Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  Flora Mae stood back watching as Charley prepared himself for a bank shot. Her eyes were zeroed in on his backside as she smiled to herself.

  “You still got a real cute rear end,” she said in a low, sensual voice. “Do you know that, Charles Abner Sunday? Why, I’ll bet you could still pound a hell of a nail if you had the mind to.”

  Charley angled his stick to the ball, shooting and making the predicted pocket.

  With eyebrows twitching, he moved around the table to line up on the next ball.

  “Don’t go interrupting me with your sex talk while I’m preparing my shot,” he said in a cautionary tone.

  Charley realigned his cue, aiming carefully.

  Flora Mae, realizing she was directly in his line of sight, shook her shoulders, causing her breasts to sway. They bounced voluptuously.

  Charley shot for the pocket—and he missed.

  “Dang your hide, Flora Mae Huckabee,” he growled. “Don’t be doing them kinda things in front of me when I’m trying to think.”

  Flora Mae pursed her lips, throwing him several baby kisses.

  “Oooooo,” she teased. “Mama’s sooo sorry. Was the big, rough cowboy-man attemptin’ to use his ‘wittoe’ brain?” She grinned broadly. “Hell, I’m a butt man myself. I wouldn’t know what to do with a man’s brain if I ever found one. Which I ain’t,” she added. She chuckled out loud at her own crude joke.

  Charley stepped around the pool table, moving to the bar. He found his glass of lemonade and took the last gulp.

  The bartender came over with a pitcher, refilling his glass.

  Charley half rested his rump on the pool table, tipping back his hat. When he eventually spoke, his words flowed slow and even.

  “This is serious business, Flora Mae, darlin’… Dead serious,” he told her.

  Flora Mae immediately sensed the somber tone in Charley’s voice. She moved in next to him.

  “Do you wanna talk to me about it?” she asked, showing concern. “You know, like we used to, when we were younger?”

  Charley’s face wrinkled in apprehension.

  “Ah, hell,” he spat. “What would a woman know about longhorns, anyway?”

  “Before Daddy’s life-changin’ poker game, I knew a lot about cattle,” she said. “For a while, back then, I was even known as an expert cattlewoman.”

  “Cattle thief is more like it,” said Charley. “You Huckabees sure had that reputation.”

  Flora Mae let that one slip by. Instead of counter attacking, her face continued to sparkle with expectation. She was still waiting for Charley to tell her what was on his mind.

  Finally, Charley drew in a deep breath. He appeared to be somewhat embarrassed.

  “All right,” he began. “I read a story in the newspaper earlier today that’s kind of had me going for the past few hours.”

  Flora Mae leaned in closer. “Is that what’s got your goat, Charles Abner Sunday?” she asked him. “Was you readin’ about that old cattle-ranchin’ silver miner who just croaked up there in Colorado? The one who left his herd of longhorns behind? The ones his family’ll be auctioning off in a couple of weeks?”

  Charley nodded. “Yep,” he answered. “And the notion come to me that if I was only able to get my hands on just a few of them longhorns, maybe I could keep what’s left of my ranch.”

  This time it was Flora Mae who drew in the deep breath.

  “That sounds like an awful slim notion to me, C.A.” She sighed, shaking her head.

  “I know,” said Charley, nodding. “Roscoe says I don’t even have two nickels to rub together to make a dime.”

  Flora Mae thought for a moment, then a glint began to glow in her eyes.

  “Of course,” she said modestly as a small smile curled her lips. “If you was able to find yourself a silent partner …”

  She let her words hang for another long moment as Charley thought on what she had just said. Then it hit him that Flora Mae was suggesting that she be included.

  He stood up abruptly, backing off several steps.

  “Oh, no,” he sputtered. “Not you, Flora Mae.”

  He looked around anxiously for a place to discharge some tobacco juice. He saw a cuspidor on the floor beside the bar and spat.

