Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  A company typist transcribed Kelly’s story from the piece of paper to a typed page. Then more telegraphers sent the words on to the syndicate’s nationwide city desks.

  Finally a large number of printing presses rolled out finished newspapers for the multitude of fascinated readers who waited anxiously for the next episode of Kelly’s cattle drive story to brighten their day.

  Between innings at a big-city baseball field situated in a downtown area—and only moments after the excited crowd had finished singing several songs of the day—the announcer’s voice rang out through a large stationary megaphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “I have the latest update on Charley Sunday’s Texas Outfit from the National News Syndicate’s Kelly King.” He flipped through a stack of papers in front of him, then cleared his throat. He read: “The longhorn cattle are in the Oklahoma panhandle today, just miles from their home turf in Texas. They should be crossing the Texas state line before week’s end.”

  The numerous baseball fans jumped to their feet, cheering. Within moments, enthusiastic applause began to build throughout the pulsating throng.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Before dawn in a light mist, Feather Martin was rein-whipping his horse, Chigger, hell bent for leather toward camp.

  Since it was just before sunrise, there were only a few of the outfit’s drovers up and dressed for work, getting a head start on the lineup that waited for Roscoe to finish cooking breakfast.

  Heads turned as Chigger’s galloping hooves and Feather’s yelling grew closer and closer.

  Charley was in the process of securing his bedroll while Henry Ellis and Buster were doing their business on opposite sides of a clump of bushes a few yards downwind from the chuckwagon.

  Feather slid Chigger into the center of the campsite, skidding on the horse’s rear end across a thin layer of mud. The words he had been shouting during his hurried ride back from the herd’s location were finally understandable.

  “Blue Bell!” he was shouting. “Blue Bell is missing!”

  He dismounted in one spectacular leap, then kept on running and shouting until he ran smack dab into Charley who was on his way to greet him.

  “Blue Bell! Oh, my,” Feather kept repeating. “Blue Bell is gone, boss. He was there one minute … then he wasn’t.”

  Charley grabbed the little cowhand by both shoulders and held on tight.

  “What do you mean, ‘Blue Bell’s gone’?” Charley asked, “Who’s Blue Bell?”

  Feather was grasping for words.

  “Your bull, bossman,” said Feather. “Your bull is Blue Bell.”

  Charley finally had to take a real good grip on him. He physically turned Feather around so they could talk face to face.

  “Hush, Feather … slow down, will you?” said Charley. “Now what’s all this about my bull?”

  Feather was still huffing and puffing, so it took time for him to relay the story.

  “I’d just sung ’em all ta sleep,” he said, “and I was nearly finished countin’ ’em. That was when I noticed that Blue Bell wasn’t there. He’s gone, boss … and it happened on my nighthawk shift. It’s all my fault!” he bellowed.

  “Blue Bell?” said Charley. “Where’d that name come from?”

  Feather dropped his eyes. “Uh,” he began. “That’s the name I gave him.”

  “You named my bull Blue Bell?” said Charley.

  “I give ’em all names, Boss. It gets kinda lonely out there in the dark. I like ta have someone I know personally ta talk to. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that is there?” he growled.

  “Just you simmer down now, Feather Martin,” said Charley … “Hush. I don’t want you dropping dead on me. I got enough worries.”

  Charley turned to the others who had gathered around the two of them. “After we chow down, I want everyone to saddle up and be ready to ride.”

  “We ain’t gonna find him, boss,” wailed Feather. “I already looked everywhere for him and couldn’t find nothin’ … hide ner hair. He’s vanished, just like that little pea in a shell game.”

  “Go on, get yourself a cup of hot coffee, Feather,” said Charley. “The rest of you do the same. And as soon as it gets light enough to see something we’ll head out to search for the bull.” He paused … “For Blue Bell. Henry Ellis,” he called out. “Kelly … Gerald …”

  Coming from entirely different directions, the three scrambled until they were standing in front of their leader. Charley went on:

  “I want you three to stay here at the camp. Watch over our things until we get back. Everything I’ve been dreaming about and planning for won’t work out at all without that bull.”

