The Cassidy Posse (12 page)

He dropped the load of branches and began sorting through them for small, dry twigs. He used these as a base and began to pyramid larger pieces around them. When he was satisfied with this, he took out a farmer match and struck it on his gun belt. Within a few minutes, the flames were expanding outward from the center.

“Hunker around that; it will warm you up,” Elzy said, stepping back a moment to admire his creation. Then he removed a small frying pan from his overstuffed saddlebags.

“This is pretty small to cook for four men on,” said Elzy. “I told Butch we should have got a twelve inch frying pan before we left. He didn’t want to wait. Now it’s gonna take longer for breakfast. If you don’t have the right equipment, you always end up paying a price.”

Patrick winced with pain as he rose to stand.

“I think my balls are broken,” he said.

“Horseback riding takes awhile to get used to,” observed Elzy. “Your crotch will toughen up. I started doin’ this when I was a teenager. Doesn’t bother you much then.”

“Where are you from originally?” asked Patrick. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“My folks were from Boston originally. Then they moved to Ohio,” said Elzy. “They just kept moving west.”

Mike rose with some difficulty but stoically tried to hide the discomfort he felt from a full day in the saddle. “How duh we know this Butch is gonna catch somethin’?” he asked impatiently.

“Butch always catches something,” Elzy assured him. “And if he goes hunting, he always shoots something. That’s why everybody wants to partner up with him.”

“Well, why’s he with you?” said Mike irritably.

Elzy smiled at Mike and took no offense. He was getting use to Mike’s abrasiveness.

“I think I amuse him,” Elzy confessed, “but he’ll never admit to it.”

He continued preparing breakfast. He threw a handful of coffee from a canvas bag into a banged-up coffee pot.

“What did Butch do for Marshal Parker that he’s so beholding to him?” asked Patrick.

“The Marshal was called down to the saloon when a bunch of Finnish miners got into a brawl,” said Elzy. “Going in, the Marshal didn’t understand just how little respect these foreigners have for the law. They overpowered him and were ready to kill him when Butch came in. I guess it was a sight to see. Somebody had gone and got him at the butcher shop and he ran over like he was. He came in screaming and yelling, wearing a bloody apron and swinging a big meat cleaver around. It took the Finns by surprise, and they let the Marshal go and skedaddled.”

“Any one of yuh know anythin’ about chest?” asked Mike abruptly.

“Chess,” Patrick corrected.

“Yeah, chest,” Mike said, taking the telegraph out of his coat pocket. He handed it over the fire to Patrick who read it out loud:

“RED ALVINS WAS SEEN BY RAILROAD DETECTIVE GETTING OFF TRAIN AT TABLE ROCK. DAUGHERTY AND THREE OTHERS STILL WITH HIM. BE EXTREMELY CAREFUL. REGRET TO INFORM YOU NELL QUINN WAS MURDERED BY UNKNOWN ASSASSIN. LETS KEEP CHESS GAME GOING. NEXT MOVE IS KING’S KNIGHT TO KING TWO. BOCKLEMAN”

“King’s knight to king two,” Patrick said, thinking over the move. “How far have you advanced your pawns?”

“I ain’t advanced nothin’,” said Mike. “We aren’t playin’any chest game.”

“This can’t be his opening move. White would be jumping his own pawn.”

“What the hell are yuh talkin’about?” yelled Mike. “I dun’t know how tuh play chest!”

“Oh,” Patrick shrugged.

“Bockleman was always try’un tuh get me tuh play,” said Mike. “I knew if he was that fired up tuh play, he could whip me arse so I never give’m the satisfaction.”

“So you don’t understand what this message is about?” asked Patrick.

“Sweet Jaysus,” shouted Mike. “What duh I have tuh do so yuh get that through your thick head?”

“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something,” said Elzy. “Something that he can’t send over the wire.”

“That occurred tuh me,” said Mike. “There’s no secrets over duh wire.”

“Pawns are frequently sacrificed, Uncle Mike,” said Patrick. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Are you playing black or white?”asked Elzy.

“I ain’t playin’ anything,” Mike declared angrily.

As the three stood around the fire trying to interpret the obscure telegraph, Butch walked up with a rainbow trout that was over a foot long. He held it up triumphantly, but received no reaction.

