More bandits piled out of the adobes, pulling on shirts and buckling belts. They scurried for their terrified mounts, grasping blindly for reins that were no longer there.
Charley broke away swiftly, using the runaway herd for cover. He twisted himself in the saddle, took aim with his Winchester, and fired back at the bandits who had begun to give chase. He could tell that only a few of the Mexicans understood what was happening. Some had spotted him and the outline of his horse through the veil of dust. The Texas Ranger’s rifle cracked repeatedly, picking them off like coyotes.
More bandits, some who had been lucky enough to capture a horse, joined the pursuit. Charley rode low, hanging on to the neck of his mount, making himself as invisible as he could in the chaos that surrounded. By then, close to half a dozen members of the cattle-rustling outfit had organized and were galloping after him—every one of them surrounded completely by the rumble of the runaway herd.
Ricocheting bullets echoed through the chalky air, cattle bawled, hooves thundered. Charley knew his comrades at river’s edge could hear the near-distant sounds of gunfire. The muffled roar of the stampede would also signal the cattle’s approach. The mushrooming dust on the Mexican skyline, similar to the smoke of a fast-moving prairie fire, would verify to the waiting defenders that the confrontation for which they had prepared was only moments away.
As he galloped toward the river, Charley could see Roscoe gesture to the men. He knew breaches were being checked a final time, weapons recocked. All eyes would be focused on the rising brown haze across the flowing river, which had begun to sweep down like a swarm of locusts toward the water’s edge.
Charley rode his foaming mount Indian style, hanging from one side of the saddle while firing his carbine under the gelding’s neck. The Ranger shot with astonishing accuracy, blasting a pursuing bandit from his saddle with every bullet fired.
In the Texas trenches, Roscoe raised a hand to get the men’s attention. “Hold your fire,” he roared. “Wait until they hit the Bravo.” The men sunk lower behind their defenses. The soldiers readied the Gatling guns and the Rangers their Winchesters. “And be careful,” Roscoe added. “Don’t no one go shootin’ Captain Sunday, gawdammit, or I’ll personally have his rotten hide myself.”
Breaking out of the rolling ball of dust, the stampeding herd hit the water, sending fans of brilliant, rainbow-hued spray exploding across the river’s surface. Wind-whipped sombreros and crossed bandoleros set apart the bandits who rode among the confused cattle. They found they had to turn their attention away from the Yanqui invader as they needed desperately to divert the panicked animals away from the Rio’s northern bank. This task proved to be impossible before the cattle found deeper water, forcing them to swim.
On the Texas side, the Gatling guns were ready and sighted. Pistols were cocked, rifles levered. “Just the Mes’cans,” cautioned Roscoe. “Kill a steer, or shoot Captain Sunday, and it’ll come out of your goddamn pay.”
Feather took a few steps toward his horse, then scissored one leg over the saddle putting both boots into the stirrups and his rump into the seat. With a sharp spur to both flanks, he galloped to one side of the advancing herd. He rode the horse into the river at full speed, the horse lunging through the water as it became deeper.
Once Feather was on the Mexican side, he searched for Charley in the chaos. When he spotted him, Feather kicked his mount forward and rode into the mêlée with pistol and rifle blazing.
As the leaders of the herd began to clamber up the muddy Texas bank, Roscoe yelled, “Now, damnit! Fire at will.”
The incessant Texas volley raked the space directly above the horns and hides of the swimming cattle, dropping Mexican bandits left and right. Some bullets hit several of their horses, which, like the riders, were elevated above the sprawling blanket of bawling steers.
Army Gatling guns rattled, Colts and Winchesters barked, both spitting their deadly projectiles with accuracy.
Feather caught Charley’s eye, then they both galloped toward a Mexican trio who had arrived late to the party. At a dead run Feather took out two of them with his Walker Colt while Charley, coming from the opposite direction, blasted the other one with his rifle.
