Deadfall (3 page)

“Anyway, I snapped around at the sound of something growling and yipping like I'd never heard the likes of before in my life. It hadn't woke up Roscoe or Feather yet, and the cattle I was watching weren't bothered by it none . . . so I decided I'd get up for a look-see and find out what was causing such a ruckus.

“Thank God I made sure I took my rifle with me when I set out following that terrible noise,” Charley went on. “Finally, I come around a big rock . . . maybe it was a big bush . . . I don't rightly recollect which one it was after all these years. So, I come around whatever it was there blocking my view, and I seen Buster for the first time in either one of our lives. He was the one doing all the growling and yipping. Directly across from that little dog was this good-sized panther. That little squirt of a pup had that mountain lion backed up against a rock, so all it could do was swat with one of its big ol' paws—with its claws extended, slicing through the air in front of it.

“Little Buster kept that cat pinned against that boulder just long enough for me to put a 44-40 slug between its eyes. Right then, that little pup shut its mouth, and there wasn't another sound came out of it until Feather and Roscoe showed up a-running 'round that rock . . . or bush . . . or whatever it was. Buster started right off, growling and yipping at those two, just like he was doing at that cougar.

“Wasn't long before Feather found the pup's mother and her other pups . . . they had all been killed dead by that panther. All of 'em except for little Buster. That little booger had scared the bejezus out of that cat, at least just enough to keep it from making supper out of Buster's family.”

Charley leaned back against a support post.

“Anyhow,” he said, “we buried his mother and the rest of the pups and I took Buster home with me. After a while he decided he liked me enough to stick around for . . . for, well . . . for the rest of his life.”

Henry Ellis watched his grandfather as he stared off into the coming darkness—just long enough for a tear to begin to form in one of the old man's eyes.

Charley stood up abruptly, shaking his head.

“C'mon, boy,” he said gruffly. “It's about time for the two of us to go on inside.”

Later on that evening the three of them were gathered around the kitchen table with a map of Old Mexico spread out before them.

“Since that security guard your father's company's friend sent to protect you didn't appear to want the law involved,” said Charley, “maybe we ought not report your parents' disappearance to the U.S. or the Mexican authorities . . . not just yet, at least. But in the meantime”—he nudged Roscoe—“there's nothing keeping us old Rangers from doing a little investigating ourselves, is there?”

“You're not thinkin' 'bout the three of us goin' inta Mexico after that gang who took the boy's parents, are ya, C.A.?” said Roscoe.

“No,” said Charley. “I was thinking more of going into Mexico after them abductors with a meaningful number of guns backing us up.”

“Just like you did in the old days,” said Henry Ellis. “Wow!” he shouted, banging his fist on the table and grinning.

“And you can start, Roscoe Baskin, by first finding, then sobering up, Feather Martin. I need to go into town myself . . . I still got me a lot more thinking to do on this matter.”

“Mercy,” said Roscoe, “sober up Feather Martin? May God have mercy on us all.”

“And that's a fact!” added Charley.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Later on that night, Charley tied Dice to one of the fancy hitching posts in front of Flora Mae's Palace Hotel. A large sign above the front entrance was illuminated by a row of electric lightbulbs. Charley walked past the hotel's main entrance and on around the building to another access. The swinging doors took him right on into the bar and pool hall, which were located in a section of the structure that had once been freestanding until the hotel was built around it thirteen years earlier.

The entire establishment was owned by his longtime friend, and many times more-than-friend, Flora Mae Huckabee, a lively woman of Charley's generation whom he had known for what seemed like forever.

Flora Mae had been the only one of his close friends who had taken a chance on Charley a year earlier when the old cowboy had come up with a wonderful idea of how to get back on his feet financially. He had been down on his luck, and too broke to carry out the scheme himself.

Flora Mae had given him the money he needed, so he, Henry Ellis, and Charley's other friends could take the train to Denver, Colorado, where Charley participated in a longhorn cattle auction.

Through a fluke, Charley ended up with the entire herd of three hundred longhorns.

Flora Mae had also made sure Charley had enough support and capital coming his way to drive that herd all the way back to Juanita, Texas, when a local Denver meatpacker did everything in his power to prevent Charley from shipping the longhorns by rail.

“Well, I'll be hanged,” the red-haired Flora Mae said softly to herself as Charley entered the place. “Elmer,” she called out to the bartender, “get out a bottle of my special whiskey and two glasses. Can't you see Charley Sunday's come to town?”

She moved past the several customers who were still in her establishment—one at the bar, the other playing a game of solitary pool—and sat at a table in the far corner. She beckoned for Charley to join her.

