to the others.
“I stretched a couple more ropes across the opening to the canyon,” he said, shaking off the rainwater. “And I piled on some extra brush for the fence. I sure hope it stays put,” he added.
“Those horns’ll be all right, boss,” assured Feather. “Those longhorns appreciate shelter from a storm just like us humans do.”
Now that Holliday had the lantern going, Henry Ellis moved over to a window. The boy just stood there, staring into the soggy gloom on the other side of the uneven glass.
Roscoe was telling Charley, “I found some makin’s fer some coffee, C.A. I’ll have some drinkin’ ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. How’s it look out there?” he asked.
“It’ll probably last until morning by the feel of it,” said Charley. “I suppose we’ll all have to bed down in here tonight. Any blankets?” he asked.
“A few,” answered Feather, holding up several for the rest to see. “They’re kinda musty, though.”
Outside the shack, intermixed with the battering rain, even more lightning flashed, which illuminated the canyon’s entrance. As the following thunder cracked and growled, several mysterious figures in rain-drenched slickers moved cautiously down from the rocks.
Once on flat ground, they began to pull away some of the stacks of brush Charley and his men had piled there as a temporary barrier to help keep the cattle inside the natural corral.
Once the ropes that kept the foliage in place were untied and lowered, several curious longhorns poked their heads out and began to leave the box canyon.
The mysterious figures moved in behind the cattle, hazing the remainder of the herd out into the tempest.
Behind a small boulder, with a hooded poncho covering his head and face, Sidney Pike’s ever-present cigar tip glowed from behind the wall of rain that camouflaged the dishonorable deed.
A sharp blaze of lightning threw an eerie glow onto the meat packer’s nefarious smile, though the sound of his evil laughter was drowned out entirely by the storm’s frenzied cacophony.
Inside the cabin, the rainwater kept on rolling down the windowpane in rippling waves as Henry Ellis continued to stare out into the darkening blur.
Charley couldn’t help noticing the worried expression on his grandson’s face as the window-glass reflected the storm’s violence over the boy’s visage.
Charley stood up and went over to where Henry Ellis was standing. He put a reassuring arm around the youngster’s shoulder.
“What’s the matter, son?” Charley asked.
The boy answered, “I’m worried about Rod and Kelly. I sure hope they made it across that wash in time.”
Charley tousled the boy’s hair, patting him on the cheek.
“Don’t you be overly concerned about those two, son,” he told him. “They’re grown-up adults. They’ll know what to do ’til this thing
blows over.”
The once dry creek bed was alive with a fast-flowing torrent. The bubbling foam made it absolutely impossible for anything, or anybody, to get across.
The old chuckwagon/two-seat buckboard and the team were stopped on the opposite bank, across the whirl of raging water. The heavy rain battered the canvas roof with an inharmonious staccato.
A lighted lantern beneath the canvas covering enhanced the entangled silhouettes of Rod and Kelly, barely visible through a small opening that was left when the canvas had been pulled shut. They appeared to be actively engaged in the rudiments of heavy lovemaking. The disheveled duo pawed one another and kissed passionately, with much more electricity than the surrounding thunderstorm could ever hope to accomplish.
Back at the cabin, Holliday’s snore, combined with the same from Feather and Roscoe—plus the heavy rain falling on the tin roof—had been keeping Charley Sunday awake for what seemed like hours.
He got up for a moment and put some more wood on the fire. On his way back to his bedroll he stopped to check on Henry Ellis.
It put the old man at ease to see his grandson snoozing peacefully with a slight smile on his lips. Charley bent down and kissed him on the cheek. Then he stood and walked back to his own warm place of rest.
Charley climbed in between the wool blanket and canvas sleeping roll and made himself as comfortable as he could. Lightning flashed and distant thunder rolled once more as he closed his eyes again, hoping he would fall off this time.
A shrill whinny—followed by several sharp snorts and blows.
