Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The sign said it was the PECOS RIVER VIADUCT. Feather referred to it simply as the High Bridge. It was three hundred and twenty-one feet high, with a span of two thousand one hundred and eighty feet. There was a narrow, wooden walkway beside the railroad tracks on top, but no guardrails. It was a long fall if someone made a fatal misstep.

  The engine and fifteen cars of a passenger train stood at a dead stop in the center of the towering overpass; black smoke puffed from its stack, and steam hissed from the boiler releases.

  Quite a few passengers had their heads protruding from open windows, squinting quizzically toward the front of the train where something was definitely blocking the engine’s progress.

  The other half of the trestle, from the engine’s cowcatcher to the west end, was filled with Charley Sunday’s three hundred longhorn cattle.

  Outlines of cowboys on horseback rode the narrow, wooden walkway between the cattle and the edge, attempting to keep the herd from panicking. Several steers had already started to bawl. Now others were beginning to show their displeasure. Longhorn horns rattled, cowboys sang softly to the herd. So far, not one animal—or human—had spooked.

  A local county sheriff and several railroad workers—including the conductor and engineer—stood between the train’s engine and the cattle, facing off with Charley, Rod, Holliday, and Roscoe.

  All of these men—the railroad men and the cowboys standing by their horses—were discussing their predicament while Henry Ellis, Kelly, and Buster watched from the chuckwagon, positioned near the western side of the Pecos River’s gorge. Henry Ellis gawked while Kelly wrote descriptions in her notepad.

  “That’s sure a long bridge,” said Henry Ellis.

  Kelly nodded. “And high, too.”

  “Why do you suppose my grampa let the others herd the longhorns out onto the bridge, anyway?” asked the boy.

  “I don’t think he gave much thought to the possibility of a train coming from the other direction,” answered Kelly.

  A single rider, an older man with a white beard, dressed in shirtsleeves, faded green suspenders, and a battered top hat, rode up from behind them on a saddled mule. Without saying a word, the man urged his animal past the chuckwagon and out onto the bridge. Then he began making his way through the tangle of cattle and cowboys, heading toward the center of the span.

  He would tip his hat and smile as he squeezed by the Colorado cowboys and Feather, but he never said a word. It was only by his presence that he seemed to command respect from every man he encountered.

  The angry county sheriff was saying something to Charley and Rod as the bearded man wearing the top hat rode up and reined to a stop.

  “You’re going with me,” the sheriff was telling Charley and his men. “Those are my orders.”

  “But what about my cattle?” fumed Charley, “I just can’t leave ’em here. Now can I?”

  “They’ll most likely have to be impounded, I reckon,” answered the just-as-angry law officer. “Once they get across,” he added.

  “And how are they supposed to do that?” said Charley. “Are you blind? There’s a damn train in the way.”

  “Just a minute,” Rod cut in. He turned to the sheriff. “I’m familiar with the law, sir. In order for you to impound these cattle, you’re going to need a court order.”

  “Come on now,” countered the lawman. “I don’t need one a’ them things. This gentleman has willfully obstructed the flow of railroad traffic on a railroad bridge. This is railroad property. How can you argue with that? If I can’t make it any clearer to you all, then you’re all under arrest!”

  Charley clenched his fists. “That’ll be after the fight,” he informed the officer. Charley squared off.

  “Look, cowboy,” said the sheriff, sighing, “I’m only doing my job.”

  Unbeknownst to the deputy, the rider in the top hat had dismounted and now stood directly behind him. He tapped the sheriff on the shoulder.

  The officer turned.

  “Oh,” he said when he saw who it was. “Howdy, I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  He turned back to Charley and Rod.

  “Now listen, Mr. Sunday,” he continued, “I’ll need for you to come with me peacefully.”

  As the deputy reached for Sunday’s arm, the bearded man stepped in between the two. He tipped back his top hat, extending his hand to Charley.

  “Howdy, C.A.,” he said warmly.

  Charley’s mouth grew into a wide smile. He shook the man’s hand vigorously.

  “Why, I’ll be danged.” He grinned. “Good to see you, Roy. You remember Roscoe Baskin? And Feather Martin is right over there.”

  He pointed.

  The sheriff pulled on Charley’s shoulder, turning him around.

  “Hey,” he asked Charley, “what do you think you’re doing?”

  The man with the top hat cut in.

