Rod joined Henry Ellis and Kelly at the bar.
“Are you two all right?” he asked.
“I’m just glad I’m not Charley,” said Kelly.
She nodded toward the fight in progress in the center of the room.
Cassidy got to his feet again. He faced off with Charley one more time. The difference in the two men’s size was very apparent when they stood side-by-side.
“It really ain’t a very fair match,” said Roscoe, moving up behind Rod.
Cassidy took Charley by the arm and his opposite leg, then lifted him over his head.
Charley’s eyes bugged out when he realized he was being held above the giant’s head.
“Do something,” Charley yelled to his cohorts down below.
“Do what?” Roscoe yelled back.
Cassidy began to twirl Charley around over his head.
The dizziness showed in Charley’s eyes.
“Whooooah,” he said.
“What do you want us ta do?” yelled Holliday.
“Shoot the son-of-a-bitch,” yelled Charley.
Bullets came from all sides—one from Rod. Another from Roscoe. A single shot from Feather, and one from Holiday.
Cassidy set Charley down gently, then he turned back to the others. He was still standing. Blood trickled from his wounds. His eyes were glassy.
That’s when Charley reached for the Walker Colt, still in his boot.
Hearing Charley cock the gun, Cassidy turned again. He began moving toward Charley once more. Then came the final four bullets, fanned off by Charley, that bracketed Zeke Cassidy’s heart.
With all that lead in him, Cassidy was still able to take another step across the floor, before toppling onto the table used for card games. His weight broke all four legs of the table and softened his final fall, just enough.
Still in all, when Charley, who was on the floor, looked over to the man dressed in what was now shredded leather . . . Cassidy’s eyes still showed signs of life.
“Cassidy,” said Charley. “If you don’t die right here, and right now, we’ll have to take you to a place where they’ll hang you. Do you want that? That’ll be one hell of a job, you know, hauling your body . . . anywhere.”
To everyone watching, Zeke Cassidy appeared to have understood Charley’s words—except he actually heard nothing. His eyes may not have closed with his death, but he had unquestionably drawn his final breath.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1961
“What are you doing up so late, Noel?”
Those were the first words out of the girl’s mother’s mouth as she stepped through the front door. She was followed by a rush of cold wind.
“It’s Christmas vacation,” said Noel as she bounded toward her mother and was scooped up into her arms.
“I’m sorry, darling. I forgot,” said Evie, setting down her purse so she could get a better grip on her daughter.
“Grampa Hank is still telling us his story,” said Josh from his feet-up position on the couch.
“And it’s a good one,” added Caleb.
“Did you know Grampa Hank’s grampa Charley knew Judge Roy Bean, personally, Mommy?”
“I seem to remember your father telling me all about it,” said Evie with a wink to Hank.
“Well,” said Evie, “just let me put my keys away and take off my coat, and I’ll sit in with you for the rest of the story.”
She set Noel down and moved off into the kitchen.
The little girl went straight to Hank, hopping up onto his lap.
“I hope you’re comfortable there, little one,” said Hank. “I’ll be just fine, too, just let me get the kinks out.”
He tried to stretch a little, but the girl’s weight was preventing him from doing so.
Noel wiggled her body into place in Hank’s lap.
Evie came out of the kitchen, now wearing her regular housecoat. She found a place on the couch Josh had commandeered and made him move his feet, before she sat down.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“All right with me,” said Hank.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
1900
In spite of the news that the Cropper Brothers had struck the westbound while it pulled into the Juanita depot that afternoon, and stolen an Army payroll, the outfit was having a special supper together in Flora Mae’s place. It was to celebrate the fact that they had saved the day for Judge Bean, and that Charley now had his ranch back.
They all sat at a round table, brought in for the occasion by Flora Mae.
“So, the judge says to me,” Charley was telling the others, “that he’s been thinking of taking some time away from Langtry. He wants to go to San Antonio, tie on the biggest drunk he’s ever had, then go back home to Langtry and die in his own bed.”
As bottles were poured and glasses lifted, it was Henry Ellis, with his buttermilk held high, who gave the toast.
“To my grampa,” he began. “The greatest grampa in the state of Texas. He can out-ride, out-rope, out-drink, outdraw, and out-shoot just about anyone I can think of. He’s also warm, friendly, strong, and . . . healthy,” added the boy.
Flora Mae raised her glass.
“I’d also like ta make a toast ta Charley,” she said. “He tells the truth, unless he’s tellin’ one of his windys. He’s as honest as the day is long, so ya better catch ’im in winter when the days’re real short, rather’n summer, when the days are real long. And he’s smart, so smart he dang near let two city slickers cheat him out of his ranch and cattle.”
Rod was the next to raise his glass.
“But he redeemed himself in Langtry, Flora Mae. Plus, he got his ranch back the proper way . . . by using the law and not violence. Oh,” he went on, “I admit a few men have been killed since then, but that had nothing to do with Charley having his ranch stolen . . . it was from helpin’ a friend in need.”
Holliday raised his glass.