  Charley also had two of the Colorado cowboys stay back with the herd while the rest went off searching for the bull’s hoofprints.

  Rod was the one who found them.

  “Over here,” he shouted.

  The others galloped over and circled the area on the ground Rod was shielding. Because of the light drizzle, the bull’s prints were easy to identify.

  “Those prints have to belong to the bull,” said Charley. “There wasn’t another set headed away from the herd except for Feather’s horse’s when he was galloping back toward camp. And those hooves were shod hooves.”

  “We all know the difference ’tween horses’ hoofprints and cattle hoofprints,” said Roscoe.

  “I know that,” said Charley, “but maybe there’s someone here that don’t.”

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the area. Crashing thunder boomed shortly after.

  “Well, what are we waitin’ ’round here fer?” said Feather. “Let’s get ta follerin’ them tracks before the rain starts ta really come down or the lightnin’ kills one of us.”

  The tracks led them into a narrow canyon. On the other end it opened up into a beautiful green valley.

  As Charley and his men cleared the canyon’s outlet, they could see smoke curling from the chimney of a small wooden shack.

  Charley spoke to his men in a lowered voice. “It appears to me that our bull didn’t run off by itself after all,” he said.

  “An’ after seein’ the likes of that ol’ shack over there, I’d bet my bankroll that it was rustlers that run off with Blue Bell,” said Feather.

  “All right,” said Charley. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  They followed Charley’s orders precisely, dismounting and moving toward the shack on foot. Within minutes they had the small cabin completely surrounded. Everyone made sure their weapons were loaded and at the ready.

  When Charley was sure they were all in position, he stepped into the open, facing the door. He called out: “Everyone inside the cabin step out with your hands up. We’ve got you surrounded.”

  The tinkling of a piece of silverware dropping to the floor could be heard coming from inside. That was followed by a very long, silent pause.

  Outside, Colt hammers were pulled to full cock while Winchester lever actions put the brass where it belonged.

  The long moment continued—finally the door opened just a crack. A white flag—a soiled dinner napkin on a stick—was extended and waved. A man’s voice called out from inside.

  “If y’all think we done somethin’ wrong,” said the voice, “something illegal, against the law … well, yer wrong. I’ll open this door wider if ya promise not ta shoot us.”

  “Go ahead, open up. We won’t harm you,” said Charley.

  The door began to open wider until the figure of the man could be seen. As he stepped through the open portal with his hands up, his teeth held between them a large piece of dangling meat … cooked rare, with blood still dripping.

  Behind him, sitting at a table with forks and knives in their hands, were a woman and three children chewing on pieces of recently cooked meat that had been sliced from a smoking carcass that was on a spit in the fireplace.

  “I’ll be danged, C.A.” said Roscoe. “They’re eatin’ Blue Bell.”

  Henry Ellis, K
elly, and Gerald watched from near the chuckwagon as Charley and the others rode back into camp. With forlorn looks on their faces, the men dismounted and went about tying off the horses.

  Charley saw his grandson beside the newspeople. He immediately led his horse over to where they were standing.

  “We didn’t have any luck,” he said. “No Blue Bell. Uh, that’s the name Feather gave the bull. Anything happen here while we were gone?”

  Kelly and Gerald exchanged looks.

  Henry Ellis couldn’t keep a straight face.

  “Something sure did happen while you were gone, Grampa,” he said. “Just take a look over there by the creek.”

  Charley took a few steps so he could see around the chuckwagon …

  … and there stood Blue Bell tied to a tree, his tail wagging peacefully.

  “I’ll be danged,” said Charley, scratching his ear. “Where in tarnation did you find him?”

  “We were here in camp watching over our things like you asked us to,” said Kelly, “and a little eight-year-old girl from that farmhouse down the road led the bull into camp and asked us if he belonged here.

