“So far this has been like slicing butter . . . real smooth,” said Brother Dale.
“Well, don’t just stand there waitin’ for it to come to you,” said Sam. “Go on over there an’ get it.”
“Obliged,” said Dale, motioning for the three henchmen to follow.
As they all decided at once to step over Feather, instead of going around him, Feather passed some gas and turned over so he was facedown. One of the bandits stopped in his tracks, directly over Feather, where he got a good whiff of the recently expelled vapors.
“Oh, hell,” he said, gagging. “That’s enough to strangle a boat full a’ water rats.”
“Don’t be wasting time,” said Dale. “Get your butt on over here.”
Since Feather’s spurs were now positioned “rowels up,” it didn’t take that much for them to hook on to the outlaw’s own spur rowels. When the outlaw reached out to regain his balance, he grabbed hold of a large piece of Dale’s shirtsleeve. Dale reached out for something to grab himself, and he latched on to the other two bandits’ shirt collars, causing all four of them to fall on top of Feather in a mangled pile.
“Jeeezus God!” yelled Feather, and a shot rang out.
A few more bullets were expelled, with their black powder flashes lighting up the mail car with each explosion.
From where he’d hidden himself at the other end of the car, Henry Ellis could barely make out what was happening those few yards in front of him. The one thing he could feel was the long hair of Buster’s coat, reminding him that the dog was still at his side.
“Go get ’em, Buster,” he urged. “Go help Grampa and Uncle Roscoe.”
Buster let out a nasty growl. Then he began barking as loud as he could.
Eventually the confusion and tumult of the sightless fight came to an end.
A match was struck and another lantern’s wick was lighted. As the flame was turned up and the glass brought down, the interior grew brighter. It was apparent Roscoe, Feather, and Buster had everything under control.
At first, Henry Ellis grinned in relief, but when the door behind the others swung open to reveal the two marshals with their weapons cocked and ready, his smile faded completely.
“Everyone hold it right there,” the first marshal shouted.
“You’re all covered,” said marshal number two.
Buster hadn’t moved an inch. He remained standing in the same place and continued barking.
Relief was now showing on Sam’s and Dale Cropper’s faces as well as their three henchmen.
Roscoe and Feather raised their hands as soon as they figured out whose side the marshals were really on.
Sam turned to his brother.
“Dale . . . you and those other three open the side loading door and shove that payroll box off the train.”
Dale and the men nodded. Dale took care of the door while the others went to the locked iron box and began their struggle to slide the heavy container across the rough floor planks. It wasn’t an easy job.
One of the marshals turned to Sam. “You better get someone to go back and tell the rest of your gang what’s happened, pronto,” he said.
Sam nodded. “I’ll have them send a wagon up here for the strongbox.”
Buster’s barking was incessant. The dog wouldn’t stop.
“But before I go, I’m going to shut that dog up once and for all.” He raised his revolver and pulled back the hammer, slowly aiming at the defiant canine. Buster stood his ground with Henry Ellis’s arms wrapped tightly around him.
“Get away, kid,” said Sam Cropper, motioning with his gun’s barrel.
Like Buster, Henry Ellis wouldn’t budge.
“I said get away!” repeated the gunman. “I’m going to shoot that dog and I don’t want to hurt no kid while I’m doing it.”
“If you do, it’ll be over my dead body.”
It was Charley’s voice coming from behind a shipping crate. He slowly stood up with his Walker Colt aimed directly at Sam Cropper.
The outlaw realized it was all over. He immediately cocked his gun.
BLAM! BLAM!
Henry Ellis sat up straight on his sofa bed. The gunshots in his dream had become real gunshots.
Both Charley and Roscoe were on their feet in a beat; both had literally jumped out of their beds. Having gone to sleep fully clothed, the two ex-lawmen grabbed their weapons and immediately bolted for the door, disappearing into the hallway.
Henry Ellis swung out of his own bed and raced to the nearest window. He threw open the sash, then peered out onto the main street of Hondo.
