Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  Finally, when all the cattle had moved on past the multitudes, Plunker Holliday brought up the rear—still riding drag.

  Though dust covered and dog tired, the old gunfighter nonetheless managed to sit a proud saddle, occasionally pulling back the skirts of his coat to show off his matching six-shooters to those who had remained until the very end.

  The crowd loved Holliday—they really did—responding with applause and cheers alike.

  Near an Amarillo city park, several blocks ahead of where Holliday was displaying his prowess, was a recreational area, where the crowd had thinned out quite a bit. Charley still rode at the head of the cattle drive. Henry Ellis had fallen behind him by more than a few yards.

  Charley had just entered a grassy square with the longhorn leaders on the pavement directly behind him.

  By now, a good distance away from his grandfather, Henry Ellis continued to wave and smile at everyone he passed.

  Two older looking boys giggled from a nearby sidewalk, making fun of Henry Ellis as he rode past them.

  After a moment, one of the youngsters removed a homemade slingshot from a rear pocket, set a small pebble in the pouch, then fired the undersized missile in the boy’s direction.

  The projectile struck the rump of Henry Ellis’s horse, causing the animal to plunge and jump.

  Henry Ellis grabbed for the saddle horn, holding on for dear life as the frightened beast broke away from the herd, bucking awkwardly across the street toward an open expanse of lawn.

  Rod Lightfoot had been riding along several horse lengths behind. He was laid back, enjoying the parade, but closest to Henry Ellis. It was Rod who saw that the boy was in deep trouble way before anyone else did.

  He spurred out after the frightened lad as fast as he could, just as Henry Ellis’s horse slipped, then scrambled through a parting crowd of spectators on the far sidewalk.

  The youngster let out a shriek as his horse began to run.

  Rod continued to race after him in hot pursuit.

  Feather, who had nearly passed the park square, immediately saw the drama that was playing out on the grass.

  “Hey, boss!” he yelled over to Charley, “runaway! It’s yer grandkid!”

  Charley heard Feather’s warning and snapped his head around.

  From his position, he couldn’t see a thing.

  On the other side of the trees that were blocking Charley’s view, Rod reined his galloping steed in beside Henry Ellis’s frightened horse, reaching out, then scooping the boy from the saddle.

  In moments, he had slowed both horses and stopped.

  He lowered Henry Ellis to the ground.

  Rod was dismounting himself when Charley and Feather rode up.

  Charley swung down, taking his out-of-breath grandson in his arms.

  “It’s all right, son,” he comforted. “Ever ything’s all right … You’re gonna be just fine.”

  Henry Ellis pulled back just enough for Charley to wipe a small tear from his cheek. The old man hugged the boy closely.

  Henry Ellis looked up to Rod who was standing nearby.

  “Rod saved my life,” he told his grandfather, “didn’t he?”

  “That he did, son,” assured Charley. “He sure did.”

  Charley stood up slowly, holding his trembling grandson in his arms.

  “Maybe you better ride in the chuckwagon with your uncle Roscoe for a little while,” he suggested. “At least until we get on through the city.”

  Henry Ellis nodded his accord.

  “But not forever?” he said.

  Charley shook his head, tousling the boy’s hair, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Not forever,” he answered, smiling softly. “Only until we get through town.”

  When the boy tightened his hug on his grandfather, Charley had his first chance to make eye contact with Rod. He silently nodded his sincerest gratitude.

  Rod accepted the gesture without a word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  As usual, Buster was sound asleep.

  Roscoe was busy cleaning up after another supper of armadillo stew, beans, and sourdough bread, Rod and Kelly talked softly near the chuckwagon, and Feather was out riding nighthawk again.

  Sleepy’s harmonica music drifted across the still night air as Holliday practiced his fast draw, clicking off silent shots at a make-believe enemy.

  He reholstered his left .45 and quickly drew the right—fanning the hammer. Suddenly the gun fired:

  KA-BOOM!

  Buster sat bolt upright, the hair bristling on his neck.

