“‘I don’t think you understand the seriousness of it all,’ he warned. ‘The danger that’s involved, Mr.—’
“‘Sunday,’ answered Charley. ‘Charles Abner Sunday.’
“‘Mr. Sunday,’ said the lieutenant colonel, continuing from where he left off. ‘This is a secured area. NOBODY is allowed to cross this range … not even me!’
“‘How’s that?’ Charley asked. ‘Wasn’t it you that put up this fence in the first place?’
“Beckley was caught completely off guard by Charley’s question.
“‘I … uh,’ was all the old soldier could manage.
“‘Well,’ Charley continued, scanning the armed opposition behind and beside the commanding officer. ‘You’re sure doing your best to make it difficult for me.’
“‘There is absolutely NO WAY I can authorize your crossing this land,’ snapped Beckley. ‘My artillery men are scheduled to begin firing just as soon as their new targets are in place.’
“The piercing shriek of an artillery shell covered Beckley’s words. The missile arced through the air behind the assembly.
“All eyes followed the airborne explosive as it started its descent—the old cowboys covered their ears to avoid the head-splitting blast.”
With apprehension, Flora Mae leaned forward, urging the barkeep to continue.
“The longhorns’ only reaction to the unnerving sound was to simply chew more desert fauna.
“The artillery shell hit its target and burst in the distance.
“Within moments the herd became very uneasy.
“‘Now, you’re disturbin’ my herd,’ Charley told the commanding officer.
“‘You have to get out of here, Sunday!’ roared Beckley. ‘How can I get that through to you?’
“He moved in even closer, his nose almost touching Charley’s nose.
“‘If you refuse,’ he said in a softer but even more threatening voice, ‘I’ll personally have every one of you trespassers arrested and thrown in jail! … I’ll even have your cattle confiscated.’
“Charley stood his ground.
“‘That’ll be the day,’ Charley stated firmly.
“Charley set his boots solidly in the sand. The two men just stared at one another in silence until one of Beckley’s aides approached, saluting.
“‘There’s a priority telegraph message coming over the wire for you, sir,’ he said stiffly.
“Beckley’s eyes did not waiver from Charley’s.
“‘Excuse me, Mr. Sunday,’ Beckley told Charley. ‘I’ll be right back.’
“Charley nodded.”
The bartender said that Kelly wrote through Henry Ellis’s observation now.
“Everything was put on hold: the cattle, the Army personnel, the old Texans, and even myself. We all just stood there and waited while the lieutenant colonel left to receive and review his telegram.”
The bartender went on reading out loud. “A light breeze blew. All that could be heard across the vastness was the lieutenant colonel’s footsteps as he marched over to a canvas-covered Signal Corp. Battery Wagon, where the telegrapher was waiting for him. With the help of another aide Beckley climbed inside.
“The cowboys waited and watched, but they could not hear a thing but the tapping of Morse code coming from the battery wagon.
“Finally Beckley climbed down from the wagon. He straightened himself, turned abruptly, and in a very smart military manner marched the gauntlet right back to Charley at the severed fence.
“Beckley studied the old trail boss once again, finally meeting him eye to eye. Removing the cigar butt from between his teeth, he drew in a deep breath and expelled it, glancing over to Henry Ellis—who was taking notes of everything going on for Kelly—then back to Charley.
“‘It appears,’ he began, ‘that you have an admirer on the East Coast, Mr. Sunday. That telegram was from the governor of the state of New York, Theodore Roosevelt. I served alongside Colonel Roosevelt last year in Cuba,’ he said. ‘Roosevelt says he’s been reading a lot about you and your outfit these days, and that if your longhorn drive ever gets close to this fort, I’m to show you every courtesy available. He also said he’s kind of partial to longhorns.’
“Beckley turned to his aide.
“‘Make contact with our artillery lines,’ he ordered. ‘Tell them there’ll be a small delay in our schedule for today.’
“Feather let out a shrill rebel yell, flinging his hat into the air. The other cowboys’ Stetsons, and quite a few campaign hats, followed.”
Kelly’s story, still being read out loud by Flora Mae’s bartender, went on: “I wasn’t quite sure what had just taken place, but when my cub reporter returned to the chuckwagon, his face held a grin as wide as the Missouri River in springtime.
“I climbed down from the wagon and joined my cowboy friends in celebration … and that’s when I saw the lieutenant colonel clipping the remaining barbwire with Charley’s wire cutters, to the ‘whoops’ and ‘hollers’ of everyone concerned.
“The cattle’s crossing of the Army’s artillery range took the rest of that afternoon.”
The following evening—a few more miles down the trail—after the supper dishes had been washed and put away, everyone was either lying or sitting around the campfire reading, singing, or telling stories.
Feather walked over to Charley carrying two cups of steaming coffee. He knelt down beside his boss and handed him a cup.
“Well, thank you very much, Feather Martin,” said Charley. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Charley looked over to where Rod was sitting and talking with Kelly.
“Hey,” he said to Feather, “if you and Rod are both here in camp … just who’s riding nighthawk?”
Feather chuckled.