“Ain’t you boys hungry?” he asked finally.

“Nice fish, Butch,” said Elzy. “Give it here. I’ll fillet it.” He took the trout to a flat rock and took out his knife.

“What’s goin’ on?” Butch asked of Mike and Patrick. “You fellers look like you’re carrying a heavy load.”

“Duh ya know anythin’ about chest?” asked Mike.

“Not a damn thing,” replied Butch.

“Well, then I guess we’ll eat.”

Elzy had expertly filleted the trout and had it sizzling in the pan within a few minutes. Butch broke out some beat-up metal cups and poured the coffee. Elzy put the cooked fish on two plates and handed one to Mike and Patrick.

“Sorry we don’t have utensils for everybody,” Elzy apologized. “We’re not ustah company.”

“This is great!” exclaimed Patrick. “I’ve never had fish that tastes this good.”

“You probably never had it go from the water to your plate before,” said Elzy. “You cowboy around out here and you get real tired of beef. You learn to appreciate fresh caught fish.”

“The fresher the better,” Butch agreed.

Elzy proceeded to tell Butch about the apparent warning in the telegram while Mike and Patrick sat in silence, savoring each bit of the trout. Mike sat back on a flat rock and looked up at the mountains as he ate. The sun was climbing higher and sending golden shafts of light through the pass as it burnt off the veil of the morning mist. Then he noticed Patrick’s smiling presence watching him and quickly returned his concentration to his plate.

“Well, I ain’t gonna figure none ov this out ‘til I get back to Chicago and I’m not goin’ back there without Sean Daugherty so let’s get goin,” said Mike, scraping the remains on his plate into the fire.

“He’s right,” agreed Butch, jumping to his feet. “We’re burnin’ daylight.” He and Elzy quickly saddled the horses and stowed the gear in the saddlebags.

“What can we do?” asked Patrick.

“You guys can piss on the fire,” said Elzy.

The posse moved downstream until Butch found what he felt was the safest place to cross the Sweetwater. He and Elzy worked to steady the horses of the two inexperienced riders as they crossed through the swift current that was fueled by melting snow from the mountains above. Mike protested the attention, so Butch just moved his horse to the downstream side and hoped for the best.

They were not the first to use the fording place for there was a narrow trail established through the pines that lined the river. As they moved away from the water, the trees thinned out and they entered a grassland greening up for spring.

“Nice farm land,” said Elzy, pulling his horse in between Mike and Patrick. “You know Butch is going to become a farmer. He had a ranch up on Blue Creek by the Hole-in-the-Wall, but the law was becoming too curious about all those horses, so he sold it. Now he’s got his eye on some free government land. He’s going to be an honest homesteader.”

“Oh, really,” said Patrick.

“It’s pretty chancy now,” said Butch. “I got a court date starin’ me in the face. I hope findin’ this Daugherty will help my case. I’d like to get that piece of land. My old man was cheated out of a homestead, so I figure they owe me one.”

“You just got a burr in your saddle blanket about that,” said Elzy with a sigh of resignation. “Well, I guess you got to get it out sooner or later. Ole Butch here is planning to go legit. Getting shot in the head set him straight.”

“There’s more to it than that,” said Butch. “I’m on the short side of thirty now and running with the Wild Bunch ain’t never got me nothin’ I ever hung on to.”

“What’s the Wild Bunch?” asked Patrick.

“That’s what Marshal Harry S. Parker dubbed us,” explained Elzy. “It’s Butch and all his friends. He’s our leader, you know.”

“The hell I am,” shouted Butch.

“If you’re not a leader, why are you leading this posse for Marshall Parker?”

“Because I’m the best tracker, the best horseman, and the best shot,” retorted Butch, “and if I do this right, he’s gonna do what he can to get me off on that damn horse stealing charge. Besides that, Parker said he would give me my watch back in the bargain.”

“Why did the Marshal take your watch?” asked Patrick.

“It’s a long story,” said Butch. “Let Elzy tell it. He’s long-winded.”