  “You and me, pardners?” he added. “Nooo, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be a-backin’ off like some scaredy-cat farmer’s daughter, Charley Sunday,” she warned with narrowed eyes. “It ain’t yer trousers I’m tryin’ to get into this time. Can’t you just stop thinkin’ of me as a love-starved ol’ woman for a change, and try to see me for the good friend I really am? For just once in your miserable life?”

  She raised an eyebrow, smiling gently. “What I’m sayin’ is that I’d be willin’ to back you,” she proposed, “if you’d be willin’ to let me.”

  Charley narrowed his eyes, taking a very long look at her.

  “I don’t want your money, Flora Mae,” he told her. “Then I’d be obligated to you.”

  “Jeeeezus H. Keeee-rist!” she howled. “Over all these years, you still can’t see it, can you? I LOVE YOU, Charles Abner Sunday, and I’d be willing ta do just about anything for you.”

  She sniffed back a tear.

  “Since my daddy passed,” she continued, “a woman of my circumstances needs a man in her life. A steady man,” she added.

  Charley scoffed.

  “Now it sounds like you’re talking that marriage stuff again,” he informed her.

  “Companionship, Charley, not marriage,” said Flora Mae, correcting him. “A woman of my means would be downright dumb or just plain stupid to get married nowadays. All I’m sayin’ is that I’ll always be here if you ever change your mind, and that I’d be willin’ to give you a tryout, if you’d just let me.”

  Charley took a slow sip of his lemonade.

  “Well, right now,” he replied, “I got longhorn cattle on my mind. Not companionship.”

  “So don’t be so damn stubborn, you old fool,” said Flora Mae. “I seen that newspaper story, too. And you don’t got the exclusive rights, you know. I was already figgerin’ on the profit I could make once I got some of them cattle down here to Texas where folks appreciate things like longhorns.”

  “You sure have become greedy in yer old age,” mumbled Charley. He threw her a look of disgust. “I had the idea in the first place and now you want to cash in on it.”

  Flora Mae bubbled with frustration.

  “Charley,” she implored. “Just hear me out for once in your life, will you?”

  Charley backed away some, holding up a hand, nodding.

  “All right, all right,” he said, partially giving in. “I’m listening.”

  Flora Mae went on. “All I’m doin’ is makin’ you an offer you can’t refuse,” she said. “Can’t you see that? But you’re so selfish and set in your dumb ol’ ways that ya can’t even tell sugar from scum.”

  She stood up as her fury reached its peak.

  “I only want you to be my agent, damnit!” she added, pointing an angry finger at him.

  “Your what?” said Charley.

  “My bidding agent,” she affirmed, “for them longhorns up in Colorado.”

  She sat back down slowly—a small tear was beginning to form.

  “It’s just that I got so little experience when it comes to cattle auctions,” she sniffed. “Besides, I gotta stay here and run Huckabee Enterprises. You know that.”

  “I don’t want your charity, Flora Mae,” Charley said again, spitting more tobacco juice toward the spittoon.

  “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with charity, you old poop,” bellowed Flora Mae. “I’m offerin’ you a business opportunity, mister. You get me as many of them longhorns as you can,” she raised an eyebrow, “an’ I’ll let you have ten percent of ’em.”

  Charley did some simple arithmetic in his head, mulling over what Flora Mae had just said.

  “Ten percent?” he pondered. “And you’re saying you’d be willing to pay me
that ten percent in longhorns?”

  “Any way you want it, Charles Abner Sunday,” replied Flora Mae … “On the hoof or in the hand … ten percent in dollars—or ten percent of however many of them critters you can get me at that Colorado cattle auction.”

  Charley narrowed his eyes once more.

  “You ain’t joking, are you?” he said softly.

  Flora Mae shook her head. She wiped away the small tear.

  “No, Charley, I ain’t jokin’,” she said in all seriousness. “I’ve already discussed the matter with my board of directors, an’ they’ve agreed that it sounds like a worthwhile venture. They’ve allotted me fifty thousand dollars, Charley. So I’ll be countin’ on your expertise with cattle, and your good mind for management, to make this thing work out for the both of us.”

