Charley’s complexion appeared to turn red. He was showing his frustration.
“Well,” he said. “I don’t want my grandson sharing a backseat with a common criminal. What about you folks? Would you like it if you were asked to let one of your children ride alongside a dangerous criminal?”
“Grampa,” said Henry Ellis, slipping his nose into the exchange. “Grampa . . . Dr. and Mrs. Campbell have already said that they’d watch me if I rode on the train with them. So you have plenty of room in the surrey to transport Mr. Cropper . . . to anywhere you want to take him.”
“All we gotta do is get him to Del Rio,” said Roscoe. “It’ll be a lot safer for everyone involved if he rides in the backseat of the surrey with me.”
As all the people who were standing around in the constable’s office began clapping for Roscoe and his idea, Charley turned to his pal, speaking in a whisper.
“Sometimes, my dear friend, Roscoe, you haven’t learned when to keep that mouth of yours shut.”
“So Dale Cropper will ride in the surrey with Charley Sunday and his partner,” said the constable.
“And Henry Ellis will ride on the train with us,” said Eleanor Campbell who, along with her husband, had just walked in.
“Good, it’s been settled,” said the constable. “Now we can all get some sleep around here before it’s time for breakfast.”
“One last thing,” said Charley. “I’d kind of like to have the Hondo deputy, Buck Waddell, riding in the back with the prisoner. He’s younger . . . and it’ll let Roscoe keep his hands free in case ol’ Sam Cropper decides to rescue his kin.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The engineer waited patiently in his open-air compartment behind the boiler, while his fireman stoked the wood fire that heated the water to its boiling point. It was steam that powered these locomotive giants, and it was steam they were now minutes away from producing.
It had not rained since daybreak, but the sky was dark, and the temperature outside was in the low twenties.
At the rear end of the train, the constable, his deputy, the conductor, and Charley stood between the last car of the train and Charley’s surrey, which now held the heavily shackled Dale Cropper in the rear seat. He was being guarded by Hondo deputy Buck Waddell.
Roscoe sat on the passenger side of the front seat. He winked at Henry Ellis, who was watching the whole scene through one of the rear windows of the gentlemen’s car, which sat on the tracks beside the surrey. Ben and Eleanor Campbell stood directly behind the boy, placing themselves where Charley could see that his grandson was going to be safe for the rest of the journey.
“Well,” said Charley, turning his attention to those around him. “It’s probably best that we be on our way.”
“The engineer knows to watch his speed,” said the conductor. “And that he’s to keep his eyes out for that train coming from the other direction.”
“Why don’t someone just telephone, or telegraph ahead to Cline, and have them stop the other train there?” said Charley.
“I can do that,” said the constable. “I’ll do ’er right after you leave.”
Charley nodded. He shook the constable’s hand, then he began his climb into the surrey.
The conductor grabbed the handhold beside the iron steps of the rear car, then he waved the lantern so the engineer up front knew it was time to go.
“All aboard,” he called out.
At the same time, Charley settled back into his seat and found the lines. He fussed a moment with the isinglass, which still covered the vehicle, then, with a wave to all, he put leather to the trotters and the surrey surged ahead.
The train was already moving when Charley pulled up beside it. Inside, Henry Ellis had moved over to a side window, where he stood waving at his grampa Charley and his uncle Roscoe.
A few more minutes passed, and the wheels of the engine began turning faster.
Charley did what he had to to help the trotters maintain the same speed as the steam-powered monster on the tracks beside him.
Cline was another one of those half-built, one-sided streets that had been called a town for quite a few years. Starting off as a good place to raise local cattle on the south bank of nearby Turkey Creek, it eventually became a stagecoach stop. The barn and living quarters for the stop had been constructed, along with a store and a makeshift saloon. And even when the railroad decided to include Cline as one of their many regular mail pickup stops along the route, the little town of Cline hadn’t grown much since then.
Rolling toward Cline, and slowing his speed, the engineer could see in the distance that the eastbound train had been stopped and directed onto a sidetrack. He slowed even more as he drew closer to the town. He could then see a group of men standing beside the eastbound, involved in some sort of conversation. When they saw the westbound approaching, they broke up into smaller groups and waited until the engineer pulled to a stop opposite the other locomotive.
Coming up on the rear of the westbound in the surrey, Charley turned the trotters, then drove them across the tracks at a wagon crossing. He maneuvered the surrey in between both trains before reining to a stop several yards away from the initial small group of men.
The conductor stepped off the train while it was still moving, crossing over to meet up with Charley and Roscoe, who were just climbing down from the surrey.
“Are one of you men Charley Sunday?” asked one of the better dressed men.
Charley raised his gloved hand.
“I am, sir. I see you got our message from Uvalde and stopped the other train.”
“That we did, Mr. Sunday,” said the man. “And the first thing we have to do is take you to the executive car where Mr. Madison is waiting to talk to you.”
“First,” said Charley, “I want to check with the deputy in the backseat to make sure my prisoner is still secure.”
He threw a look to Buck, sitting beside the heavily chained Cropper brother.
Buck waved. Everything was all right.