Icy crystals on the frozen ground reflected a sparkling glitter throughout the little berg. Near the marshal’s off ice, Henry Ellis could see three horsemen, still in their saddles, firing their guns into the windows and doors of the marshal’s office. The marshal, Henry Ellis could only assume, was firing back whenever he found an opening, as one window shattered after the other.
Within moments, there was a clattering of boots on the boardwalk in front of the boardinghouse below Henry Ellis’s perch. Charley, followed by Roscoe and the deputy called Buck Wadell, moved out into the street with all guns blazing.
One of the horsemen was hit, and when his spur hung up in his stirrup as he fell from the saddle, his horse made its getaway, dragging the man across the frozen mud until the stirrup broke, freeing his boot. The frightened animal kept on going, running on past the depot at the eastern entrance to the settlement.
The other two outlaws, who had come for the newly minted coins being stored in the marshal’s office, were forced to hang on to their weapons while they mounted their skittish animals. Once they were aboard, they had a brief exchange of gunfire with Roscoe and Charley, before spurring out and nearly running down the two ex-Rangers as they made their getaway, heading out of town in the opposite direction.
Henry Ellis continued to watch from the hotel window as the deputy called Buck dragged the dead outlaw’s body, by one boot, over to where Charley and Roscoe were standing in front of the marshal’s office.
“Never saw this one before in my whole life,” said the deputy. “Did either of you gents get a good look at them other two?”
“Too dark,” said Charley. “Otherwise we’d be hauling those two by their boots, just like you’re doing with that one.”
“It is dark, all right,” said the deputy. “I reckon it was just a lucky shot brought this one down, ’cause I ain’t no sharpshooter, even in daylight.”
About then, the marshal stepped out onto the boardwalk. He took a look at the dead man, then turned to Charley.
“Was it you that nailed him, Mr. Sunday?” he asked.
“’Fraid not, Marshal,” answered Charley. “It was your deputy Buck over there who knocked him outta the saddle. Being dragged along by his horse like he was is probably what killed him.”
The marshal crossed over to where his deputy was still standing—gun in one hand, the outlaw’s boot in the other.
“Ya think you might wanna turn that body over to the undertaker, Buck? You look pretty silly standin’ out here in the cold hangin’ on to him by one foot.”
Buck gave his boss’s words a long thought, then he let go of the man’s foot. The boot dropped to the ground from the dead weight inside.
“I’ll go notify the undertaker, Marshal,” he said.
“You do that, Buck.”
As the deputy started moving away, the marshal continued.
“You could be up for a nice promotion, Buck. I’m really serious this time.”
The marshal turned to the others. “Better go on back to sleep, gents. Mornin’ll be comin’ ’round awful early tomorrow.”
“We’ll be glad to stay with you, Marshal,” said Charley. “In case they make another try.”
“No,” said the marshal. “I don’t think they’ll hit us again tonight . . . but if they do, Buck and I got it handled.”
They all looked up as Henry Ellis slammed the hotel room window across th
e street.
CHAPTER SIX
Young Buck Wadell, the deputy marshal, was banging on their hotel room door at precisely four a.m. Roscoe went down to see about the trotters, while Charley and Henry Ellis stopped by Bertie’s kitchen for a hot mug of coffee for Charley and a glass of juice for the boy.
When they got to Bertie’s barn, Roscoe had already harnessed and hitched up the trotters. He was in the process of wiping down the isinglass when he was joined by the others.
Charley pulled out his watch and checked the time.
“We got fifteen minutes to get over to the depot and meet the marshal,” he said. “Do you want to start off driving, Roscoe, then we can switch off down the road . . . or do you want me to start off?”
Roscoe, who was now making a final check of all his buckles and couplings, said that he’d be glad to start out driving.
“Why, thank you, Roscoe,” said Charley. “I still got me a little shut-eye to catch up on from last night. How about you, Henry Ellis?” he asked the boy. “Do you still have any sleep left in you?”
