Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  The half-pint cowboy continued looking off into the night as he ate.

  “Nasty,” he said shivering. “That’s how he looks. Just plain nasty.”

  “We saw some fella out on the road today,” said Roscoe. “He was wearin’ a black outfit an’ carryin’ a couple a’ real pretty, matched Colt .45s. Looked like one of them ol’ tintypes my mama used ta show off on top a’ the mantel in the parlor.”

  “That’s him!” yelped Feather, perking up. “Real spooky … Like a ghost or somethin’ … Even spookier.”

  Henry Ellis was listening with his eyes wide.

  Kelly laughed.

  Charley put down his plate and stood up, moving away from the others. Then he turned.

  “Feather, didn’t I tell you to forget about that fella,” he repeated, lighting his pipe. “Times are tough enough around here without you dreaming up more difficulties.”

  Charley walked away, moving into the darkness toward the herd.

  The others watched after their trail boss as he disappeared into the darkness.

  Feather forked in another bite.

  “Ol’ C.A. sure has bin rank lately, hain’t he?” he said with his mouth full.

  “Mr. Sunday’s got a lot on his mind,” offered Rod. “We still have a long way to go after we cross the state line into Texas.”

  “Well,” said Feather, wiping his mouth with his long-underwear sleeve. “It still don’t give him cause ta treat us like the hired help.”

  “Ahhh, stuff yer mule face an’ hush up,” Roscoe told him. “We are the hired help.”

  Charles Abner Sunday walked slowly over to where the longhorns had been bunched up for the night and stopped. With help from the glow of the campfire and lantern behind him, he fumbled in his pocket, finding another match.

  He struck the phosphorus tip with his thumbnail and relit his pipe.

  The sparks from the match illuminated Charley’s bedraggled face for a brief moment—his features revealing a tremendous fatigue. He appeared to be drained of any strength. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

  His eyes raised to the sky overhead.

  “Willadean?” he said softly. “Put in a good word for us with the Man Upstairs, will you?” Then, after a long moment, “I miss you, Willadean … I surely do.”

  He puffed the pipe’s embers alive, drawing in a deep wisp of the smoke. Charley squinted around at his herd—smoking, thinking—standing there all alone in the moonless night.

  The lone rider eased his way slowly through the longhorns, reining up at a distance, silently watching the older cowboy with the pipe who had seemed to be talking to the cattle.

  He waited some time—until the old man had made his way back to the lighted area—then he continued on his way toward the small encampment.

  Minutes later, Roscoe stoked the campfire as Charley sat nearby, going over his maps.

  Rod sat on his bedroll, studying a law book; Kelly wrote in her notepad while she sat beside him.

  Henry Ellis was already asleep in the bed of the chuckwagon.

  Buster hadn’t moved from where he slept by his bowl near the fire.

  “When do ya think we’ll hit Texas soil?” asked Roscoe.

  Charley began folding the maps.

  “Tomorrow morning, I suspect,” he answered.

  “Sure will be nice ta get home, won’t it?” said Roscoe.

  Charley nodded.

  “Home’s more than a bit further on down the line than the border up ahead, Roscoe.” He chuckled. “Texas is a big state. Or have you forgotten that?”

  Feather rode up on Chigger. He was about to go on nighthawk duty. He looked down at Rod.

  “You gonna relieve me at midnight like yer supposed ta, Lightfoot?” he asked. “Or am I gonna have ta keep singin’ to ’em ’til the sun comes up?”

  Without looking up, Rod threw him a wave.

  “I’ll be there,” he answered, turning a page.

  “Hey, all of ya,” Feather called back as he rode out of camp. “Just keep yer eyes peeled fer that ghost in black, ya hear?”

  Before the undersized drover was clear of the others, a voice called out from the shadows.

  “Hello the camp,” it bellowed.

  Everyone was startled—they all got to their feet.

  Even Buster woke up.

  Rod checked the hunting knife in the leather scabbard on his belt while Kelly hushed Henry Ellis, who had been aroused by the traditional call for entry.

  After a moment of hesitation, the callous stranger in black stepped into the glow of the campfire. He was on foot.

