The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  “It ain’t there,” said Charley.

  “What ain’t there?” asked Holliday.

  “The signature page,” answered Charley. “Someone’s ripped it out of the ledger.”

  “You gotta be joking,” said Feather. “Now, who woulda done that?”

  “Who do you think?” Charley asked.

  With Charley’s huge fist still wrapped around his necktie, Ben Campbell was slammed into the wall of his hotel room. Charley pulled back his other fist so he could solidly punch the man in the face but was held back by Campbell’s words.

  “Can you please tell me what this is all about, man?” he said.

  “I think you know the answer to that question as well as I do,” said Charley. “You either did it yourself, or you had someone else pull the signature page out of the official ledger on property sales up in Austin,” said Charley.

  “I did no such thing,” sputtered the good doctor. “We changed trains in Austin, but there was no time for me to get from the depot to the state capitol.”

  “Then it must have been that sleazy lawyer of yours.”

  “Dundee?” said Ben Campbell. “He was on the train with us. Remember?”

  “He was on the train with you is right.” Charley repeated. “He was one of those two gamblers that shot each other . . . and in order that the other gambler didn’t shoot him a second time, you killed that man to save your lawyer’s life.”

  “Where did you come up with a story like that?” Campbell wanted to know.

  “I have a witness . . . but I’m not telling you just who saw you pull the trigger. I’ll wait to disclose that in court.”

  He grabbed Campbell by his coat collar, pulling him closer.

  “Who is the Lattimer Land Company, Dr. Campbell? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “I’m the Lattimer Land Company,” said a woman’s voice coming from behind.

  Charley whirled around.

  Eleanor Campbell was standing directly behind him with a small pocket gun pointed at his heart.

  “Drop your gun, Mr. Sunday, drop it now, and step away from my husband.”

  Charley did just that.

  “I’m taking you two to court,” said Charley. “I’ve figured out your little game.”

  “You’ve figured out nothing, Mr. Sunday,” said Ben Campbell. “We’ve taken over your ranch while you were away, Mr. Sunday. We own that property now, including right of possession.”

  “I don’t think that’ll stand up in court,” said Charley.

  “Oh, it will,” said Eleanor. “Because we have all your papers . . . including your deed . . . out at the ranch right now.”

  “You abducted my lawyer.”

  “That we did, Mr. Sunday.”

  “And what’s going to keep me from going to the sheriff with all you’re telling me?”

  “Nothing,” said Ben. “Except you aren’t going anywhere until my lovely wife and I are with our friends out at your . . . I mean, out at our ranch.”

  He took the pocket gun from his wife and pushed Charley toward a closet door.

  “You see, you’ll be in here, while we’re on our way to meet our friends. Once we’re there, there’ll be no way legally to get rid of us.”

  He opened the closet door and pushed Charley inside, shutting, then locking it behind him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  1961

  “This story is starting to confuse me, Grampa Hank,” said Josh, the oldest Pritchard child. “How did Henry Ellis know so much about the law, especially when he was only Caleb’s age?”

  “Yeah,” Caleb cut in. “I’m in the sixth grade, and we’ve never talked about law at all in my class.”

  “Well, things were a little different at the turn of the century, I’m afraid,” said Hank. “And remember, Henry Ellis was going to a private academy.”

  “So, does that make Henry Ellis smarter than Caleb?” Noel wanted to know as she got up and went into the kitchen.

  “In a way, I suspect,” said their great-grandfather. “Back in those days, private schools were way ahead of public schools. And they taught little pieces of some college-age subjects, every so often, just to make sure their students were well rounded.”

  “Do you think my school will ever teach me anything about the law?” asked Caleb.

  “Frankly,” said Hank, “I would have to say, no.”

  “Why not?” asked Josh. “Don’t most schools today want to produce students who are well rounded?”

  “I’m sure they do, Josh,” answered Hank. “But it’s not the same. Maybe they still do talk about the law in some private schools.”