The next volley loosed into the riverside mayhem convinced the remaining bandits to turn tail and head back for the cover of a rock pile on the Mexican side. Looking up briefly from their splashing, stumbling horses, there were scarcely seconds for their eyes to show surprise before they were gunned down without mercy by Charley’s and Feather’s Winchesters.
Charley and Feather met up behind a small rock configuration. They waited like two wolves on the Mexican bank for their prey to show any sign of retreat.
Charley ejected a spent shell, blowing the exposed chamber clear of smoke.
It was finally over.
Roscoe raised his hand. “Hold your fire, gentlemen,” he shouted. “Cease fire!” The men did.
One of the soldiers moved to Roscoe’s side and the two men waited until they were joined by Charley and Feather, who splashed their way back across the waterway on their horses to join their allies.
When the cattle finally cleared the river, the bodies of the dead bandits were allowed to float away with the other decaying detritus that was always found in the passive rush of the Rio Grande del Norte.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
1899
The door to the line shack swung open abruptly, flooding the interior with blinding light. Charley’s dream ended abruptly as he opened his eyes to see Feather rimmed by the early morning sun’s glare, appearing as a silhouette in the splintered portal.
“They’re gone!” he shouted. “The whole, gol-dern herd is missin’.”
With the morning’s blue sky and puffy clouds overhead, Charley scrambled out the door, brushing past the pint-size cowboy, who turned and tagged along at his side. Charley stopped abruptly—Feather almost bumped into him but caught himself in time. Charley was looking toward the mouth of the box canyon.
The ropes and piled brush had been trampled flat. The canyon was completely void of any living creature.
Roscoe and Holliday came out of the cabin, followed by the three Colorado cowboys and a yawning Henry Ellis with Buster on his heels. All of them tracked Charley’s dumbfounded gaze with their squinting eyes.
“Well, don’t that just take the cake?” said Roscoe, his agitated hands on both hips. “We’ve lost every dang one of ’em.”
Roscoe turned abruptly to Feather.
“Maybe we shoulda put out a nighthawk like we always do,” he glowered.
“That’s closin’ the doors on an empty barn, Roscoe,” interrupted Charley. “Naw,” he said, “it was all my fault.”
Charley stopped talking for a moment, continuing to ponder the dilemma, his eyes still scanning the surrounding country.
Roscoe moved to his side.
“So, what’re we gonna do now, C.A.?” he wanted to know.
Charley threw him a determined look.
“What do you think, Roscoe?” countered the gritty trail boss. “We’re gonna go out lookin’ for ’em, that’s what we’re gonna do.”
He turned to the others, calling out, “Let’s saddle up, boys. We got another big day ahead of us.”
Charley Sunday’s Texas Outfit spent the morning searching for the missing longhorns. They scoured gullies, valleys, and hilltops. They searched down secluded ravines and washes, in the heavy brush, in the low hills, and even between the many treacherous rock formations that dotted the area.
Charley walked his horse, probing the expansive horizon for any sign of the cattle. The sound of approaching hoofbeats turned his attention to Roscoe and Henry Ellis who were galloping toward him.
“Heeeeee-yoooooooo!!! C.A.!” echoed Roscoe’s yelling.
Roscoe and the boy reined up beside Charley. Both appeared to be pretty energized about something.
“What is it, Roscoe? Henry Ellis?” asked Charley. “Did you see the longhorns?”
“Uh, no we didn’t actually see ’em,” explained Roscoe. “But”—he indicated the boy—“the grandkid here saw somethin’. Tell ’im all about it, Henry Ellis.”
Charley’s look went to the boy who was pointing off to a nearby low hill.
“They’re mean looking,” said Henry Ellis. He made a menacing face. “Probably the scariest-looking bunch of people I’ve ever seen.”
Charley looked over to Roscoe, puzzled by his grandson’s wild description. Then his attention was pulled toward the rise where Henry Ellis had pointed.
