The Comancheros

Book 3: Charley Sunday's Texas Outfit

by Stephen Lodge

Genres: Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

The last of the great American cowboys, Charley Sunday is a legendary Texas ranger whose gun-blazing adventures have been passed down from generation to generation. But only his grandson knows the real story of what happened one cold—and very deadly—winter…
 
TIME TO KILL
 
With Christmas approaching, Charley is happy to welcome his grandson Henry-Ellis for a visit to his West Texas ranch. The boy is old enough now to travel alone by rail—but nothing can prepare him for the bullets and bloodshed waiting for him along the way. First, he witnesses a double shooting on the train. Then, he sees his grandpa gun down a dangerous duo of jewel thieves in the streets. After that, they stumble onto a train robbery in the making. But the real trouble starts when they get home for the holidays…
 
A scheming pair of swindlers are plotting to take over Charley’s land. A vicious gang called the New Comancheros are setting up headquarters in a nearby saloon. And any hopes for peace on earth, good will toward men, are quickly going straight to hell. This Christmas, Charley Sunday is coming to town…for justice.

Release date: January 26, 2016

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

1900

A sharp wind was blowing as a single horse, pulling the local U.S. Post Office delivery wagon, trotted its way up the road toward Charley Sunday’s Juanita, Texas, ranch house. The frisky animal blew steam from its nostrils after every breath taken. The postman who drove the mail wagon, as it was called back then, had passed the all-metal mailbox, secured to a wooden post that stood beside the entrance gate. Charley and his partner, Roscoe Baskin, had shed sweat and tears over that mailbox when putting it in during early fall. It replaced the old, paint-peeled, all-wooden mailbox that had been doing its job just fine for more than eighteen years.

Roscoe Baskin was cleaning his wire-rimmed spectacles with a dishcloth when he heard the noise outside. He peeked through the curtains, then wiped at the steamed-up window glass to watch the postman jump down from his buggy and tie off his horse. He climbed the steps to the back porch, where Roscoe met him at the screen door, having pushed it open to greet the frigid little government worker.

“Mornin’, Roscoe,” said the postman. “I got a letter here for Charley . . . it’s from his daughter, Betty Jean, in Austin.”

“Why don’t you tell me what she wrote, Toby. You seem to know so much about what’s in it.”

“I get all my information from the return address on the corner, right there. You know me better than to accuse me of snooping inside the envelope.”

“Implying,” said Roscoe. “I only implied that you was snoopin’.”

He turned and called back inside the house.

“Charley! . . . Toby’s here with the mail, an’ he’s got a special letter here for ya from yer daughter.”

Charley’s voice echoed from down the hall.

“I’ll be right there, Roscoe . . . and don’t let Toby leave just yet.”

Roscoe turned back to the postman.

“You heard him, Toby. He’ll be right here.”

The sound of the indoor toilet flushing could be heard, then Charley appeared, coming from the hallway. He was still buckling up his trousers, pulling his lime-green suspenders up over his shoulders. When he reached the back porch screen door, he took the envelope from the postman’s fingers and circled back to the kitchen, where he sat at the table and called out, once again, for Roscoe.

“Roscoe,” he yelled. “Can you bring me my magnifiers?”

Roscoe was at his side in an instant with the reading glasses in hand.

“Thanks,” said Charley, taking the wire-rimmed reading spectacles from Roscoe and slipping them on, one ear at a time.

“Danged woman,” he mumbled to himself. “I don’t know why she insisted that I have a telephone put in here when she never uses it.”

By then, Toby, the postman, had followed along into the kitchen, and he casually pulled up a chair on Charley’s left. Roscoe took the right-hand seat, then both men leaned in as Charley slit open the envelope with his pocketknife.

“What’s she say?” said Roscoe.

“What does she say?” echoed Toby, the postman.

Charley threw back his arms, puffing his chest, to give himself more room before he started reading.

“She ain’t going to be saying nothing until you two nosy old maids learn to mind your manners and give me the proper space a man needs to read, for heaven’s sake.”

The two observers slid their chairs back a few inches on both sides.

“That’s better,” Charley announced. Then he pulled the one-page letter out of the envelope, shook the paper to get the folds out, adjusted his glasses, and began reading out loud.

