Butch Cassidy the Lost Years Read online

  That just left the kid, and when I went inside again I was relieved to see that he was still alive. All that lead whistling around the room, and none of it had found him. He had to be leading a charmed life.

  In a way I felt sorry for him. I knew the feeling of being untouchable, of believing that no matter how bad things got, somehow they were going to work out. I remembered thinking that I would always be able to dodge the worst trouble, that something—call it God or fate or just plain luck—would intervene at the last moment and turn aside whatever disaster was barreling down on me.

  And for a lot of years, that was exactly the way things happened.

  Until they didn’t. And after that, nothing in my life was ever the same.

  “Enjoy it while you can, kid,” I told him, even though he couldn’t hear me while he was unconscious. “It won’t last. And in the meantime, you’ve left me a hell of a mess to clean up.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I started by dragging the bodies into the barn and hoisting them onto the buckboard. The horses and mules didn’t like the smell of all that freshly spilled blood, but there was nothing they could do about it except stomp around restlessly and whinny their complaints.

  The horses the three men had ridden in on were gone, having run off after their owners were shot. I’d probably be able to find them in the morning, I thought. Once I had the bodies loaded on the buckboard, I threw a piece of canvas over them and tied it down good. That would keep varmints away from them.

  That was really all I could do tonight. The damage to the house from the explosion would take several days to repair, maybe as much as a week. I went back inside, found the pistol the kid had pointed at me, unloaded it, and stowed it away in Abner’s trunk where the kid couldn’t find it if he woke up.

  Then I took off my hat and boots, crawled back into bed, and went to sleep. Killing wore me out. I was glad I hadn’t had to do it for all those years. But these three varmints hadn’t given me any choice, and I was damned if I was going to lie awake tossing and turning over what I’d done.

  When I woke up in the morning the kid was trying to stand up, but he was too weak from losing all that blood to make it. He couldn’t even sit up. He slumped back on the sofa and let out a bitter curse before he knew I was awake. I’d been watching him with one hand on the Remington, which I’d slipped under my pillow the night before.

  “Take it easy,” I told him. His head jerked toward me, and his eyes were open so wide I could see white all around them. “You’re not hurt that bad, but you’re gonna need some rest while you’re recuperatin’.”

  “Who . . . where . . .”

  “Those are good questions,” I said as I sat up. “Why don’t you answer the first one? What’s your name?”

  The night before, I’d heard one of the men say that Randy’s horse was in the barn, so I was curious to see if the kid would tell me the truth.

  After a moment of lying there looking like he wanted to jump up and bolt out the door, he said quietly, “Randall.”

  “What’d you say?” I asked, even though I had heard him.

  “Randall,” he repeated, and his voice was stronger this time. “Randall McClellan.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Randy,” I said. “I’m Jim Strickland. I introduced myself last night, but the shape you were in at the time, I sort of doubt that you recall it. This is my place.”

  “I know. I remember being here before. What I don’t understand is how I got here now.”

  “Your horse brought you. I reckon you passed out from bein’ shot, but your horse kept goin’. Lucky for you that he did, too. I got the feeling that the hombres who were lookin’ for you weren’t real happy with you. Not much tellin’ what they might have done if they’d caught up to you out on the prairie.”

  “Tate!” he said. He started getting that wild-eyed look again. “Is Tate here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There are three dead men out in the barn, but I didn’t ask their names before I killed them.” I paused. “Seems like I remember that one of them was called Steve, though.”

  Randy leaned his head back and closed his eyes as a sigh came from him.

  “Steve Tate,” he said, opening his eyes again. “You say he’s dead?”

  “Dead as can be. So are the other two.”

  “Williams and Perkins,” Randy said.

  “Your partners in that train robbery?”

  He jerked again. He was a jumpy cuss, even wounded like that.

  “How did you—”

  I held up a hand to stop him.

  “You need some coffee and something to eat,” I told him. “The sooner we get some food in you, the sooner you’ll start getting over bein’ shot like that.”

  I got out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and began rustling some breakfast for us. I hadn’t forgotten about those three corpses out in the barn, but I wanted to get things squared away with Randy first.

  When I had the coffee brewed and the bacon and flapjacks were ready, I helped him sit up on the sofa and set a tray with a cup and plate on it in his lap. After we had eaten, I would check that bandage on his side.

  He was still shaky, but he was strong enough to hold his own coffee cup and feed himself. I sat at the table to eat. The room wasn’t so big we had to yell at each other to be heard.

  “You fellas were the ones who tried to hold up that train, right?” I asked him.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” he said with a sullen look on his face. “Tate came up with the plan. He said we could make a fortune. I’d been drifting for a long time, ever since my folks died, and I thought if I could make some money, everything would finally be all right again.”

  “People tend to think that, all right,” I said. “Most of the time, it don’t work out that way, though.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to realize that. I didn’t know at first he planned to derail the train. When I found out I told him we shouldn’t do it. I said we might kill a bunch of innocent people. You know what he did?”

  I shook my head.