  “Is anyone hungry?” came Noel’s voice from the kitchen.

  “I am,” said her two male siblings in unison.

  Noel moved into the living room carrying a tray of tunafish sandwiches, setting them on the coffee table.

  “I reckon I forgot about lunch,” said Hank. “Mind if I have one, too?”

  Noel picked up the tray before the boys could get to it, and she swung around to Hank.

  “Here you go, Grampa Hank,” she said. “You’re the one doing all the work, so it should be you that gets first pick.”

  Hank took one off the plate the sandwiches were sitting on, and he took a bite.

  “Ummm, is that tasty,” he said.

  The boys then lined up in front of their sister and picked out their own.

  When everyone was seated again, Noel set the tray down and found a comfortable place for herself.

  “You can continue, now, Grampa Hank,” she said. “I think everyone’s ready for you to go on with your story.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1900

  When Henry Ellis and the outfit couldn’t find Charley anywhere in town, they stopped in at Flora Mae’s Pool Hall & Bar to see if the old rancher might have drifted down that way.

  “No,” said Bud Rawlins, the bartender, when they asked him. “I ain’t seen ol’ Charley in here all day. I got no idea where he might be.”

  “Oh, I do,” said Flora Mae, coming out of her office. “I seen him go inta that other hotel we got here in town . . . and he looked like he was ready to tangle with five grizzly bears.”

  “Campbell,” said Rod. “Where else would he have gone except to confront Ben Campbell?”

  They all turned, clearing the room, before Flora Mae knew what had happened.

  They were told by the hotel clerk that Dr. and Mrs. Campbell had checked out earlier, but if they wanted to take a look around in what had been their room, it was fine with him.

  He held out a key.

  They could hear Charley’s subdued yelling as they came up the stairs. As soon as Rod unlocked the door and opened it, they all crowded through the opening and into the seemingly unoccupied hotel room.

  Everyone stopped to listen.

  Charley’s muffled voice was coming from behind the closet door. But before Rod could insert the key, the door was knocked off its hinges from inside by Charley, who burst through at that precise moment with shattered wood flying everywhere.

  “Where’s my gun?” were his first words. “Anyone see my Walker?”

  Henry Ellis had discovered the large weapon on the floor where Charley had dropped it.

  “It’s right here, Grampa,” he offered.

  “Thanks, Henry Ellis,” said Charley. He slipped it into his boot, then he turned to the others.

  “We gotta get out to my place as fast as we can,” he said. “Those swindlers are stealing my ranch!”

  They stopped by Flora Mae’s place just long enough to drop the boy off with her, then they hightailed it out of Juanita faster than a cat with its tail on fire.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Before the outfit even got to the entrance gate, they knew something was amiss. Coming around a bend in the road, about a quarter of a mile south of the gate, they could see two figures mulling around at the side of the road. Charley raised a hand and they all came to a stop.

&
nbsp; The grayness of the sky didn’t help them to recognize the people who stood by the gate. Even when Charley squinted his eyes, it was no better.

  Charley’s plan had them splitting up into two groups—the first would contain Feather and Holliday, the second, Rod and Charley. Feather and Holliday were to ride wide around the front of the entrance gate, staying out of sight until they reached the road again about the same distance from the gate that they were now, only farther north.

  Charley and Rod would stay right where they were, giving the others time to get around to the other side of the gate and settle into place, then they were to move out themselves, staying just parallel to the road, using the spindly trees, yucca plants, and scrub brush to keep them from being seen.

  When Feather and Holliday were finally in place, Feather puckered up his mouth and made a perfect imitation of a mourning dove. Just the right length and pitch to blend with the other sounds of nature that surrounded them.

  Upon hearing Feather’s bird call, Charley nodded to Rod, and the two men gently urged their horses on toward the gate.

  Feather and Holliday did the same, spurring their mounts gently until they came abreast of the gate. They were joined by Rod and Charley.