  A long, slow smile began building on Charley’s lips. As the smile widened into a grin, he took her hand and the two new partners shook vigorously.

  “You’ve got yourself a cattle agent, Flora Mae Huckabee,” he told her. “You’ve got yourself a deal! Hell, I’ll even take you dancing if this thing works out like you say.”

  He stopped, turned, and held up a finger.

  “But my taking you dancing won’t have nothin’ to do with ‘companionship,’” he said flatly. “And that’s a fact!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Henry Ellis was sure it was his grampa Charley’s strong arms that were lifting him gently from the chair on the screened-in porch, where he’d fallen asleep reading.

  “C’mon, kid,” he heard a high, gravelly voice say softly. “It’s gettin’ late … time for you to get some real shut-eye in yer own bed.”

  The boy opened his sleepy eyes and looked up into what he thought would be his grampa Charley’s amiable face. But it wasn’t Charley—it was Roscoe instead. Henry Ellis immediately felt a hollowness claw at the inside of his stomach, a touch of fear.

  “W-where’s G-Grampa?” he wanted to know.

  “It’s all right, Henry Ellis,” said Roscoe in a reassuring tone. “Yer granddad’s still out yonder doing some serious thinkin’. He’ll be home by and by.”

  “But it’s late, Uncle Roscoe,” said the boy, glancing through the screen into the blackness of the night outside. “After my grampa left, you told me he’d be back before I went to bed.”

  Roscoe guided the boy over to his already made up bunk on the porch and began helping him pull off his shoes while the boy unbuttoned his own shirt.

  “When your grampa has something on his mind, Henry Ellis, something as important as he’s been thinking on tonight, it ain’t likely we’ll be hearin’ him creep in ’til the wee hours, I suspect.”

  Henry Ellis raised an arm so Roscoe could help him into his nightshirt.

  “I just hope he’s all right,” said the boy, who had by then begun to slip out of his trousers.

  “Oh, your grampa Charley’s all right,” said the old wrangler. “Now, you just climb in there an’ close your eyes. Try to get back to sleep. And just you remember,” he said, winking, “your grampa ain’t one to go back on his word. Why, I’ll bet he’ll be right here waking you up so he can give you that good night hug before you know it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Around midnight, four ragtag cowhands entered Flora Mae’s establishment, moving to the bar—laughing, pushing, and shoving one another to see who would be first to the suds.

  The largest of the group, a heavily muscled man they called Bull, sported a disheveled bandanna over a worn collar-band shirt, a rough leather vest, and shotgun chaps. He reached out and easily pulled the other three back so he’d be first to the beer.

  He pounded on the bar top for service.

  “Hey, barkeep,” he shouted, “four big ones … NOW!”

  “Sorry, gentlemen,” said the bartender, “we can only serve lemonade and water on the Sabbath.”

  Bull nodded to the clock on the wall behind the bar. “Well, that clock up there says it’s Monday already … so how ’bout those beers?”

  The bartender shrugged. “You are correct, mister,” he said. “Even though it still feels like it’s the Sabbath.”

  All the men laughed boisterously as the bartender moved as quick as he could to fill the order.

  He set the foaming mugs on the counter before them. The four cowboys chugalugged.

  The bartender was ready with their refill. With those second foaming mugs in front of them, ready to be consumed, the men finally took a moment to look around the room.

  Charley had gone on to play another solitary game of pool, paying no attention to the loudmouths at the bar.

  “Hey, Slim,” roared Bull to the skinny one wearing the red neck scarf beside him. “Why don’t you play us some sweet music? This joint is deader’n a preacher’s pecker.”

  He tossed Slim a nickel and the thin man with the greasy hair moved over to the player piano and inserted the coin.

  After a moment, the piano roll began spinning and shortly after, twangy, musical notes blared forth from the automatic musical instrument.

  Slim moved back to the bar, dancing with himself along the way—twirling—just having one hell of a good time.

  All four downed their mugs, slamming the empty containers in front of the anxious bartender once again.

  Bull told the man to “Keep ’em comin’!”

