Butch Cassidy the Lost Years Read online

  “He just got a bullet crease in his side,” I explained. “I cleaned and bandaged it. That’s all a sawbones would’ve done.”

  That wasn’t strictly true. A doctor likely would’ve sewed up the wound, too. But I had drawn the edges tight together before I bound it up, and I was confident it would heal without stitches. If I saw that wasn’t going to be the case, I could fetch Randy to the doc then.

  Lester accepted that explanation. He said, “You’ll have a reward coming for these men, Strickland. The railroad doesn’t take kindly to being robbed.”

  I could have told him that I was all too aware of that, but instead I said, “I don’t need any blood money. Randy and me were just trying to keep those varmints from ventilating us. I heard the engineer and the fireman were killed when the locomotive derailed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “See to it that the reward money goes to their families, Sheriff.” I hadn’t asked Randy about that, but it wasn’t really his decision to make. “Can you do that?”

  Lester regarded me with a suspicious stare for a long moment, but he finally nodded and said, “If that’s the way you want it, sure. I’ll see to it, Strickland.”

  “I’m obliged to you.” Enough people had heard what the sheriff said that I figured he would keep his word. I went to the back of the buckboard and untied my horse. “Reckon I’ll head on back out to the Fishhook now.”

  “Hold on,” Lester ordered. “I didn’t say I was through asking you questions yet.”

  “What else do you want to know, Sheriff? Those fellas tried to kill Randy and me, and we killed them instead. The whole thing’s pretty doggone simple.”

  His eyes were still narrow with suspicion, but I had a strong hunch that was just habit with him. After a second he nodded again and said, “All right. I know where to find you if I need to talk to you again.”

  “Yes, sir, you sure do.”

  I swung up into the saddle and lifted a hand in farewell. The townspeople got out of my way as I turned the horse. I heard a lot of low-voiced chatter behind me. It wouldn’t be long before the story spread and got bigger than it really was, I thought. Five hundred people would claim to have been in Largo the day I brought the bodies in, instead of the twenty-five or thirty who were really there. The number of corpses would grow from three men in a buckboard to a whole pile of dead outlaws in the back of a prairie schooner.

  The truth was never as good as a legend, I thought as I rode away from Largo.

  CHAPTER 12

  Randy had kept his word to me. He was still there on the ranch when I rode in. He was dozing on the sofa, getting some of his strength back.

  The wound in his side was still raw and sore-looking when I changed the bandage that evening after supper, but I didn’t see any of the telltale red streaks running away from it that would have told me it was festering.

  By the next morning the crease was starting to look a little better. I cleaned it with whiskey again, and he was strong enough to cuss some at the sting.

  Any man who’s been on the drift for a while starts to feel restless if he has to stay in one place for very long. After a couple more days I could tell that Randy was getting fiddle-footed again. He insisted that he was strong enough to get up and come to the supper table, and after we had eaten, I said, “Don’t forget we had a deal. I kept the law from coming after you for that train robbery, and you agreed to stay here and work for me.”

  “I haven’t said anything about leaving, have I?”

  “You didn’t need to,” I told him. “I can see it in your eyes. And if you’re bound and determined to do it, I won’t stop you. But I can tell you right now, if you do you stand a good chance of coming to a bad end. The West ain’t like it used to be. There’s no place for a horseback desperado anymore. The real bandits drive automobiles and live in cities now.”

  “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

  “Never you mind about that. Just take some advice from somebody who’s older and—”

  I started to say “wiser,” but then I remembered how I’d said that nobody ever accused me of that. It was true. So I went on, “Older, anyway. If you want to make something of yourself, this is the place to start.”

  “You sound like a preacher or a schoolteacher.”

  I grinned and said, “Son, if you knew how funny that was, you’d be laughin’, too.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, then, “I still don’t know why you’re doing this.”

  “Well, hell, I don’t, either,” I said. “But just because I don’t know why I’m doin’ something has never stopped me.”

