Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

  “No more wise remarks, Sunday,” said Cason, “or I’ll drop you where you are.”

  “Could you at least wait until my grandson isn’t sitting so close to me? I’d hate to see him catch one of your off-the-mark shots by mistake.”

  “When I draw against a man,” said Cason, “I don’t have off-the-mark shots. I hit what I’m aiming for. So what will it be, Sunday?” he snapped, “inside or out?”

  “In the street, of course,” said Charley. He shook his head. “Are you really going to let me draw against you?”

  “Right out of that boot top if you want,” said Cason.

  He cocked the Winchester and then motioned to the door with the barrel.

  “Outside,” he said. “Right now.”

  As Charley began to get to his feet, he said, “Aren’t you going to untie me? Or do you want me to draw against you like this?” He turned and wiggled his fingers at the outlaw, showing him that his hands were still tied securely behind him.

  “Kid,” yelled Cason to Henry Ellis, “untie his hands.”

  Moving slowly, Henry Ellis stood and walked over to his grandfather. He stepped in behind Charley and started working at the knots.

  When the loosened bonds fell to the floor, Cason used the Winchester’s barrel to point toward the door again.

  “Maybe you should go out first?” said the outlaw.

  “Naw, you go first,” said Charley. “That’s the way your partner did it.”

  “If I go out ahead of you, Sunday,” said Cason, “I’ll have to back out the door. I surely don’t need you goin’ for that boot gun while I’m not lookin’.”

  “Trust me, John Bob,” said Charley, “you want to do this like it was done when I killed your partner, you’re gonna have to trust me.”

  With that, Cason turned to face Charley and the boy. He took Charley’s Winchester and flung the rifle over the upstairs banister, where it fell useless onto the second-story floor. Then he began backing out the door to the street outside.

  As his boot made a first step onto the wooden porch, the sounds of rifles and pistols cocking stopped John Bob Cason in his tracks.

  “Hey, Sunday,” he called back inside, “it looks like your friends didn’t believe me about my gang having them all covered.”

  “No, sir,” said Charley from inside the cantina. “They’re a pretty smart bunch, my outfit. But they’re not here to keep us from tangling with one another, either. They’re here to keep our little gunfight fair.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?” said Cason.

  “Don’t matter what you believe,” said Charley. “Now go find yourself a place in the street. I’ll come out when you’re ready for me.”

  Cason’s eyes flicked from building to building. He could see a rifle barrel protruding through a window curtain, the shadow of an armed man in an alleyway. He knew he was surrounded.

  He stepped off the cantina’s porch and moved cautiously to the center of the street.

  “I’m set,” he yelled to Charley.

  Inside the cantina, Henry Ellis watched as his grampa reached down to raise his cuff; then Charley removed the Whitneyville Walker Colt from his boot. He stood up straight before tucking the big gun into his belt where he could cross-draw with ease.

  “I’m ready, John Bob,” he yelled. “I’m coming out.”

  Charley leaned over and kissed Henry Ellis on the forehead.

  “You stay here,” he said quietly, “this shouldn’t take that long.”

  Charley reached out and tousled the boy’s hair; he smiled and winked. Then he turned and walked toward the door.

  Out on the street, John Bob Cason waited anxiously, his hand cupped over his gun, his thumb ready to cock the hammer as he drew.

  When Charley stepped out onto the porch, Cason was slightly surprised to see that the ex-Ranger had moved the position of his Walker Colt.

  “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Sunday … that your men don’t cut me down before I have the chance to kill you,” said the gunman.

  “This is between Cason and me,” Charley called out to his friends. “Lower your guns. If he wins, don’t shoot him. He’ll have won fair and square. Let him go peacefully.”

  There was some muttering from the hiding places across the street.

  “I’m serious now,” said Charley. “If he wins, leave him be.”

  “You mean after he kidnapped your grandson and scared us all half to death we’re supposed to let him go?” It was Roscoe’s voice.