  His frock coat fluttered in an eerie gust of wind, revealing the pearl handles of his matched .45s.

  The man, as Feather had told them earlier, was a ghostly sight indeed.

  “Figgered you boys might have some extra grub ta spare,” the man said.

  “Come again?” asked Charley, cocking his head.

  He bit off a chaw of tobacco, standing and then moving in closer to the new arrival. “Maybe if we knew who it was going to be breaking bread with us,” he continued, “we might just have something to share with you.”

  The stranger walked into the center of the camp, his spurs jingling an ethereal tune.

  Roscoe stood ready by the chuckwagon’s tailgate, an iron skillet in his hand.

  Henry Ellis’s jaw had dropped at the sight of the man in black—and it had stayed that way.

  Buster was too overwhelmed to bark.

  From the edge of camp, Feather was pointing uncontrollably.

  “That’s him, boss,” he shouted from his saddle. “That’s him! The Phantom Rider.”

  The man threw back his shoulders, casual like, resting his hands on his guns.

  “Holliday’s my name,” he let them all know, “Plunker Holliday. Maybe you boys heard a’ me?” he added.

  The men shook their heads slowly—they had not heard of him, and their expressions showed it.

  Holliday continued.

  “Does the name ‘Doc’ Holliday mean anything to you yahoos?” he asked them.

  Of course they had heard of the legendary gunfighter. Their nods let Plunker Holliday know that they had.

  “Uh, s-sure,” stuttered Roscoe. “He an’ Wyatt Earp kilt some fellas up in Dodge, didn’t they?”

  “Naw,” corrected Feather. “It wasn’t Dodge, it was—”

  “Tombstone,” said Holliday, waxing poetic.

  “That’s it,” said Feather. “Tombstone it was.”

  “Wyatt Earp’s brother was the marshal,” said Holliday.

  Charley tossed aside the maps he’d been folding.

  “Which way are you headed, Mr. Holliday?” he asked the man.

  Holliday answered with a gallant sweep of his arm.

  “Wherever the sand blows free,” he crooned.

  “Ahhhhh,” grumbled Feather. “That’s pure corn.”

  Charley, ignoring the little guy one more time, stepped in closer to Holliday, offering his hand.

  “Well,” he began as they shook. “Why don’t you go get your horse, unsaddle him, and tie him up at the picket line? You’ll find some water and grain over by the chuckwagon.

  “Ain’t much beans left, I’m afraid,” he added. “But I’m sure Roscoe over there’ll let you lick the pot if you’re as hungry as you say you are.”

  By six a.m. the outfit had eaten breakfast and saddled their horses. They had started to break camp and were about to begin moving longhorns once again.

  Roscoe, in the chuckwagon with Henry Ellis and Kelly, drove off after the herd. Gerald, in the horse-drawn darkroom, followed. Roscoe called back to the others, “See y’all in Texas, boys.”

  Buster came bounding out of the bushes where he’d been doing his business. He caught up to the chuckwagon and leaped over the side rail into the bed like a young pup.

  Charley and the cowpunchers laughed at the old dog’s accomplishment as they mounted their horses.

  About that time, Holliday
rode up.

  “We ought ta make twenty miles today, at least,” he told them all.

  “Is that a fact?” said Charley.

  “It is,” said Holliday. “If these boys a’ yours can work cattle like they say they can.”

  Feather erupted with, “Now you look here, Pistol Pete. Who are you ta be makin’ fun of anyone? You probably ain’t never even seen a longhorn ’til the other day.”

  Holliday leaned back in his saddle, offended.

  “I’ll have you know,” he verified, “that I worked for the Tonto Basin outfit up Verde way.”

  “For how long?” asked Charley.

  “Oh, not too long,” Holliday told him casually. “Maybe a week or so.”

  “That’s long enough,” said Charley. “You can ride drag.”

  He swung his mount around with a swift kick to the flank.

  “Let’s move ’em out!” Charley yelled to his men. “Let’s get ’em on the trail!”

