Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  The other bandits milled around. Some dismounted to have a smoke, and others chewed off a bite of jerky to relieve their hunger.

  The outlaw leader rode up alongside the coach. He bent down to look inside. He had a man with him who spoke English who translated for him.

  “Which one … of you … does cooking?” the man asked in broken English.

  Inside the coach, Roscoe, Kelly, and Henry Ellis exchanged glances. Then Roscoe spoke.

  “I’m the cookie,” he answered. “These other two are my assistants.”

  After the leader spoke again in Spanish, the man translated:

  “Do you think maybe you prepare something for all of us to eat?” the leader asked through the translator. “We have had nothing to eat in over two days.”

  “Sure I can,” Roscoe said, nodding. “If ya want meat, though, you’ll have ta provide it yourselves … but if you’ll be satisfied with beans an’ rice, all I’ll need is my can opener.”

  “Frijoles and rice are good,” said the leader without waiting for the man to translate. He turned and called over to one of his men. “Pepe,” he said in Spanish, “we will camp here. Come over and untie the old man, then you and Pedro collect some wood for a cooking fire.”

  Watching from behind some rocks where they had concealed themselves when they realized the bandits were going to make this more than a meal stop, Rod and Feather were trying to figure out their next move.

  “Don’t ’spose there’ll be time enough fer one of us ta ride back to the herd and get Charley and Holliday?” said Feather.

  “That’d take too long,” answered Rod. “Besides, we already have three extra people on our side right over there in that coach.”

  “If you’re talkin’ about Roscoe, Miss Kelly, and the boy,” said Feather, “it looks to me like they’re all being held prisoner.”

  Rod chuckled. “You just saw that Roscoe isn’t tied up anymore when they let him out of the coach to start cooking their supper. All I have to do is get into the coach and untie Kelly and Henry Ellis. When they’re all free,” he said, “we can make our move.”

  Roscoe was still opening tin cans and emptying beans into a large cauldron when the men returned with heavy branches, sticks, and kindling and began preparing the cooking fire.

  “Cookin’ the rice’ll be easy, but it used ta be I’d have ta boil up raw pinto beans and let ’ em simmer fer quite a while,” Roscoe was telling the bandit who’d been left to keep an eye on him. “But ever since they’ve been packin’ beans in these store-bought air-tights, all I gotta do is open some tin cans, then heat ’em up over the fire. Pretty simple, ain’t it?”

  He got no response from the bandit, but he sensed the man was very hungry by the look in his eyes.

  It was then he saw Rod on the ground on the other side of the stagecoach. He was crawling through the high grass. The young Indian stopped when he saw Roscoe had spotted him. Rod raised his hand in a gesture to Roscoe.

  Roscoe threw him a slight nod and continued preparing the meal.

  After a moment, Rod continued his crawl up to the stagecoach’s step. When he was sure he couldn’t be seen by anyone else, he began pulling himself up into a standing position.

  Inside the coach Kelly and Henry Ellis sat across from one another, both of them still tied securely. The strongbox was on the floor between them, chained firmly to the ring embedded in the floor. Henry Ellis was the first to see the door handle turn. Before the boy could say anything Rod was through the door and hunched down on the floor between him and Kelly.

  “Check out the window,” Rod whispered to them both. “Make sure nobody saw me.”

  Both Kelly and the boy looked outside and saw that none of the Mexicans were near the coach at that moment.

  “All clear,” said Henry Ellis with a grin from ear to ear.

  “How did you find us,” whispered Kelly.

  “First let me get you untied and out of here,” said Rod.

  Staying as low as he could, Rod moved in even closer to them and began loosening their bonds.

  There was just time enough for Rod to flatten out on the floor when they heard the leader’s voice calling over to them once again.

  “If you two will be patient,” said the leader, “I will have one of my men bring you some food … when it is ready.”

  Kelly scooted over to the window, covering Rod with her long skirt just before the leader spurred his horse up closer to the coach. His eyes searched the vehicle’s interior.