  The log near Rod’s and Kelly’s feet literally exploded into a shower of splinters. They jumped back in complete disbelief.

  Charley ran over, followed by an extremely concerned Roscoe.

  Out with the herd, Feather rode among the uneasy longhorns, speaking low, reassuring words to the anxious animals.

  Back at the camp, Holliday stood frozen, staring quizzically at the smoking Colt in his quivering hand.

  Totally bewildered, he moved slowly over to Roscoe and Charley.

  Charley took the gun, checking its cylinder, extracting several shells. He checked them out before handing the pistol back to Holliday.

  “What in the devil are you doing packing live ones?” he asked. “Are you crazy?”

  Holliday toed the dirt at his feet, fearing Charley’s wrath.

  “I-I reckon I forgot t-to take ’em out,” he stammered.

  Charley held up one of the unspent cartridges, squinting, examining it closer.

  “Snake shot?” he asked the old gunfighter.

  “I had me a trick-shootin’ gig up in Cheyenne,” he told Charley. “I shot supper plates outta the air. Snake shot makes it real easy ta hit the target… ’Specially when a man’s gettin’ on in years … Like me.”

  “Your pistola going off like that could have spread the herd over half this county,” lectured Charley. “If you’re going to pack them irons, Mister Holliday, then keep ’em holstered—and empty. That’s an order, mister.”

  Holliday looked away, his lower lip quivering like a small child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  When he finally did look up, he found himself staring at Charley. And Charley was staring right back.

  Holliday quickly turned his eyes to the others. With all he had in him, he tried to smile—instead, he shrugged.

  About then, Feather rode into the camp and dismounted.

  “What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “Sounded like some gunfire poppin’ off over here.”

  He glanced over to Holliday who was jamming his pistol back into its holster, still not daring to look anybody in the eye.

  After several long moments, Holliday’s eyebrows quivered and he began to speak—slow and easy.

  “You folks think I’m just a silly ol’ coot, don’t ya?” he chortled, pushing back the skirts of his coat nervously.

  He turned, taking a few steps back, then he spun around quickly on his heels to face the group again.

  Holliday smiled an evil, all-knowing smile. His eyes darted from one face to another—one eye squinting awkwardly in the light of the flickering campfire, the dancing flames creating unpleasant shadows across his furrowed brow.

  “I helped kill the Clantons,” he told them flatly.

  Holliday did not wait for a reaction. He whirled around quickly once again—a three-hundred-sixty-degree spin—pointing a finger at the entire group once more.

  “I woke up that morning to a knockin’ on my door,” he continued. “I had me a quick shot a’ red-eye … ta quiet my cough.”

  He coughed.

  “It was Wyatt Earp!” he snapped. “He an’ his brothers had bin havin’ some trouble with some local cowboys—the Clantons an’ McLowerys. They was waiting for the Earps up near Fly’s photography studio close ta the O.K. Corral.”

  He made a slow circle, then began talking once more when he was facing the group again.

  “I finished the whiskey an’ said …” He c
oughed again. “Wyatt … so help me, I’m goin’ with ya.

  “I picked up my scattergun, an’ Wyatt thanked me,” he went on. “We was old friends from Dodge City, ya know. Oh,” he waved a gloved hand, “we’d had our differences, but we was still amigos.

  “It was quiet in Tombstone that mornin’ as we walked down Front Street toward the corral,” he told them. “We stopped the other side of the boardin’ house … me, Wyatt, an’ his brothers, Morgan and Virgil. An’ there they was … Ike and Billy Clanton, the McLowerys, an’ that worthless sheriff, Johnny Behan. That lousy lawman was backin’ that worthless pack a’ wolves. Ya see, the sheriff was out to get Wyatt, too.”

  Holliday stepped wide of the campfire, resting the heels of his hands on the butts of his guns.

  “We faced off,” he continued, bending his knees, his eyes wide. “It was a cold silence … us lookin’ at them, an’ them lookin’ back at us.

  “Wyatt called out ta Ike, tellin’ him he was under arrest. Then Ike, he called a name back ta Wyatt.