  “I was just about to ask you the same question yourself, youngster,” he told the peace officer with sincere conviction.

  “You can see what I’m doing,” the sheriff told the old man. “This cowboy is blocking private railroad property with these longhorns.”

  He looked the bearded man up and down, inspecting his rumpled clothing and slipshod appearance.

  “And what business do you have here anyway?” he continued. “This is my jurisdiction.”

  “Would you say we’re standin’ in the center of this railroad bridge?” the man asked the sheriff.

  The lawman looked one way, then the other. “Why yes,” he said. “It looks like we’re dead center to me, only where we’re standing is a little west of dead center.”

  The older man moved in as close as he could get to the deputy’s face. “West of the Pecos is my jurisdiction, sonny boy,” he shouted. “I’m Judge Roy Bean from Langtry, ’bout twenty miles that-a-way. And I don’t see no cattle here … just a few old retired Texas Rangers tryin’ ta get home, that’s all.”

  “Now you look here,” said the sheriff.

  “Wrong!” argued the old judge. “YOU look here, boy. I’m taking over. We may be law officers in the same state, but we ain’t in the same division. I’m pulling rank. Now get on over there with those railroad men and start backin’ up that train. Pronto!” he commanded. “Move!”

  The sheriff would have liked to continue with his objection, but thought different about it when he saw Charley shaking his head—plus, he knew the judge was right.

  He shook his own head, then turned to the railroaders, saying, “C’mon, you men … let’s get this train backed up and off this bridge. I got a cowboy here needs to get his cattle across.”

  When he and Judge Roy were alone, Charley chuckled to himself.

  “You’ll get a lot a’ heat over this one, Roy,” he cautioned.

  “People like me,” said Bean, “have always taken a lot a’ heat, Charley … you know that. You just keep them horns movin’, all right? An’ I’ll do my best to make sure the law in these parts steers clear of you an’ your outfit whenever you feel like visitin’.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Another long day’s drive had come to a peaceful end by the banks of the Devil’s River. Some of the livestock were drinking while others grazed under some large cottonwood trees nearby.

  Feather and Holliday rode up to where Sunday waited, sitting his horse, chewing tobacco—spitting an occasional stream.

  Roscoe and Henry Ellis drove up in the chuckwagon, while Rod and Kelly, covered head to toe in powdery trail dust, spurred their mounts through the longhorns, joining the others.

  Sunday was pointing.

  “We’ll make camp over there tonight,” he told them all. “We’ll cross the river tomorrow morning.”

  By late afternoon the river camp had been set up and several armadillos were roasting slowly over the campfire.

  The herd grazed peacefully nearby.

  On a large rock above the river, Rod—in his long underwear bottoms—dove
headfirst into the clear blue water below.

  Kelly, Henry Ellis, and Buster the dog sat watching from the far bank, the boy in his citified underwear, while Kelly sported a thigh-length old work shirt that had belonged to Charley.

  Henry Ellis and Buster were both wet from a previous dip. Kelly, still dry, had yet to work up the needed courage for a plunge into the lazy watercourse.

  Rod’s head broke the surface.

  “Hey,” he sputtered, “it’s great! C’mon, Kelly!” he prodded. “C’mon in!”

  He tried coaxing her again.

  “It really isn’t that cold,” he added.

  Kelly laughed, shaking her head humbly.

  Henry Ellis suddenly sensed he was just a third party. He stood up, excusing himself.

  “I think,” he said, “I’ll go on and see what the other guys are up to.”

  Kelly smiled at the youngster’s wisdom, patting him on the leg as he departed. He stopped to gather his clothes, then ran off down the embankment with Buster in hot pursuit.

  “C’mon, are you afraid?” yelled Rod, daring the woman to join him.

  Kelly turned her attention back to Rod.

  “Noooooooooooooo,” she shrieked. “It’s much too cold!”

  In another area of the river, a few dozen yards away, Roscoe, Holliday, two of the Colorado cowboys, and Charley sat waist deep in a shallow pool, skinny-dipping, while they relaxed and enjoyed the coming evening.

  They watched curiously as Feather, the only one wearing a garment—his faded red, patched, and tattered flannels, a one-piece unit, complete with trap door in the rear—splashed himself intermittently as he whistled an old Western tune.

  Roscoe chuckled to himself, turning to Holliday.