“My dearest daddy,” the letter began. He hesitated when he noticed Toby, the postman, leaning in from his side, trying to read along with him.

“What are you doing here, Toby?” he asked.

“It was you that asked that I stay,” said Toby.

He started to get up.

“But I can leave any time you want me to, Charley,” he said. “It’s just that . . .”

“Just what?” said Charley.

“Just that . . . there’ll be no one to spread the news around town unless I hear what your daughter has to say in her letter.”

“Oh, all right, Toby. You can stay. Just be quiet while I’m reading, that’s all.”

Charley started again.

After Charley finished reading, there was silence for a few moments while he refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope.

“Well,” said Roscoe.

“Well, what?”

“Are we gonna be havin’ a guest here over Christmas, or not?” asked Roscoe.

“Now, what do you think?”

“I think I’d better finish my route,” said Toby.

“You do that,” said Charley. “And make sure you tell everyone howdy from Roscoe and me.”

“Oh, I surely will,” said the postman.

“Oh, I bet you will,” said Charley.

The two old Texans watched through the window beside the back porch door as Toby, the postman, untied his horse and climbed into the buggy. Once he was settled into the leather seat, Toby backed the horse, then turned the little wagon around before retracing his path down the entrance road to the farm to the market road that ran parallel to Charley’s property line.

“Reckon I’d better telephone Betty Jean so we can make plans concerning Henry Ellis’s visit,” said Charley.

“Before you make that call,” said Roscoe, “don’t forget we’re supposed ta take the train to San Antone next week anyway so we can pick up the new surrey.”

“Damn,” said Charley. “I’d nearly forgotten all about that. Maybe we can work it out so we meet Henry Ellis at the train station in San Antonio, and he could ride back here to Juanita with the two of us.”

“He’d like that, Charley. He really would.”

Charley Sunday’s grandson, Henry Ellis Pritchard, dressed in his brand-new winter suit and overcoat, made his way down the aisle of the passenger car until he found an empty seat toward the rear. It was a window seat, which seemed to brighten his day. He removed a dog-eared dime novel from his side coat pocket, settled back, and began to read.

Something was wrong. He was too warm. He started to take off his overcoat, but a thought stopped him: If I take off my overcoat, everyone will see that my mother still makes me wear knee pants and stockings, instead of ankle-length trousers like a man. His thinking was interrupted by a well-dressed gentleman sitting in the seat behind him.

“I don’t think removing your overcoat is such a good idea, son,” said the man.

Henry Ellis turned around to see just who it was that was talking to him. He came face-to-face with the middle-aged gentleman in the seat behind him. The man was slight of build, foppish, and wore meticulously trimmed sideburns, plus a well-groomed mustache. A handsome woman was sitting beside the man, and she nodded in recognition of the boy.

The man continued.

“Once this train gets moving,” he said, “every unsealed crack between wood frame and glass, both doorways at each end of the car, and the abundance of loose floorboards beneath our feet will let in a tremendous amount of freezing air from outside. As you can see, both my wife and I find it much more comfortable traveling in this weather with our topcoats on. Sorry, let me introduce myself and my wife.”

He leaned in closer to the boy.

“I am Dr. Benjamin J. Campbell, and this is my wife, Eleanor. You can call me Ben.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ben . . . ma’am,” said the boy. “I’m Henry Ellis Pritchard, from Austin, Texas.”

“On your way for a Christmas visit somewhere, it appears,” said Ben.

“On my way to meet my grandfather. I’ll be staying with him over the holiday.”

“How long has your grandfather lived in San Antonio?” asked the woman.

“He doesn’t live in San Antone, ma’am,” said the boy. “I’m just meeting him there. You see, he and his partner, Roscoe, ordered a new surrey, and they’re picking it up in San Antonio. They’re picking me up there, too. Then we’re all riding back to Juanita together.”

“Juanita?” said Ben.

“That’s where my grampa lives. I stay with him on his ranch whenever I get the chance.”

“It’s such a small world we live in,” said Ben. “We’re on our way to Juanita, as well. My wife just inherited a ranch from a distant cousin, and we’re on our way there now to sign the final papers before we take possession.”