  “That’s right,” said Charley. “You can call it an order if you want. But I mean it.”

  “All right, C.A.,” said Roscoe. “We believe ya.”

  Roscoe stepped out of his hiding place just long enough to set his rifle against the side of the building. Then he ducked back into the alleyway.

  Feather, Rod, and Kelly did the same.

  When they had all been accounted for, Charley stepped out into the street.

  He set himself facing Cason.

  “Whenever you’re ready, John Bob,” he said.

  There was a quick moment—then both men drew their revolvers.

  BLAM! KA-BOOM!

  Both weapons exploded at the same instant and the street was immediately filled with black powder smoke.

  In the moments after, the smoke dispersed just enough so people could see it was John Bob Cason who lay on his side, blood gushing from a belly wound.

  Charley stood silently in front of the cantina, his smoking Walker Colt still in his hand. It took him a moment or so to realize he had out-drawn the bank robber.

  Rod and Kelly moved out onto the street followed by Roscoe and Feather. They all moved to Charley, hugging him and patting him on the back.

  The only problem was that Cason wasn’t quite dead. The outlaw–bank robber’s eyes opened a crack. He could see the commotion everyone was making over Charley. He spotted his gun in the dirt beside his leg and reached for the weapon. He slowly sat up and sighted in on Charley’s back.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Cason took three Winchester slugs to the upper chest, which slid him back a notch or two, until his body came to rest at the edge of the boardwalk on the opposite side of the moonlit street.

  Charley looked around and so did the others. They saw the dead man lying where he had fallen.

  Their attention was drawn to the cantina porch where Henry Ellis stood. The boy held a smoking Winchester—Cason’s Winchester.

  “Where did you get that rifle?” asked Charley.

  “It was in a scabbard tied to his saddle,” said Henry Ellis, “inside where he left his horse.

  “When you went outside to draw against him, I decided I’d better take the rifle and follow you … Just in case he really was faster than you were, Grampa.”

  A day later, Charley Sunday’s Texas Outfit picked up Gerald and the movable darkroom just outside Del Rio.

  The day after that, the longhorns were moving slowly along both sides of a recognizable farm to market road when Henry Ellis saw two men on horseback approaching from the opposite direction.

  Charley, riding point between his grandson and Buster, raised his hand to stop the cattle drive.

  As the approaching riders slowed and stopped in the middle of the road, Charley and Henry Ellis nudged their mounts over to greet them. Buster sat down in the center of the road, scratching vigorously at a flea.

  One of the riders was the Juanita sheriff, Willingham Dubbs, who urged his horse even closer to face Charley and the boy.

  When Charley recognized the familiar face, he tipped his hat.

  “Well, I’ll be danged,” he said. “Howdy, Willingham.”

  The sheriff’s eyes were wide at the sight of all the longhorns.

  “Now, don’t you be worryin’ yourself silly about them cattle,” Charley said with some sarcasm. “We ain’t planning on driving ’em through Juanita, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was hoping to cut ’em across my place over yonder, then take ’em str
aight on to Flora Mae’s spread.”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “Nope … I’m afraid you can’t do that, Charley,” he told the tired old trail boss.

  Charley reacted with puzzlement, mixed in with a little genuine resentment.

  “Dangit, Willingham,” he barked. “There you go again. We pushed this herd all the way from Denver, Colorado, and that’s a fur piece. Now we just want to get home, that’s all.”

  He spat a spurt of tobacco juice.

  “We’ve been across railroad bridges,” he continued with a scowl, “through cities a heck of a lot bigger than Juanita. Fought our way to cross cotton fields, Army artillery ranges … you name it. And now you’re sayin’ I can’t cut across my own damn property?”

  The sheriff chuckled, scratching his neck.

  “That’s EXACTLY what I’m sayin’, Charley Sunday,” replied the sheriff. “You’re gonna have to come through town, whether you like it or not.”

  He broke into a large grin.