  After a few more days, Randy insisted he was strong enough to go outside. He even offered to do a little light work around the place, but I wouldn’t let him. The wound in his side had scabbed over and seemed to be healing just fine, but I didn’t want him to break it open again. That might wind up wasting all my efforts so far.

  Winter seemed like it was over, but officially the seasons hadn’t changed yet, and I knew how unpredictable Texas weather could be. I saw proof of it over the next few days, as some of them were sunny and warm enough to make a man break a sweat if he did any work outside while others were overcast and cold, with a wind whipping down from the north that reminded me of the night I’d met Abner Tillotson.

  On one of the warmer days, Randy and I were in the barn when we heard horses coming. He had pestered me so much I’d finally given him some harness to mend, and I was wrestling with a rock that one of my saddle mounts had picked up in a shoe. I was trying to coax the pesky devil out with my clasp knife when I first heard the hoofbeats. Randy looked up from his chore a second later and said, “Is that somebody—”

  “Yeah,” I said. I closed my knife and slipped it back in my pocket. “Stay in here.”

  I was wearing the holstered Remington. I never went anywhere without a gun. Several times I had caught Randy sneaking admiring glances at the revolver, and I didn’t blame him. It was a fine weapon, especially in comparison with that little pocket pistol of his. Steve Tate had given it to him, he’d explained, because he didn’t have a gun of any sort when he joined up with the outlaws.

  I knew he worried that he might have hit somebody with those shots he fired during the train robbery, but I didn’t think that was very likely. He had squeezed off a few rounds with the pistol while I was practicing with the Remington, and the thing was so wildly inaccurate beyond about ten feet that I didn’t think he could be held accountable for any damage he’d done with it. Anytime anybody actually hit anything with that gun, it was just blind luck, as far as I was concerned.

  So when he started to get up from the stool where he’d been sitting and reached in his pocket for the pistol, I shook my head and said again, “Stay here.”

  “What if you need help?”

  “Then you can come a-runnin’,” I told him, although I thought that was pretty unlikely.

  I stepped out of the barn just as the three riders came to a stop in front of the house. Right away I recognized Santiago Marquez and his cousins Javier and Fernando Gallardo.

  “Hola, amigos,” I called to them. “Over here.” I took my hat off and used my other arm to sleeve sweat off my forehead as they turned their horses and rode over to the barn.

  “I see you are still here, Señor Strickland,” Santiago said, and although his face was as grim and solemn as it had been before, I thought I saw a small twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes.

  “What, you didn’t think the sheriff was gonna drag me off to jail, did you, Santiago?”

  “With Sheriff Lester it is hard to say what he might do. But I suppose you are right. He would not arrest the hero of Cougar Pass.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “Is that what folks are callin’ me? Hell, I wasn’t even there!”

  “No, but you killed three of the outlaws who got away. You are a famous man, señor.”

  I didn’t have any desire to be famous anymore. I had tried that
, and while it had its good points, sure enough, in the end it hadn’t meant a damned thing.

  “Folks will forget all about me in a month’s time,” I said. “At least I hope they will. I’m just a simple, hard-workin’ rancher, that’s all.”

  “And that is why we are here. It has been a week. Do you want to hire us to help with the spring roundup?”

  I’d been giving it some thought, and since it looked like I was going to stay on for a while, I would need some help with the spread. Santiago and his cousins knew the range, knew the stock, and knew what needed to be done. I nodded and said, “Yeah, I do. I need a foreman, too, and the job’s yours if you want it, Santiago.”

  He frowned slightly, and considering his impassive nature I knew I’d surprised him.

  “Señor Tillotson always served as his own foreman,” he said.

  “That’s fine, but it’s been a while since I’ve worked on a roundup. You and your cousins have your own ranch, right?”

  “Sí, much smaller than this one.”

  “But keeping it running isn’t that much different, I’ll bet. You know what you’re doin’, and I trust you, Santiago.”

  “You barely know me,” he pointed out.

