The Comancheros

by Stephen Lodge

  “Would you like ta know just how much ya put away between the two of ya?”

  “I reckon it was a lot,” said Charley, who was beginning to get a little wobbly now himself.

  “Between both you and that fancy-pants gun shark,” said Flora Mae, “I’m gonna hafta get in touch with my supplier a week earlier than usual, so I won’t run outta my best-selling stock.”

  Charley chuckled.

  “What was Birdwell’s bar tab, anyway?” asked Charley.

  “When he sobers up and comes in to pay it,” said Flora Mae, “he jest might want ta go on another drunk ta help him forget it.”

  When Charley got back to the room he was sharing with Roscoe and Henry Ellis, he was so out of it that he stumbled straight to his bed and passed out on the top of the covers.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Roscoe wanted to know. Rod and Kelly, who had walked the old Ranger to his room and were still standing outside the door, provided Roscoe with the answer.

  “He got into a drinking match with Holly Birdwell, down in Flora Mae’s bar tonight.”

  “I never seen ’im this drunk before,” said Roscoe. “I hope he won.”

  “He did,” said Rod. “But I’m afraid that next time he won’t get off this easy.”

  The voices in the room woke Henry Ellis. He glanced over to where his grampa Charley was laid out on the bed, snoring like a lumberjack.

  A terrible feeling ran through the young boy’s body for a brief moment, as he thought: What if Grampa’s not so lucky next time. What if he has to go up against Holly Birdwell with his gun and he gets killed. What will I do if that happens?

  When Roscoe woke up the following morning, neither Charley nor Henry Ellis were in their beds. He was alone in the room, and another storm had just moved in. He began to get dressed.

  It was about to open up into a downpour when Roscoe stepped outside, making a beeline for the little Mexican café, where he knew Charley would be taking his breakfast.

  As Roscoe entered the little adobe restaurant, the sky opened up with the beginnings of a heavy rain that wouldn’t let up for an hour.

  He spotted Charley and the boy at a table near the kitchen door and started moving toward them.

  As Roscoe was nearing, Charley spotted his partner and waved him over.

  “Hey, Roscoe,” he called out. “We’re over here.”

  Roscoe continued to walk toward them, and when he arrived, he took a chair between the two.

  “Why didn’t ya wake me up?” he asked Charley.

  “Henry Ellis wanted to let you sleep some more,” said Charley. “He thinks you work too hard for a man of your years.”

  “A man of my years?” repeated Roscoe.

  He turned to the boy, who was nonchalantly sipping on his glass of buttermilk.

  “Hasn’t your grandfather ever told you that I’m younger than he is?” said Roscoe.

  “Um, well,” said Henry Ellis. “I suppose I made that assumption because you look older, Uncle Roscoe,” said the boy.

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” said Roscoe, shaking his head in disbelief. “What is it about me that makes you think I’m older?”

  “Oh,” said the boy. “Maybe it’s the way you walk. And you do talk slower than Grampa. You’ll have to agree on that.”

  “It’s no use,” said Roscoe, burying his head in his hands. “Next thing I know you’ll be sayin’ that he’s better lookin’ than I am.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Nobody spoke.

  “Ahh, ta heck with it,” said Roscoe. “What’s a man gotta do ta get some breakfast around here?”

  “I knew you’d be showing up, Roscoe,” said Charley, “so I ordered you the same as me . . . four eggs, sunny-side up, with a double order of bacon on the side, four pieces of toast . . . with the right amount of jelly and butter. Coffee . . . black, and a medium-size cinnamon roll, made for dunking. Plus a lot of hot salsa.”

  “Why, that was mighty nice of ya, C.A.,” said Roscoe. “I couldn’t’ve chose a better breakfast if I’d a’ been here myself.”

  “I ordered a stack of dollar-size pancakes for myself,” said Henry Ellis. “With butter and syrup. Maple syrup.”

  Something about the mention of dollar-size pancakes set off a memory from Roscoe Baskin’s past, as the image of an old dirt road began growing in his mind.