“We got drunk and were busting up the Commercial Hotel when somebody goes to get the Marshal. So we go out and get on our horses and start to skeedadle. Ole Butch though, drunk as a lord, sits on his horse outside the hotel, his leg draped casually around the saddle horn with his watch out. He’s timing how long it took the Marshal to get there. ‘Seven minutes’ Butch says to him. ‘You couldn’t have wanted us too bad.’”

“You can milk a story like it’s a heifer at calfing.”

“Anyhow, Ole Harry S. Parker was steamed,” Elzy continued unfazed. “He threatened to shoot Butch. Then he told him he had to pay some kind of fine, so he took the watch right out of his hand.”

“Never have got it back,” said Butch.

“Have you ever asked him for it?” asked Patrick.

“Hell, no,” said Butch. “I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He accused me of rollin’ a drunk once. Can’t see where this was much different. Takin’ a drunk’s timepiece.”

“Well, don’t you worry Butch,” Elzy assured him. “After you help bring this desperado in, Ole Harry S. will have to give you your watch back, and Attorney Douglas will make sure he squares you with the judge. This is going to make you look good all the way up to the governor’s office. He’s going to have a parade for you when you hit town.”

“Damn Elzy, you got trouble shuttin’ it off once you get it flowin’,” said Butch “I don’t need a parade. Just want to square myself with the law.”

“Once uh man crosses the line, he dun’t come back,” observed Mike solemnly.

“Mister, that was a hell of a thing to…”

PSSST. PSSST
.
PSSST
.

“What was that?”

“Gunshots!” shouted Mike.

“Get down,” yelled Butch as he dismounted. “Get behind the horses!”

They crouched down and peered between the legs of their horses. There was an open meadow to the right. Spring greenery was beginning to surround the patches of snow. Across the meadow was a sparse stand of aspens.

“Looks like they’re in those trees over there,” said Butch. “Must be amateurs. They started shooting before we were in range.”

Three more shots whizzed over their heads.

“They’re piss poor shots fer sure,” said Mike.

“Sounds like a pistol,” said Butch.

Butch reached up and pulled out his Winchester from its scabbard.

“Elzy, keep yourself low and move around’ em to the left on foot,” said Butch.

“I’ll go,” insisted Mike. “This here is my business.”

Butch looked at him for a moment and decided there was little use in arguing.

“Okay, suit yourself.” Butch swung himself into the saddle low, hanging off the right side so he would not be visible to the assailants in the trees.

“Smack her on the ass so it looks like she pulled away from us,” he instructed Elzy.

The blow to the mare’s backside sent her bolting across the meadow with Butch clinging to the side like an Indian. There were three more shots but none were fired in his direction. They buzzed over Elzy and Patrick’s heads.

“Shouldn’t we be shooting back at them?” Patrick asked nervously. He was laying almost face down now, with his shiny new Colt in his right hand and the horse’s reins in the other.

“Well, you can if you want to break in that virgin six-gun the governor of Wyoming bought you,” said Elzy, “but I don’t see anything to shoot at but trees over there.”

“How long have Mike and Butch been gone?”

“Oh, a few minutes I suspect.” Elzy was on his hands and knees looking intently across the clearing. There were three more shots. Then he saw a distant figure with a rifle raise out of a ravine and run in a crouched position towards the stand of aspens. Shortly after more shots came their way.

“That’s Butch. Let’s go,” he said, mounting quickly and spurring his horse towards the aspens.

“Oh, shit!” shouted Patrick.

Elzy wheeled his horse around to see Patrick disappear under the dappled gray. One of the errant shots had struck the horse in the head and it dropped dead like a gravestone on top of him.

On the other side of the meadow, Butch had worked his way through the trees to get a view of their lone assailant. He was a young man in his late teens or early twenties with a hand-tooled leather holster bearing two guns that hung low on his willowy frame. His eyes narrowed to killer slits as he stared down a bunch of broken bottles on a log in front of him. He drew quickly and got off three shots in rapid succession. The shots all went high, one hitting a branch on the tree behind the log. He seemed pleased. He twirled the gun on his trigger finger and dropped it into the right holster. Then he drew the left gun and fired three times again in rapid successions. When he stopped to break open the chamber of the six-shooter to reload, Butch made his move. He jumped into the clearing and fired a warning shot in the air.