  “Billy went for his gun, and all hell broke loose! BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!!!” Holliday fanned the air.

  “Singin’ lead an’ whistlin’ bullets filled the desert air,” he told them. “Black powder smoke,” he said, “so thick a man could a’ cut it with a Bowie knife swallered up the entire town.

  “Finally,” he concluded, “the air cleared some, an’ we could see ’em all layin’ there on the cold, hard ground … all dead … all of ’em layin’ in pools a’ bright, red, glistenin’ blood. Except Ike,” he said … “That fool coward had slipped away durin’ the battle.”

  Roscoe raised an eyebrow.

  Holliday dropped his look to the ground. The others followed his gaze.

  “It was all over,” he testified solemnly. “An’ that’s the way it happened. That’s the whole story.”

  He drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

  “Then the crowd would applaud,” he added. “An’ we’d take a bow.”

  He grinned.

  “Then the fellers on the ground would get up an’ they’d bow, too.”

  The others were beginning to react, showing more than skepticism.

  “Yes, boys,” Holliday finalized, “that’s the way it went, two shows a day, seven days a week … in the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show … in the year 1892.”

  With that, Plunker Holliday walked slowly over to his bedroll and sat down. He lay back, pulling his hat brim over his eyes. All the while the small group watched in a state of bemusement.

  “Night, boys,” Holliday said simply. “See ya when the birds chirp.”

  As the truth of the matter began to sink in, the group couldn’t stop staring at the lanky pistolero.

  “Ah, heck,” muttered Roscoe. “He’s just one a’ them fancy-pants, stage-show gunfighters. Kinda tetched in the head, too, I imagine.”

  Charley smiled, then he lit his pipe.

  “Maybe,” he said with a wink, “maybe not.” Then he moved off with Henry Ellis. Buster followed along behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  1960

  “I’m hungry,” said Noel, interrupting her great-grandfather’s story.

  “Me too,” said Caleb.

  Evie said: “How about you two … Josh … Grampa Hank? I have some TV dinners in the freezer.”

  “OK by me,” answered Josh.

  “Yeah,” said Hank. “I could use a bite. You got a roast beef and gravy?”

  Evie got up and headed for the kitchen one more time.

  “Was Plunker Holliday a real person, Grampa Hank,” asked Josh, “or did you just make him up?”

  “Oh, Holliday was real, all right,” said Hank. “He was just a bit tetched, as Feather would have said. That means Holliday was slightly off his rocker … just a little bit crazy. But most of the time you couldn’t have asked for a gentler person.”

  “And they let him carry real guns?” asked Caleb. “My teacher says people with mental defects shouldn’t be allowed to own guns.”

  Josh cut in, “Your teacher also told you that no one at all should own guns.”

  “She has a right to her own opinion,” said Caleb.

  “Only if she tells you it’s her own opinion in the first place,” said Hank.

  “Did he really work in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show?” asked Noel.

  Hank said, “The man told us he did. No one questioned him about it. You never questioned a man’s word back then. You might have just got your head shot off.”

  “Remind me not ever to question you again, Caleb,” said Josh.

  Caleb answered his brother with “I’ll remind you even if you’re not questioning me.”

  Noel cut in.

  “Stop it, both of you,” she said. “Or I’ll tell Mommy.”

  “The boys aren’t doing anything wrong, sweetheart,” said Hank. “They’re just having fun with each other.”

  “Mommy doesn’t want them fighting,” said Noel. “It sounded to me like someone was starting a fight.”

  “Go play with your dolls,” said Caleb, “and leave Josh and me out of it.” He turned to his older brother. “Sorry, Josh. I didn’t mean anything by that … honest.”

  Their mother entered the room.

  “OK,” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready. Who’s going to set up the TV trays?”

  Both boys jumped up and went to a nearby closet, where they found five TV trays. Caleb was in charge of setting up the trays while his brother, Josh, rearranged some furniture so they would still be facing their grampa Hank while he continued telling his story.