“Holliday, that’s who,” he answered. “Me an’ Rod figgered that ol’ sonofagun could use a good stayin’-up-all-night. He won’t have no one out there ta talk to ’cept himself. He’ll get tired, too … then maybe he’ll doze off durin’ his day shift an’ we won’t have ta listen to him talk about himself at all.”
Charley chuckled as he took a sip of his coffee.
“Hello the camp,” came the sound of a man’s voice from just outside the perimeter.
“Wonder who’s come a callin’ this late in the evenin’?” Feather said to Charley as he slowly removed his Winchester from the scabbard attached to his saddle on the ground beside his bedroll.
“Who goes there?” he hollered back into the darkness.
“An old acquaintance of Charley Sunday’s,” said the voice.
This made Charley perk. He stood up and faced the shadows where the sound of the voice was coming from.
“Where do I know you from?” said Charley. “Do you have a name?”
“Come on over here in the firelight where we can see ya,” Roscoe called out. “I still got some grub left over if yer hungry.”
For a moment or two the voice said nothing. Eventually they could hear a horse moving through the foliage—branches breaking and saddle leather creaking.
In moments the rider urged his mount into the campfire’s glow.
Charley’s right hand dropped to his boot top immediately when he recognized the man.
It was the same outlaw who had escaped from the Juanita bank robbery—John Bob Cason. Only now, along with his Colt revolver pointed directly at Charley, he had Henry Ellis in front of him straddling the saddle. His other gloved hand that held the reins was also covering the boy’s mouth.
“If you hurt that boy …” warned Charley.
“If I hurt this boy,” said Cason, “what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll kill you, that’s what,” answered Charley.
“Right now you ain’t in no position to threaten anyone, Sunday. I got your grandkid.”
“I’m sure you have a reason,” said Charley. “Just what do you have in mind for him?”
“I’m headin’ down to the border with him rig
ht now,” said Cason. “And if you want him back … you’ll have to follow me. That invitation is for you only, Sunday. All you other yea-hoops are to stay here.”
“They won’t make trouble for you, Cason,” said Charley.
“I know they won’t,” answered the outlaw. “There’s seven more guns out there in the dark coverin’ every one of ’em. That’ll keep ’em from following.”
All eyes shifted to the darkness outside the ring of flickering light cast by the campfire. Nothing but shadows could be seen beyond that.
“Oh, my men’re out there all right,” said Cason. “And I’ve already given them their orders … Anyone moves after we leave this camp’ll get dropped before they take their second step. Fair enough?” he added.
Everyone nodded.
“All right then,” said John Bob Cason, “your grandkid and me are leavin’ for the border right now. Sunday, you can start after us just as soon as I’m clear of your camp.”
Charley focused his eyes on Henry Ellis’s eyes. He made contact—the boy was frightened but Charley could see Henry Ellis felt much better after his grandfather gave him some silent assurance.
Cason gave Charley one more chilling look—then he used his spurs with little jabs while he pulled back on the reins to make his horse back away into the shadows.
As soon as he knew he could no longer be seen, Cason turned his horse and rode away.
Immediately Kelly was in Charley’s arms.
“You won’t let him hurt Henry Ellis, will you?” she said.
Charley shook his head. “Of course not. No one’s going to harm my grandson,” he said. “You can count on that. No one’s going to even have a chance to try.”
“I’ll saddle Dice for ya,” said Feather.
“You can use my Walker Colt along with yer own, C.A.,” said Roscoe. “It’ll save ya from havin’ to take time out to reload.”
“Calm down, all of you,” said Charley. “I already know where he’s going.”
The others threw him quizzical looks.
“We’re nearly back in Kinney County already,” he told them. “That’s almost home for us.”
Charley took several steps toward the place on the edge of the camp where John Bob Cason had been moments before with Henry Ellis in the saddle in front of him.
He stared into the blackness that surrounded.
He thought to himself, There’s only one place Cason could be taking Henry Ellis out in that direction … and I know exactly where it is.
Feather leaned in close. “You go ahead an’ foller him, boss, but what about his gang … the men he left out there in the dark that’s got us all surrounded?”
Charley reached over and took Feather’s Winchester rifle out of his hands. He cocked the weapon, then walked a big circle, pointing the rifle into the darkness every so often.
“Anyone out there go ahead and shoot me before I start firing this rifle. I’m bound to hit at least one or two of you.”
There was no response from the shadows.
Every face in camp held a surprised expression.
“There isn’t any gang,” said Charley. “Never was.”
“Then we’re going with you, Mr. Sunday,” said Rod.
“That’s fine with me,” said Charley. “But you’re all going to have to follow my plan and do exactly as I tell you. First I want you three Colorado boys to stay here … watch the herd.
“And please don’t forget to relieve Holliday at midnight,” he added.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
John Bob Cason, with Henry Ellis in front of him in the saddle, rode as fast as he could over the open country in the moonlit night—south, toward the Rio Grande River.
Less than a mile behind came the thundering hooves of the Texas Outfit—made up of Roscoe, Feather, Kelly, and Rod. Charley Sunday was nowhere among them.
The adobe buildings stood empty and crumbling as Cason rode into the small, abandoned Texas border town. Henry Ellis was now riding behind the outlaw, holding on to the man’s coat to keep from slipping off.