“Now, I’d like to pee before I do anything else,” said Charley.
“Use that outhouse right over there,” said the well-dressed man. “It’s for railroad employees, not the public.”
The private car containing Edwin J. Madison, one of the railroad’s owners, had been coupled to the last car of the eastbound train.
The group of men, which had grown considerably larger since Charley’s arrival, took Charley and Roscoe to the steps that led to the door of the executive car. Once there, the men bid the two retired Rangers well.
When they had finally been left alone, Roscoe threw Charley a little grin, which Charley answered with a wink. They removed their hats, and together they knocked on the door.
A well-manicured black man opened the door for them, bowed, then ushered them into what looked like a lavish whorehouse.
When the two ex-Rangers had finally stopped gawking at everything in the ornately decorated car, they saw Edwin J. Madison sitting behind his, just as ornate, desk at the other end of the car.
“Gentlemen,” he said, beckoning them both to join him. He indicated two overstuffed, red-leather chairs opposite the desk.
“You may sit here,” he said. “And Blue,” he called to the black man, “please bring the two gentlemen a beverage of their choosing.”
The two ex-lawmen conferred with the valet before moving to the overstuffed chairs, where they sat.
When they were finally facing one another, Edwin J. Madison spoke again.
“Which one of you is Sunday?” he asked.
“That would be me, sir,” answered Charley. “Charles Abner Sunday . . . and this is my friend and partner, Roscoe Baskin.”
The three of them shook hands.
“I’ve been told you might have a solution to all these train robberies my company has been experiencing as of late, Mr. Sunday.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Madison,” said Charley. “We figure there’s just gotta be someone on the inside ge
tting information concerning important shipments out to the Cropper Gang.”
“Are you suggesting that someone . . . someone working for the railroad . . . my railroad . . . may be guilty of leaking private information to the train robbers? Well, it’s not true,” he said. “Not true at all. And it’s also not possible.”
“Why do you say that, sir, that it’s not possible?”
“It just isn’t. I know it’s hard for someone like yourself to understand, Mr. Sunday, having had no experience in running a railroad,” said Madison, “but I have personally met with and deeply scrutinized each and every employee of this railroad. And I have faith that each and every one of those employees are as honest as the day is long.”
Charley raised his eyebrows.
“Mr. Madison, there are a lot of ways any one of your employees could be working with the outlaws, and you wouldn’t know about it . . . at all.”
The valet returned with the visitors’ drinks, setting them on the edge of the railroad owner’s desk with doilies underneath.
“I’m afraid our guests won’t have time to consume those, Blue. They were just leaving.”
Madison stood up.
Charley nudged Roscoe, and the two ex-lawmen got to their feet.
“Well, Mr. Madison,” said Charley. “We thank you for your time.”
He nodded and bowed his head. Roscoe did the same. Then the two men turned. And with hats in hand, they walked back to the portal through which they entered. The valet, Blue, already had the door held open for them as they stepped out into the cold.
As the two men descended the iron steps and began walking back toward the group of railroad workers and Cline townsmen, Roscoe turned to Charley.
“I reckon the man didn’t like your suggestion,” he said.
“No, sir,” said Charley. “You’re right about that.”
“How come you never told him that we got one of the Cropper boys in custody?” Roscoe wanted to know.
Charley shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose I thought that it just wasn’t any of his damn business,” said Charley. “Besides, I have plans for Dale Cropper. He might just be the one who can tell us who it is leaking the information about the special shipments.”
Later on that same day, as night was closing in, Dale Cropper sat dead center in the single jail cell used by the citizens of Cline, Texas, when it was needed. Deputy Buck Wadell, from Hondo, was still sitting at his side, guarding him.
Since the tiny berg was a part of Uvalde County, the Uvalde County sheriff had created a special position for the law officer who watched over the little whistle-stop.
His name was Dee Kuper, a dirt farmer on his own time, but a pretty good law officer when working as the county sheriff’s assistant—or assistant sheriff, as some called him. He was in his early fifties, partially gray, with a drooping handlebar mustache.
With Dee Kuper in the little office that the county provided him were Charley, Roscoe, and Henry Ellis, who had just eaten his evening meal with his grampa and Roscoe. Dale Cropper, still in chains, was also there, and Buck Wadell was at his side.
Now it was back to business, and Charley had a few things he wanted to talk with Dale Cropper about.
The first item on Charley’s list was the same thing he had tried to discuss with the reluctant railroad owner that afternoon. But this time, Charley threw a twist to it.
“We know who it is giving you, your brother, and your gang information about the shipments being carried on the railroad.”
“That’s hogwash,” said Dale Cropper. “There ain’t no one givin’ us any secret information. Don’t you understand that we’re smart enough ta know what’s bein’ shipped ourselves?”
“Now, I might believe you were capable of figuring out things like that, Dale,” said Charley, “but Roscoe here, and Assistant Sheriff Kuper tend to agree with the man who passes the information on to you.”
Dale laughed.
“You gotta be out of your minds thinkin’ that I’d fall fer an old trick like that one, Mr. Charley Sunday. There ain’t nobody on the outside givin’ us inside information. And that’s the truth.”