  Feather, Rod, and the other cowboys started off toward the cattle with Holliday right behind.

  “Holliday,” Charley called out. “That’s the wrong direction.”

  “Huh?” said the man in black as he turned his horse.

  “Drag means the tail end of the herd,” Charley told him bluntly. “It’s up to you to keep the laggers up with the rest of the bunch.”

  Holliday showed absolutely no embarrassment about his small error. He just swung around easily and rode off toward the rear of the herd.

  Charley watched after him and chuckled. Then he rode off himself.

  The longhorns moved on through the flat country with the men pushing them hard. All the while, Kelly kept writing to meet her daily deadline.

  Charley rode to the crest of a small rise and reined up. He dismounted and knelt down, taking up a handful of dirt and then letting it sift through his fingers to the ground.

  Feather galloped over, sliding to a stop.

  “Trouble, boss?” he asked.

  Charley stood up smiling and held out some of the dirt for the little cowboy to see.

  “Texas soil,” he exclaimed, “if I’m reading it correctly. It won’t be long now, Feather Martin.”

  Like Charley, Feather’s mouth grew into a wide grin.

  “That’s what the monkey said when they cut off his tail,” he joked. “Mind if I tell the others?”

  “We’re pushin’ longhorns, not monkeys, Feather,” Charlie said, chuckling. “Sure, go ahead and tell everyone of ’em.”

  The pint-size cowboy took off his hat and twirled it in the air.

  “Yaaaa-hooooooo!” he howled as he spurred Chigger back toward the approaching herd.

  The American public was enthralled. They just couldn’t get enough of Kelly King’s reporting on the Colorado to Texas longhorn cattle drive.

  They read about it in their private homes, in their favorite bars and restaurants, in village shops, in large editions, in small-town papers, in the backseats of expensive carriages, on horseback, and even in Flora Mae’s pool hall.

  On the front page of the Juanita Centennial, there was even a full-page photograph of the outfit beside an Oklahoma-Texas border sign, with the herd grazing behind them.

  Kelly’s continuing saga began below the photo:

  “The longhorns … and the Texas Outfit,” her words began, using the special term she had coined for Charley’s band of misfits, “are finally back on their own soil. Back where they belong, back in the state of Texas where the longhorn initially had its beginnings.

  “Earlier today I talked with Mr. Charles Abner Sunday. I’ve spoken with him before as you know. He’s the leader of the band of Texas old-timers responsible for getting the longhorn cattle this far. A fine group of respectable gentlemen with whom I have had the pleasure of traveling the past month, and whom I have also gotten to know as if they were members of my own family.”

  There was a smaller photo of Charley astride Dice.

  Kelly’s commentary continued.

  “I asked Mr. Sunday if he was feeling really proud of himself.”

  “Proud ain’t the word, Miss Kelly,” he answered with reserve. “Just makes a fella grateful he’s a Texan, that’s all.”

  “Now that you’re in your home territory,” I asked him, “what will you be looking forward to?”

  Sunday shook his head and said, “Well, the toughest part’s still ahead of us, I suspect,” he told me. “Texas is a mighty big state.”

  “I then asked him this question: You’ll be facing much bigger odds from now on, I’m told … rougher terrain?”

  “Well, ma’am,” Charley answered, “they did it back in the old days as a matter of everyday survival. I don’t suppose we’re any that much different from our ancestors, do you?”

  “It appears that you’re headed in the approximate direction of Amarillo,” was my next question. “Am I to assume you plan on going around the city? Amarillo is a very large and busy metropolitan area, Mr. Sunday.”

  “Yes, it sure is a big one,” Charley affirmed to me. “But going all the way around Amarillo would put us way behind our schedule. As long as we have the good Lord on our side, Miss Kelly,” he added, “I’m sure we’ll get cooperation from the city folks … same as we have from the country ones.”

  That evening Kelly let Charley know that the American public was totally enthralled with his Texas Outfit. Because of her employer, the newspaper syndicate, her series of articles were now running daily in nearly every big city and small town newspaper in the entire country—not to mention that a European newspaper syndicate had already picked up rights to the continuing story.