The sound of the bank robber’s horse’s hooves on the dry, chalky street echoed lightly between the decaying structures.
When Cason came upon a two-story building with a CANTINA sign over the main door he dismounted; then he led his horse, with the boy still mounted, through the narrow portal with its swinging doors still intact.
Henry Ellis found he had to duck going through the door; otherwise he would have been knocked from his perch behind the saddle.
Once inside, Cason dropped the reins and reached for the boy, picking him up and setting him down on the dust-covered tile floor.
Cason found an old candle on a poker table and struck a match to it, lighting up the room pretty well as long as the full moon’s radiance was able to leak in through other openings.
The outlaw pointed to a chair nearby.
“You can sit over there, kid,” the boy was told. “Here, you want some water?” Cason took his canteen from the horse’s saddle and held it out for the boy.
Henry Ellis took several long gulps.
“You’re going to kill my grampa, aren’t you?” said Henry Ellis.
“I’m gonna’ draw against your grandfather right out there in that street,” said Cason, “just like he and my partner did twenty-eight years ago … and you can watch it all if you want to, kid.”
“Twenty-eight years,” said the boy. “That’s a long time ago, mister. “W-why are you doing this now?”
“I needed to have your grandfather back in this particular town. Simple as that,” said Cason. “I read that the cattle drive was going to be in the area so I waited and made my move.”
“What are you going to do with me?” the boy asked his captor.
“I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you, kid … it’s how bad your grandfather wants you back is all that’s gonna matter when he shows up.”
The outfit was at least a half mile out from the deserted border town when Rod held up his hand for all to stop.
Reins tightened, bits were pulled back, and the running horses began to slow.
When they had all come to a complete halt, Rod stepped down from his saddle and found a place to sit on one of the many rocky formations that were a part of the terrain.
“Mister Sunday told us we should stop here … so we’re stopping here,” said Rod.
Kelly nudged her mount over beside him and dismounted, sitting on a flat rock beside him.
Roscoe climbed down, followed by Feather. Within moments they were all sitting in an uneven circle facing one another.
“What’re we supposed to do now?” said Feather.
“You heard C.A., ya little runt,” said Roscoe. “We wait here like he told us.”
Charley had tied off Dice in the shadows across from the cantina minutes before Cason had arrived with Henry Ellis. He pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and waited.
Charley had known all along that he would have to beat Cason to the abandoned village if he wanted to retain the element of surprise.
From his position, Charley had watched as Cason and Henry Ellis rode into the town, then down the main street to the cantina where they entered the structure without the boy dismounting.
Now Charley used the shadows to conceal his move across the street to the cantina. He found an outside stairway at the side of the structure, minus a handrail and several steps. He climbed to the top carefully before slithering on inside the adobe structure through an open door.
Once he was in the upstairs hallway, Charley made his way past half a dozen open doors, plus some rooms with no doors at all, until he came to the narrow balcony that overlooked the drinking and gambling area below.
The ex-Ranger got down on his belly to traverse the last few feet to the edge of the upper gallery and finally stopped when he had a good view of his grandson, sitting alone in an old wooden chair, twelve feet below.
“That’s right where you’re supposed to be, Sunday,” said the voice o
f John Bob Cason. The outlaw was right behind him.
“Uncock that Winchester and hand it to me, slowly, if you’d be so kind,” ordered the desperado.
Charley followed the man’s directions. He thumbed the hammer down carefully and held the rifle above his head where Cason could easily take charge of the weapon.
“All right,” continued Cason, “get to your feet, then head over to the stairs. I want you to be able to see that I haven’t harmed a hair on your grandkid’s head.”
A half mile out, where the members of the outfit still waited, Rod suddenly got to his feet.
“It’s time,” he said to the others. “They’re all in the cantina by now.”
As the rest of the small group got to their feet, Feather said, “How do you know it’s time?”
Roscoe turned in disgust. “Because,” he answered, “C.A. said once we got here to wait for fifteen minutes, and then we were to start movin’ on.”
Inside the cantina, Charley’s hands had been tied securely behind him and he was now seated in a chair opposite Henry Ellis.
Cason stood facing them both using Charley’s Winchester to hold them both at bay.
“What I really want to do, Sunday, is for the two of us to draw down on each other just like you drew down on my partner, Clay Poland, back in ’72,” said Cason. “I know I can beat you if your friends aren’t around. And I hope you brought that cannon you always carry.”
“Right down there in my boot top like always,” said Charley.
Cason’s eyes twinkled. “Damn,” he said, “I almost forgot you carried it in your boot. How careless of me. But now that you got your hands tied, I don’t think I need to worry about that anymore.”
Suddenly Cason became very serious.
“Where do you want to die, Charley Sunday?” he asked.
Charley cocked his head. “I don’t think I ever gave that much thought,” he answered.
“I mean, do you want to have a go with me right here inside this cantina? Or do you want to meet your Maker out there in the street, like my partner did?”
Charley seemed to hem and haw. “If I had my druthers,” he said, “I’d rather die in my own bed at home … from old age,” he added.
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