“If I’m going to go back to sleep,” said the boy, “I sure wish I had me something to eat beforehand.”
Buck, the deputy, rejoined the three. He carried a large basket, covered with a red-and-white-checkered cloth.
“I heard that, sonny,” he said to the boy. “My wife stayed up half the night makin’ these burritos.” He handed one to Henry Ellis, then passed several more to the others. “Said she didn’t want you starting out followin’ that train without you havin’ somethin’ in your bellies.”
“Well, that was mighty kind of her, Buck,” said Charley. “Will you tell her thanks from us all for thinking of us?”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Roscoe, biting into his burrito.
“Me too,” added Henry Ellis as he wiped away the dripping salsa from his chin with his coat sleeve.
“The marshal wanted me to tell you that you can take off anytime you want to,” said the deputy. “The train’s darn near loaded, but there’s always one or two that’re stragglers.”
Charley reached over and picked up his grandson, setting him on the surrey’s rear seat. He started to climb in behind the boy as Roscoe pulled himself up and into the front seat. After making sure the isinglass was fastened all around, Roscoe turned to get Charley’s permission to go. Then he picked up the lines in both hands and clucked his tongue. The trotters moved out in the direction of the train.
Charley pulled the several blankets that had been left there over himself and Henry Ellis, then they both settled back in the seat.
A second later, Roscoe butt-slapped both trotters, and the surrey was on its way again.
About three-quarters of a mile out of Hondo, Charley told Roscoe to pull over and stop.
“We’ll wait here for the train,” he told him. “After it passes us, I want you to stay on its tail for the rest of the way.”
“Are you sayin’ that we gotta follow that train day an’ night until it reaches its destination?” said Roscoe.
“If it sounded that way, I’m truly sorry, Roscoe,” said Charley. “I talked with the marshal this morning on the way over to the barn, and I told him we’ll be bedding down in Uvalde come dusk and he’d be on his own after that. He promised me he’d telephone ahead and make sure there’ll be someone to replace us when the train makes its regular stop in that town.”
Roscoe shook his head.
“Thank the Lord . . . and thank you, Charley Sunday, fer havin’ the courtesy to do that.”
“Any time,” said Charley as he sank lower in the surrey’s rear seat beside the now sleeping boy. “And remember to let me know when you want me to relieve you. But please, let me get a little sleep before you do.”
It must have been two hours later—though not one of the three really knew how much time had passed because Roscoe had fallen asleep, too—when Henry Ellis awoke to the slower cadence of the trotters’ hoofbeats. He could still see the train’s tail lantern up ahead in the gray of the day, but the distance between them had grown immeasurably. The boy was about to wake his grandfather when he saw something in the tall, swaying bushes on the right side of the road. The head and neck of a bay horse had edged itself out several feet onto the road in front of the approaching surrey, before being reined back quickly by its rider.
“Grampa . . . Roscoe,” Henry Ellis called out. We need to stop . . . Right now!”
Charley sat up straight, his head bumping Roscoe from behind. That woke Roscoe, too.
“What’s goin’ on?” said Roscoe, reining in the trotters.
“Pay attention,” said Charley.
He turned to the boy.
“What’s going on, Henry Ellis?” he asked for himself.
“I just saw a horse stick its nose out of those bushes up ahead. Somebody reined him back.”
“Where’s the train?” asked Charley.
“We’ve drifted back some,” answered the boy. “Otherwise we would have passed the place where I saw the horse. Grampa,” he said, “I think it’s those same robbers. I think they’re going after the train again.”
Charley slowly removed the Walker Colt from his boot, bringing it up where he could use it if he had to.
Roscoe unholstered his old Walker, too, setting it on the seat beside him.
There was more movement coming from the bushes in front of them. Then, five horses and riders broke out of their hiding places in the bushes and raced after the train, which was about three-quarters of a mile in front of them by then.
“Whip ’em up, Roscoe!” shouted Charley. “There they go!”