“Ol’ Charley could bring about a change in the weather, if he’d only give it a try,” said the old trick-gun artist. “I ain’t never seen a man so blessed. I’d bet a nickel, if I had one, that Charley’s got a special in with his Lord, a mite more’n most of us do.”
“That’s wrong, Holliday,” said Charley, laying his hand on the gunman’s shoulder. “The Lord don’t love any one of us any more than the other . . . plus, it was the Lord that helped me put this outfit together, not me alone. So if there’s any one of you who doesn’t think they’re as equal in God’s eyes as those around him, I advise they have a talk with their own Lord.”
Feather and Roscoe touched their glasses in a private toast, while Henry Ellis tipped back his buttermilk and gulped until his glass was empty.
Kinney County sheriff, Willingham Dubbs, entered Flora Mae’s Pool Hall & Bar, just a little before the supper was about to break up.
He wore a rain-streaked slicker, with water dripping from his storm-drenched Stetson. When the outfit saw him, the room became very quiet.
“Evenin’, Willingham,” said Charley.
The others nodded their recognition.
“Did you find out anything more on the robbery today while you were out at the depot?” asked Charley.
“Yes, I did,” said the sheriff. “You know,” he went on, “West Texas has always had a kind of ‘they can do their thing, we’ll do ours’ with the Cropper Brothers. And as long as they didn’t steal that much, or kill anyone, we never really took ’em that serious.”
“Are you trying to say that our outlook changes when it comes to the Cropper Brothers, Willingham?”
“Yes, it does, Charley,” was the sheriff ’s answer. “The Cropper Brothers, and their gang, stole the entire Fort Clark payroll . . . all one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of it. And in doing so, an Army paymaster and two Army guards were killed.”
There was a reaction from every person in the room.
“Well, we better get a posse tog—”
“Several civilians were also killed
, Charley.”
The sheriff signaled for Charley to come closer.
When the old rancher arrived at the sheriff’s side, he could see that the sheriff had been crying.
“What is it, Willingham?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
The sheriff leaned in as close as he could before whispering, “Your grandson’s parents were on that train, Charley. They had just disembarked and were on their way here to surprise you all for Christmas.”
He gripped Charley harder with his hand.
“There was some shootin’, and they somehow got caught up in the middle of it.”
“Are you saying . . . ?” whispered Charley. His eyes were watering up.
“I’m saying that your daughter, Betty Jean, and her husband Kent, are dead, Charley. The Cropper Brothers’ Gang killed them both.”
Charley glanced over to where Henry Ellis was still sitting. The boy was laughing and having the time of his life.
Charley turned back to the sheriff. A full-blown tear had formed in one of his eyes, and now it broke away, sliding slowly down his cheek.
“How am I gonna tell him, Willingham? How am I going to do that?”
A crack of thunder rolled nearby. A heavy rain could be heard as it began falling overhead.
Charley continued to stare at his grandson.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1961
Hank stopped talking for just long enough to pull his handkerchief out of his rear pocket and blow his nose.
His listeners had tears streaming down their cheeks.
No one spoke. Just the sound of sniffling.
Evie turned to the others.
“Maybe it’s about time to put the TV dinners into the oven,” she said.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Josh, getting up and heading for the kitchen. His mother followed.
Caleb wiped at his eyes, then he got to his feet and followed his mother and older brother into the kitchen.
Noel, still sitting in her grandfather’s lap, looked up at the old man with questioning eyes.
“It’s just a story, Grampa,” she said with a whimper. “You can change it back, can’t you? Make it so Henry Ellis’s mommy and daddy don’t die?”
“I’d really like to do that, darlin’,” said Hank, still holding her in his arms as he stood and started for the kitchen. “But since this is a true story I’ve been telling you, I’m afraid it won’t be that simple.”
“What kind of TV dinner do you want, Grampa?” shouted Josh as Hank and Noel entered the room. “Salisbury steak or fried chicken?”
“Salisbury,” said Charley. “With catsup.”
Charley set the girl down in a chair at the kitchen table, where she immediately began to play with the salt and pepper shakers.
“Don’t do that, Noel,” said her brother Caleb. “You know how Mom feels about us playing with stuff at the table.”
Evie glanced back over her shoulder and gave her daughter “that” look.
Noel stopped her fidgeting and sat up straight.
Hank sat down next to her.
“You spilled a little salt right there, honey,” said Hank. “You better grab a pinch and throw it over your shoulder.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause it’s bad luck,” cut in Caleb. “Just like throwin’ your hat on a bed.”
“That’s really bad,” said Josh, who was monitoring the dinners. “A hat on a bed is really bad luck. Grampa Hank taught me that before you were born, Noel.”
“Well,” said Noel, “I don’t wear a hat, so I’ll never have any bad luck.”
“You wear one when it rains,” said Caleb.
“But I have a place to hang my rain hat. Right over my raincoat and rubber boots in the mud room.”
“Does anyone have any questions about the story so far?” asked Hank.
“I’ve got one,” said Caleb. “Why did those Cropper Brothers have to kill Henry Ellis’s mom and dad?”