  “You’re a famous man now, Charley,” he went on. “You and your outfit have put our little ol’ Juanita on the international map. The governor of Texas and half the world are waitin’ to see you and these longhorns … in person!”

  Charley turned to his grandson to get the boy’s reaction. Finally, both of them broke into peals of laughter before Charley turned his attention back to the sheriff with a straight face.

  “We got a parade planned for you and your outfit come mornin’, Charley,” the sheriff was saying. “You’re all grand marshals … Guests of honor. You … and your entire outfit.”

  He lowered his eyes, glancing over to Charley on his horse.

  “Do you think you can hold the longhorns here ’til tomorrow mornin’?” he asked.

  Charley’s firmly set jaw turned into a wide grin.

  “You know I always like to obey the law, Willingham,” he told the sheriff.

  Charley turned in his saddle, took off his hat, and twirled it in the air over his head for the others to see.

  “Circle ’em right here, boys,” he yelled out, “and circle ’em tight! We’re makin’ our last roadside camp right here.”

  He looked over to his grandson, winked, then said, “And that’s a fact!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  1960

  “And they all lived happily ever after,” said Noel’s voice in the pitch-black.

  “Not so fast there, young lady,” said Hank. “My story’s not over just yet.”

  The lights blinked a few times, then came back on, relighting the room.

  Hank could see his audience was starting to break up. Evie and Josh were almost through the kitchen door when he called out to them.

  “Everyone back where they were,” said Hank, “if you want to hear the end of the story.”

  Caleb, Josh, and Evie moved back to where they had been sitting. Noel hadn’t moved. When everybody appeared to be comfortable, Noel nodded for her great-grandfather to continue.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  1899

  The longhorns had been bedded down for their last night on the trail. Harmonica music drifted from the spot near the campfire where the Colorado cowboys were resting.

  Rod and Kelly stood by the news wagon saying their warm good-byes to Gerald, who was on his way into Juanita to set up for the following day’s festivities.

  Charley and Flora Mae were sitting on some logs across from the three Colorado cowboys. The Colorado boys would be accompanying the herd into town in the morning. From there, they would move the cattle on to Flora Mae’s ranch, where they were to assist in making the longhorns comfortable in their new home.

  As the news photography wagon pulled away, it passed Flora Mae’s white carriage and matched team tied off near the chuckwagon, where Roscoe was washing the dinner dishes on the tailgate for the last time. Feather was nowhere to be seen, having drawn the final, first-shift, nighthawk duty.

  Henry Ellis had already begun to get ready for bed in the chuckwagon. Buster was with him.

  At the logs near the fire, Charley was poking the coals with a stick.

  Flora Mae put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Well, yer finally gettin’ ’em home, big fella,” she declared with a contented smile. “Yer dream’s about to come true, Charles Abner Sunday.”

  “ WE are getting ’em home,” he told her. “I couldn’t have done any of this without your personal support and financial assistance, Flora Mae. So I reckon I owe you something in return … for makin’ it all possible.”

  “Weeee-llll,” began Flora Mae, retaining her smile. “You did promise you’d take me dancin’ … remember?”

  Charley cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “Y-you mean, right here? R-right now?” he stammered. “Right here on the dirt?”

  “Yer gonna have to make good on it sooner or later, hon,” said the redhead. “Why not here?”

  Charley couldn’t help hemming and hawing.

  Except, for Charley Sunday a commitment was a commitment—so he got to his feet. He slowly took the lady by the hand and led her toward the center of the camp.

  They stopped before they got there.

  The two of them looked into one another’s eyes for a long moment of past recollections, interrupted only when Holliday walked up to them holding both of his guns.

  “’Scuse me, jefé,” he cut in, getting Charley’s attention. “But would ya mind if I loaded up now? With the exception of Rod usin’ one of ’em the other day, Ol’ Booger an’ Ben here have bin feelin’ kinda lost without any brass beans in their bellies fer the past month or so.”

  Charley’s eyes remained riveted on Flora Mae. He had seen something he had never noticed before: Flora Mae was a very attractive, warm, and loving woman.

