Butch Cassidy the Lost Years (20 page)

I untied my horse and led it as we started toward the partially completed church. As we walked, I said, “I thought you were gonna call me Jim. You've been callin' me Mr. Strickland all day.”

“I know. It just didn't seem—please don't make fun of me for this—it just didn't seem proper to be calling you that in front of other people.”

I nodded and said, “I reckon I can understand that. But we're alone now . . . Daisy.”

“We're also in the middle of the street in broad daylight . . . Jim. What do you expect me to do, throw myself in your arms and kiss you like that brazen hussy at the dance did?”

“I was sort of fond of that brazen hussy,” I told her. I looked over at her and saw the flush that had crept over her face, but I also saw the pleased smile that curved her lips. Even in broad daylight, I wouldn't have minded kissing them.

Maybe it was a stroke of luck—whether good luck or bad is a toss-up, I reckon—but at that moment I heard loud, angry voices ahead of us, coming from the vicinity of the church.

CHAPTER 33

B
eside me, Daisy caught her breath. She said, “Father . . .”

“Sounds like he's arguin' with somebody.”

She shot a worried glance at me.

“He doesn't argue with people. That's not like him. But that doesn't stop other people from getting angry with him sometimes.”

I took hold of her arm. She didn't pull away from me.

“We'd better find out what it's about,” I said. I started walking faster toward the church. Daisy had to hurry to keep up with my long-legged strides.

Nobody was in sight in front of the framework, which had all four sides and the ceiling joists in place but was lacking the rafters and roof. I spotted several men behind the place, though, and one of them was Reverend Franklin Hatfield. The sun reflected off his mostly bald head as he stood there with his hands out, making conciliatory gestures toward the man confronting him.

That man was a stranger to me, a burly sort in work boots, khaki trousers and shirt, and a battered brown fedora. His sleeves were rolled up over brawny forearms. Two other men in work clothes were standing a few yards behind him, but they weren't taking any part in the ruckus, at least not yet. Off to one side was a truck with slat sides around the bed.

The big fella in the brown hat ignored whatever Hatfield was trying to tell him. He stepped closer, jabbed the preacher in the chest with a blunt finger, and said, “Excuses won't pay my bills. I don't care if you
are
a man of the cloth, you've got to pony up for that load of lumber!”

Hatfield said, “Please, Brother Nelson—”

“I'm not your brother! And I'm not my brother's keeper, neither. You'd better come up with the money you owe me right now, or else—”

“Or else what?” I said, moving so that I was in front of Daisy.

Nelson turned his beefy face toward me, looking startled and confused, and more than a little annoyed by the interruption.

“What?” he said.

“That's what I'm askin' you,” I said. I waved a hand toward the framework. “What are you gonna do if you don't get paid? Looks to me like all those boards are already nailed together. Are you gonna pull all the nails, load up the boards, and haul them off? You won't be able to sell them for new anymore, and some of 'em will likely be too damaged from bein' pulled apart to be good for anything. So I'll ask you again . . . what are you gonna do?”

“Who the hell are you?” Nelson demanded.

Hatfield said, “Please, Brother Nelson, no intemperate language—”

Nelson shoved past him and took a challenging step toward me.

“I asked you who the hell you are.”

“Seems like neither one of us like to answer questions much,” I said. “But I'll go first. My name's Strickland. I'm a friend of the reverend and his daughter.”

“You know good and well I'm not going to tear down that church, Strickland,” Nelson snapped. “Although I might consider it if I'm pushed far enough. But you can damn well bet that I'll never bring any more lumber out here for this Bible-thumping deadbeat. Not only that, I'll spread the word through the whole county and make sure nobody else sells him any lumber, either. That church won't ever be finished!”

I didn't like the hombre, and he wasn't making me any fonder of him by talking that way about Daisy's pa right in front of her. But I held my temper for the moment and asked, “How much money do you have comin' to you?”

“Five hundred dollars!”

I put my hand in my pocket. Daisy saw that and said, “Jim, what are you doing?”

I didn't answer her. Instead I pulled out a roll of bills. When I held out the money toward Nelson, he reached for it instinctively. I could have decked him then, but instead I slapped the roll down in his palm.

