The Cassidy Posse (11 page)

“Ain’t there something you wanted to tell me before we take off?”

“Oh, yeah,” replied Elzy. “Talked to the Hazlett’s. We had a nice visit. She killed a fat hen and we had fried chicken with mashed potatoes.”

“Oh, Begorra,” Mike interrupted. “Get to it.”

Elzy considered Mike’s rudeness for a moment and then continued. “They haven’t seen hide nor hair of Red Alvins and his bunch.”

“If he ain’t headin’ for Brown’s Park, and we know he was seen in Cheyenne, he must have got off somewhere in between,” Butch concluded. “Not like Red to stay out in the open with the law on his heels.”

“That’s what I was starting to tell you,” said Elzy, shifting his gaze to Mike.

“While I was enjoying the hospitality of the Hazlett’s chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy and sweet corn, I was dining with a fellow calls himself Tex Grant.”

“Never heard of him,” declared Butch.

“Neither have I,” said Elzy. “I figured him for somebody moving north one step ahead of the law.”

Mike gave out an exasperated groan but said nothing. He didn’t want to chance the story getting any longer.

“Anyhow,” Elzy continued, “he told me something big is happening over east in Johnson County. Says the cattlemen’s association is going to clean house there. They got a list of everybody they’re after. They’re gonna kill them all. He heard rumors before he left Texas of them coming down there to hire gunmen.”

“We heard about it from a salesman on the train coming out here,” said Patrick enthusiastically, glad to finally have something to contribute. “And in Cheyenne there was a train car with all the shades drawn real mysterious like.”

“Did you see anybody on this mystery car?” Butch asked. He was unconsciously tugging the reins of the mare so that she kept turning in a tight circle.

“Saw some hard lookin’ cowboys in duh diner,” said Mike. “Duh kind yuh jest know are lookin’ fer trouble.”

“What kind of hats did they have on?” asked Butch.

“Cowboy hats.”

“They look like the hats we’re wearing?” asked Elzy.

“Yeah, but they were higher and had a wide brim,” Mike observed. “The orneriest lookin’ one had a star on duh side ov his hat.”

“They sound like Texans alright,” Butch concluded. “If there is gonna be trouble, it ain’t like Red Alvins to miss it. He mustah got off the train somewhere east of here before it got into town.”

“That would be my guess,” Elzy agreed.

“Damn it,” Mike complained. “You mean we rode that blessed train west all this ways justa go back east again.”

“Just a little ways,” Butch surmised. “Two days ride unless we catch up to them. I figure Red will stop at the Hole-in-the-Wall for grub and fresh mounts.”

“Ever been to this Hole-in-the-Wall?” asked Mike.

“Yep,” said Butch. “Matter-of-fact me and Al Hanier were ranching near there til last year.”

“Why don’t you tell the fine detective whose cattle you were grazing,” Elzy laughed.

“They were mavericks,” Butch said dryly. “Enough jawbonin’, let’s ride.”

He whipped the black mare on the haunches and headed east out of town with the rest of the party trying their best to keep up.

The posse had been riding hard for several hours, pushing across an arid sagebrush-covered expanse, when Butch noticed a persistent puff of dust on a barren rise behind them. He stopped and turned in the saddle, facing the chilled April breeze that had been blowing at their backs.

“Somebody’s ridin’ awful hard to catch us.”

“Suppose we should stop and let him?” asked Elzy.

“We dun’t have time fer thet,” said Mike impatiently. “If he wants tuh catch us, he’ll have tuh do it on his own.”

“Maybe he’s coming to join up,” suggested Elzy. “I don’t know what you do in Chicago but out here it’s customary to have a few more deputies in a posse.”

Butch considered this a moment and then glanced back at the puff of dust on the horizon.

“Dismount and walk the horses,” he said finally. “They need a break. We don’t know if we’re gonna be able to find fresh mounts, so we can’t ride’em into the ground.”

In about a half hour, the rider managed to close the distance between them. He waved his hat as he came within earshot.

“Hey Butch, Hey Elzy, you fellers are tough to catch,” shouted the young rider, a freckled teenager with a wide smile. His horse was lathered and breathing heavy.

“Hey, Lloyd,” said Butch. “Come to join up?”

“Not me, Butch. I got a wife and kid. No, I got a telegraph for Detective McGhan,” he announced. “It’s all the way from Chicago. Marshal Parker tells me to make sure he gets it. Damn near winded my horse catchin’ ya.”

“Where’s duh tellygram?” said Mike, cutting the young man’s story short.

“Why, uh, right here, sir.” He handed over the envelope and Mike torn it open. He read the yellow paper as it fluttered in the breeze. Mike’s face blanched white and lost all expression. He sat still in the saddle just staring at the message.

“What is it, Uncle Mike?”

“It’s from Bockleman,” he said finally. “He says a railroad dick said a man matching Red Alvins description got off at Table Rock. Says there was four men with him.”

“That figures. The train has to slow down cause of the grade,” Butch said almost to himself. “They mustah headed for South Pass and are swinging back to the Hole-in-the-Wall just like I thought. It’s the only place for a bunch like that to get fresh horses and grub.”

“We should be right on their trail,” said Elzy enthusiastically. “What do you think of that, Lieutenant McGhan?”

Mike did not answer him but sat motionless in the saddle staring out across the great expanse of the basin. Butch looked at Pat who shrugged his shoulders.

“Uncle Mike,” Pat interceded, “was there something else in the telegram?”

“Nell Quinn’s dead,” he said softly.