The rumble of galloping hooves could be heard. Three members of the Indian troupe, astride their painted ponies, crested the hillock, slowing their animals to a walk as they rode down the incline toward the others.
As they got closer, Charley and Roscoe could see that the riders were not only leather clad, they also wore beaded headbands and silver jewelry.
The three Indians moved up to Charley, Roscoe, and the boy, stopping in front of their snorting horses.
Roscoe was prepared for the worst, while Charley tipped back the brim of his hat and smiled.
“Morning, gents,” he proclaimed.
The Indians acknowledged the greeting, nodding silently.
Their muscular leader edged his horse in a little closer, squinting at Charley.
“Did you cowboys lose something?” he asked them, the words rolling off his tongue with a slight accent.
“Why?” questioned Charley, “did you fellas find something?”
The three Indians chuckled among themselves.
“You’re that Texas Outfit, aren’t you?” said the leader. “The ones we’ve been reading all about?”
“Could be,” said Charley with a subdued twinkle. “Who are you?”
“They call me Potato John,” offered the leader. “I ride with an ‘outfit,’ too. We came across something this morning that just might belong to you fellas.”
Potato John and the other two Indians turned their heads toward the low rise behind them where the faint sounds of hoofed animals could be detected.
Within moments, the lead longhorn appeared on the ridge of the slope—it was followed by another, then another. Eventually, the entire skyline was alive with the subdued frenzy of lumbering longhorn cattle heads and horns bobbing—as the entire herd, guided by seven or eight Indians, moved along toward the small assemblage gathered at the bottom of the knoll.
More Indians on horseback girdled the herd, circling slowly, shepherding the drove toward Charley and the others.
Mouths agape, Charley, Roscoe, and Henry Ellis observed the overwhelming sight, their lips finally curling into grateful smiles.
Charley looked over to Potato John.
“Well, I’ll be danged,” he said. “What made a bunch of fellows like you go to all that trouble?”
There was a long pause—plus a look between the Indian leader and the older cowboy—showing respect in each of their eyes for the other.
Potato John winked at Charley, and said, “Just maybe … we wish we were you guys.”
He nodded, then turned to go. As he did, the other two Indians followed. The rest of the Indians turned the herd over to the cowboys and fell into line behind their leader.
The last one to join the column revealed the INDIAN DANCE TROUPE sign on his back for all to see.
Charley chuckled. He turned to Roscoe who had already begun to laugh. Then Henry Ellis joined in until everyone was laughing so hard it was difficult to remember why.
By noon, the herd was moving along peacefully once again, the cowboys hazing at their heels. A dirt cloud boiled up casually from behind the cattle, moving in alongside the dusty longhorns.
It was the chuckwagon with Rod and Kelly.
They bounced along beside the herd, waving to Feather and Roscoe. When they were able to catch up to the front of the drove, Rod slowed the team, edging in beside Henry Ellis, who was still riding point with his grandfather.
“Hey, thank God we found you,” said Rod, waving to both of them. Kelly waved, too.
Charley and the boy kept their looks straight ahead.
“Did you think we were lost,” said the stoic Charley.
Rod and Kelly began to explain—both at the same time—each with a different story.
When they realized they were overlapping each other, they began to chuckle.
“I suppose you had time to get better acquainted, wherever you were,” said Charley, teasing the pair.
Rod reacted with some embarrassment while Kelly scooted in closer to him, putting a defiant arm around his neck, cuddling the young Indian openly.
“You bet we did, Mr. Charles Abner Sunday,” she swore. “And that’s a fact!”
Charley and Henry Ellis exchanged quizzical looks, as if they didn’t know what Kelly was talking about. Finally Charley turned to the couple, smiling.
“How’d you like to work the herd for a spell, young lady?” he asked.
Kelly appeared to be at a momentary loss for words.
“I, uh, me?” she questioned. “A drover?”
Then her lips curled up into a wide grin.