“I don't have that much on me, but there's a couple of hundred on account. I'll see to it that you get the rest. My name's Jim Strickland, and I own the Fishhook Ranch. Everybody in these parts knows me and will vouch for me.”

Now, here's the odd thing. That was true. Despite all the disreputable things I'd done in my checkered past, I had become a respectable member of the community, at least as far as most folks were concerned. Of course, they didn't know about the train robbery . . .

“Jim, no,” Daisy said.

Her father chimed in, “Mr. Strickland, that's very generous, but I can't allow you—”

I raised a hand to stop him.

“Just call it a donation, Reverend,” I told him. “Folks donate money to churches all the time, don't they?”

“Yes, but this isn't really a church yet—”

“What's it say in the Good Book? ‘Wherever two or more are gathered in my name . . . '? You and Miss Hatfield make two, I reckon, and there are plenty more folks around here who'll come to services once the church is finished.”

Nelson looked at the money in his hand, then glared at me.

“Are you saying you'll pay the preacher's debt?” he asked.

“I think you must've been out in the sun too long, amigo,” I told him. “That's exactly what I'm sayin'.”

“Well, then . . . all right.” He clearly didn't want to stop being mad, but with money in his hand he didn't have much choice.

“It looks to me like the reverend could use another load of lumber out here,” I went on. “You figure out what he needs to finish the church, deliver it, and leave the bill with Farnum over at the store. I'll pick it up next time I'm here and settle up with you. Do we have a deal?”

I could tell he didn't trust me, but he didn't want to miss out on selling that lumber, either. After a moment he nodded, shoved the roll of bills in his pocket, and said, “It's a deal.”

I held out my hand. We shook on it.

“All right,” I said as I smiled. “Just so we're clear on that, in front of witnesses.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I just don't want you tryin' to back out on it when I do this.”

I punched him in the jaw.

The wallop caught him flat-footed. I put a lot into it, too. He staggered back, out of control, and probably would have fallen on his ass if the two men with him hadn't caught hold of him.

He blinked at me and yelled, “What the hell was that for?”

“You shouldn't'a been talkin' to a preacher that way,” I told him, thinking about that ‘Bible-thumping deadbeat' comment. “You had no right to call him names. And you cuss too much in front of a lady. You had it comin'.”

Obviously, he didn't see it that way. He jerked his arms free and charged at me, roaring in fury.

I've seen several bullfights in my time, and that's sort of what it was like as I pivoted aside and let Nelson charge right past me like an angry bull.

Problem was, Nelson was at least a little smarter than a bull, and when he realized he was going to miss me, he flailed out with a hand and snagged my shirt. His momentum jerked me after him, our feet tangled up, and we both wound up falling to the ground in a welter of dust.

We broke apart and rolled away from each other. My hat had gone flying off my head, and so had Nelson's, revealing his thinning brown hair. As he came up on one knee, he waved the other men back.

“This is between me and Strickland!” he bellowed. “Stay out of it!”

One of the men shrugged, and they both moved back to give us room. I figured they worked for Nelson, and if he wanted to fight this battle by himself, that was his business.

Daisy and her father both looked anxious. Hatfield said, “Gentlemen, please, this is going to be the Lord's house. It's no place for brawling—”

Nelson and I didn't pay any attention to him. We surged to our feet and went at it.

Nelson was a big, tough hombre and was in no mood to give quarter. He had a couple of inches and probably thirty pounds advantage on me.

But I wasn't in a very forgiving mood myself, and I was considerably quicker than he was. I ducked away from his punches and stepped in to pepper his face with a series of quick jabs. His head rocked back from those, and blood spurted from his nose when my fist landed on it the third time. While he was a little off balance from that, I swung my right and buried it in his gut as far as it would go.

Unfortunately, that wasn't very far because there was a solid slab of muscle across his midsection. Still, the blow staggered him a little more and gave me the chance to throw a left hook that caught him on the chin.