“You must think I’m the dumbest person to ever come down the pike, Cropper. We know who it is . . . the person who’s giving you the information. I was just trying to get you to confirm it for me.”
“Well, I ain’t no squealer, Mr. Sunday. Even if what you are sayin’ is true, you’ll never get me to talk.”
“So you are admitting that there’s an outside man.”
“No, sir.” Dale shook his head. “I didn’t say that. All I ever said was that we done every robbery all by ourselves . . . with no help from anyone else.”
“C’mon, Cropper,” said Charley. “Quit your lying to me. I know there’s another person mixed up with you and your brother in these robberies . . . a very important man. But even though I know who it is, I haven’t been able to figure out why.”
One of the two bullets that entered the jail cell hit Dale Cropper where he sat. The projectiles, almost fired in unison, had come through an open barred window at the rear of the building.
Before making sure Henry Ellis was all right, both Charley and Roscoe plastered the barred window with their own lead. After making sure the boy had not been hit, they ran to the back door, giving chase.
Deputy Buck Waddell, from Hondo, sat in a daze beside the wounded Cropper brother.
Henry Ellis could see that there was something just not right about him.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Buck?” asked the boy. “A drink of water . . . ?”
The deputy shook his head. Though he didn’t answer outright, his eyes began to widen. In less than another second, Henry Ellis could see the deputy’s life gradually ebb away. Buck Waddell slowly fell forward, facedown on the wooden floor of the cell, a pool of blood forming beneath him.
Charley and Roscoe had been hit by a blast of cold, wet air as they exited the building into the rainy night. Neither one of them had taken the time to grab their jackets, and because of that, they were forced to give up their pursuit before they even had the chance to see who it was they were chasing.
CHAPTER NINE
The rain that had started falling during the shooting of Dale Cropper and Hondo’s deputy Buck Waddell grew into a raging storm, which lasted most of the night.
After he’d sent for the town doctor to fix up Dale Cropper’s flesh wound, Roscoe took Henry Ellis to their room at Perkins Boardinghouse, which was being paid for by the railroad. Once there, they both got ready for bed.
Charley, on the other hand, spent a few more hours with Assistant Sheriff Dee Kuper, helping him make Dale Cropper comfortable in the cell, then cleaning up the mess that had been left there.
Charley had another idea, too. After he sent a telegram off to the marshal in Hondo, advising him of the loss of his second deputy, Buck Waddell, he approached the conductor of the eastbound train, which, to Charley’s surprise, hadn’t left the depot yet. Charley asked him if it would be all right to send Deputy Buck’s body back as far as Hondo in his baggage car.
The conductor agreed, and later on he sent a couple of big switchmen over to the undertaker’s office to pick up Buck’s temporary casket.
Charley watched with Dee Kuper as the eastbound pulled out slowly into the rainy night with Buck’s body aboard, headed home for the final time.
Then he joined Roscoe and his grandson in their room at the boardinghouse, where he would try to pick up a few winks before morning.
Charley decided to continue on to Juanita in the surrey before daylight, at least an hour before the train would be leaving. This was to be the last lap of their journey before home. He and the partially awake Roscoe carried the still sleeping Henry Ellis over to the surrey in the rain, depositing him in the rear seat. All three had slept in their clothes, so doing it that way wasn’t as difficult as it could have been.
Within twenty minutes they were on the open road. Mrs. Pe
rkins, who ran the boardinghouse, had prepared a breakfast for each of them, and Roscoe had loaded the basket onto the floor at the front of the surrey beside where his feet were peacefully resting. He reached into the basket and withdrew a sliced-bacon and scrambled-egg burrito, handing it to Charley, who was driving beside him. Charley, holding the lines in one hand, took the burrito with the other. A second burrito went to the boy in the backseat, where he was in the process of waking up. The third, Roscoe kept for himself. They ate as the isinglass-covered surrey continued on through the storm, enjoying their breakfast as the world around them began to brighten.
Around eight in the morning, Charley couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, and since both Roscoe and Henry Ellis had gone back to sleep, Roscoe’s snoring, plus the comforting noises being made by the boy in the back, finally got the best of him. Charley pulled the trotters over to the side of the road behind some cottonwood trees, where he, too, could catch up on his sleep.
It couldn’t have been more than a half an hour before the whistle of the train in the distance woke them up. Charley stirred first. Roscoe followed, with the boy in the back expelling the loudest yawn either one of the two adults had ever heard the likes of.
By then, the train had come abreast of their hidden position and was just about to pass them, when several shots were fired from the bushes just a little farther on than the cottonwood grove where the surrey occupants had been resting.
The three of them watched in amazement as five riders on horseback lunged from the bushes and moved their galloping horses in beside the locomotive.
One of the riders shot the fireman, and another killed the engineer, before both rode their horses up closer and transferred to the steps on the side of the roaring behemoth. When they both had made it safely into the engineer’s compartment, the first man began slowing the train until it hissed to a stop.
That was when the other three riders urged their horses over to the baggage car, reining up just outside the sliding door.
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