Roscoe slapped leather, and the trotters took off at a run, headed after the riders who were chasing the train.
Henry Ellis could feel his heart in his throat as he sat beside his grandfather, both of them leaning as far forward as possible, almost into the front seat beside Roscoe.
“I’m going to have to ask you to get down on the floorboards, Henry Ellis,” said Charley in his gentle but firm way. “I don’t know how I would explain it to your mother if anything happened to you.”
“But, Grampa . . .” the boy whined.
“Now, damnit. I said get your butt down on those floorboards, now!”
Henry Ellis did what his grandfather said, just as the first bullet fired by the bad men tore a hole in the isinglass, then embedded itself in the back support of the front seat, barely missing Roscoe.
“That was a close one,” said Roscoe.
“Well, shoot back at ’em,” said Charley. “They know we’re here now.”
Roscoe reached for his Walker, pulled back the hammer, found the opening in the isinglass for the reins, then sent some lead in the train robbers’ direction.
Charley slid all the way over to the opposite side of the vehicle and fired after them with his own Walker Colt.
“Save your lead,” said Charley. “We ain’t going to hit anything bouncing around like we are.”
Just then, the surrey passed the dead body of one of the outlaws in the mud, and his horse could be seen where it wandered off beside the railroad tracks.
“It was either you or me got ’im, Charley,” said Roscoe.
“It sure wasn’t Henry Ellis,” said Charley. “He doesn’t have a gun.”
The boy popped his head up for a look. Charley immediately shoved it back down.
By then, Roscoe had advanced the surrey up much closer to the band of outlaws. Close enough that small specks of mud were dirtying the isinglass between Roscoe and the trotters.
“Now, pick one and aim good,” said Charley. “If we can knock off two more, they’ll give up before they get to the train.”
Both men picked their targets, then aimed as best they could under the circumstances. When they fired, the two men closest to the rear of the bunch ate mud.
And like Charley had said, the other two riders reined off to the right of the road, then disappeared into the tall bushes for good.
Roscoe reined the tro
tters to a stop, and the three of them—Henry Ellis had popped up again—watched as the red lantern on the tail end of the train kept getting smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely.
There was a deadly quiet all around for a brief moment before someone spoke.
“You know,” said Charley, “I don’t think anyone on the train even knew what was going on back here.”
“That’s because we never let them robbers get close enough.”
“And the money,” said Henry Ellis. “Boy, I’ll bet those Cropper Brothers are really . . . upset.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were lucky—real lucky. Even though a cold rain had started to fall again, the train was still waiting at the Uvalde station when the surrey rolled into town. Charley found the conductor and the engineer inside the station manager’s office next to the potbelly stove. The two Hondo deputy marshals were there, too. Besides taking the edge off the day with some rotgut whiskey mixed in with some stale coffee dregs, they were filling in the local constable on what they thought might have happened to the men in their backup surrey. That’s when the door opened and Charley walked in.
“Just wondering if y’all knew how close you came to getting robbed today,” said Charley as he moved on into the office, followed by Roscoe and Henry Ellis.
“We found several bullet holes in the last car, next to the hanging red lamp, and a mirror was shattered inside the very same car. It was Buck’s idea to wait for you boys to catch up.”
Charley nodded his thank-you to Buck.
“That would have been the gentlemen’s car at the rear of the train,” said the conductor.
“Well, I figure them bullet holes was as close as they got to the train before you run ’em off, Mr. Sunday,” said Buck.
“So you did see what we done.”
“Every move you made, Mr. Sunday . . . every shot you fired.”
“It was the Croppers again,” said Charley. “I’m sure of it.”
“Mr. Phelps here, the conductor, got a real good look at ’em this time, Mr. Sunday,” said the engineer.
“And I’d bet my last dollar that it was Sam and Dale Cropper leadin’ that gang. I know their faces, even when they’re covered by masks. Hell, I’ve come face-ta-face with ’em enough times over the years.”
The Comancheros Page 5