Butch Cassidy the Lost Years (8 page)

CHAPTER 11

B
lood 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?”

“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

R
andy 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.”