“Sounds like you’re going to be our new neighbors,” said Henry Ellis. “What was your cousin’s name? It’s possible my grampa and I knew him.”

“Uh . . .” said Eleanor. “He was such a distant cousin that I never actually met him. But, if your grandfather is from Juanita, I’m sure they must have known one another.”

“Yes . . . sure . . . I suppose they did,” said Henry Ellis, aware that he hadn’t gotten the answer he was searching for.

The train had picked up some speed by then, and just as Ben had told him, Henry Ellis could feel the icy cold from outside creeping in around them.

“Is there anywhere else on the train where it’s a bit warmer?” he asked.

“We spent some time in the gentlemen’s car before we arrived in Austin. It may be full of cigar smoke and slick gamblers, but it is a lot warmer than here.”

“They have two stoves in the gentlemen’s car,” added Eleanor. “That’s one good reason, I suppose.”

“Is it all right if a kid . . . I mean, am I old enough to be in the gentlemen’s car?” asked Henry Ellis.

“I don’t see why not,” said Ben as he started to get to his feet.

Eleanor followed along with him as he moved away.

“Why don’t you come with us? No one will bother you. They’ll just think you’re part of our family.”

The three of them entered the gentlemen’s car, passing the conductor who was on his way out. He welcomed them all to the car, paying little attention to the boy.

Even though he’d been advised about it, Henry Ellis was still surprised by the amount of cigar smoke hanging low over almost everything. There was a faro wheel, a roulette table, which was closed, and several card tables, with only one being used for a poker game in progress. And even though there were two wood-burning stoves at each end of the car, just the presence of all those bodies jammed into such close quarters kept the car much warmer than the passenger car they were seated in previously.

All the spectator chairs had been taken, so Henry Ellis just stayed close to Ben and Eleanor Campbell. They stood behind the cardplayers and observed while the game was being played.

Something drew the boy’s attention to Ben, who stood a few feet away from him. The gentleman’s eyes seemed to be glued to one particular cardplayer, a man in a black cutaway coat with red piping, who was sitting with his back to the car’s side windows while the barren winter scape passed by outside.

Before too long, two of the players threw in their cards, checking out of the game. The man in the black coat, and the man opposite him, continued to play.

It wasn’t but minutes later that a squabble broke out between the two remaining gamblers, with the man nearer the center of the car accusing Black Coat of cheating. Within seconds, both men drew their guns. Seconds later, both pistols discharged, and as the black powder smoke enveloped the entire scene, another shot could be heard. Henry Ellis glanced over to Ben, just in time to see him pocket a small derringer.

By then, there was too much confusion for anyone to know what was happening, and as the smoke finally began to disperse, two bodies could be seen draped over one another, on top of the poker table.

Someone shouted, “By damn. They’ve shot each other.”

“Sure looks that way,” said someone else.

“Get the conductor,” shouted yet another voice.

Henry Ellis just stood there. He was not watching what was going on around him like everyone else. Instead, his eyes were focused on Ben Campbell’s pocket, where the boy knew a murder weapon was now safely hidden away.

The conductor entered the car. And as the crowd spread itself apart to reveal the two bodies, Ben Campbell put his hands on both his wife’s and young Henry Ellis’s shoulders. “Eleanor . . . son, we don’t need to be a part of this. Follow me. We’re going back to the passenger car, if no one objects.”

Steam hissed from the locomotive’s escape valves. It was now stopped on one of the two sidetracks beside a yellow depot. On each end of the building, there were signs that read:

In the dining car, for some late-morning refreshment, the Campbells, along with Henry Ellis, were being joined by the local constable and his deputy, who had come aboard an hour and thirty minutes ago, when the train had made this emergency stop to report the shootings.

“’Scuse me, ma’am, sir . . . son,” said the constable, sliding into a chair opposite the threesome. “My name’s George Smithers. I’m the constable here in San Marcos, and this is my assistant, Harry Goodfellow. We’re interviewing those who were in the gentlemen’s car at the time of the shootings. The conductor said you were there. This shouldn’t take long.”

“I’m actually his deputy,” said Goodfellow. “The constable thinks it sounds more important if he calls me his assistant.”

“Thanks for your explanation, Harry,” said George Smithers, “but I’ll do all the talkin’ from now on, if you don’t mind.”