  I chuckled and said, “But I’m a good judge of character.”

  Santiago looked at Javier and Fernando. They both shrugged. He looked at me again and said, “All right, señor. We will not let you down.”

  “I don’t expect you will. You won’t have to do all the work yourself. I’ll pitch in, and we’ll have another hand, too.” I turned my head and called into the barn, “Randy, come on out here.”

  He didn’t come out right away, but after a few seconds went by he shuffled into sight. His right hand was in his jeans pocket, and I knew he was clutching that little pistol. I hoped he had sense enough to leave it where it was.

  “Randy, come here,” I said. “I want you to meet the fellas you’ll be workin’ with.”

  He was sort of washed out and didn’t look too healthy, especially compared to the three vaqueros, who might have been hewn out of oak. The clothes he’d been wearing when he showed up were so soaked with blood that I hadn’t been able to save them, so now Randy was wearing some of Abner’s clothes, and they were pretty baggy on him. It occurred to me that Santiago might recognize the duds and get suspicious again, but jeans and work shirts are pretty common and I didn’t see anything distinctive about the garments Randy had on.

  “Fellas, this is Randy McClellan,” I told the vaqueros.

  “The one who helped you kill the outlaws,” Santiago said. “The one who was wounded.”

  “That’s right. Randy, meet Santiago Marquez and Javier and Fernando Gallardo.” I paused. “No offense, but I don’t reckon I know which of you is Javier and which is Fernando.”

  Even that didn’t prompt them to say anything. Santiago pointed at one and said, “Javier,” then pointed at the other and said, “Fernando.” Seeing as how they were almost as alike as the proverbial two peas in a pod, I wasn’t sure how much that was going to help.

  Randy nodded and said, “Howdy.” I was glad to see that he’d taken his hand out of his pocket, away from the gun.

  “Santiago’s my foreman. Once you’re able to work again, you’ll be taking your orders from him.”

  “I could work now. I can sit a saddle.”

  “Give it another week, and then we’ll see,” I told him. I looked at Santiago again and said, “What do we need to do to get ready for roundup?”

  “You’ll need a few more hombres. And a cook.”

  “Where do I find a cook?”

  Santiago shrugged.

  “I would look in the saloon in Largo. There are old cowboys who come there to pass the time of day. Some of them hire out to the ranches around here during roundup. And there are young cowboys looking for work as well. I would say you need . . . three more men.”

  I had a feeling that he knew perfectly well who would be willing to hire on and who would be good for the jobs. But he was leaving it to me, as a test to see what sort of crew I would put together. If that was the way he wanted it, fine. I had gotten together a pretty good bunch of fellas in the past when jobs needed to be done.

  “All right, I’ll go to Largo tomorrow and see who I can find. In the meantime—”

  “We will start scouting your range to see where all the cattle are. Some of them like to hide in the hills to the south.”

  “That’s what I was just about to say,” I told him. “You’ll be here bright and early in the morning?”

  “Bright and early, Señor Strickland.”

  They rode off, and as Randy watched them go, he said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, boss. Those fellas look like bandits to me.”

  “Trust me,” I told him. “I know bandits when I see ’em.”

  CHAPTER 13

  As it turned out, Randy, Santiago, and the Gallardo boys weren’t the only newcomers to the Fishhook. That night, Randy and I were in the house when we heard a commotion out in the barn. I had just checked the wound in his side and was pleased to see that it was still healing just fine, as far as I could tell. One of the windows I had replaced after the shootout with Tate and the other outlaws was open to let in some night breezes, and it let in the racket all the horses were kicking up, too.

  “Something’s sure spooking those critters,” I said as I stood up from the table. Randy started to get up, too, but I motioned him back into his chair. “No, sit down, I’ll check it out. No need for you to come along.”

  “Damn it, Mr. Strickland,” he said. “You don’t let me do a thing around here.”

  “That’s not true. You worked on mendin’ that harness today.”