  “He just laughed at me and said there aren’t any innocent people, just them that have and them that don’t. I was brand-new to the gang. I couldn’t stop them.”

  “You could’ve ridden away,” I pointed out.

  “They would have killed me rather than risk me putting the law on their trail.”

  I thought about it for a moment and nodded.

  “More than likely,” I agreed.

  He took another drink of the coffee to brace himself up some more, then went on, “When things didn’t work out just like Tate hoped, he said we’d have to charge in and kill the express messengers. But it wasn’t just clerks in the express car. There were armed guards in there, too, and they opened fire on us before we could even start shooting at them. I . . . I squeezed off a few rounds, then I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned around and tried to get out of there. But Tate saw me, and he . . . he shot me himself. He was like a wild man, raving and cussing and shooting. I didn’t think I’d get out of there alive, Mr. Strickland.”

  “You probably didn’t miss being dead by much,” I said. “Why were they trying to track you down? I would’ve thought they’d be puttin’ as many miles between them and Cougar Pass as they could.”

  “I guess Tate didn’t want me telling the law who they were. We wore bandannas over our faces, and everything was so mixed up because of the wreck and all the shooting I don’t think anybody could have identified us later.”

  He was probably right about that, too, I thought.

  “And I think Tate was loco,” Randy added in a hushed voice. “I think he might’ve wanted to kill me just because I tried to run out on them. Williams and Perkins would have gone along with him on that. They were sort of scared of him.”

  “What you’re tellin’ me all makes sense,” I said. “But I’ve got another question for you . . . do you still have your heart set on being a train robber?”

  “I never set out to be a train ro
bber,” he said. “I told you, I just sort of fell in with those men, Mr. Strickland. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. I’ve stolen to eat, stole money and food both. But I didn’t want to kill anybody.”

  That was what I’d thought he would say, but I was glad to hear it anyway. I drank the last of my coffee and said, “All right, Randy, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna change that bandage on your side, and then I’m taking those three dead outlaws to Largo and sending word to Sheriff Emil Lester about them. I’m gonna tell the sheriff that they showed up here last night and tried to kill me and my new hired man so they could loot the place and steal some fresh horses.”

  “New hired man? You mean me?”

  “That’s right.” I stood up. “You signed up to work for the Fishhook spread yesterday morning, you understand? So there’s no way you could’ve been anywhere near Cougar Pass when that locomotive went off the rails.” He started to say something, but I held up a hand to stop him. “Not only that, but you were wounded valiantly in the fight when we downed those owlhoots. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a hero, and as soon as you can ride again, you’ve got a job here on the Fishhook for as long as you want it.”

  He stared at me, unable to speak. When he finally found his tongue again, he asked, “Why would you do that for me? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Well, hell, son,” I told him with a grin, “I’ve been in some pretty desperate straits myself from time to time. I know what it feels like to not have any hope, and then somebody holds out a sliver of it. You grab on to it because there’s nothin’ else you can do, not if you’re human. We’re all weak now and again. That don’t mean we don’t deserve a second chance.”

  “I . . . I can’t believe it.”

  “You’d better believe it, because it’s the truth. There’s only one thing you’ve got to do right now for me.”

  He got a wary look on his face again, and I didn’t blame him a bit. It was probably going to be a long time before he trusted anybody completely again, if he ever did.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “You’ve got to give me your word you won’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, like trying to get on a horse and ride away from here. You’ve got to promise that you’ll be here when I get back from town.”

  He didn’t answer right away, even though we both knew he had plumb run out of options. I guess he still had enough pride he wanted to make it look like he was thinking about it.

  Finally he nodded and said, “All right. I give you my word. I’ll be here, Mr. Strickland.”

  I grinned at him again and told him, “Good. Finish your breakfast. You need to get your strength back as soon as you can. If you’re gonna ride for the Fishhook brand, you’re gonna earn your keep, son!”

  CHAPTER 11

  Blood had soaked through the canvas in places, so I drew quite a bit of attention when I drove the buckboard into Largo late that morning with one of my saddle horses tied to the back. Farnum’s store was the center of the community, so that’s where I headed. Several men and even a couple of women followed me, forming a small crowd around the back of the buckboard as I stopped in front of the store, next to a Model T Ford somebody had parked there. I always saw a few automobiles every time I came to town, but bad roads and isolation meant most people out here still used horses and wagons.

  “What in tarnation do you have there, Mr. Strickland?” Tom Mulrooney asked me. He was a burly fella who owned the blacksmith shop.

  “Is that . . . blood?” one of the women asked. I didn’t know her name, but I recalled that she was a seamstress and ran the millinery shop. Her question managed to sound both horrifyng and interesting at the same time.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I told her as I hopped down from the seat. “You might want to step back. I’m afraid what’s under here would offend those with delicate sensibilities.”

  “It’s dead men, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  I could tell she wanted me to peel back that canvas and let her have a look. So did most of the others. I saw the morbid curiosity in their eyes.