  The two people who they had seen standing in the road beside the gate were not part of the Campbell’s hired bunch, at all. When they finally did turn around some, Charley was the first to see beyond the heavy clothing and turned-down hat brims that they wore, to recognize them as:

  “Roscoe . . . Kelly,” Charley called out. “Stay right where you are. It’s me, Charley . . . I got Rod, Feather, and Holliday with me.”

  He urged Dice over to where they stood, then dismounted.

  Rod, Feather, and Holliday also dismounted, then they walked over to the others.

  “What’s going on?” asked Charley. “What are you two doing down here by the gate, instead of up at the house?”

  Roscoe hemmed and hawed, clearing his throat.

  “Those . . . those gunmen forced us to leave,” said Kelly.

  “The same ones we had trouble with before?” asked Charley.

  “Same ones,” said Roscoe. “Only this time they told us that Holly Birdwell would be joining them in the near future.”

  “Holly Birdwell?” said Rod. “Isn’t he the fellow who gunned down old Sheriff Tate in Eagle Pass last year?”

  “One and the same,” said Roscoe.

  “He’s someone I sure wouldn’t wanna tangle with,” said Feather. “He’s one bad actor.”

  “Well, whoever this Holly Birdwell is, we are going to have to tangle with him,” said Charley. “We should all know that.”

  Ben Campbell sat in a hired rig beside the train depot, watching as the Eastbound Express pulled to a stop, releasing steam into the frigid air and sending clouds of vapor rising around the engine that pulled the several passenger cars.

  His eyes were drawn to the second car, where a man had just stepped out into the chill, pulling on a sheepskin coat.

  He wore a double-buscadero rig that held two nickel-plated Colts—both appeared to sparkle at his sides.

  As the man descended the three steps to the platform next to the train, besides his eyes, which were as gray as the sky overhead, Campbell couldn’t help but notice the scar that ran from the man’s cheek to his chin, making his mouth look as if it were off center by a few millimeters. He had made an attempt at disguising this flaw by wearing a heavy mustache over his upper lip, but still, the remnants of the scar, still visible at the top and bottom of his mouth, worked as double arrows, pointing out to those who faced him that he was a man to be reckoned with.

  “Holly Birdwell, I presume,” said Ben Campbell as the man was about to pass him by on his way to the depot’s door.

  Hands moved to the guns before the man turned to face Campbell.

  “I’m Holly Birdwell,” said the man. “You must be Ben Campbell.”

  “That I am,” said Campbell. “I’ve reserved the best hotel room in Juanita for you, Holly, and I—”

  “Don’t ever call me by that name again,” warned the gunman. “Mr. Birdwell is what I prefer my business associates to call me.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Birdwell,” said Campbell. “I was just saying, I’ve reserved the best hotel room in Juanita for your stay.”

  “My short stay,” said Birdwell. “As short as possible. Now, what again is the name of this old rancher you want eliminated?”

  Large drops of rain had begun to fall as Charley, Rod, and Holliday urged their horses back in the direction of town. Kelly and Roscoe rode double, behind Rod and Holliday.

  “Like I told you, Roscoe,” said Charley, “now is not the time for us to attack our own ranch house.”

  “Well,” answered Roscoe, “it looks like we’ll have to fight them hired gunmen one of these days. There ain’t no other way we can get ’em out of there. God,” he added. “Please don’t let them break any of my good china.”

  “I know how you feel, Roscoe,” said Kelly. “I wouldn’t want any strangers in my kitchen, either.”

  “Where’re we goin’ ta stay now?” asked Roscoe.

  “If Flora Mae has a few rooms available, I suppose we’ll bunk there. If she’s full up, I know she’ll let us sleep in her stable, out back.”

  “I’m dyin’ of the chilblains just thinkin’ about sleepin’ in that stable, Bossman,” said Feather.

  “I don’t really care where I hafta sleep,” said Holliday. “Just as long as I can help out my friend Charley Sunday.”