  “Back in my day,” said Hank. “Dinner was what you call lunch nowadays. The evening meal was called supper, not dinner. Breakfast was still called breakfast any way you want to look at it.”

  After everything had been set up and everybody was in their respective chairs, Evie entered from the kitchen with a large tray containing five steaming TV dinners.

  “Noel?” she asked. “Can you give me a hand with these? And make sure Grampa Hank gets the one with beef and gravy.”

  “Then, as soon as we’re all ready to eat, Grampa Hank can continue with his story.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Just as dawn was breaking and the outfit was finishing up breakfast, Feather came racing into camp on Chigger shouting, “We got some horns missin’ … Some sneaky SOBs run off with some a’ our cattle durin’ the night … an’ I never seen nor heard ’em do it at all.”

  Charley and Rod ran up to Feather as the little cowboy dismounted.

  “Who was it, Feather?” said Charley as he was nearly run over by the little man’s fast movements.

  Charley grabbed him by the collar of his vest and yanked, stopping him in his tracks.

  “Like I said … I didn’t see nothin’ and I didn’t hear nothin’,” Feather went on. “I only realized they was missin’ when I was takin’ my end-a’-shift count just a while ago.”

  “You say you didn’t see or hear anything?” asked Roscoe, who approached still drying one of the tin plates. “Tell us the truth, mule face. Were you sleepin’ on the job?”

  “Don’t you go accusin’ me a’ sleepin’ on the job, Mister Nap-All-Day Pot Banger,” said Feather, flashing his anger. “If you ever had ta nighthawk fer just one time, you’d fall asleep before the sun went down.”

  “Just hold on, you two,” interrupted Charley. “Feather says we got a bunch of longhorns missing. You two can finish your fight after we find those missing cattle, how’s that?”

  He turned his attention to Feather. “You got any idea of what direction they might have run off to? And how many are we talking about, exactly?”

  “Well,” said Feather, “I follered their tracks just so far an’ I’d bet money they was headed due east. As fer how many are missin’, by my count around thirty or so.”

  Thirty, Charley said to himself. Damn … that’s my ten percent.

  Then he turned so he was facing east and pondered some more. �
�Nothing off to our east except Palo Duro Canyon.”

  “How about tracks?” said Rod. “Did you happen to see any other hoofprints besides the ones made by the cattle?”

  “If there was any,” said Feather, “they sure wasn’t wearin’ horseshoes or I’d a’ noticed ’em.”

  “Could they have bin Indians?” said Roscoe.

  “Now don’t you think if it was Indians I’d a’ knowed it?” said Feather.

  Roscoe shook his head. “’Course not. You was sleepin’. You couldn’t a’ seen nothin’ if you was sleepin’.”

  “I was not sleepin’,” said Feather.

  “Was too,” countered Roscoe.

  “We’re just wasting our time here,” said Charley. “We’ll leave Holliday and the Colorado boys in charge of the herd until we can find the missing longhorns.”

  “I’d like to go along with you,” said Kelly. “I promise I won’t be a burden.”

  “Me too,” squealed Henry Ellis. I won’t be a burden, either.”

  Charley started to show some displeasure. Then he caught himself and offered a suggestion of his own.

  “Make up some sandwiches for Holliday and the Colorado boys, Roscoe. We’ll take the chuckwagon along with us. It’s better we don’t suffer from empty stomachs while we’re searching out there. Having no food along with us could hamper our search if we’re out more’n one day. Now, for those of you who ain’t saddled up yet … saddle up!”

  Both Henry Ellis and Kelly got a little help from the men, saddling up.

  Feather led them all to the place near the rear of the herd where numerous longhorn tracks split off from the rest of the herd and started heading due east.

  They all dismounted and studied the ground surrounding them. It was decided that the small trace of horseshoe prints they did find were the ones previously left by Feather when he followed the longhorns’ trail for a short distance that very morning before reporting the disappearance to Charley and the others back at the camp.

  “All right,” said Charley, “let’s spread out some. There may be a maverick or two got separated from the cattle that broke off, too.”