Charlie Sunday's Texas Outfit Read online

  “Since the stage don’t stop at the train depot,” said Charley, “I wrote to Betty Jean explaining that we’d pick ’em up here in town and they could ride out to the ranch with us, drop Henry Ellis, and share some refreshments. We’ll drive ’em on out to the depot to meet their California train connection later on this afternoon.”

  Most people provided their own transportation to the newly built train station located several miles up the road on the north side of town. The Juanita citizenry had tried its best to have the depot constructed closer to town, but the railroad had given in to the big ranchers in the area and built their tracks and the whistle stop station closer to the cattlemen’s combined holding pens instead.

  Charley and Roscoe watched as the stage driver jumped down and moved around to open a door for his passengers. Another man began off-loading their luggage onto a six-seat passenger wagon that would take his daughter and son-in-law’s baggage to the train station.

  Charley turned to Roscoe. “They only have a few hours before their train’ll be here, so we best be getting them into the buckboard and out to the ranch so they got time to see the old place and help get Henry Ellis settled in.”

  The boy was the first one off the coach and when he saw his grandfather he made a beeline for Charley’s open arms.

  “Grampa, Grampa,” said Henry Ellis as he ran into Charley’s waiting grasp.

  Charley kissed the boy’s forehead, then tousled his hair before giving him a loving squeeze. “It’s good to see you, son,” he said softly, holding back a tear. “My, you sure have growed some since the last time you were here.”

  In a minute they were joined by Betty Jean and Kent, who carried the boy’s suitcase.

  Charley nodded to the front seat of the buckboard and Henry Ellis climbed up. Then he put his arms around his daughter and kissed her. He winked at her, then called over to his grandson, “You can ride up front there with Roscoe and me, Henry Ellis. That way your mother and father can have the whole backseat to themselves.”

  Betty Jean and Kent appeared to blush. Charley continued, “If I remember correctly, you two always did want the whole backseat for yourselves, anyway.”

  Henry Ellis spotted the one-wheeled hay wagon in the ranch yard, which made him beam. But when he saw the empty corrals, the smile faded quickly.

  Betty Jean was oblivious to the deserted enclosures. All she could see was the paint-peeled house and barn—plus the messy screened-in back porch where Charley and Roscoe lived during the long, hot West Texas summers.

  “The old place sure has gone to the dogs,” she whispered to her husband, shaking her head. “Sure isn’t like I remember it growing up. Matter a’ fact, it don’t even look as good as it did when we were here two years ago.”

  Charley pulled the buckboard to a stop beside the built-by-hand stone creek house that had once spanned a bubbling brook that had dried up long ago.

  Henry Ellis was out of the buckboard before the dust had time to settle.

  “Henry Ellis?” yelled his mother. “Where in tarnation are you runnin’ off to, young man?”

  Sprinting as fast as he could to a particular corral, Henry Ellis slid to an abrupt stop when a soft breeze caused the unlatched gate to swing wide open, revealing the enclosure to be quite empty.

  The gentle swaying of the unlatched gate seemed to finalize something deep within the boy. A hint of a tear began to well up behind his unblinking eyes as he continued to search the unoccupied pen.

  Behind him, his parents were climbing down from the buckboard, both having sensed their son’s blighted hope.

  As they stood watching the boy, Charley and Roscoe jumped down and joined them.

  Trotting slowly from around the barn came a pretty old-looking dog—a large dog—a retriever/collie mix. A shaggy animal, whose collie coloring—with a once pure-white breast, muzzle, underside, legs, and neck to contrast his rusty ginger back and rear end—had almost gone to solid gray.

  His name was Buster, and he stopped for a long drink of water at the trough before continuing on slowly toward the new arrivals.

  Charley moved in beside his daughter, kissing her warmly on the cheek. His eyes followed her look to where Henry Ellis stood—depressed and forlorn—by the vacant corral.

  “Would you like me to handle this?” he asked softly.

  Betty Jean nodded.

  Charley cleared his throat gently before he moved off toward his bewildered grandson.

  In moments, his grandfather’s reassuring hand fell softly on Henry Ellis’s trembling shoulder, causing the boy to jerk slightly.