  Henry Ellis saw that Rod’s boots were visible outside of Kelly’s skirt so he turned in his seat to block the leader’s view.

  The leader’s only interest was in Kelly. He leaned down from his horse, took her by the nape of the neck, then kissed her roughly before she knew what was happening. “You eat, beautiful one,” he told her. “Then the both of us will find a secluded place to get to know one another better while my men rest after their meal.”

  “You go to hell,” said Kelly, spitting in his face.

  The leader pulled back, wiping his chin. He laughed—then he reined around and rode away.

  Rod pushed Kelly’s skirt away from his face. He looked up into the newswoman’s eyes. “I’m going to kill him for that. Just so you know it.”

  Henry Ellis’s face held a blank stare.

  The sun had begun to set.

  Feather had moved in closer. He was now concealed behind a large boulder a few yards from the right rear wheel of the chuckwagon—close enough to the cook fire and Roscoe to make contact.

  The only problem was the bandit that had been left to guard Roscoe. He had found an old log and now sat several yards away with his rifle cocked and ready.

  Feather pursed his lips, then hooted like an owl.

  The outlaw paid no attention.

  Roscoe recognized the birdcall as a signal from his Texas Ranger past. He caught sight of Feather through the wagon’s front-wheel spokes and he nodded.

  Feather winked, then pointed to the guard and mouthed some silent words—after that he made a hammering motion with his hand.

  Roscoe understood what his friend wanted him to do. After a moment he turned to the guard.

  “Hey, you,” he called out.

  The man got to his feet and walked over to where Roscoe was cooking. “I need ya to taste these beans … see if they’re spicy enough.”

  Feather began his move the moment Roscoe called the man over to the fire.

  When the bandit was about to taste a spoonful of the heated beans, the blued barrel of Feather’s Colt knocked him out cold. He fell face-first into the steaming cauldron.

  Roscoe dragged him out of the pot, rolling his body away from the fire. He picked up the rifle and pulled the man’s pistol from its holster. Then he moved over closer to Feather who was licking some of the beans off the man’s face using his fingers.

  “How many men did you bring with you,” Roscoe asked.

  “It’s just me an’ Rod,” said Feather.

  Roscoe shook his head. “That might not be enough,” he said. “But I bin told all it takes is one Ranger to quell a riot.” He went on, “An’ right now we got two ex-Rangers… an’ a Indian.”

  “… Plus one pretty tough woman and a half-growed boy who ain’t scared a’ nothin’,” said Feather. “We oughta be able ta get somethin’ done ’tween the five of us, don’t ya think?”

  They were joined by Rod, Kelly, and Henry Ellis. Rod had untied Kelly and the boy before he’d helped them down from the coach. All three were crouched low as they moved in beside the others.

  “All right,” said Feather, “here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the campfire area had been cleared of any sign that might tip the bandit gang to what was about to take place.

  Roscoe knelt by two large pots dishing out beans and rice to the lineup of bandits who waited for their food.

  The leader sat beside the chuckwagon eating and talking with his second in command. He looked up
and saw the man who had been guarding Roscoe through the crowd. He motioned for him to come over.

  Rod, dressed in the guard’s clothing, neck scarf, crossed-bandoliers, and wide-brim sombrero, nodded in the leader’s direction. He pulled his serape up around his neck and began moving slowly through the crowded space filled with men eating.

  The sun dipped behind a distant mountain, putting most of the camp in shadow.

  The bandits continued eating, paying no particular attention to Rod, dressed like one of their own, as he walked slowly toward their leader and his second in command.

  Feather scooted along on his belly through the high grass until he came to the picket line of tethered horses belonging to the gang.

  Both teams were there. The six-up stagecoach mule team and the two horses that pulled the covered wagon had been unhitched but not unharnessed. They were tied off on this other side of camp near the conveyances they pulled.

  Feather came up fast and silent behind the sentry in charge of watching the picket line, taking him out of commission with a quick hand over his mouth and the blade of a Bowie knife shoved deep between his ribs.