  “Well, the first thing we’ll do is check in with Flora Mae, and hopefully get us some rooms,” said Charley. “Secondly, we’ll pick up Henry Ellis, then find us a place that serves a hearty noon meal.”

  On a brushy hilltop overlooking the main road into Juanita, Holly Birdwell sat in the hired rig beside Campbell. Squinting into a collapsible telescope, the hired gunman watched as Charley led the outfit toward town.

  “So that’s the great Charley Sunday,” said Birdwell. “He don’t look that tough. But he sure looks a lot different than you described him. Is it true that he was a Texas Ranger at one time?”

  “Charley Sunday, and his two friends, Roscoe Baskin and Feather Martin, rode together as Rangers for a good many years,” said Campbell. “Their record for stopping lawbreakers, before and after a crime was committed, led to over a thousand official arrests over the years, I’ve been told.”

  “So, what was it made you pick Sunday’s ranch as your target?” asked Birdwell. “An old feud between the two of you? Did he send you to prison, Dr. Campbell? Or did he steal a woman’s love? Those are the usual reasons I’m hired to kill a man.”

  “It’s for another reason altogether, Mr. Birdwell. One that I’d prefer not to discuss.”

  “It doesn’t bother me if you want to keep secrets, Campbell. I do my killing for cash money . . . it doesn’t matter to me what the reason is.”

  “Then, perhaps you’d like to continue on out to the ranch. My men have secured the ranch house for our use, to plan any further moves against Sunday.”

  “And you, Campbell, may assist me in figuring out where the proper location will be for Charley Sunday to die.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Flora Mae was able to accommodate Charley and his friends. She offered them three of her best rooms. Charley, Roscoe, and Henry Ellis were in one room together. Holliday and Feather doubled up in another. And finally, Rod and Kelly took the third.

  Flora Mae had to apologize, though. Her finest room was already taken. Booked by Ben Campbell and his wife, Eleanor, for a third party who had just checked in about an hour earlier.

  Flora Mae told Charley who the special guest was—Holly Birdwell—and immediately Charley wanted to know the room number.

  “He’s in Room Two Twenty-two,” Flora Mae told him. “But it ain’t gonna do ya no good.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Charley.

  “’Cause he left town with Ben Campbell as soon as he got hi
s room key,” said Flora Mae.

  “Any idea where they were headed?” asked Charley.

  “More’n likely,” said Flora Mae, “they were headed out ta yer ranch. I did overhear Campbell say that your ranch is where the rest of his hired guns are holed up.”

  “They come ridin’ in with guns blazin’,” said Roscoe. “It didn’t take Kelly and me long ta think it over, once we were asked ta vacate the property.”

  Flora Mae turned back to Charley, a worried look on her face.

  “What’d ya plan on doin’ about that, Charley?” she said. “Are you really goin’ ta let ’em just walk in and steal your ranch? Just like that?”

  “Of course not, darlin’,” he said. “I just got to do me a little thinking on what the Campbells are up to. That’s all.”

  “Well, right now they’ve stolen your ranch out from under your nose. So, you better get ta thinkin’ soon.”

  He moved past Rod and Kelly, and over to the bar, where Roscoe, Holliday, and Feather were squabbling over who should buy the first round. He tossed two bits in change on the countertop, in exchange for a shot of whiskey.

  He leaned on the bar, then studied the drink in front of him.

  “Give him a bottle, on me,” Flora Mae yelled over to the Bud, the bartender. “The man has some serious thinkin’ ta do . . . may as well be tyin’ one on at the same time, because it’s all a waste a’ time anyway, if you ask me.”

  Henry Ellis sat at a table near Flora Mae’s office. After a moment of thought, he got up and walked over to where his grandfather stood at the bar.

  “Please don’t let her talk to you that way, Grampa,” said the boy. “I know you can get us out of this mess. You always have before.”

  Charley continued to stare at his whiskey glass.