Charley was feeling reality slip away—his mind was traveling back many years in time to 1874 when he and his friends were working together as Texas Rangers.
A cattleman who raised stock near the Rio Grande River had reported his entire herd missing. The rancher and his foreman had caught the rustlers in the act and given chase. When the cattle thieves finally urged the herd across the Rio Grande River, the rancher and his foreman had to stop their pursuit. It was then they rode to the nearest Ranger station and reported the theft to the proper authorities.
The United States Army was notified immediately and after being given directions to the place the rustlers had crossed into Mexico, they gathered up some men and equipment and took off for the river where they were to meet several Rangers who had been assigned to the case.
1874
Forty-five-year-old Charley Sunday sat motionless in the saddle, his anxious bay gelding knee deep in the Rio Grande’s easy flow. Charley had positioned his horse next to a chipped and partially toppled stone marker designating the international border between the United States and Mexico. The chiseled marble had been planted there long ago on what was now all that remained of an insignificant island set in the middle of the river.
Charley glanced down at the circular star pinned to his lapel: a shiny symbol of law and order, barely visible beneath his trail-worn duster. The peso-size badge identified him as a Texas Ranger. He held the rank of captain.
With a drooping mustache and cool gray eyes, the lawman was once again feeling the passion of a deadly predator on the hunt.
He rose slowly in the stirrups while the saddle leather creaked like an old rocking chair. He carefully surveyed the Texas side of the muddy watercourse, searching for familiar sign. Removing his gold watch from a vest pocket he checked the time—the bold Roman numerals told him it was six fourteen. He drew in a deep breath. It helped ease the tightness in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that always came before unavoidable bloodshed.
The gelding’s head jerked. Charley looked up. The bay snorted once again—louder this time—nostrils flared, ears perked. An uneasy hoof pawed the water’s surface. Charley’s keen eyes acknowledged something on the northern periphery—elongated shadows, advancing. He slowly raised a gloved hand. From just beyond the horizon of the otherwise lifeless terrain, sun-rimmed silhouettes of men on horseback appeared. One by one they followed, the dark patterns of their shadows traveling across the sandy brush country before them. They were Texas Rangers—two in number. They wore once white, now gone to gray, muslin dusters similar to Charley’s. They rode several paces ahead of a small six-man detachment of United States Army Negro Infantry. Charley watched as the dust-covered men trod silently, yet boldly, across the high-water pebbles, then on down to the river’s edge where they reined up. Nearly half the river’s flow stood between the new arrivals and Charley. The two Rangers acknowledged the other Ranger midriver before dismounting. Without discussion, the soldiers quickly unloaded the several pack mules they had brought with them. Some men hurried to create makeshift fortifications. Others went about assembling two Gatling guns, affixing them to sturdy tripods. The rest of the men checked pistol cylinders and chambers and fed cartridges into their Winchesters. No one spoke—just the precise sounds of hushed, mechanical preparation.
Charley continued to wait—unmoving—watching silently from his position on the underwater ridge.
When the men had settled into their places behind the armaments, their leader, Ranger Sergeant Roscoe Baskin, stood up, took off his wide-brimmed sugar-loaf, and waved it—a signal to Charley that he and his men were ready.
Charley nodded back, touching the edge of his own hat’s brim.
The two initial Rangers were his friends, Roscoe, the sergeant, and Feather Martin, who continually carried the rank of private. Charley had personally requested that both men be sent to back him.
When it was time, he reined around in the direction of Mexico and spurred off the sandbar into deeper water. He drew his Winchester and Colt pistol from the saddle scabbard and the holster at his hip, then let the horse pull him out into the gentle current.
Early morning shadows darkened the rocky soil surrounding the adobe structures that made up the unkempt ranchito. Situated a little less than a mile into Mexico, the scruffy collection of crumbling adobes were concealed from prying gringo eyes by several jagged rock formations standing between the callous setting and the river to the north. Not a hacienda by any means, the small compound consisted only of those few scattered structures, several makeshift corrals, and three outbuildings.