“Yessir, Constable Smithers,” said Goodfellow.

Smithers smiled, then turned his attention to Ben and Eleanor, sitting across from him.

“Did either of you actually see the shooting?” was the constable’s first question.

Henry Ellis’s face brightened as he leaned forward to speak. But he had second thoughts as he realized the question hadn’t been directed to him but to the adults sitting next to him.

“It was very crowded,” said Eleanor.

“And we weren’t that close at all,” added Ben. “But I do think I recognized the man who wore the blue suit. Actually, I have only seen a flyer . . . a poster . . . a wanted poster with a drawing that pretty much resembled the man. You see, in my previous employment, I worked as a clerk for a shipping company in Fort Worth, and we would get those posters all the time, advising us of who might be out there waiting to rob one of the company’s cargo wagons.”

“So, who was it?” said the constable. “I mean what was the name on the poster with the drawing that looked like the dead gambler in the blue suit?”

Ben took a moment to think before answering.

“Speer,” he sputtered. “The first name was something like Melvin . . . Marvin . . . something like that.”

“But you’re sure of the last name. Speer, was it?”

Ben shook his head.

“I saw that poster more than a year ago, Constable. You must understand that I just can’t be sure.”

The constable turned to his deputy who was busy taking notes.

“Go back to the office, Harry. Then get over to the telegraph office and contact the central filing office in Austin. See what they have on a Melvin Speer . . . or a Marvin Speer.”

“Or maybe it was another name entirely,” said Ben. “Like I said, it’s been over a year.”

Harry was halfway out the door when the constable called for him to stop.

“Harry . . . you may as well forget about that telegram. Just go back to the office and find all the posters we’ve received in the last few years, and—”

Ben cut him off: “My wife and I will not be here in San Marcos long enough to look through stacks and stacks of wanted posters, Constable.”

“Oh,” said the lawman. “Those stacks and stacks are gonna be for me and Harry to go through, once you’re gone. Right now, we’ll go ahead and compare ’em to the dead man in the blue suit, since both bodies are now the official property of our undertaker. I wouldn’t think of putting you two through such an ordeal.”

“Why, thank you, Constable,” said Eleanor. “That’s very kind of you.”

Henry Ellis watched as the lawman and his deputy excused themselves, then moved on to the next car.

Henry Ellis stared into a void, realizing that what he had to say wouldn’t be of interest to anyone, except, maybe . . . his grampa Charley.

Because of the freezing hailstorm that engulfed the city, Charley Sunday and Roscoe Baskin were watching from inside the San Antonio railroad station for the train carrying Charley’s grandson, Henry Ellis. While the hailstones bounced across the wooden planks between depot and tracks, doing an inharmonious tap dance on the station’s loading platform, the locomotive pulling the car that carried the boy chugged to a stop.

Charley waited until the engineer released the steam pressure before he went outside. He spotted Henry Ellis preparing to disembark. Using his hat and sheepskin jacket to shield himself from the hail, Charley turned up his collar, then ran down the steps and over to the passenger car where he took charge of his grandson. Charley took the boy’s one piece of luggage and told him to get under his jacket, then he marched him back to the depot where Roscoe was waiting inside for both of them.

Charley and Henry Ellis joined Roscoe at a small table near a wood-burning stove, where he had already purchased two cups of coffee and some hot chocolate for Henry Ellis. Charley shook the excess water from his hat and coat as he sat down.

“If it gets any colder, I’ll be trading my cattle in for some sheep,” said Charley with a wink to Roscoe. “With the wool sheep produce, I could become a millionaire overnight in the wool-blanket business. Or maybe I’ll just buy me a blanket farm, outright.”

“What’s a blanket farm, Grampa?” Henry Ellis wanted to know.

“It’s a farm where you plant fleece bales in the spring and harvest wool blankets in the fall,” said Charley.

“That’s a big windy if I ever heard one,” said the boy.

“Well, where do you suppose blankets come from?”

“From wool,” answered Henry Ellis. “And wool comes from sheep, like you said.”

“I musta meant to say that I’d buy a sheep farm,” said Charley.

“Here,” said Roscoe, shoving the cup of steaming hot chocolate toward the boy. “Drink it down so you won’t catch your death.”