  As he recognized the familiar touch—his grampa’s touch—Henry Ellis turned with tear-streaked cheeks, throwing the old man a questioning look.

  Charley took the boy’s quivering shoulders in his strong hands. He turned the youngster so they would be facing each other.

  The two just stared at one another for a long moment, then Charley reached out and wiped away a small trickle still coming from the youngster’s eye.

  “I didn’t sell your pony, boy, if that’s what yer thinking,” said Charley, speaking softly. “I might have had to sell all the rest of ’em off, but not Pinto Tom. And that’s a fact.”

  Henry Ellis sniffed back another tear, his eyes never wavering from Charley’s.

  “Then where is he, Grampa?” the boy wanted to know. “Where’s Pinto Tom?”

  There was something special between Sunday and the boy that was obvious by the direct, yet sincere, way in which they could communicate.

  “When you had that storm last winter up where you live in Austin,” Charley explained, “well, we had some pretty cold and wet weather down here, too. Pinto Tom wasn’t a young horse, son. You know that. He was getting along in years … he used to belong to your mother before you were born, remember?”

  Henry Ellis knew this to be the truth, so he nodded, agreeing.

  Charley continued, “Well, Pinto Tom finally caught his death, Henry Ellis. Me and Roscoe and ol’ Doc Evans did everything we could for that animal, but it was all too much for ol’ Pinto Tom.

  “He fought to live as hard as a horse could fight, son,” Charley went on. “But like I said, he was an old horse … and when God’s creatures start getting on, He kind of wants ’em back up in heaven with Him, I reckon. It’s all part of living here on earth, boy … everything has to die.”

  Henry Ellis’s eyes were wide, he didn’t quite understand.

  “B-but you’re old, too, Grampa,” he stuttered. “Does that mean that you’re going to die, too?”

  Charley chuckled. “I ain’t that old, Henry Ellis, and you know it,” he said. “I suspect I still got a couple of good rides left in me.”

  Another tear spilled gently from one of the boy’s eyes, starting a slow zigzag down a rosy cheek.

  Underlying fear crinkled Henry Ellis’s nose. He backed away from his grandfather, moving slowly toward his parents.

  “I want to go home,” he blurted out in a trembling tone. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  Just the thought of his grandfather’s mortality terrified the boy. This was a fact he had never before given any thought to—even though it had always been there, somewhere deep inside.

  He turned and ran past his astonished parents, flying into the backseat of the buckboard.

  Charley threw Roscoe a solemn look—then he moved to Kent and Betty Jean without hesitation before they had time to rescue their son.

  He held up his hand, speaking with great concern.

  “Leave him be, all right?” he said. “He’ll be back to normal after a while, I suspect. A boy his age just ain’t up to accepting certain things as fast as we grown-ups are.”

  Embarrassed by her son’s actions, Betty Jean showed more than a little irritation.

  “If he’s going to throw one of his tantrums, Kent,” she barked, “just maybe you ought ta set him straight again. Paddle his little butt.”

  The father’s own sensitive discomfort kept
him from carrying out his wife’s directive. Kent stood his ground.

  “I don’t think that’ll solve anything, darlin’,” he told his wife.

  Charley stepped in, putting his arms around his daughter in a warm embrace—an attempt to calm her down.

  “Hey, now,” he said. “You two kids run off to your vacation and don’t be worrying none about Henry Ellis. Me and Roscoe can handle the boy. He just needs some time with his own self, that’s all.”

  “Maybe me an’ Charley can take ’im out an’ show ’im where we buried the pony,” suggested Roscoe.

  Sunday frowned at his friend, then he made direct eye contact with his daughter. “When the time is right,” he said, nodding, “we might just do that. Now you two go on over to him … tell him me and Roscoe will always be here for him. And tell him Buster missed him a whole lot more than a bunch, too,” he added, indicating the sleeping dog at his feet.

  He kissed her on the forehead, then turned to Kent.

  “You two have a grand time in San Francisco, all right?” he told them both. “You deserve it. And don’t worry none … I’ll get you to your train on time.”

  The two men shook hands, then Betty Jean threw a huge hug around her father.