  He gave me a disgusted look that made it clear how he felt about that job. It’s true, that was a chore usually reserved for the old, stove-up cowboys. That and cooking.

  “All right, come on,” I told him. “But if there’s any shootin’ to be done, let me handle it. When that popgun of yours goes off, the only safe place to be is behind you, and I ain’t altogether certain of that.”

  “You plan on paying me wages?” he asked as I took the Winchester down from its pegs.

  “What? Of course I do.”

  “Well, when I’ve got my first month’s wages I’m going to Largo and buying a decent revolver.”

  “All right, fine. Until then, leave that gun you’ve got in your pocket.”

  I had replaced the boards in the gallery, too. I was a pretty fair carpenter, if I do say so myself. We walked over them and headed for the barn, where the horses were still carrying on. I heard horseshoes thudding against the sides of several stalls as they tried to kick their way out.

  “Better be careful,” Randy said. “There must be some sort of varmint in there.”

  “A wolf, maybe. Or a bear.”

  “I’m not sure there are any bears in this part of the country. More likely a coyote. Maybe a panther.”

  “You make fun of me sayin’ there might be a bear, and then you start talkin’ about panthers?” I said.

  “There are panthers around here,” he insisted. “At least I think so.”

  “Let’s just go take a look—”

  A deep, throaty growl from the open doors of the barn made us both stop right where we were. The shape that stalked out of the shadows in a slow, menacing glide was big and shaggy.

  “Good Lord,” Randy said quietly in an awed voice. “Maybe it is a bear after all.”

  “It don’t move like a bear,” I told him without taking my eyes off the critter. It had stopped, but I sensed that if it wanted to, it could move again in one hell of a hurry. “And it’s too shaggy to be a panther,” I went on. “Randy, I think . . . I think that’s a dog.”

  “A wolf, maybe.”

  I studied the animal for a moment and shook my head.

  “No, I don’t think so. The ears ain’t right. Look how they sort of flop over. That’s a big dog.”

  “Maybe.” He still di
dn’t sound convinced.

  “I’ll prove it to you.” I took a step toward the critter. “Here, boy,” I said. “Come on, fella.”

  The damn thing charged me.

  It was fast, all right, and I hesitated for just a second because I didn’t want to shoot a dog. That gave it enough time to launch into a leap that sent it crashing into my chest. I went over backward and lost my grip on the Winchester when I hit the ground. The thing’s hot, slobbery breath gusted against my face as its bared teeth poised just above my throat, ready to rip it out. After everything that had happened to me in my life, it would be a hell of a note if I died because I tried to call a dog.

  It didn’t tear into me, though, just kept me pinned there with a hundred pounds of furry beast on my chest while it snarled and drooled on me. Randy was yelling, and I worried that he might try to shoot the dog and hit me instead, so I shouted, “Hold your fire! By God, don’t you shoot that gun, Randy!”

  “But . . . but, Mr. Strickland, the dog—”

  I stayed as still as I could as I told him, “The dog ain’t done nothin’ so far but knock me down. Fetch the lamp.”

  “But—”

  “Fetch the damn lamp!”

  Randy hurried back into the house and returned a moment later with the lamp. He held it high so the light from it washed over us.

  I saw that I’d been right. The varmint wasn’t a bear, a panther, or even a wolf. It was a dog. The shaggy brown hair that covered it couldn’t hide how skinny he was, either. He looked half-starved, and I was surprised he hadn’t tried to eat me for that reason alone. His muzzle had scars on it, as if he’d been in plenty of fights with other animals, and his big, floppy ears were sort of ragged in places like his opponents had gnawed on them.

  “Take it easy, old son,” I said as quietly and calmly as I could manage. “Nobody wants to hurt you.”

  “It’s gonna kill you, Mr. Strickland—,” Randy began.

  “No, he’s not,” I said. “If that’s what he wanted to do, he would have done it already. He’s just scared . . . scared and hungry, from the looks of him. Set that lamp on the ground and go get a biscuit.”