  “You boys were sure gone a long time looking for something that wasn’t there,” she said. “So what took you so long?”

  “Oh,” said Charley. “You might say we were invited to share some barbecue. Barbecued pork, that is. We ran across a family that’d just hunted down a wild boar that was tearing up the wife’s garden and they invited the whole bunch of us to join them for a meal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The drovers moved the longhorn herd across the open Oklahoma countryside—through some low hills, across a flat valley or two, and through several small creeks and flowing streams.

  It was apparent by the growth of whiskers on the drovers’ faces that they had not taken the time for a shave. They were trail worn, shorthanded, and very tired as they struggled to keep the longhorns moving.

  The old and battered chuckwagon-buckboard stood silently at the side of the trail, its impatient horses’ hooves pawing dirt. Roscoe, on his back in the dust, worked on the rear axle, while Kelly and Henry Ellis sat patiently on the seat.

  Buster watched from the rear of the bed, peeking through an empty space under the seat. He was still tied securely near his ever-present water bowl.

  Charley rode up, waving to Kelly and his grandson. Then he looked down at his grease-stained partner.

  “Can you fix it?” he asked, tipping back his hat.

  Roscoe glanced up, shielding his eyes with his hand.

  “Sure I can, C.A.,” he answered stubbornly. “Buckboards weren’t built to be as tough as chuckwagons … even with these replacement wheels and axles. All I need is enough spit, glue, an’ balin’ wire, an’ I can repair anything. You know that, pard. I just wish we’d had the time to strengthen these axles better before we started out.”

  “So do I, Roscoe,” said Charley. “But seeing how we didn’t have the time, just get it moving any way you can, all right?” He reined his horse around. “We can’t go without grub. Oh,” he added, “try and catch up as soon as you can.”

  He spurred away, riding back toward the herd.

  Charley joined Rod Lightfoot, who was hazing the cattle along on the left flank.

  “You holding up all right?” he called out.

  Rod stood in the stirrups and rubbed his rear end.

  “First my blisters turned to calluses, now my calluses have blisters,” he joked.

  “Not much like lawyering, is it, son?” said Charley.

  Rod answered with a painful chuckle, “No, sir, it sure isn’t.”

  Charley laughed. “Now you know what you’ve been missing sitting at that comfortable desk job of yours.”

  Rod paused. Something seemed to be bothering him.

  “I don’t want to go back to doing what I‘ve been doing, Mr. Sunday,” he told the older man.

  “Oh?” answered Charley, turning in his saddle.

  “No,” Rod went on. “I guess I don’t know what I want to do, but—”

  “I thought you were doing everything you could to become a lawyer,” Charley reminded him.

  “Uh, that’s true,” answered Rod, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “I guess I just don’t want to ever get involved with someone like Sidney Pike again. I just don’t like being around the man.”

  “Have you told Pike how you feel?” Charley asked.

  Rod lowered his eyes; he shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he answered softly.

  “Well, there are some things a man just can’t run away from, son,” said Charley. “Things a man has to face up to.”

  “Yes,” said Rod, “I know.”

  “Used to be in Texas a man settled his own problems,” said Charley. “But that was when due process was a bullet.”

  “Hey,” Rod cut in. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

  Charley chuckled. “Oh, I know that, Lightfoot.” He sighed. “Just reminiscing, I reckon … Just reminiscing.”

  The cattle drive moved across the Oklahoma Panhandle gaining ten to twelve miles each day.

  With every night’s campfire Kelly typed the next episode of her continuing story taken from her daily notes. Every other day, or so, Gerald drove the horse-drawn darkroom into the nearest town and telegraphed Kelly’s words—then he mailed his developed photographs to the New York City National News Syndicate office.

  Every night, Henry Ellis climbed into his makeshift bed in the chuckwagon, exhausted. Once there, he fell asleep and dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed. Usually those dreams consisted of what went on that day with the cattle drive. But on other nights he would dream of his heroes—Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, and … Doc Holliday.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The mysterious rider was lean and mean.

