No Name Charlie
The town of
Hope, Nevada, was quiet as the sun rose over the mountains. The glow of newly lit lamps glowed through
glassless windows of clapboard shacks as the occupants started the day. Not everyone faced the morning contemplating earning
his livelihood.
No Name
Charlie paused with head bent and both arms submerged as he pulled himself off
the ground holding onto the water trough.
Droplets of water fell from his shaggy, dirty hair and unshaven face as the
water reflected his image. The musky
water added to his grimy appearance after a night of whiskey and sleeping on
the ground.
Never
telling his name or where he came from, the owner of the Red Dog Saloon, Tom
Winston, called him No name Charlie. Charlie’s favorite sleeping place was the
water trough across from the Longhorn Café.
During unpleasant weather, he curled in a fetal position under the
trough. As soon as the clouds dissipated,
he made his way across the boggy street to the Red Dog Saloon. He swept the
saloon but took his pay mostly in drinks.
Ember, owner of the Longhorn Café, gave
Charlie a plate passing it into the alley. Her customers complained about his rancid smell. At dusk, Charlie was always seen leaving the
saloon, getting his food, and going toward the water trough. After arriving in town, his first resting
place had been the livery stable. Zeb,
the hostler, had ignored Charlie sleeping there until Charlie opened the large
doors and stampeded the horses onto the prairie.
Huddled
under the trough, Charlie pulled his ragged coat tighter around his frail body.
Opening his red-rimmed eyes, he felt his head explode from a night of drinking
and now heard yelling in the street. Convinced
he was dreaming, he lay still. The townspeople had never been rowdy and
certainly never in the morning. Occasionally a cowboy would be rambunctious at
the end of a hard days work. Spending one
night in Sheriff Coffee’s jail was usually a determent against repeat actions.
On his
knees, Charlie crawled from his sleeping place. Loud talking and crying
vibrated his eardrums .Cautiously peeking toward the street, he glared at
tearful women being comforted .Men were huddled in small groups whispering
among themselves. A chill of fear swept
down Charlie’s spine as he noticed the empty holsters on the men’s hips. Finally, the groggy mist in his brain cleared
for him to realize something was very, very wrong. Still in a drunken daze, he
wobbled to the distressed group.
No one
noticed Charlie as he eased closer to listen.
His stench was ignored as the fearful few talked about the early morning
events. Willie Walker, a lawless
cutthroat, had brought his gang of four rowdy, barbaric scoundrels into town to
wait on the noon stage carrying a large gold shipment. The Wells Fargo stagecoach was heavily
guarded and crossed open ground making it too dangerous to take on the
road. In the meantime, Willie sat in the
Red Dog Saloon with one of his men guarding the mayor along with his wife and
daughter. The rest were going door to door grabbing
what valuables they could find and crudely handling the women. No one could enter the saloon and any type of
disturbance would mean death to the mayor’s family. Charlie knew he could enter the saloon
without being a threat. Staggering
through the swinging doors, he yelled, “I want a drink.” The only sound was the
swish of a Colt .45 leaving its holster.
Willie
raising a bottle to his full mustached lips replied, “It’s an old drunk. Give him a bottle on the house .It’s all
ours.” Reaching his hogleg on the table, he shot several bottles. While the mayor’s family cowered down in
fear, No Name Charlie exited to the street hugging his precious liquid tight
against himself.
Charlie
staggered into the street pretending he was more intoxicated than he was... Sheriff Coffee and the other citizens bombarded
him with questions. Tom said, “Sheriff
Coffee, what can we do?”
“Tom, I
don’t know. If we try anything the
hostages are dead.”
No Name
Charlie opened his bottle of whiskey, raised it to his nose for a smell and
slowly poured it on the ground. Tom and the sheriff blurted at the same time,
“Charlie, what are you doing?”
“Getting
sober. I want a sawed off shotgun , two
Colt 45’s ,plenty of ammunition, a knife and a rope. Bring them to the back door of the café and
stay off the street.”
Bewildered
the men looked at Charlie but were too shocked to reply. Charlie held the empty bottle tightly to his
chest as he crossed toward the horse trough.
Charlie
waited awhile so he could play drunk before leaving the horse trough. He was handed his meal out the back door of
the Longhorn Café by Ember. Eb, the
cook, had the other things he wanted. No
one spoke as Ember kissed his cheek lightly while he shoved the weapons down
his pants and under his tattered coat.
While Charlie pretended to be drinking, he watched the two outlaws go to
different ends of town. Staggering close to the first man, Charlie said, “Howdy
friend.”
Startled ,thinking
he was alone, he said, “what the…” Charlie drove the knife between his ribs and
slowly lowered him to the ground.
Charlie
turning toward the other end of town mumbled, “That’s one. Three more to go”. Seeing the other man enter
the livery, Charlie knew there was an outside ladder leading to the loft. His steps were softened by musky hay. In the
shadows, he saw the man he was hunting with his back to the loft relieving himself. Looping the rope, Charlie dropped it over the
outlaw’s neck pulling his feet only inches from the ground before tying it to a
rafter. The man’s gurgling could be
heard as Charlie swayed out the stable door for the Mad Dog Saloon.
Almost
falling, Charlie entered the saloon. The
mayor’s family .huddled in a corner shook with fear. “I’ve come for another
bottle. Gimme two.”
Willie said,
“Pete, give him a couple of bottles.”
“If the old
drunk wants them, he can get them”.
Charlie
slowly made his way behind the bar. His left hand reached for a bottle as his
right hand eased the shotgun from under his coat. Sparks flew as the gun blast
set Willie’s clothes on fire. A cry was
heard as Pete tumbled sideways to the floor.
Screaming the women ran out the door followed by the mayor. Charlie throwing the shotgun reached to claim
himself several bottles before leaving
by the back door.
A gruesome
sight faced the few men who rushed into the bloody saloon. Sheriff Coffee said, “Where’s No Name
Charlie?”
Zeb replied,
“Charlie’s gone. He’s Charlie Grant.”
A surprised
look was on Sheriff Coffee’s face as he replied, “The Charlie Grant that was
marshal in the Dakota Territory.!”
“That’s him.
I knew him but if he wanted to keep his name a secret, I wasn’t going to
tell. Outlaws killed his wife and two
little boys. He trailed and killed all
five of them one at a time. They didn’t
die easy. He tortured them worse than
the Comancheros. This town owes a debt
to No Name Charlie.
The driver
yelled at the eight horses as the stagecoach left town. He was unaware of No Name
Charlie under the canvas at the back of the coach.Charlie opening a bottle of
whiskey knowing he had two more in the pockets of his coat.settled down for the
ride to an unknown destination.
____________________________
By
Revia Jenks Perrigin