On the far side of this meager spread of crude, decaying structures—at the crest of a slight incline—two hundred and fifty head of prime Texas cattle stood peacefully inside two of three primitive enclosures. The corrals had been constructed from dried mesquite, hacked into posts and crossbars by men with machetes. They were tied together with strips of rawhide.
Inside the third corral, a string of rangy horses, many of them still saddled. Several tired lookouts—mustachioed vaqueros—rode watch among the livestock. Their compadres slept soundly on the uneven porches of the buildings nearby. Charley figured there must be more men sprawled inside the cramped dwellings as well.
With the morning sun at his back, and keeping the gelding in a slow but steady gate, Charley entered the encampment.
The Ranger had thrown his duster over the rump of the gelding, hoping the garment would resemble a serape with the sun behind him. He had also popped the creases out of the crown of his Stetson, flattening the curl from its brim to make it appear more like a sombrero. Charley looked like a Mexican, and now he rode like a Mexican. He was hoping he’d be completely mistaken for one of their own by the two heavy-eyed sentries. He was extra sure of himself, and of the direction in which he was riding, as he started up the incline toward the three corrals, boldly walking the gauntlet between the cracked adobe dwellings. He appraised the situation thoroughly as he passed by the sleeping bandits—all of them heavily armed men—who snored soundly beside their empty liquor bottles. He rode his horse under a wooden latticework, beneath its hanging water gourds and dangling strings of drying peppers. The gelding’s hooves echoed lightly between the adobes.
Charley reached the far side of the last building, putting him quite close to the mesquite enclosures that contained the cattle. He brought the bay horse to a halt. After a moment, he casually reined the animal
around completely, putting his back to the guards. Without emotion, he looked down on the entire bandit compound. Slowly removing his lariat from the saddle, he began building a solid loop. He glanced over his other shoulder. The Mexican sentries were still nodded off in their saddles. They appeared to be waist deep in a pond of shimmering, dusty hides, completely unaware of the Lobo Americano in their midst.
Turning, Charley gently threw his rope across the top rail of the third corral, expertly dropping the loop over the large horn of the Mexican saddle on the horse nearest his position. He took a half hitch around his own saddle horn, then he spurred his horse hard. The gelding shot forward. The Mexican pony was jerked harshly sideways, toward Charley, losing its balance and going down with a frightened squeal. This sent a terrifying message to the other horses tied along the same line. Within moments, all were plunging and jumping, whinnying and snorting, snapping the rawhide tie downs that secured them.
The cattle in the other two corrals were immediately provoked; they moved around anxiously, bumping one another. Seconds later the expected chain reaction ignited. Before the two guards could sense trouble, ten to fifteen head had jumped through the makeshift barrier, flattening it to the ground in a successful attempt to get away from the panicky horses that were now escaping from the other crude holding pen.
Charley’s Whitneyville Walker Colt .44 roared, blasting the nearest sentry from his saddle. The second lookout had all he could do to keep his own bucking mount from throwing him under the hooves of the runaway steers. Charley took aim again and fired, dropping the man easily.
The two sharp cracks from the Ranger’s revolver had startled the cattle and horses into a full-blown stampede. Charley’s plan had been for all the corrals to be destroyed on their eastern sides—and it was in that direction the frightened animals began to run.
He emptied his Whitneyville Colt into the morning air behind the fleeing beasts as he spurred out after them. He put the reins between his teeth and pulled his Winchester from its scabbard. Several of the porch-side bandits who had been rudely awakened by the gunfire and the deafening roar of hooves found themselves trapped. The cattle swooped down on them before they could ready their weapons, swirling past in a quickly blooming dust cloud. Support posts crumbled and men screamed for their mothers, their lives, and for their God. The trampling of cloven hooves consumed all.
Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit Page 18