  Not a sound was heard.

  Then the little ex-Ranger began untying each horse, one by one, until they were all free. Feather batted several of the animals on their rear ends with his hat to help head them out and away from the camp.

  Henry Ellis could see the entire campsite from his position inside the stagecoach.

  Kelly held the rifle that once belonged to Roscoe’s guard as she hunkered down in the driver’s boot beneath the seat.

  Roscoe, who was still dishing up beans and rice, watched Rod as he continued his slow walk through the eating bandits toward the leader.

  Henry Ellis could see that Rod was nearing the leader and the second in command. He knew that what was about to happen would trigger a shootout, so he ducked back away from the window like Roscoe had told him to.

  Outside, Rod was almost face to face with the leader when the man suddenly realized he was dealing with a stranger, not his own man.

  That’s when Henry Ellis heard Rod’s shot—or was it Rod’s shot? He wasn’t sure. He’d felt the sound had come from an entirely different direction.

  He slid back over to the window and peered out. The leader was slumped into Rod’s arms, blood pouring from a wound in his head.

  With all the strength he could muster, Rod shoved the dead leader’s body onto his bewildered second in command while at the same time drawing and firing Holliday’s gun point blank into the co-leader’s stomach.

  Another shot rang out. Henry Ellis turned to see a bandit fall into the cook fire. He also saw his grampa Charley behind a tree as the old rancher fired another shot with his old Colt, killing another bandit outright.

  On the far side of the small campsite Holliday was blasting away with a rifle—each bullet found its mark.

  Rod dropped to one knee and fired Holliday’s other gun with just as much success.

  None of the bandits had yet fired back—they had been caught way off guard. First off they were confused and frightened and couldn’t figure out where the bullets were coming from.

  A bandit ran past Roscoe and was hit in the back of his head with the caldron of beans Roscoe threw at him. He tumbled over—out cold.

  Another frightened bandit took off running for the picket line, but when he saw the horses were no longer tied there, he made a quick dash for the six-up team. A bullet from Kelly’s rifle cut him down in his tracks.

  As the gunshots died down, Feather led the final two bandits into the campsite with his pistol trained on them both.

  When he saw Charley and Holliday, he did a double take.

  “Where in tarnation did you two come from?” he said, scratching his head.

  Charley took a few more steps toward the little ex-Ranger.

  “After we got the herd all bedded down for the night, we were hungry enough to eat a live bobcat,” said Charley. “That’s when we decided you fellas must be in some kind of trouble. We backtracked and picked up your trail … and here we are.”

  Henry Ellis flew out of the coach and into his grandfather’s arms.

  Kelly met Rod in the center of the camp and they kissed.

  Feather looked at Roscoe and Holliday.

  “Now don’t you two go getting any ideas,” he told them.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Flora Mae Huckabee, still in her bathrobe and slippers, sat across one of her poker tables facing her bartender, both of them enjoying small dishes of homemade ice cream covered in chocolate sauce and whipped cream. The bartender was reading to her from the local Juanita morning newspaper. Though it was the bartender’s voice that spoke the words, the writing was pure Kelly King:

  “I hate to interrupt your morning bacon and eggs with something so trivial,” said Kelly’s words, “but Charley Sunday’s Texas Outfit is only weeks away from bringing the three hundred longhorn cattle to their new home in Juanita, Texas.

  “‘It’s all downhill from here,’ said Mr. Charles Abner Sunday, the leader of this venerable crew, when I asked him how it was going earlier this morning.

  “Well, at least Mr. Sunday thought it would be all downhill … for the next week or so, that is. Until he ran across one of the greatest obstacles the cow outfit had faced since leaving Denver, Colorado, with the longhorn herd a couple of months and nearly a thousand miles ago.

  “At this writing it is after the fact. I’m sitting in our chuckwagon with Mr. Sunday’s grandson, ten-year-old Henry Ellis Pritchard. We are now far from the area this incident took place. I’m writing now, hoping to describe to you what we witnessed barely four hours ago.