The bartender was just serving her the special-blend whiskey bottle and two shot glasses when Charley arrived and slid into the chair opposite the woman.

“Elmer,” she asked the bartender, “why don't you order us a couple of beef-steak sandwiches from the kitchen and I'll—”

“Not hungry,” said Charley in a somber tone, pulling off his riding gloves one finger at a time. “I already had my supper.”

Flora Mae leaned in closer, trying to humor him.

“That's a good one, Charley Sunday. I've never known you to turn down a free meal in my entire lifetime.”

Charley looked up at her from under the brim of his Stetson.

“Not hungry, Flora Mae,” he repeated. “I've had my supper. I'm just here to do some serious thinking, like always.”

“I 'spose you also came in here for a little expert counseling, too,” she said.

“I only need your advice when my own brain don't give me the right answers. You know that, Flora Mae.”

“Well, right now,” said the woman, “you look like you left your brain somewhere between here an' Del Rio.”

Charley grumbled.

“Well, maybe I did,” he said. “Maybe I did.”

He raised his eyes and made total contact with her.

“Henry Ellis's parents got themselves abducted,” he told her in a whisper.

Those words quickly got her attention.

“Kent and Betty Jean? How long ago, and where?” she asked.

“Yesterday morning, in Brownsville,” he said. “More'n likely they're in Mexico by now . . . but don't ask me why they were taken . . . because I . . . don't . . . know . . . why.”

“Thank God Henry Ellis wasn't with 'em,” she said.

“Oh, he was with 'em, all right,” said Charley. “But he got away. He had some money, so he was able to buy a ticket on the overnight train. He showed up at my place late this afternoon.”

“And you want me to tell you that I think it's all right for you to go after the people who abducted his parents, is that what you want?” she said.

“No,” said Charley. “I just need to borrow some cash money to buy some supplies for the men I intend to take with me into Mexico to find the scum-suckers that took my daughter and Henry Ellis's daddy. And I'm afraid whoever it was is going to have a well-armed gang of thugs behind 'em, Flora Mae, so I'll be taking some expert man-hunters with me.”

“Some of your old Ranger friends, you mean.”

“Roscoe and Feather Martin for starters,” he said. “Roscoe's trying to sober up Feather right now, as we speak.”

“I don't know if sobering up Feather Martin again is possible, Charley,” she told him. “I've seen plenty of men with a love for the bottle, like Feather, try to dry out over and over again, but most of 'em only had a certain amount of tries in 'em.”

“You're saying Feather might not have another—”

“I'm saying if Feather goes cold turkey one more time, it could damn well kill him.”

Charley reached for Flora Mae's special bottle and filled both glasses again. He raised his shot glass to his lips and threw back his head.

“I don't want Feather dying on me,” he said. “Do you think you might have a better solution?”

Flora Mae tossed down the contents of her own shot glass.

“Just let him keep on drinking . . . only have someone watch over him at all times to make sure he paces his drinks. Taper him off.”

“And that'll get him sober?” Charley asked.

“No,” said Flora Mae, “of course it won't get him sober. But it'll keep him in a state where he might be able to do you some good.”

“I've seen Feather shoot a gun when he's drunker'n a skunk from his boot-toes up to his hat,” said Charley. “He's a better shot drunk than most men are sober . . . and that's a fact,” he added.

“I'll keep in mind what you've told me, darlin',” he continued. “Now, I figure I'll need about seven hundred dollars to get me those supplies.”

“Here ya go, Charley,” said Flora Mae, reaching down the front of her bodice.

She handed him two five-hundred-dollar bills.

Charley took the neatly folded pieces of paper money like they were hot pieces of coal. He fumbled with them, then he put them into his shirt pocket.

“I ain't got no change, Flora Mae,” said Charley, “but I'm grateful this loan don't have no strings attached like last one did.”

“If you mean that dance we done together at the end of the cattle drive 'cause you lost a bet . . . that didn't have nothin' to do with strings attached, Charley Sunday. That was because we like each other.”

“Still and all, Flora Mae,” he said, “I just don't think there should be strings attached to this one. Now I gotta go.”

“You just hold on one more minute there, my good friend, because I never told you there weren't no strings attached this time . . . it was you who said that.”

Charley drew in a deep breath, then expelled it.

“So what do you want from me, Flora Mae?” he asked.

“I don't want ta be tellin' you that right now, Charley . . . but when this thing of yours is all done and over with, you'll find out. Oh, will you find out,” she mumbled under her breath.

 

 

“Feather Martin, is that you?” Roscoe called out into the darkness of an alleyway behind Ben Cobb's Funeral Parlor.