He swung a backhand faster than I thought he could and his fist smacked into my jaw. It knocked me a step to the side, and the advantage swung back to Nelson for a second. He hammered a vicious blow to my chest. It seemed to paralyze my heart and lungs so I couldn't draw a breath. Dizziness caused my vision to spin around crazily.

He rammed into me, and I was reminded again of how much like a maddened bull he was. My feet left the ground, and I knew he planned to drive me down and land on top of me. I remembered how Bert had used that move on his opponent in the saloon fight, and that fella had wound up with broken ribs. I had to act fast to keep that from happening to me.

Nelson had wrapped his arms around my waist—which wasn't near as much fun as having Daisy do it, let me tell you—but my arms were free. I brought my hands up and clapped them over his ears, cupping them to catch more air. Nelson howled in pain and stumbled. I got my feet down and braced them to stop his charge. It wasn't easy with the weight advantage he had on me, but after a second we skidded to a halt.

He looked disoriented. I lowered my head a little and butted him in the nose, which was already bleeding. He yelled again, let go of me, and reeled back.

I didn't give him a chance to catch his breath. I hit him in the belly again with a left. It was a little more tender this time. He bent forward just enough to put his head in perfect position for the roundhouse right I threw next. The punch whistled around and smacked into his jaw with a sweet sound. He folded up and went straight to the ground.

I turned around quick-like, fists still clenched, as I tried to locate the two men Nelson had with him.

I didn't have to worry about them. They were still staying back, and as I turned toward them, one of the men lifted his hands, palms out, and said, “Take it easy, Strickland. The boss said this was between you and him, and we'll be happy to leave it that way.”

I was breathing too hard to say anything, which reminded me that I was getting too old for things like this, but I gave them a curt nod.

Daisy and her father stood to the side the other way. Hatfield looked horrified that such violence had taken place so close to the church he was building. Daisy looked worried and excited at the same time. She took a step toward me and said, “Jim, are you all right?”

I summoned up enough breath to answer her with more than a nod.

“Yeah, I'm fine. He didn't hardly lay a hand on me.”

That was true. Nelson had landed only a couple of good punches. But those had been enough to leave me shaken.

I forced a smile onto my face and went on, “I couldn't let that fella get away with talkin' ugly like he was.”

“That doesn't matter,” Hatfield said. “Words are no excuse for such brutality—”

“Look out!” Daisy said.

I turned around to see that Nelson was climbing to his feet. When he made it upright he spread his legs a little, planted his boots so he wouldn't sway, and dragged the back of his left hand across his face, smearing the blood that had leaked from his nose. He looked at the blood and suddenly grinned.

“Is it broken?” he asked.

“More than likely,” I told him.

“Think you can set it?”

I shrugged and said, “I'll give it a try.”

From the corner of my eye I could see how mystified Daisy was. She didn't know that the fight was over. I did. I went over to Nelson, took hold of his nose, and pulled on it. Something crunched inside it and he let out a howl, but when I let go and stepped back, his nose was reasonably straight again.

Tears streamed from his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear them and said, “Thanks. I was ugly enough already without making it worse.” He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and used it to wipe away more of the blood from his face. “You're a handful, you know that? I haven't lost a fight in a long time.”

“I'm not surprised. You got a punch like the kick of a mule.”

He grunted and went on, “I'll have another load of lumber out here tomorrow, and if the reverend needs more, he can just let me know.”

“I'll see to it you get paid.”

“No hurry,” Nelson said with a wave of his bloodstained hand. “I know you're good for it.” He paused, then added, “I'll cut the price a little, seeing as how it's for a good cause.”

“I'm obliged to you for that. Can't speak for the Good Lord, but I figure He might be, too.”

Nelson nodded and went over to the Hatfields. He said, “Sorry for the rough talk, Reverend. I'm used to dealing with men who try to cut corners and take advantage of me. I should've known you weren't like that.”

“That's . . . that's all right, Mr. Nelson,” Hatfield said. I could tell he was baffled by the abrupt change in the man's attitude. “Thank you for your . . . consideration.”

Nelson nodded and waved to his men, saying, “Let's go.” One of them climbed into the truck cab with him while the other went to the front of the vehicle and turned the crank to start it. Then he hopped into the back, and Nelson drove off, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.