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At the church, which stood on slightly higher ground than the Juanita Pharmacy, the entire, startled congregation was trying to press through the narrow double-doors so they might witness what had caused the thunderous blast that had interrupted their peaceful service.
Charley Sunday, normally a very polite individual, put aside his good manners for the moment and managed to wedge his way through the unsettled multitude so he could be first out onto the porch.
He immediately heard the squealing of tires. From his vantage looking down on the town, he could see the black sedan moving rapidly toward the house of worship.
Several blocks behind the car, Sunday also observed a large, dissipating cloud of black smoke, with several small puffs still rolling upward from the center of town.
A number of parishioners gathering behind Charley appeared outwardly distressed at the sight of the menacing automobile careening wildly up the street, heading directly for the intersection where they stood gaping from the church portico.
“Better get yer’ be-hinds back inside,” Charley cautioned.
The worshippers, who knew Charles Abner Sunday to be more than straightforward when it came to matters such as the one at hand, ducked into the vestibule.
Sunday continued to keep a narrow eye on the approaching vehicle. He moved almost casually to the planter where he found his chaw of tobacco, tucking it between teeth and cheek. All the while, the sound of the screeching tires grew closer and closer.
Slowly and deliberately Charley Sunday bent down. He raised the cuff of his trousers to reveal a smoothly polished, freshly oiled, .44 caliber, antique, Colt pistol.”
It was a Whitneyville Walker – also known as the 1847 Army Model – and it was Charley Sunday’s gun of choice, having been passed down, in times of yore to the present, from father to son, the type used by the Texas Rangers way back in the middle of the 19th century."
The historic firearm was 15½ inches long, and weighed four pounds, nine ounces – the barrel measuring nine-inches by itself. It had a square-backed, brass, trigger guard, and sported grips made of one-piece walnut.
Sunday removed the ancient six-shooter from his boot-top, checking the cylinder before pulling back the hammer.
When the getaway car was almost to the junction, someone inside the vehicle fired several slugs of burning lead in the direction of the gentleman wearing the gray hat who stood on the church steps.
The bullets went way wide of their intended target.
Charley didn’t flinch. He unceremoniously spat some tobacco juice, raised the
As the car careened into a sliding turn, speeding past Sunday’s position, the old rancher squeezed off two well-placed shots.
Both of the sedan’s left tires were virtually shot out from under it.
The vehicle slid violently across the ancient asphalt and into a curbside, where it glanced off several mailboxes before eventually being stopped dead by a sturdy, yellow fireplug.
There was the briefest of moments then a massive plume of water gushed high into the air.
Charley calmly walked on down the church steps, crossing the street to where the sedan had been halted.
Ignoring the cascading water, he made his way to the driver’s-side door, opening it and dragging the bleary-eyed operator from the front seat.
He brought the heavy barrel of his Colt Walker down on the driver’s head, while at the same time reaching into the back of the car and pulling a second man from the rear.
As he had done with the first, he thumped him good with the gun’s barrel then casually shoved the hefty pistol back into his boot-top, covering it with his cuff.
With both robbers collared, he dragged them clear of the spewing water and over to where several members of the congregation had gathered.
One of the men, Willingham Dubbs, was busy pinning a gold sheriff’s star to his lapel. He appeared to be boiling mad as Charley reached the small group of church elders, dropping his two charges at the fuming law officer’s feet.
“
Sunday eyed the lawman sternly. He spit some more tobacco juice, narrowing his eyes.
“A man’s gotta’ do what a man’s gotta’ do, Willingham. So get off-a’ yer’ high horse,” he warned. “All I done was to put a spoke in their wheels before you did ... an’ that’s a fact.
“Go on now,” he continued. “Lock em up. Then we can get back to our Sunday meetin’ with our Lord.”
Charley continued to stare down the sheriff. And after spitting another smooth, slick, stream of tobacco juice, he turned abruptly, moving back toward the church.
As he passed through the remainder of the flock, the ones who had stayed around to witness his confrontation with the sheriff, he began to whistle.
And as the soft strains of The Yellow Rose of Texas began to drift from the old cowman’s puckered lips, Charles Abner Sunday found it somewhat difficult not to smile.