  “Dad,” she begged. “Please don’t spoil him. Try not to, damnit.”

  Charley nodded, smiling softly.

  Betty Jean turned her attention toward her son sulking in the buckboard, then she let go with a holler that could have peeled the skin off a barbecued hog.

  “Henry Ellis!” she shrieked. “Get your shameful ass outta there right now and bring your suitcase! On the double!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shortly after supper, Charles Abner Sunday and his grandson retired to separate chairs inside the long, screened-in back porch where Charley and Roscoe lived during the summer months. Henry Ellis had flopped himself across an overstuffed easy chair and was playing with his Mexican stick and ball game. Charley sat in his old rocker a few feet away, puffing on his pipe while he read the Sunday newspaper. Buster snoozed at the base of the chair occupied by Henry Ellis. Roscoe could be heard cleaning up in the kitchen. This peaceful scene lasted no longer than a few moments.

  Charley’s eyes widened and he sat up. “Hey, Roscoe,” he called out, “bring me my magnifier, will you?”

  In less than a minute Roscoe entered from the kitchen and handed Charley a thick wood-handled magnifying glass.

  Charley thanked him; then he leaned in closer to the newspaper. “Listen to this, will you?” he said to the others. “Colorado Cattle Auction, it says. Three hundred authentic Texas longhorn cattle will be sold at auction on Saturday, June twenty-fifth, at the Denver, Colorado, fairgrounds.

  “The longhorns belonged to the late F.Q. Dobbs, an eccentric Colorado silver miner and ranch owner who had once raised longhorn cattle in his native state of Texas long before he moved to Colorado and struck it rich in the silver-mining industry …”

  He looked up at Roscoe, raised his eyebrows, then said, “Some say he hit a real mother lode.”

  His eyes shifted back to the newsprint. Again he continued reading out loud. “Homesick for Texas and missing his longhorns, the late Mr. Dobbs purchased sixty-two head of longhorn cattle a few years before the War Between the States began and had them driven to Colorado with a larger herd. Over the years Mr. Dobbs’s herd grew … presently numbering close to three hundred head, give or take a few, before Dobbs succumbed to old age just last month. Now his family’s wishes are to sell the entire herd, lock, stock, and barrel. So, come one and all … get your own trophy set of Texas longhorn horns while they last.”

  “It says that right here,” said Charley before he continued on reading:

  “Use the hides for your leather furniture coverings and outdoor clothing. The tails make good dust brooms. Plus the hoofs make superior ashtrays. This will be the auction of the century.”

  Both Henry Ellis and Roscoe moved in closer.

  “Do you think they’re talking about honest-to-goodness, real Texas longhorns, Grampa?” said Henry Ellis.

  “Heck, even if they was real longhorns,” Roscoe said, chuckling, “longhorn’s ain’t nothin’ but useless relics these days. No one raises longhorns anymore what with all the newfangled cross-breedin’ that’s going on. Why do you think they’re auctioning them off? No one wants ’em, that’s why.”

  Charley looked up at his old friend. “Now hold on, Roscoe,” he said, “just maybe someone is interested in raising longhorns these days. Or maybe I should say interested in saving longhorns.”

  It took Roscoe a second or so to figure out exactly what Charley was hinting at.

  “You?” he said with a surprised look on his face. “You want them longhorns? I reckon you’re forgettin’ how old you’re gettin’ to be, too.”

  “I want one,” yelped Henry Ellis, now showing his excitement beside the overstuffed chair.

  “You wouldn’t want one of them big ol’ smelly things,” said Charley, grinning to himself. “It’d stink up your bedroom to high heaven back home. Besides, your mama would disown me as her daddy if I ever brought one of them critters up to Austin for you.”

  The boy stopped showing his excitement but continued to grin, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, complacent beside his grandfather.

  Charley settled back, speaking wistfully—yearning out loud—sighing.

  “I sure would like to have me a few of them big ol’ smelly things myself,” he mumbled.

  Roscoe glanced over.

  Henry Ellis looked up.

  “Why’s that, Grampa?” asked the boy.