  “The herd of longhorns was at another standstill … actually it was a standoff. This time it was Charley Sunday’s Texas Outfit! vs. the United States Army.

  “A fence, that’s right, an extremely well-constructed wood, steel, and barbwire fence extending across miles and miles of otherwise wide-open country. It appeared that this just might put an end to the longhorn cattle drive.”

  The bartender continued reading. “Only hours ago, Charles Abner Sunday, the determined, native-born Texan and leader of this brave band of elderly Texas cowpunchers, did what any other normal cattleman would do if faced with the same predicament. He pulled some wire cutters from a cowboy’s saddlebags and cut the barbwire in two—every single strand—until there was enough space to move the longhorns through.

  “The old cowboys were now facing—through the newly created access—what appeared to be a platoon of armed, United States Army Artillery soldiers—standing at attention with rifles bared.

  “Off in the distance behind them, across those wide-open spaces, an assemblage of mounted, uniformed, U.S. Army officers and their aides rode ten abreast with a single rider—the commanding officer—astride a spirited white stallion at their lead. His chest was covered in a rainbow of ribbons and his shoulder boards indicated he was a lieutenant colonel.”

  The article goes on: “I sent young Henry Ellis over to witness the approaching confrontation. To be my eyes and ears, so to speak.

  “The commanding lieutenant colonel and his aides rode in and stopped in front of Charley Sunday and four members of his outfit, Roscoe Baskin, Feather Martin, Rod Lightfoot, and Plunker Holliday. With the assistance of one of his aides, the lieutenant colonel dismounted, then walked the gauntlet through his standing troops until he was close enough to the cowboys to exchange words with Sunday at eye level.

  “Beneath his officious appearance, the lieutenant colonel fumed. He clenched the stump of a cigar between his gritted teeth, all the while eying the old drovers—and the longhorns grazing behind them—suspiciously.

  “‘Whom, may I ask,’ he began, ‘is in charge of these … bovines?’

  “Charley nodded, holding up a finger. He stepped forward, brushing past Feather. He moved in as close to the lieutenant colonel as was possible, facing him nose to nose—the remains of the destroyed fence was t
he only thing left between the two.

  “Charley spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt.

  “‘I reckon I am, sir,’ he answered with an icy stare.

  “The lieutenant colonel rolled the cigar butt in his teeth, seething.

  “‘I’m Lieutenant Colonel A.J. Beckley,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea where you are, cowboy?’

  “Charley cocked an eyebrow.

  “‘Oh, I got an inkling,’ he replied.

  “‘You are on United States Government Property,’ Beckley growled. ‘That’s where you are!’

  “Charley spit again, squinting at the officer.

  “‘Call it whatever you like, mister,’ he said. He swept his arm across the vast horizon. ‘But this here is all Texas as far as me and my boys are concerned.’”

  The bartender read how the heated argument continued. “Beckley’s eyes narrowed, his anger was building even more, as Charley went on.

  “‘And I got me some longhorns I wanna get from here’—he pointed to his side of the fence—‘to over yonder.’ He indicated the expansive terrain on the other side of the obstruction, beyond where the Army troops were standing in formation.

  “Beckley cocked his head.

  “‘Don’t you realize this is an artillery range … a hazardous area?’ he barked. ‘Don’t you even care if it’s off limits to the public? For their OWN SAFETY?!’

  “He’d bellowed for the benefit of the troops around him, and in case Charley might really give a damn. ‘We fire high-explosive ordnance out here, cowboy,’ he added.

  “Charley nodded casually, spitting tobacco juice once again.

  “‘That’s what some of your men were telling us before,’ he told the officer. ‘But we figured we might just be up to getting ’em all across … between your explosions. ’

  “He shook his head.

  “‘Otherwise,’ Charley said with a sigh, ‘it’ll sure be a heck of a long way around.’”

  After smoothing the newspaper a bit, the bartender went on. “Beckley couldn’t believe what he was hearing.