The Cassidy Posse (21 page)

Jack reined up his horse and turned on Luke in reaction to this obvious remark about his family.

“Well, you badmouth her all the time,” said Luke defensively but backing up.

Mike rode between them. “Knock it off. We dun’t have time fer this nonsense.”

As they approached the main cabin, several of the half dozen men sitting idly on the wide porch got up to get the first look at the new arrivals.

“It’s ole Butch Cassidy,” one announced.

“Whose’s that with him?” asked another.

“Looks like Elzy Lay and some other fellers I don’t know,” said the first porch sitter.

“Howdy boys,” Butch greeted them with a wave and a smile. “You all look like your enjoying the nice spring weather.”

“Spring weather, hell, we had one warm day,” said an old veteran standing in the doorway. “Look around you now. It snowed the other night.” The worn Confederate hat on his head blended into his worn leathery face. He bore the air of a man that was accustomed to being in command.

“This is nothin’,” said Jack. “You should have seen the snow we caught coming through the mountains the other night.”

“You come through the mountains this time of year,” remarked the first porch sitter. “You must have been in an all-fired hurry to get here.”

“You boys got a posse on your tail?” asked the old veteran, suddenly concerned. “We don’t need no more trouble right now. We got to worry about those regulators headin’ up to Buffalo. They might decide to swing over here and wipe us out. We been keepin’ three men posted in the hills and two on the top of the Hole-in-the-Wall.”

“Naw, its okay,” Butch assured him, giving Jack a look.

“We had better get us some boys up to the west to re-enforce Gil if you think yuh were follered.”

Butch considered this a moment and saw a possible advantage: reducing the odds.

“I think we lost them but don’t really know for sure, Sarge,” Butch faked a confession.

“Damn,” swore the Sarge, slapping his worn confederate cap against his leg. “Uh couple of you boys got to go up west or there’ll be hell tah pay.”

“Jez, Sarge, one man’s enough out there,” said a young man who was vigorously whittling on a branch. “There ain’t nothing or nobody west of here.” He sensed he would be the first to be drafted.

“That’s what they said at Lookout Mountain,” the Sarge began.

“Okay, I’ll go,” said the young man, hopping off the porch. “I can’t sit through that war story again.”

“Now what about the rest uh you slackers,” growled the Sarge.

“I just came back from lookout to the north all night,” said the first porch sitter. “The regulators are at the KC ranch. As long as we got that big rock wall between them and us, we got no worries. They have to go way up north and double back around the wall to get to us.”

There were various other excuses from the men on the porch. The Sarge turned towards the inside of the cabin and yelled. “Red, can you send one of your boys up west to guard. We may have trouble coming that way.”

“Naw, we’re leaving early in the morning,” came the reply.

“Well, Butch, how about you sending up one of your men?”

Butch gave him a quick smile. “Can’t Sarge. We been riding all day. We’re done in. We’re leaving in the morning too.”

“Damn it, Butch. You brought this on us.”

“Sarge!” interrupted the young man, already mounted and pointed west. “Gil and I can handle it.”

Sarge turned and went inside mumbling something about the younger generation and lack of responsibility. Butch and his group dismounted and followed him through the door. Mike tried to nonchalantly pull Butch’s cowboy hat down over his eyes as he entered the cabin.

The inside of the cabin was unfinished log walls with a few newspaper clippings and wanted posters for decoration. Journals from a variety of towns proclaimed the exploits of the various desperados that occasionally slept there.

The cabin was divided into two rooms. In the larger room that was entered from the doorway, several men were seated at a crudely-made table engaged in a heated debate. Two men sat along the sidelines choosing to be oblivious of the fray. They were intently working on their equipment. One was fixing his saddle. Another, a sandy-haired young man, was trying to sew a button on his shirt. He struggled to get the job done before the sun dipped below the horizon and the light failed.

Butch and Elzy entered the room but went unnoticed momentarily by the men arguing at the table. Luke cautiously peeked out from behind Butch. Jack was trying to regain his look of self-assurance. He realized he had stuck his foot in his mouth about crossing the mountains. Mike worked his way into a far corner and carefully considered the inhabitants of the cabin from under the wide brim of Butch’s hat. Butch glanced back at him and Mike nodded towards the sandy-haired young man sewing on the button. Butch looked relieved. The trip had not been in vain.