  “What would ya like me ta fix ya fer breakfast?” said a much younger Roscoe to his Texas Ranger partner, Charley Sunday.

  It was some years after the War Between the States, and shortly before Feather Martin would be joining up with the two as a third partner.

  They had camped alongside the road the night before, so they wouldn’t be riding into the town of San Angelo in the dark.

  The two Texas Rangers had been following a couple of renegade bank robbers who had robbed a bank in Del Rio at gunpoint. Then they’d headed north. The two men were either very smart, because they were dressed in U.S. Army uniforms, or they were plain stupid, for the very same reason.

  It hadn’t taken the Rangers long to figure out that these robbers were just a little more than downright stupid. They had not used the Army uniforms to throw any pursuers off their trail. Instead, they were just a couple of stray soldiers who had been reported AWOL from Fort Concho, near San Angelo, seventeen days earlier.

  The soldiers had been easy to follow, even though traveling from Del Rio to San Angelo was a pretty long way.

  Charley figured the two soldiers must have been drinking for a while when they planned their departure from the fort. They had more than likely stayed drunk from the time they escaped from Fort Concho, all the way to Del Rio. Once there, more liquor gave them the courage to rob the bank. Then, a few days after the robbery, when they had both sobered up, they had decided to travel north, back to Fort Concho, where they had decided to go on another drinking spree, then turn themselves in.

  “How about you make some of those dollar-size flapjacks, like we had in that little café back in Sonora last year?” said Charley. “I’ve kinda had a hankering for some more of those little nuggets, ever since I realized we may never go through Sonora again in our lifetime.”

  “If it’s dollar-size flapjacks you want, my friend, it’s dollar-size flapjacks you’ll get,” said Roscoe, searching through his possibles sack for the bag of flour he would need. “We got some bacon left. Would ya like me ta slice some off an’ fry that up, too?”

  “You bet,” said Charley.

  “An’ I got both sorghum syrup an’ blackstrap molasses . . . choose yer poison,” Roscoe continued.

  “Sorghum,” answered Charley.

  “All right then,” said Roscoe. “Soon as I whip up the batter, an’slice the bacon, I’ll have yer breakfast cookin’. In the meantime, could you go fetch me some more wood fer the fire?”

  “That I will,” said Charley as he stood up and stretched. Then he moved over to the edge of a small wooded area and disappeared into the underbrush.

  Charley could smell the bacon frying as soon as it touched the skillet and began to sizzle. He drew in a deep breath, then moved deeper into the tangle of bare branches and trees.

  Charley hadn’t taken three steps before a gun exploded nearby, with the bullet clipping twigs and branches from its path, and just missing Charley, before it slammed into the hulk of a dead tree trunk, four feet away.

  Charley dove to the ground, pulling his Walker Colt on the way down. He raised himself up on his elbows and did a quick search of the area.

  All he saw was the flash of a human form, dressed in blue clothing, as it was swallowed up by the twisted trees of the leafless thicket.

  He fired one shot. And even though the target was no longer there, he heard a faint yelp.

  “Sounds like ya hit somethin’ that was breathin’,” said Roscoe, who was coming up behind him with his rifle at the ready.

  “It was just a wild shot, but I think I hit him, too,” said Charley.

  “Did ya see the other
one?” asked Roscoe.

  “Only the one that shot at me,” said Charley. “Even then, it was just a quick glimpse. All I really saw was a blue Army pant leg.”

  “The one that did the shootin’ mighta laid back some ta throw us off their trail,” said Roscoe. “Or else, the second one was right there with him, only he kept outta sight.”

  “It doesn’t really matter now, Roscoe,” said Charley. “I nicked one of ’em, so there’ll be a blood trail until they find someone to work on that wound.”

  “What’s the nearest town ta here?” asked Roscoe. “They might decide ta go lookin’ fer a doctor.”

  “San Angelo,” said Charley. “But they’ll be taking one hell of a chance, because San Angelo backs up to Fort Concho. And the U.S. Army is probably looking to hang those two for desertion.”