“It was a mistake,” said Hank. “They just got caught up in the middle of the payroll robbery. The sheriff said later that they tried to get out of the way, but witnesses testified that they ran the wrong way when the shooting started. They could have run into the depot itself, but instead they ran to the front of the building where the robbery was taking place.”
“Will someone get the boxes for the TV dinners out of the trash?” said Josh. “I forgot how long they’re supposed to be in the oven.”
“I’ll do that, Josh,” said Noel as she ran to the trash container and retrieved the TV dinner boxes.
“It says right here, heat for forty-five minutes. Uh,” she caught herself. “This one here is different. It says heat for thirty-five minutes, stir gravy, then heat an additional ten minutes.”
“Caleb, Noel,” said Evie. “Go and get the TV trays out of the closet and set them up in the living room where we were sitting. Grampa Hank’ll finish telling you his story while we’re eating supper.”
“Just set them out on the table, Noel, with the cook times facing up. That’ll help me to know just whose dinner is ready to come out first.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
1900
“Bring-ing in the sheaves, bring-ing in the sheaves,
We shall come rejoic-ing, bring-ing in the sheaves;
“Go-ing forth with weep-ing, sow-ing for the Mas-ter,
Though the loss sustained, our spirit often grieves;
When our weep-ing’s over, He will bid us wel-come,
We shall come rejoic-ing, bring-ing in the sheaves.”
Charley stood back away from the other mourners, with an arm draped lovingly over Henry Ellis’s shoulder.
The boy was having a hard time of it, but it was Charley whose body trembled. It was Charley who was having a problem holding back his tears. It was Charley who kept looking up at the freshly covered graves with their brand-new markers. They stood beside an older grave, with a marker that read:
WILLADEAN CLARKE SUNDAY
Born 1831 Died 1887
A Good Wife and Mother
There were four smaller graves nearby, plus an empty space beside Willadean’s grave, and Charley’s mind was on that day in the future when it would be him they were singing over.
It won’t be long now, he thought to himself. I’m sneaking up on eighty pretty fast, and I still got a lot more about living that I have to share with Henry Ellis before I go.
He tousled the boy’s hair, and when Henry Ellis looked up at him, he knew the boy was thinking about the same things that he was. They would be together now . . . grandfather and grandson . . . for a lot longer than just visits every other summer, plus the occasional holiday.
The boy has no home to go back to in Austin anymore. His roots are right here in Juanita, now, thought Charley.
Henry Ellis pondered what his life would be like living in Juanita with his grampa: No more private school. How will I handle the loss of my old friends? A totally different way of living—country, instead of city—is about to happen in my life.
He thought about his parents: There are more memories of Mother here at Grampa’s ranch than there ever would be back in Austin. And Father always preferred the open country to the city, anyway . . . that’s why he loved traveling to Mexico. It certainly won’t bother either of them if I live down here with my grampa.
Everything will work out just fine, Charley was thinking.
Plus, I’ll get to know Grampa a whole lot better, too, the boy reflected.
The reception after the funeral was held in the ballroom of Flora Mae’s hotel. Besides Flora Mae, the entire Texas Outfit was present, along with Roscoe and Charley’s friends from town, Sheriff Dubbs, the Reverend Pirtle, and a bunch more whose names had slipped Charley’s mind.
Folks had brought food from all around the county—a regular potluck. Great-looking dishes had been laid out on a long table, surrounded by salads, side dishes, and desserts.
No one was being served; they just lin
ed up as if they were at a weekend barbecue and served themselves while walking through a line—then they found a place at the table and commenced to eating.
Kelly stood behind the serving table, pouring lemonade and serving punch from a large bowl. As Feather passed by with two full plates delicately balanced in his two hands, he asked her for a glass of punch.
Without realizing that he had no place to carry it, Kelly went ahead and poured him a glass, then went about looking for a place to set it.
“In my mouth,” said the pee-wee cowboy. He opened his mouth just enough to snap his teeth at her, showing her where he wanted her to place the container.
Kelly shrugged, then she raised the glass to Feather’s open mouth, and the man grasped the lip of the glass in his teeth, clamping down just right.
As Feather turned and started off toward the table, Kelly smiled, feeling quite proud of herself. Suddenly, there was a loud gasp from those around her, causing her to look up.
Standing before her was Feather, now in the middle of the room. Both plates of food were teetering in each of his hands, and he still held the glass of punch firmly between his teeth.
Slowly but surely, the glass started slipping. Actually, it was his false teeth that were slipping. Everyone just continued to stare, as the teeth—both uppers and lowers—slid all the way out, sending the glass of punch crashing to the floor, splattering punch in every direction.
“Ahh, hell,” said Feather under his breath.
Then one plate of food began to totter—then the other. Finally Feather raised his eyes to the sky, mumbling something to his Lord. Just then, both plates of food slipped off completely, falling to the floor in a thunderous cacophony.
A crack of thunder outside, much louder than the crashing plates had been, exploded at the same moment. Lightning flashed all around.
“Lightning hit the telegraph office,” someone yelled from where he stood by a window.
Smoke could be seen rising from a small building down the street.
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