He shoved one of the cups of coffee toward Charley.

“You, too, sheep man. Drink up.”

Charley nodded. His hat was still dripping. He blew on the steaming liquid before taking a sip.

At that moment, Henry Ellis happened to see Ben and Eleanor Campbell entering the concourse. He waved.

The Campbells waved back. Then they were on their way.

“Who was that?” asked Charley.

“Just some friends I met on the train from Austin,” said the boy. “They are real nice people; I had my noon meal with them today. They’re moving to Juanita, you know. Gonna be your neighbors, Grampa.”

“Is that a fact?” said Charley. “Is that so?” he said again as he watched the couple disappear through a side door.

“There is something strange about Dr. Campbell, though,” said the boy.

“What’s that?” asked Charley.

“Well,” Henry Ellis began. “There was a shooting on board the train—”

“Shooting?” said Charley, cutting him off. “What kind of a shooting?”

“Two gamblers in the gentlemen’s car got into a fight and shot each other.”

“What were you doing in the gentlemen’s car?” demanded Charley.

“The Campbells took me in there. They said it would be warmer.”

“That’s no place for a youngster is what I’m saying,” said Charley.

“Do you want to hear about what I saw, Grampa?” said Henry Ellis, “or not?”

“All right, son,” said Charley. “Go ahead. Sorry I interrupted you.”

Henry Ellis went on.

“Before the men drew their guns, Dr. Campbell looked at one of them like he knew him from somewhere before,” said the boy. “Then, when they both went for their guns, Dr. Campbell pulled his own pocket gun and shot the one he appeared not to know . . . at the very same time the two of them shot each other.”

“Kinda like he wanted to make sure the guy he was familiar with didn’t miss?” said Roscoe.

“Kinda like that,” the boy agreed. “Anyway, as soon as Dr. Campbell fired his shot, he put the gun back in his pocket.”

“Did you tell the conductor about this . . . about Dr. Campbell being involved, too?” asked Charley.

“I couldn’t,” said Henry Ellis.

Charley frowned.

“Why?” he asked.

“I couldn’t, because I could tell no one else heard the shot, and also because I was still with Dr. and Mrs. Campbell. Besides, later on, Dr. Campbell did tell the constable he recognized the man he had shot from a wanted poster.”

“That’s still no reason to shoot him . . . even though the man was about to be shot by someone else.”

“But he did shoot him, Grampa. Please believe what I say. No one else will even listen to me.”

“When they find two bullets in the dead man’s body, maybe someone will start believing your story, son,” said Roscoe.

“I wouldn’t count on that, Roscoe,” said Charley. “No one checks out a dead person’s body for evidence like they should. In a case like these two gambler fellas killing one another on the train, I’ll bet no doctor ever sees those bodies. They’ll just lay around in some jail cell until the constable decides to close the case . . . or the smell gets too bad. Then they’ll bury both of ’em in the same grave in a potter’s field.”

“So you’re telling me that I should probably just forget what I saw?” said the boy.

“Don’t forget it, Henry Ellis, just tuck it away somewhere in your head until someone does want to hear about it someday.”

“In the meantime,” said Roscoe, “we got a brand-new surrey waitin’ for us to pick it up, and a hotel to check inta, so why don’t we get a-goin’?”

“A man told me a while ago that we can pick up a trolley car on the other side of this building that’ll take us into the city.”

“So, what are we waitin’ for?” said Roscoe. “Follow me.”

The surrey Charley had ordered stood bright and shiny in the display window, in front of the wagon builder’s shop on West Crockett Street near Alamo Square. A matching set of well-behaved bay horses had been hitched to the tongue of the surrey, awaiting their new owner. Someone had tied two large red bows around the horses’ necks, which, because of the damp weather, were looking rather droopy. Plus, two shop workers were still busy installing the heavy-duty isinglass curtains that hung down all the way around the slick-looking vehicle, to be used in the same kind of weather that was presently battering the area.

“Did you ever give any thought to getting one of those fancy, newfangled motor cars instead of a surrey to replace your old two-seat buckboard, Grampa?”

“No, son, I reckon I never did,” said Charley. “And it’ll be a cold day in July before you’ll ever hear of . . .