  “Little nippy,” he said, “don’t ya think?”

  “Nippy, hell,” answered Holliday, “it’s downright freezin’!”

  Charley leaned back against a moss-covered rock, letting the water drift up to the sunburn line on his neck. He smiled softly, smoking his pipe.

  “You both love it and you both know it,” he chided the pair.

  Feather chimed in from across the pool.

  “Any time I can get close ta water without soap,” he hollered, “I DO love it!”

  Feather slapped some more water up under his armpits.

  “Why don’t you take off them long-handles before ya do that?” questioned Roscoe.

  Feather replied, “What I wear when I’m bathin’ is my own dern business, mule face. My good mama taught me some modesty.”

  He put his nose in the air as if to snub Roscoe.

  “Besides,” Feather went on, sniveling, pointing to Holliday, “slick over there said it was nippy, an’ a man my age is entitled. Why, I could catch my death a’ cold without sumpthin’ on my back ta keep me warm.”

  “Sheeee,” said Roscoe. “I got me a chisel in the chuckwagon. I’ll go get it, an’ we can chip off some a’ that bull-ony.”

  “Hush!” said Holliday in a sharp whisper.

  All heads turned at the seriousness of the gunfighter’s tone. He was standing belly high in the river’s flow—his look professionally following a dark shadow just beneath the surface.

  Everyone present got quiet immediately; they continued watching silently.

  Holliday’s one good eye didn’t flicker a bit as the dark outline underwater moved closer to him.

  Slowly he began to raise his right hand as if he were preparing to draw his gun.

  Then, the hand darted swiftly beneath the waterline—quicker than the eye could see—and came up grasping a floundering rainbow trout.

  Roscoe’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

  “Did you fellas see what he did?” he asked, totally astonished by the feat.

  “I can almost taste what he did,” said Feather, also bug eyed.

  Charley chuckled and puffed his pipe.

  Holliday held up the fish so he could see it better, checking it out with his one good eye.

  He really hadn’t thought he could do it. He continued to study his catch curiously.

  “I’m fast,” he said with a sinister leer. “I’m really fast.”

  At the other pool, Kelly was now on her feet, poised to dive. Rod urged her on.

  “I’m afraid,” she told him one more time.

  “Ahh,” said Rod, “it’s all in your mind. C’mon.”

  With Charley’s shirt buttoned tight, Kelly took her dive, arcing into the Rio Diablo’s clear blue current.

  Rod watched as her underwater bubble trail approached his position, then she grabbed him while she was still under the surface, causing him to double over with ticklish laughter.

  “Hey! Stop that!” he yelped, followed by an embarrassed laugh. “What’re you doing?”

  A giggling Kelly broke the surface, flinging something to the far bank.

  Rod backed away from her, covering himself beneath the waterline.

  “Those were my long-john bottoms, Kelly,” he howled, turning crimson. “Kelly!”

  “So?” she answered, cocking her head.

  She was smiling in a coquettish way as she waded over closer, her arms moving around his bare shoulders, her firm breasts pressing against his chest through Charley’s clinging, wet work shirt.

  It really wasn’t that difficult for Rod to discontinue his resistance. He instinctively found the buttons on Charley’s old shirt with his fingers—then he found Kelly’s lips with his own.

  Charley Sunday walked down a small path beside the river, drying his silver hair with an old dish towel.

  For some reason or another he happened to glance up, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

  It was his grandson, Henry Ellis—now fully dressed—sitting on a log with Buster snoozing at his feet. The boy appeared to be more than a little downcast.

  With compassion spreading across his wizened face, Charley moved in quietly behind the boy.

  “Somethin’ wrong, son?” he asked softly.

  Caught off guard, Henry Ellis whirled around at the sound of his grandfather’s voice. A single tear glistened for a brief moment before he brushed it away.

  Sunday moved in alongside the youngster, sitting down on the log beside him.

  Buster opened his eyes, calmly raising his head at his master’s arrival, having caught a whiff of Charley’s scent. The dog stood, slowly turning his rear end toward his master.

  “Want your butt scratched, do you, Buster?” Charley asked the dog.

  Buster edged his rump in closer to Charley, and the sagacious old cowboy began gently scratching the easygoing dog’s backside.

  “This ol’ dog’s been doing this for as long as I can remember, Henry Ellis,” Charley told the boy. “He just loves getting his butt rubbed.”