  Maybe it’s because of my own background, but it always bothered me the way any time an outlaw got killed, honest, respectable citizens would prop his bullet-riddled body up on a board and put it on display for folks to gawk at. Lawmen posed proudly and triumphantly with the corpse while photographs were made. Undertakers sometimes charged an admission fee just to gaze at the unlucky bastard. I’d even heard a story about how the body of a famous gunman had been stuffed and turned into an exhibit in a damned medicine show. I don’t mind admitting the whole thing annoyed the hell out of me. Even an owlhoot ought to have a right to a little dignity once he’d crossed the divide. Being left for the coyotes was better than having your death turned into a spectacle.

  I was trying to make my home here, though, so I held my tongue and didn’t tell those good, churchgoing, God-fearing folks what no-account vultures they were acting like. Anyway, I guess they were just following human nature, which most of the time isn’t much to be proud of, but you can’t really help it, either. That’s why they call it human nature.

  Clyde Farnum came out on the porch of his store, drawn by the commotion in the street, and said, “Good Lord, Jim, what you got there?”

  “Three dead outlaws, Clyde,” I told him. “This is the rest of the gang that derailed the locomotive in Cougar Pass yesterday morning.”

  That caused even more of a stir. People really did want to get a look under that canvas then.

  I went on, “I need somebody to take a ride down to the county seat and fetch back the sheriff, I guess. He’s the one who ought to take charge of these bodies.”

  “No need for that,” Farnum said. “The sheriff ain’t there. He’s right here in Largo.” He pointed down the street to the settlement’s only café. “He and the posse rode in a little while ago. They’re down there gettin’ something to eat before they start out on the trail again. Reckon now they won’t have to.”

  I turned to ask if somebody in the crowd would be kind enough to let the sheriff know I needed to see him. I didn’t have to voice the request. A couple of men were already hustling in that direction, and I knew good and well what their destination was.

  Sure enough, they went into the café, and less than a minute later Sheriff Lester came out in a hurry, followed by a couple of his deputies. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and he had a napkin tucked into his collar. He realized the napkin was still there after he’d already started into the street. With a disgusted motion, he plucked it loose and tossed it to the ground behind him. I thought that was a mite rude. The café owner would have to retrieve that napkin.

  The crowd around the buckboard had continued to grow while I was talking to Farnum. More than a dozen people stood around it now, waiting to see what was going to happen. They probably figured that with the sheriff on his way, there was a good chance they’d get a look at the bodies after all.

  Folks got out of Lester’s way. He came up to me, red-faced and glaring, and demanded, “Strickland, what the hell is all this?”

  “Just what I imagine you’ve already been told, Sheriff.” I nodded toward the canvas-covered cargo. “I’ve got the three outlaws who tried to hold up the train yesterday.”

  “How in blazes do you know that?”

  “Heard ’em say as much before the shooting started,” I replied. I had worked out my story on the way into town. “One of them let it slip while they were dickering with me, trying to get me to trade them some fresh horses. I’ve got a hunch they planned to kill me and my new hired man anyway, but once that business about the train robbery was out in the open, they didn’t waste any time slappin’ leather.”

  “They tried to kill you?” Lester snapped.

  “Yep. Things got pretty hot there for a while. We fought them off and managed to bring down all three of ’em, but Randy took a bullet in the side.”

 
“Who’s Randy?”

  “That new rider I hired. Randy McClellan.”

  I could tell the name didn’t mean a blessed thing to Lester, and I was glad to see that. As long as the sheriff didn’t know who he was, I had a chance of keeping any more trouble from dogging Randy’s trail. And mine, too, of course. I was at least as worried about that as I was about Randy’s welfare.

  Lester gave me a curt nod and said, “Let’s see ’em.” A stir of anticipation went through the crowd.

  I had known Lester would want to take a look at them, so I was ready. I jerked loose a couple of knots and threw the canvas back far enough to reveal the faces of the dead men. The one I’d shot in the chest didn’t look too bad, but the fella who’d caught a couple of slugs in the face was ugly as hell, of course. The one whose throat had been ripped open by that flying splinter didn’t look much better. Gasps of fascinated horror came from the women in the crowd. The men did a lot of muttering to each other.

  “According to Wells Fargo, four outlaws got away after that train robbery,” Lester said.

  “That’s what I heard,” I said with a shrug. “But these hombres were the only ones who showed up at my ranch. Wasn’t one of them wounded in the fight with the guards? He probably didn’t make it and they left his body for the buzzards somewhere out there on the trail.”

  Lester grunted and said, “Yeah, you might be right about that.” He jerked a hand at the bodies. “Cover them back up.”

  The crowd was probably disappointed, but I did what the sheriff told me. Lester went on, “There’s no undertaker here in Largo. I’ll have to take these bodies back to the county seat with me this afternoon. I’m commandeering your buckboard.”

  “I thought you might want to do that. That’s why I brought along a horse to ride back to the ranch. You’ll see to it the buckboard’s returned to me, won’t you, Sheriff?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, visibly irritated. “You said that rider of yours was wounded? Why didn’t you bring him with you if he needs medical attention?”