  “The American people are reading all about your cattle drive, Charley,” she said, “from those who dine in the ritziest restaurants in New York City to the ones who fight for scraps behind the sleaziest dockside joints on San Francisco Bay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The longhorns converged onto a main dirt artery that led toward the West Texas panhandle city of Amarillo—its turn-of-the-century, developing, metropolitan outline etched against the yellow sky in the near distance.

  Coming down the roadway toward the cattle drive was a cluster of men on horseback.

  Charley, riding point as usual—and on this particular day with Henry Ellis at his side on a borrowed horse, plus Buster at their feet—raised his arm so the others, directly behind him, would stop the herd.

  The horsemen drew closer.

  Charley squinted to see if he might recognize who they were.

  “Who are they, Grampa?” asked Henry Ellis.

  “Looks to me like a whole danged militia,” grunted Charley, pulling on his nose.

  The group of riders turned out to be eight Amarillo law enforcement officers—uniformed policemen.

  As they neared the herd, they slowed considerably, coming to a complete stop directly in front of Charley, the boy, and the dog—all of whom, it appeared, were blocking the law officers’ way.

  The Amarillo city police chief, backed by the uniformed officers, reined in facing Charley, his eyes wide at the sight of the longhorns so close to his municipality.

  The chief stared cautiously at Charley and his grandson. Henry Ellis had dismounted and now held tight to the growling Buster’s collar.

  “Morning, officers,” said Charley, beating them to the punch.

  The chief shook his head, whistling.

  “Whooee,” he declared. “There sure are a lot of ’em, ain’t they?”

  He looked at Charley.

  “With all that newspaper coverage you and your boys have been gettin’,” he said to Charley, “it seems like the whole danged state has turned out to see you and your ‘horns,’ mister. I’ve got folks lined up on both sides of the streets, so try an’ keep ’em bunched up as best you can.”

  Charley scratched his nose, puzzled.

  “You mean you ain’t gonna try and stop us?” he questioned.

  “Hell no, cowboy,” answered the police chief. “If I di
d that, the mayor’d have my badge. No-sir-ee-bob” he went on. “We come out here as an official escort for you, Mr. Sunday. So many people showed up in the last day or so, we’d be the crazy ones not to let you fellas bring those longhorns through our city. Business is booming.”

  Charley nodded his thanks, then he turned to Henry Ellis.

  “You ride back and tell the others, will you, son?” he asked the boy.

  “You bet, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis as he swung into his saddle, wheeling his mount around and spurring away toward the milling cattle. Henry Ellis shouted to the others as Buster sprinted after him, barking his head off.

  Charley stood his ground at the front of the herd, nodding every so often, smiling at the well-groomed law officers—even so, he seemed to be just a little self-conscious of his own shabby appearance.

  The police chief had been right on the button. The people had indeed turned out in throngs.

  Out-of-towners and locals alike lined the sidewalks.

  Smiling faces were everywhere—some waving from upper-story windows, while others had climbed lamp poles for an even better view.

  Newspaper photographers were all over the place, gathering images as the longhorns were herded slowly down the city’s main street, following their police escort.

  An equestrian unit separated the cattle from the citizenry at curbside. Children and adults waved small American and Texas flags, while a high school brass band played “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.”

  Kelly and her photographer, Gerald, were busy reporting the event on notepad and film along with several other newspaper crews—some of them from foreign countries.

  Colorful banners added to the festivities. Some of the pennants read: WELCOME HOME TEXAS LONGHORNS, while others thanked THE TEXAS OUTFIT for doing such a fine job.

  Charley, Rod, Feather, and Henry Ellis rode along with the cattle through the streets of Amarillo. The Colorado cowboys, along with a few local hands, kept the livestock in tow as they were paraded before the spectators in what was beginning to resemble a rollicking pageant.

  Each and every member of Charley’s crew waved and smiled back at the cheering crowds, while Roscoe drove along slowly in the chuckwagon with Buster yapping on the seat at his side. Having taken on several attractive local girls as passengers, the outfit’s one-and-only “Cookie” was having the time of his life.