  The bartender, like Charley, an older man himself, hurried to fill the order.

  Bull left his mug and moved over to the pool table where Charley was dropping balls, one after the other, into the pool table’s pockets.

  As Bull scrutinized the silver-haired cowboy with the bushy eyebrows, Charley kept on shooting, not really paying much attention to the newcomer’s presence.

  The muscled cowhand leaned on the pool table across from Charley, watching, as the old man set, then shot, the last ball into a far pocket.

  “Not bad for an old fart,” smirked Bull, cocking an eyebrow that looked as if it had recently been rubbed in a cactus patch.

  Charley glanced up with a hard look. He was still deep in thought. He turned his attention back to the pool table and began racking the balls.

  “I’ll play you four bits a ball,” announced Bull. “Wha’d’ya say, old man?”

  “I’d say you’re in my way,” answered Charley, leaning toward the bar and spitting more tobacco juice into the spittoon. “Young fart,” he added quietly.

  He finished racking the balls, then moved to the other end of the table to prepare for the break.

  Bending and aiming, he sent the balls flying in all directions. No less than four of them found pockets.

  Bull scratched his head.

  “On second thought,” he mused, “let’s make that two bits a ball.”

  Charley circled the table, looking for his shot. “Not tonight, sonny boy.”

  Bull started to make a move toward the older man, then thought better of it. He smiled and turned away, walking back to the other men at the bar as Charley ran the table.

  Charley straightened up, smiling to himself.

  The bartender moved over and began topping off the four cowboys’ mugs.

  “Never seen you boys around Juanita before,” he said, making conversation.

  “We’re just passin’ through, amigo,” said Slim, taking another sip. “We’re joinin’ up with a new outfit over near Hondo startin’ tomorrow. This is our last night ta howl.”

  He laughed.

  “Well, Juanita’s a quiet little town,” the bartender told him. “God-fearing folks live here.”

  Slim replied sourly, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, we noticed.” The men chuckled, then continued drinking their beer.

  A small, timeworn, bantam rooster–size cowboy walked in from the outside. He was dressed in rough cowboy clothing, right down to the battered, high-crowned felt hat he wore pulled down so tight it bent both of his ears forward.

  He had on a pair of well-worn leather batwing chaps, and his large-rowel Mexican-style spurs jangled, almo
st musically, along behind him.

  He stopped just inside the swinging doors, looking around. After a thorough study of the room and its occupants, Feather Martin smiled. Then he approached the bar.

  “Why, evenin’, Feather,” acknowledged the bartender. “Pour you a beer?”

  Feather nodded, licking his lips, smiling even wider.

  “Uh, you got money this time?” the bartender added. “Flora Mae gave me orders about you.”

  Feather beamed. “I won first place,” he boasted. “Calf-ropin’ … down at Eagle Pass. Paid fifteen paper-dollar bills in prize money.” He laid a brand-new one-dollar bill in front of the man.

  The barkeep took the money; then he went to the register and made some change, putting the coins down in front of Feather. He didn’t bring the man his beer.

  “What’s that all about?” asked Feather, frowning.

  “That was for the last few beers you had in here,” said the bartender. “If you want to drink in the Palace anymore, Flora Mae said you was to pay up your tab from before.”

  Feather shoved two more bills toward the man. “Just gimme a beer, dangit! That’s what I come in here fer.”

  The bartender moved to the tap, pulling a mug. He slid it down the bar to Feather.

  The old cowboy took the container carefully in two shaky hands, blowing off the remaining foam. Then he slurped down what remained in several quick gulps.

  The trail hands watched the little man having trouble holding his mug. They chuckled to themselves.

  “Easy now, half-pint,” warned Bull. “You don’t wanna go downin’ all them suds in one swaller.”

  The men laughed louder, thinking they had found a new plaything. Feather finally knocked back the dregs and set his empty mug on the bar.

  “Hit me again,” he told the bartender as he slid a nickel across the bar. Feather was already beginning to feel better.

  The man wearing the apron took Feather’s mug and refilled it.