  Charley smiled reflectively, edging himself out of the chair where he stood silently, shaking the kinks out of his tired old body. Then he sauntered over to the screen door. He pulled back the corner of the shade before looking out toward his empty corrals. He continued to stare out at the ranch yard, voiceless, for several more moments.

  Roscoe and Henry Ellis watched him with interest.

  Finally, without turning back to face the others, Charley spoke.

  “Oh,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t know, really. It was just a thought that came to me.”

  Charley continued to ponder on something for another moment or two, then he turned and went outside, his mind still in deep thought. Buster followed him. The screen door banged shut behind them both.

  Henry Ellis turned to Roscoe, puzzled over his grandfather’s actions.

  “What did he mean by that, Uncle Roscoe?” the boy asked, “about wishing he had some of those longhorns?”

  Now it was Roscoe who reached over to rumple the boy’s locks, his eyes never leaving Charley, who he could see through the screen standing silently and still thinking out in the ranch yard.

  Roscoe finally answered, “Oh, I ’spect he’s thinkin’ that if he had him some a’ them Colorado longhorns … we just might be able ta get somethin’ goin’ around this ol’ place again.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Hey, Geronimo!” yelled the whiny-voiced Sidney Pike to his brand-new employee—a twenty-six-year-old Indian by the name of Rod Lightfoot. Rod was working feverishly at a desk in a back room at the Pike Meatpacking Company—a Denver slaughterhouse—owned and operated by none other than Sidney Pike himself.

  “Get your blanket bottom out of your tepee and into my office before you give me apoplexy, you stupid, lazy-assed redskin.”

  Sidney Pike was a dissolute weasel, a rascal, a rogue, and a scoundrel. A manipulator, equal parts charm and bullshit, a coyote in a shall-collar suit, double-breasted waistcoat, and square-toed shoes with spats. Ruthless venality was not beneath him. He could be elusive and smooth talking, as well as a shifty dog in the manger. But Sidney Pike did not see himself as someone who was corrupt. Sid thought of himself, simply, as a very smart cookie.

  Rod was standing at attention in front of Pike in less than a minute, waiting nervously for his new employer’s instructions. He brushed a stray lock of his long bl
ack hair away from his forehead and waited for his boss to speak.

  “I firmed the deal, kid,” Pike told the young Indian. “I just talked to the auctioneer who’ll be handling the bidding the weekend after next. He says those Texas longhorns are as good as mine already. All you have to do is be there that Saturday, enter my bid officially, and sign some papers as my representative.” He laughed. “Then those cows will belong to me legally—horns, hooves, and tails. And there’ll be nothing anyone can do about it.”

  Rod nodded. “But Mr. Pike,” he started to say before Pike cut him off.

  “I don’t want to hear anything more from you, Lightfoot. You’re only acting as my unlicensed legal representative, not my lawyer.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That evening, as happened every now and then, Charley Sunday’s old paint horse, Dice, was secured to a fancy hitching post beneath a dazzling red, white, and blue sign that shouted:

  FLORA MAE’S PALACE HOTEL

  Saloon & Billiard Parlor

  Across from where Charley had tied his horse was a very stunning white carriage—a specialty number—with all the bells and whistles. The vehicle’s two horses were also pure white, a matched team. They were in harness and standing with the vehicle, which was anchored in the owner’s private space.

  The inside of the hotel’s bar and poolroom was elegant, yet homespun at the same time—due, more than likely, to the tastes of the establishment’s proprietor.

  The room was nearly empty at that early hour on a Sunday evening, with only three people in attendance: the bartender, Charley Sunday—who was shooting a game of pool with a pleasantly dressed lady. The lady being a well-kept woman, just a few years Charley’s junior—a very attractive, older woman who could still show her ample bosom without appearing ridiculous.

  She was Flora Mae Huckabee, a properly coiffed redhead who was also the hotel’s owner. Wealthy in her own right through her late father’s investments in the state’s cotton industry, Flora Mae did her best to appear prosperous and informed, even though her dirt-poor, dirt-floor upbringing could slip out every now and then. Her self-taught manners had been acquired before the old man struck it rich in a crooked poker game that backfired, leading the Huckabee family toward its accumulation of great wealth.