There was no answer.

“I know yer' there, little man,” he said, “ 'cause I can smell ya a half-a-mile away.”

“G-geezes G-god,” came a shaky voice from behind a rainwater barrel. “R-roscoe? I-is that you c-come a c-callin'?”

It was Feather's voice.

Roscoe went right to him.

Feather Martin—raggedy beard, dirt, stink, mud and all—was lying on his back with his head propped up on several discarded funeral preparation pillows. In his hand, a near-empty bottle of rotgut whiskey, with not more than one swallow left in it.

As Roscoe leaned down to attend to his old friend, Feather took that one last swig, then he let the empty bottle slide onto his chest. He drew in a deep breath, which caused the container to roll off his chest and land in some horse muck by his side.

Roscoe lit a match, holding it up to see his friend's face.

Feather's eyes fluttered and closed again because of the brightness of the flame. His puffy, reddened face was smeared with the alleyway's sludge.

“C-cut that out,” the little cowboy sputtered through chalky lips. “T-turn out that lamp. L-leave me alone.”

Roscoe shook the matchstick to extinguish the flame.

“How would you feel about going on another manhunt?” asked Roscoe.

Feather's eyes opened one more time.

“You know I'd give up everythin' I got ta be huntin' outlaws with you an' Charley Sunday again,” he said, “but I h-h-h-hocked my gun last week ta b-buy this hooter I'm on.”

His eyes rolled back and he went wobbly.

Roscoe caught him before his head fell back.

“We can get yer shootin' iron back for ya, Feather,” whispered Roscoe. “I just hope we can get
you
back together . . . all in one piece.

Charley and Flora Mae were finishing up a game of pool when Roscoe entered, dragging the inebriated Feather along with him.

They were both in Flora Mae's eye line as she sighted in on her final shot, so she was the first to acknowledge the two men.

“Oh, Lordy,” she gasped, taking her shot and missing the eight ball completely.

“What's the matter, darlin'?” said Charley, moving quickly to her side.

He put an arm around her shoulders to keep her from falling in case she was going to faint. It was then when he saw both Roscoe and Feather stumbling toward them. Actually, it was Feather doing most of the stumbling—Roscoe was just weak-kneed from carrying half of Feather's weight across the street and into the bar.

“Can you give ol' Feather here a nip a' whiskey, Flora Mae?” Roscoe asked politely. “I was gonna buy him a bottle myself so's I could wean him off some, but I left my billfold back at the ranch.”

“Put him in that chair over there,” said Flora Mae, “'til I can get some hot coffee goin'.”

“It ain't coffee he needs, Flora Mae,” said Charley, who was now giving Roscoe some help settling the drunken man into a chair. “Like you just said,” he continued, “Feather needs some whiskey. I'll even buy,” he added.

Charley reached into his pants pocket, pulled out the contents, and handed the woman a crumpled bill.

“The cheapest you got . . . that's what his body's bound to be used to.”

Flora Mae took the money and went over to the bar. She put it on the counter.

“Gimme a bottle of Old Indian whiskey, Elmer,” she said to the bartender. “Charley wants it so he can help sober up that little booze rat over there by the pool table who's about ta throw up in his hat or pass out cold.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said the bartender. “Old Indian it is.” He reached for a full bottle behind him on the back-bar, handing it to his employer.

Flora Mae rushed back to the table where the others had made Feather as comfortable as they could. She handed the bottle to Charley who immediately popped the cork and splashed some of its contents onto the little wrangler's face.

Charley had made sure that some of the fiery liquid had gotten to the cowboy's lips, so it wasn't long before Feather began showing some signs of life.

“Lemme have some more,” choked Feather, reaching blindly for the bottle he couldn't see.

“Not until you sit up, my friend, and give me your full attention,” said Charley.

He held the bottle up like a carrot to a mule.

Feather did his best to reposition himself in the chair until, with a little assistance from Roscoe, he was able to sit upright facing Charley eye-to-eye once again.

“C-can I have a itty-bitty s-swallow now, B-boss?” he asked.

“Only if you can promise me to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed come morning . . .”

Feather nodded, then he reached out to where he thought the bottle should be.

“. . . and,” Charley went on, “I want you to take the Pledge for the whole time we're on the trail of those men who abducted my daughter and her husband, down in Mexico.”

Feather nodded profusely, even though he hadn't a clue as to what Charley was talking about. He was desperate.

“Y-yes, yes, y-yes, and double y-yes,” he said. “Now g-gimme that drink, will ya?”

Charley handed him the bottle.