  Not wanting to attract too much attention to themselves, they entered San Angelo from a back road. The section of town they found themselves in catered mostly to customers of brothels, saloons, and gambling halls—there were enough of those sinful businesses in one square block to handle every adult man in town, plus twice that many soldiers from the fort.

  Charley was quick to note that nearly all of the enlisted men in San Angelo were Negroes—as Fort Concho was the headquarters for the Buffalo Soldiers. Therefore, the two men they were looking for would be a cinch to spot if they ever decided to hang out with some of their dark-skinned buddies.

  Their plan was to frequent the local taverns and card halls every day for a week or so. Just to let themselves be seen. After nearly five weeks on somebody’s trail, Charley was certain that the two bank robbers would know what he and Roscoe looked like by then. As for the Rangers recognizing the bank robbers, even though they had never gotten a good look at them, Roscoe said they would stand out in a crowd of Buffalo Soldiers like two lighted matches in a darkened room.

  Well, it didn’t take long. On their second day sitting in a bar called Horace’s Tavern, two Caucasion soldiers walked in for a drink around five in the afternoon. The soldiers bellied up to the bar and ordered their beers, while at the same time, the two Texas Rangers bellied up to the white soldiers, putting the barrels of their Walker Colts against the men’s backs.

  “We’ll be needing you two to turn around slowly and walk out of this place ahead of us,” whispered Charley. “No suspicious moves. We don’t want your fellow soldiers to think we’re harrassing you, or anything like that.”

  The two backed away from the bar, turning slowly until they were facing the door. Then, with a smile and a nudge, Charley and Roscoe walked them toward the exit.

  Just when the foursome were about to move through the batwing doors, two black soldiers came in from the outside. One of them got a good look at Charley’s face as they passed, and his eyes widened. He turned to his partner, right beside him.

  “It’s them two Texas Rangers that’s been followin’ us since Del Rio,” he said, and the two went for their guns.

  KA-BOOM . . . KA-BOOM!

  went the Rangers’ Walkers.

  Both black soldiers were spun away into the street outside. The two white soldiers dropped to the ground for cover, as every member of the Buffalo Soldiers inside the saloon drew a weapon of some kind.

  Charley and Roscoe stepped out onto the boardwalk, ducking quickly to either side of the door frame, while bullet after bullet chipped away at the batwings, until both swinging doors fell off their hinges with a double thud.

  “I thought you said the men we were chasing were white,” said Charley.

  “Looks like I was wrong,” answered Roscoe.

  “Texas Rangers!” yelled Charley, reaching to unpin his badge from under his vest, so he could show the aggressors they were officers of the law. Roscoe already had his badge in his hand and was holding it up so the soldiers could see it.

  The shooting stopped.

  Then Charley stuck his face through the opening where the doors used to be.

  “Just give me a minute or two, fellas, and I’ll try to explain it all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  By the time the remnants of the story had left his head, Roscoe was finishing up his meal, scraping his plate with a fork for any leftover syrup and bits of bacon.

  The waitress had already cleared away the dirty dishes from in front of Charley and the boy. So when Roscoe’s dishes were taken away, Charley laid a few coins on the table and got to his feet.

  The others followed suit, then the trio stepped out into another gray day, with a heavy drizzle falling all around.

  “Just what do you have in mind for the day?” asked Roscoe as the threesome walked along the boardwalk, headed toward Flora Mae’s pool hall at the rear of the hotel.

  “Why don’t we go on into Flora Mae’s place and find out what she’s got on her mind?” said Charley. “Then, maybe if we’re lucky, there’ll be a table open, and Henry Ellis can beat you in a game of billiards, Roscoe.”

  Holliday, Rod, and Kelly entered through Flora Mae’s batwings, followed by Feather, who looked like he might have had a few too many the night before. They crossed over and joined Charley, Roscoe, and the boy at a poker table near the bar.

  Flora Mae took a seat nearby. She glanced around the table at the stoic expressions, then she narrowed her concentration on Charley.