He shoved the telegram in his coat pocket and kneed his horse.

“Nothin’ I can do about it out here,” Mike said stoically. “Let’s go.”

He took the lead although he had no idea where he was going. Butch finally moved in front again when Mike began to wander off the trail. He did not speak for the rest of the afternoon as the small party moved across the desolate basin towards the Great Divide. They stopped occasionally to let their horses feed on the sparse buffalo grass and then remounted and moved on. The posse was surrounded on all sides by mountains, but none ever seemed to get any closer. Only passing tumbleweeds gave them any sense of motion.

As they moved higher, the wind turned colder, and they pulled their hats down tight on their heads. They began to track through occasional patches of snow. The four riders rolled back and forth rhythmically with the gait of the horses. Patrick, unable to stand the monotony any longer, pulled up alongside the lead rider.

“Hey Butch, how much longer are we going to ride today?”

“We got a ways to go yet,” he replied. “Like to get to South Pass before we make camp for the night. Sure don’t want to try to bed down out here in the wind.”

“Where is this pass at?” asked Patrick. “All I see is mountains around us.”

“See how the Wind River Range sort of peters out there ahead of us,” said Butch, pointing with his free hand. “That’s where it’s at. It’s so wide and goes up so easy, you wouldn’t even know it’s a pass unless I told you.”

“I’m going to trust you that it’s there. Just tell me how much longer will we have to ride? My ass is really aching.”

“Just a couple more hours,” Butch said with a sympathetic smile. “How’s your Uncle doing? Looked like that news hit him pretty hard.”

“Yes, I don’t really understand what it’s about, but I know that you don’t question Uncle Mike about his business.”

“Yep, he’s a hard man all right,” said Butch. “I suppose police work in a big city will make you that way.”

Elzy Lay spurred his horse and pulled up alongside of them.

“Hey, Patrick, your uncle looks like somebody ripped his guts out and fed’em to coyotes. Who was this Nell Quinn?”

“I didn’t really know she was anything to Uncle Mike,” he said. “She’s a high-priced hooker who came from our old Bridgeport neighborhood. A real schemer. She was connected. Had a lot of friends in city hall. I heard Uncle Mike saw her on occasion, but I didn’t know he was involved with her.”

“Well, why don’t you drop back and ride with your Uncle?” Butch suggested. “If we’re all up here and he’s back there alone, it don’t take much of a detective to figure out we’re up here gossipin’ about him like three old hens.”

“Good point,” said Patrick and he pulled on the reins to turn his horse around. By the time he got the dappled gray to respond, Mike had caught up to him. Patrick smiled but Mike rode past him without acknowledging his presence. His gaze was fixed on the horizon. Patrick finally managed to pull up beside him and attempted some small talk, but Mike did not break his silence. They began to climb out of the bleak, sagebrush-strewn prairie towards a broad gap in the Wind River Mountains called South Pass. As they crossed the Continental Divide, the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, and they hunkered down closer to their horses. Mike stared at the trail in front of him, rocking loosely in the saddle with the motion of his horse. They descended until it became too dark to move on any farther, and Butch called to make camp for the night.

Mike awoke the next morning in gradual stages of awareness. Birds chirping and the wind pushing the tumbleweed around began to permeate his consciousness. Then he heard water gushing, bubbling and babbling.

Oh, sweet Jaysus, now the roof is leaking
, he thought as his mind teetered between sleep and consciousness.
You don’t get much in Chicago for ten dollars a month, but at least the damn roof shouldn’t leak. Maybe I should move back home again. At least my mother would be happy
. Then he remembered why he moved out. Nell Quinn was sitting on his lap at his thirtieth birthday party that she gave for him at the Blue Palace. She was mussing his hair and kidding him about still living with his mother.

The telegram smashed through the haze in his brain and he bolted upright. Nell Murdered! He was in Wyoming a thousand miles from Chicago. Nothing he could do about it. Nothing he knew about it. A brief telegram. There should have been more details. Why didn’t Bockleman wire more details? Just one short, painful sentence and then some nonsense about a chess game.

“Hey, Uncle Mike,” Patrick said tentatively. “How are you doing this morning?”

“Uh, fine, I’m doin’ fine.” He wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked around trying to get his bearings.

“This is the first time I ever was up before you in the morning,” said Patrick.

“I didn’t fall asleep right away,” replied Mike. “I had uh lot ov things on my mind.”

“Yeah, that was too bad about Nell Quinn,” said Patrick, trying to probe surreptitiously. “I didn’t know you knew her that well.”

“I knew her,” said Mike curtly, shutting off any further inquires. “Where’s duh two cowboys?”

“Butch is down by the river,” said Patrick. “He said he was going to catch breakfast.”

Mike cleared his eyes again and looked down the steep bank at the solitary figure fishing with a line and no pole in a rushing mountain stream. The bleak plain they had traveled upon yesterday had been replaced with a scene that could have been put on one of those color brochures luring sportsmen to go west. The sun was reflecting off the snow-capped peaks of the Wind River Range. There were jagged red rock cliffs shrouded in a wispy vail of morning mist.

Although Mike was in no mood for such thoughts, he had to take note of it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Patrick, reading his look.

“Yeah, sure,” Mike replied. “Where’s tuh other guy?”

“Elzy?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” admitted Patrick. “I just woke up a little before you did and he’s gone already.”

The question did not hang long. They heard footsteps and turned to see Elzy returning to camp with an armload of firewood.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he said cheerfully. “If you’re trying to get your beauty sleep, you just wasted your time.”