  He was dressed entirely in black.

  A flat-brimmed hat shaded his wrinkled brow from the blistering sun.

  The skirts of his long frock coat were pulled back, revealing twin, pearl-handled, nickel-plated Colt .45s, sheathed in matching, silver-studded holsters.

  He looked as though he had just stepped from the pages of a Ned Buntline dime novel. He stared straight ahead with narrowed eyes as he rode persistently after the longhorn herd.

  Feather saw him first. The man was following the drovers and the herd in the swirling dust kicked up by the cattle’s plodding hooves.

  The half-pint cowboy turned in the saddle and called to Charley.

  “Hey, boss … over here,” he yelled.

  Charley intercepted Feather’s shout and rode back in the little cowboy’s direction, reining in beside the anxious little man.

  Feather was pointing back toward the lone rider.

  “That there fella’s bin doggin’ us real close all day,” he reported nervously. “He’s too dern close fer my likin’.”

  Charley took a good squint himself.

  He tipped back his hat and said, “Well, it’s a free country, Feather Martin. A man can ride back there and eat our dust if he’s a mind to. We can’t stop him from doing that, now can we?”

  “Ain’t ya even interested in him one bit?” asked Feather, scratching his head.

  Charley spit a stream of tobacco juice.

  “Nope,” he said simply. “Our job is to just keep them cattle movin’.”

  A few minutes later, with Sunday back in the lead, the herd approached and passed a small sign that stated: TEXAS—20 MILES.

  Fifteen minutes after that Roscoe, Kelly, and Henry Ellis—with Buster in the back—passed the same sign as they bounced along in the wobbly old chuckwagon, trying to catch up to the others.

  Roscoe had to swing over slightly to avoid the dark-clad horseman walking his mount along at a steady pace in the center of the road.

  As the chuckwagon passed the lone rider, Roscoe and the others took a quick glance and saw that the sinister-looking desperado was staring—with an odd, hypnotic gaze—straight ahead, completely unawar
e of the chuckwagon’s presence.

  With the cattle bedded down for the night, most members of the outfit were gathered around the chuckwagon, which served as both the cooking area and trail headquarters.

  Some of the men were back in line for seconds, while others sat around scraping their plates or picking their teeth. They were listening to some harmonica music being played by Sleepy, one of the Colorado cowboys.

  A campfire burned brightly in the moonless night. Behind the chuckwagon, a lantern shed its glow over the entire cooking area.

  Neil enjoyed an after-supper cup of coffee, while Lucky joined Sleepy’s harmonica, singing a cowboy song. The song they were in the middle of was “The Streets of Laredo—A Cowboy’s Lament.”

  Gerald sat nearby, listening to the soft, western ballad.

  Buster was curled up beside his empty food dish, already asleep—while Henry Ellis, Charley, and Rod relaxed beside the fire, sitting on several bedrolls nearby. They were watching Feather, who stood at the edge of the camp looking off into the obscurity.

  Roscoe and Kelly dished out some of the remaining grub, spooning the beans onto four tin plates.

  Roscoe walked over, serving the victuals to Charley, Rod, and the boy. He held up the final plate for Feather to see.

  “You gonna just stand over there gawkin’ at nothin’ all night, Feather?” he called out, “or are ya gonna eat somethin’?”

  Feather turned around at the mention of his name.

  “Huh?” he muttered, his mind engrossed in other things.

  “Beans is on,” Roscoe told him. “I never knowed you ta miss a meal, Feather Martin.”

  Feather moved over to the chuckwagon, the ringing of his spurs following along behind. He took the plate from Roscoe, then went over and sat between Rod and Henry Ellis.

  “What are you looking for out there?” asked Rod.

  “That fella that’s bin follerin’ us,” Feather told him.

  Kelly, standing by the chuckwagon, cut into the conversation.

  “He’s really got you spooked, doesn’t he, Feather?” she said … “that mysterious rider.”