  “Have you taken that new piece of evidence you found out at the ranch to the judge yet?” she asked.

  “I intend to do that,” said Charley, “when the courthouse opens its door at ten o’clock this morning.”

  “I just hope you’re keeping it in a safe place,” said the woman.

  “I got me a safe place for it, woman,” said Charley. “So safe I might just forget where it is, if you keep hounding me about it.”

  “I ain’t houndin’ ya, Charley,” said Flora Mae. “I just wanna make sure ya don’t lose it.”

  “I told you, I ain’t gonna lose it, Flora Mae.”

  “Do ya want me ta run over to our room an’ get it?” asked Roscoe.

  “Yes,” said Charley. “And take Holliday with you. If it’ll shut her up to know that we have it in our possession. By all means.”

  Roscoe and Holliday excused themselves and left the room.

  Once they were outside, they began walking around to the front of the hotel. Suddenly, Holliday stopped. He restrained Roscoe with an open hand against his arm.

  “What are ya doin’ that fer?” said Roscoe.

  “Can’t you see them horses tied up out front?” said Holliday. “They’s the same ones I saw out at Charley’s ranch . . . the same horses that those low-down sidewinders that are workin’ fer the Campbells ride. They must be in the hotel. Is there another way to get inside besides the front entrance?” he added.

  “There’s a worker’s entrance over there by the buggy barn,” said Roscoe. “We could probably sneak in through there, one at a time.”

  “Well,” said Holliday. “What are we waitin’ fer? Just make sure your gun is loaded and ready fer bear.”

  In Flora Mae’s place, Charley stood up from the table. He drew the Walker Colt from his boot and checked the chambers.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Kelly.

  “That’s right,” echoed Flora Mae. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I just got me this feeling,” answered the ex-Ranger. “Rod,” he said softly. “Why don’t you and Feather come along with me?”

  The other two men stood, checked their guns, then followed Charley out the door.

  Once outside, they, too, were surprised to see the hired gunmen’s horses tied up in front of the hotel.

  “Maybe we oughta go in behind them,” said Rod.

  “No,” said Charley. “I’m betting that Roscoe and Holliday are doing that right now. We, my friends, are going in through the front.”

  Inside Charley, Roscoe, and Henry Ellis’s room, Wolf McGrath and the other hired gunmen were going through the threesome’s belongings. They were pulling extra pairs of
trousers, shirts, and undergarments out of saddlebags and flinging them everywhere. The torn-out page was yet to be found.

  “Check under the mattresses,” said McGrath. “Check between the mattresses, if there’re two.”

  The gunmen turned to the beds and began ripping them apart.

  It was about that time that Charley, Rod, Roscoe, Feather, and Holliday appeared. They were all coming up the stairs from the floor below, where their paths had crossed. When they saw the commotion going on in Charley’s room, they cocked their weapons and moved in closer.

  Charley stepped into the room and fired a shot through the ceiling.

  The gunmen stopped what they were doing and turned to the door.

  Roscoe stood in the doorway with his legs spread and his Walker Colt pointed at the intruders.

  Rod Lightfoot stood right beside the onetime lawman, his .45 being used for backup.

  “Throw down your guns, you miserable bunch a’ polecats,” ordered Charley. “Or my friend here just might put you outta your misery.”

  “Don’t shoot, mister,” howled Wolf McGrath.

  The other gunnies echoed McGrath’s words, and their weapons were dropped to the floor instantly.

  Holliday began lining them up, while at the same time kicking their guns into a large pile near a stand that held the washbasin.

  “I want those guns to equal the men in this room,” said Charley. “Because if they don’t . . .”

  Two more revolving pistols were dropped on the pile. No one saw where they had come from.

  “That’s better,” said Charley. “Now, all of you take off your neck bandannas, hold ’em in your left hand, and face the wall.”

  The trespassers did as they were told.

  Charley, Roscoe, and Feather moved around the room, using the neckerchiefs to tie the men’s hands behind them.

  When Charley got to Wolf McGrath, the gang leader warned him softly.