“When do I start?” she wanted to know.
“Henry Ellis,” said Charley, “why don’t you help Roscoe with the cooking tonight, let Miss Kelly have your horse for a while.”
The boy smiled, nodding his agreement.
“Rod,” said Charley, “you go and get your horse back from Roscoe, and then both of you can relieve Mr. Holliday until we stop for the night.”
Rod and Kelly exchanged sweet nothings. Then Rod looked over to Charley.
“Relieve Holliday?” he questioned, cocking his head slightly. “But he’s riding drag.”
Charley chuckled.
“I always like to start newcomers off riding drag,” he said. “Teaches ’em humility … Besides,” he went on, “just think of all the privacy you two’ll have back there … hidden inside that swirling blanket of solitude.”
A half hour later, the longhorns were still on their boundless journey toward their new home, plodding along slowly as the cowboys of the Texas Outfit urged them on, clucking their tongues and slapping coiled ropes against weather-beaten chaps.
To the rear of the herd, billowing clouds of dust were constantly rising.
Kelly and Rod rode side by side on the heels of the longhorns. The dry earth boiled in humongous swirls that billowed all around them.
Suddenly, a calf darted out from the herd, heading who knows where into the sagebrush.
Kelly spurred after it, lariat in hand, building her loop as her horse galloped furiously in pursuit of the maverick.
She pulled her mount alongside the frightened maverick, throwing her rope. The loop encircled the calf’s head, then tightened.
As the animal reached the end of the riata, Kelly’s horse planted all four feet and the calf was tugged to a standstill.
Kelly relaxed her hold on the reins, allowing the horse to ease up on the tightness of the rope that secured the bawling calf.
Rod was already there, waiting beside the balking animal. He dismounted, removed the noose from its neck, then slapped it on the rump. As he remounted, the animal scampered off back toward the herd and its mother.
Kelly had begun to recoil her lariat as Rod moved in beside her.
“That was big-time, championship roping,” he told her, grinning. “Where did a newspaper reporter ever learn to ride and rope like that?”
Kelly smiled to herself, glowing with satisfaction as she retied the rope to her saddle.
“Hey,” she said, speaking in a feigned, heavy Texas accent, “I was born an’ raised just a little southeast a’ these here parts, pawd-ner. An’ when yer name also happens ta be King,” she added, “ya learn a whole lotta stuff like that … just by growin’ up a King.”
Rod perked.
“You’re a part of that south Texas cattle company? … Ha!” He chuckled … “Folks say the Ki
ng Ranch has expectations of becoming one of the biggest Texas cattle spreads ever.”
“There’re some things about my past I don’t want too many people to know about,” she told him directly. “My grandmother isn’t much for it, but I’m making it on my own, too.”
She narrowed her eyes, then smiled. “Just like you are … Mr. Rod Lightfoot.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
1960
“I didn’t know this was going to be a love story,” said Caleb as he scraped some unbuttered mashed potatoes out of his metal TV dinner dish. “Love stories make me want to throw up.”
“Henry Ellis thought the same as you do about that,” said Hank as he tried to cut his roast beef. “He didn’t want any part of it. But Rod was single … and Kelly was single. They were close to the same age, and they had the same interests. Well … sometimes when two people have the same likes and dislikes, they find a way of getting together.”
“Except,” said Caleb, chewing on his potatoes, “Charley was the one who got them together. Aren’t I right?”
“You’re right,” answered Hank. “Actually, the whole outfit was hoping they’d get together from the get-go.”
“So when the rest of the outfit saw that Charley was trying to set something up between them,” said Evie, “I’ll bet they were all happy.”
“As happy as chipmunks in a peanut tree,” said Hank. “Yeah,” he said, “happier than chipmunks in a peanut tree.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
1899
Roscoe watched the large bean pot—used earlier that evening for cooking supper—as it soaked on the chuckwagon’s tailgate with warm, soapy water inside.
Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit Page 19