Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit
Page 29
Directly behind them, the Juanita Chamber of Commerce Brass Band, all five of them—dressed in their best spit and polish—began to play “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”
A special stand had been constructed along the parade route. It had been decked out in festive red, white, and blue bunting. The governor of the State of Texas, and many other state officials, made up the majority in that exclusive section surrounded by photographers and news reporters.
All heads were turned in the direction of the approaching herd.
The three hundred longhorns moved, quite grandly, into the small Texas town.
Charley sat tall and proud beside his smiling woman and his gleaming grandson as the longhorns followed along behind the musicians that trailed Flora Mae’s carriage.
Applause and cheering arose from the crowd as the band played on.
Rod and Kelly rode side by side on horseback alongside the cattle. She waved to her photographer, Gerald, who had his camera situated on the roof of the traveling darkroom, covering the event from curbside.
“Well, I guess this is finally it,” said Rod with a sadness to his words.
Kelly turned to him, reaching over, caressing his cheek—smiling.
“Yes,” she answered. “I reckon it is over … the cattle drive. Just the cattle drive,” she reminded him.
“It sure has been a lot of fun,” said Rod, missing the whole meaning of her touch.
Kelly pulled back from him. She stared straight ahead—fuming.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, confused.
“You may have been the brightest boy in your tribe,” she articulated. “But when it comes to feelings, you’re clueless.”
“I, uh, er,” were about the only words Rod could muster.
Kelly wheeled around in the saddle, facing him.
“Open your eyes, Rod Lightfoot,” she told him with tears rimming both her eyes. “Can’t you tell when a woman’s in love with you?”
Rod reined up—so did Kelly.
“Y-you … love … m-me?” he stammered.
“Of course I do, you fool,” she told him, weeping with happiness. “I love you so much I just quit my job with the news syndicate because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand it if we had to be apart.”
Rod was in complete shock—he was literally voiceless.
“Well, don’t just sit there on that old pony of yours twirling your spurs, Mr. Indian Lawyer-man.” She sniffled. “Get your rear end over here and kiss me!”
Feather rode by on Chigger, spinning his lariat, tossing the loop over a pretty local gal on the boardwalk, then reeling her in for a big hug. The crowd loved every minute of it.
Henry Ellis, in the carriage, took his grandfather by the hand, pointing out his parents—Kent and Betty Jean—on the jam-packed sidewalk.
“Henry Ellis! Dad!” shouted Betty Jean over the crowd’s noise.
Charley and the boy smiled and waved back.
“We just got back,” she hollered again. “We read about you in San Francisco every day, including every town we stopped in on our way back.”
Henry Ellis and Charley exchanged glances, laughing.
The carriage moved on, passing the governor’s stand.
The governor called out to Sunday. “Mighty fine job, C.A.” He grinned, waving at the older cattleman. “Welcome back to Texas! Welcome back to the Lone Star State!”
Charley nodded, half-smiling, waving back, acknowledging the state’s leader.
He turned to Flora Mae and his grandson, leaning in as close as he could get to both of them.
“Did you see that?” he whispered. “The governor of the great state of Texas even knows who I am now … and I didn’t even vote for him. Ha!”
Flora Mae and the boy laughed, too.
Flora Mae snuggled up closer to Charley.
“Would ya mind comin’ by the hotel tonight after all this fuss?” she asked.
“Well I—” Charley began. But he stopped.
He turned, looking the woman directly in the eyes.
“What do you want me to come all the way over there for?” he asked.
Flora Mae nuzzled up even closer.
“Oh,” she spoke gently, “I just thought maybe you might wanna finish our dance.”
Charley looked deep into Flora Mae’s eyes—and she into his—for a very, very, long time.
Finally Henry Ellis let out an extremely loud “Uuuuuuuuuuuugggghhh!”
He turned to the dog and said, “Yuck, Buster, let’s get out of here. We have to get away from these silly old lovebirds. They sure don’t need us around.”
He hopped down and climbed over into the front seat between the smiling bartender and Charley’s dog.
Flora Mae and Sunday didn’t miss him at all—they had reawakened a passion long buried and had been kissing the entire time.
At the rear of the parade, the old chuckwagon/two-seat buckboard, without its canvas covering, was being driven by a waving and smiling Roscoe. It moved past the crowd, surrounded by Potato John and the jovial members of his Comanche Dance Troupe performing one of their authentic Indian dances.
Plunker Holliday sat beside the cook’s cupboard on the chuckwagon’s tailgate, facing toward the back, twirling both of his six-shooters to the delight of the onlookers.
Behind him, on the other side of the cook’s cupboard in the chuckwagon’s bed, jammed together, were the roped and hog-tied members of the cattle-rustling gang—Bull, Slim, and the rest.
The old gunfighter glanced down another rope that stretched from the rear of the chuckwagon.
Sidney Pike hurried along on foot at the rope’s other end—finalizing the parade—his arms and shoulders securely bound.
As the old chuckwagon jumped ahead, and the rope jerked the meat packer to attention—one could only say that Pike was literally … riding drag.
EPILOGUE
1960
A 1958 Ford station wagon pulled up in front of the Old Soldiers Home, allowing Hank’s granddaughter, Evie, and his three great-grandchildren to drop off Grampa Hank. Genuine hugs and kisses were exchanged, plus a slew of appreciative “thank-yous” from Hank’s family for the wonderful afternoon they had just spent together.
The apartment door opened and a hand groped for the light switch inside. Two lamps were turned on in Hank’s living space. It was a simple setting—one small room: a single bed, a table, three chairs, and a small television set. In one corner a sink, small refrigerator, and a hot plate, with cupboards and shelves above and below. The door to the bath was across the room.
The front door swung open even wider and Hank entered. With the echoes of children’s laughter still ringing in his ears, he moved slowly to his easy chair, steadying himself as he hobbled along. Then he flopped. He’d had a full day.
Hank’s blue-veined hand reached for the television switch, and the TV was turned on. After what seemed like an hour, a black-and-white picture came on. It was a 1930s Lone Star western, starring John Wayne.
The old man smiled. As the musical score overrode, he settled back, ready to watch a movie he’d seen many times before.
On the TV screen, John Wayne was beating the bejeezus out of three bad guys.
Hank loved every minute. Then his eyes were drawn to something on the wall behind the television set.
In a framed, glass-covered wooden case surrounded by other cases displaying his wartime souvenirs, ribbons, and medals, hung a .44-caliber, antique, Colt revolver.
It was the Whitneyville Walker.
His grampa Charley had given it to him the summer before he passed away.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2014 Stephen Lodge
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
; If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3389-8
First electronic edition: December 2014
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3390-4
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3390-8