  “I reckon there’d be no harm in it now, Holliday,” he told the man without looking at him. “Go ahead.”

  The old gunfighter moved on, smiling, spinning both guns. He holstered one; then he checked the chambers of the other. He found some cartridges in the loops of his gun belt and began loading up.

  Charley nodded toward the Colorado cowboys. Sleepy’s harmonica music was playing in a waltz tempo.

  He smiled softly at Flora Mae.

  She returned the gesture.

  “Remember that one?” He winked.

  “Of course I do,” she reminisced. “It was OUR song.”

  Charley pulled on his nose. He cocked his head.

  “That’s funny,” he pondered. “I don’t recollect us ever being that tight.”

  Charley held out his arms in a dancing manner, coaxing Flora Mae to step into his embrace.

  When she did, they slowly twirled out into the center of the encampment with the harmonica music continuing to play “their” song.

  The handsome couple danced contentedly—almost delicately—while the others looked on, both of them completely oblivious to anything else but themselves.

  Suddenly, Feather’s voice, coming from outside the confines of the evening’s stopover, interrupted all.

  “Hello the camp!” he hollered.

  The dancing broke off.

  Heads turned.

  Something was wrong.

  The music had stopped.

  Feather rode into the small clearing—his rope strung out taut behind him.

  When the other end of the line eventually revealed itself—Sidney Pike could be seen securely looped in its coil.

  Everyone, including the Colorado cowboys, gasped.

  Feather gave the rope a sharp tug, and Pike stumbled to the campfire, huffing.

  Everyone gathered around.

  “Lookie here what I found skulkin’ ’midst the cattle,” Feather said with a wink. “Must be a new breed a’ coyote by the looks a’ them beady, little eyes a’ his.”

  Roscoe moved to one side of Pike while Holliday took the other.

  Feather loosened the rope and Pike slipped it off his shoulders.

  Charley walked o
ver to face the meat packer.

  Feather continued, “I caught this little darlin’ watchin’, while some others of his kind was about ta round up the whole herd without us knowin’ nothin’ about it. The rest of ’em all run off when they seen me a-comin’, but I still managed ta get a loop on this one.”

  He tried to hold back a prideful smile.

  “Looks like they was fixin’ ta rustle the herd right out from under our noses,” added Rod.

  “Is that right, Mr. Pike?” Charley asked somberly.

  “Those longhorns should have been mine from the very beginning,” countered the incensed meat packer.

  He pointed angrily at Rod.

  “If it hadn’t been for that incompetent, blundering, redskin idiot …”

  Rod stepped forward, his voice restrained.

  “You better be very careful what you call me now, Mr. Pike,” Rod warned him through gritted teeth. “I’m not working for you anymore, remember? And from what I’ve just overheard, no one will be working for you much longer … because I’m going to personally find every law in the state of Texas … and Colorado, pertaining to cattle rustling, and have the book thrown at you!”

  Pike made a desperate grab for one of Holliday’s guns, sliding the weapon free from its holster.

  He stepped back.

  Suddenly it was Pike who was holding the others at bay.

  “Don’t anyone move,” he advised. “Now there’s no one who can stop me from doing what I have to do.”

  The meat packer half turned, calling out into the darkness.

  “Bull? Slim?” he shouted. “Are you boys out there?”

  “We’re right behind you, Mr. Pike,” echoed Bull’s deep voice from the shadows. “You can relax. We’ve got ’em all covered.”

  Pike smiled with relief, as Bull, Slim, and the other two men who were with them in Flora Mae’s bar entered the campfire area on foot.

  Slim held a Winchester rifle, Bull a pistol. The other two trained their guns on the Colorado cowboys and urged them to drop their weapons.

  Slim removed Holliday’s other six-shooter from its holster, setting it aside.

  Feather leaned in close to Charley.

  “Wherever there’s a pile a’ dog crap,” he whispered, “you can always be sure ta find shit flies nearby.”