  All three watched the longhorns grazing on the opposite riverbank for a long time.

  “It’s going to be all over pretty soon,” said the boy just as softly as Charley had spoken to him, “isn’t it, Grampa?”

  Charley nodded, continuing his tender butt rubbing.

  “In a week or so, I reckon,” he answered as a matter of fact.

  “Then I’ll have to go back to being a normal boy again, won’t I?” said Henry Ellis. “That means school and all that stuff.”

  Charley found his pipe and pouch in a pocket. He began filling the pipe’s bowl.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Charley after a moment of silence. “It’s all in how you look at it, I suspect. Now me and Roscoe—”

  He coughed, clearing his throat.

  “Now, me and Roscoe and Feather, we have to go back to being growed up,” he countered with a cocked eyebrow.

  Henry Ellis appeared to be puzzled.

  Charley went on. “It’s funny, ain’t it?” he said, chuckling softly to himself. “When a man’s young, he wants to be older. Then, as soon as he gets to be older, he wants to be a youngster again.”

  “That’s not funny, Grampa,” scowled the boy.

  “No,” answered C
harley, shaking his head. “I reckon when you think on it some, it sounds downright dumb.”

  “Not dumb, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis, “just, sort of … mixed up.”

  Charley had to chuckle again. “Life sure does get a little bit confusing at times,” he said with a laugh, tousling the boy’s hair. “Don’t it, son?”

  “It sure does, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis, grinning, “it sure does.”

  “Well,” declared Charley, settling back and lighting his pipe, “why don’t you and me … and ol’ Buster here … just sit back and watch the sun set … enjoy every minute of it while we still can.”

  JOHN “PLUNKER” HOLLIDAY

  by Kelly King

  It is ironic that John Holliday—nickname Plunker—is always being teased about being named after the infamous dentist of Tombstone, Arizona, gunfight fame—because this John Holliday was born way before the Tombstone Doc. “I’m probably old enough to have been the dentist Doc’s old man,” says Plunker Holliday. “That’s why I go by my middle name … so no one will get us mixed up. Oh, I know Doctor John Henry Holliday died a few years back so there’s no way now to get us mixed up anymore—but I have run across a lot of folks who haven’t heard that John Henry died, so they repeatedly think I’m him. Dressin’ like I do also helps ’em to mix the two of us up. Whereas the dead Doc was born in Georgia, I was born in Jackson, Missouri, in Cape Girardeau County. My parents were not married when I was born but they tied the knot before my first birthday. They was both travelin’ show people, my parents—Daddy was a pretty good juggler, and my mother was the target for the knife thrower. They both had an agent in Saint Louis who would book them into theaters, saloons, church picnics, and whatever else needed their talents all over the country. They were not carnival performers, mind you—they were both top professionals in their fields. When I was doing my shootin’ act at the Chicago World’s Fair back in ’93, some of the old-time performers I met still remembered my folks. Anyhow, when I turned five, my parents thought I should join them on stage with an act of my own. My father had a little .22-caliber pistol he used to carry for our protection. He used that revolver to teach me to shoot at moving targets. I became an expert shooter after my pop showed me how a cartridge filled with bird shot was the only sure way to never miss. I did that act fer fifteen years, up until people started to question the fact that I didn’t look like a child anymore. The first time I met up with Buffalo Bill Cody was when I approached him with the idea of recreating the Tombstone, Arizona, shootout between the Clanton/McLowery families and the Earp family, with assistance from Wyatt Earp’s friend, Doc Holliday, of course. Today, some are starting to call it the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, even though it never took place in, only near, the O.K. Corral. I spent around five years with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, until Bill Cody got tired of the same old thing on the bill every show and fired me for drinkin’ on the job. I wandered for a spell after that. As far as I was concerned I owned that O.K. Corral shootout recreation show, so I got some friends of mine together and along with several other acts, I took the show on the road. I wish it would’ve lasted longer but Wyatt Earp himself happened to be in the audience at one of our performances and he came backstage to warn me that he held the copyright to the O.K. Corral gunfight, then he handed me a cease and desist court order, unless I wanted to deal with him on a professional level. Funny he’d never heard about my O.K. Corral act when I was workin’ for Bill Cody—it was only after I had left Cody’s employ that Earp showed up.”