“Hey, it’s ole Butch and Elzy.” shouted an unattractive but congenial looking man sitting at the head of the table.

“Hey yourself, Flatnose,” replied Butch. “What happened to hospitality around this place? You all are so busy shoutin’ at one another we could stand here forever waitin’ for a cup of coffee.”

“Sorry, Butch, but tempers been a little short around here the last few days.”

“What the trouble?” asked Elzy.

“Oh, it’s all this invasion talk.”

“We been hearin’ bits of that story,” said Butch.

“Did ya here they killed Nate Champion and Nick Ray the other day,” said News Carver. “Had them surrounded all day at the KC ranch. Finally they burned ‘em out and shot Nate down like uh dog. Oh, Nick was already dead.”

Butch’s smile disappeared and he looked visibly saddened by the news.

“Nate was the one that brought me through the Hole-in-the-Wall for the first time. Ya say the regulaters got him.”

“The question is whether they’re comin’ here next,” said Red Alvins, looking proud to be sitting at the same table with the more infamous outlaws of the Hole-in-the-Wall.

“I don’t think that’s the case,” said Flatnose George Curry. “The KC is a little north of us. They’re already by us. I heard their headin’ for Buffalo.”

“Buffalo’s a big town,” said News Carver. “There must be a couple hundred of them if they’s gonna try that. I heard there was two-three hundred hired Texas gunmen. Oh, they got a supply train half a mile long.”

“I heard it was three miles long,” said Flatnose, giving Butch a wink.

“Now you’re just tryin’ tuh pull my leg, Flatnose,” said News suspiciously.

“We’ll know more when the Logan brothers get back. They went out yesterday on a scoutin’ expedition.”

“Well, I don’t know what you fellers are gonna do, but me and my gang are bettin’on Buffalo,” announced Red Alvins, jerking his thumb towards the other room. One of his “gang” was standing wearily at the doorway, awakened by the vocal discussion. Mike noticed he was still wearing remnants of his Cook County visit. The rest of the escapees were apparently trying to recover from their trip.

“Why you so set on goin’ to Buffalo?” Butch asked.

“Businessman up there says they will pay hundred dollars in cash tah any gunman that comes up there and helps ‘em take on the regulators.”

“I heard the regulators were gettin’ paid more than that,” said News Carver. “How do we know you ain’t gonna take your Chicago boys and sign on as regulators?”

The color rose quickly in Red’s freckled face and Flatnose moved to quell the situation. “They wouldn’t hire Red. He’s from Wyoming. Everybody they brought in is from Texas. They aren’t going to like any mixed loyalties.”

“Don’t seem worth a hundred dollars to ride as far as you boys have and then to risk gettin’ shot,” said Elzy.

“Well, I like ta be where the action is,” declared Red. No one argued that point.

“That don’t sound like bad money to me. Times is tough,” said Butch. “You mind if me and my outfit tag along with you up ta Buffalo?”

Red hesitated for a moment. He didn’t like anyone horning in on his action, but then he considered who was asking. Riding with Butch Cassidy would enhance his reputation as an outlaw. He would be considered part of the Wild Bunch. Respect would be his. Right now the only ones willing to follow him were a bunch of reluctant losers he broke out of Cook County Jail.

“Sure Butch. It’s okay with me but you guys just got in. Are you all gonna be ready to ride tomorrow at sun up?”

“Sure we will,” said Butch, speaking for everyone. “We’re thinkin’ of staying up all night and playing cards.”

There were a few snorts of laughter from the tense men around the table. A handsome, well-dressed man sitting at the other table skillfully tossed a card from the deck he was holding across the table towards Butch. It struck the crown of the borrowed Derby he was wearing. Butch looked at him and smiled.

“Damn, Harry, I didn’t know you was deadly accurate with playin’ cards too.”

“That’s a real nice looking hat there, Butch,” he said doffing his own Montana peak hat with a four-sided crown. “It’s about time you got some style.”

“Oh, he ain’t Harry no more,” announced News Carver, “He’s the Sundance Kid.”

“Harry Longabaugh, the Sundance Kid,” said Elzy, unimpressed.

“Well, I think it’s a fittin’ title for a man of your impressive skills,” chided Butch.

Harry, in keeping with frontier tradition, feigned embarrassment but obviously enjoyed the attention.

“They named him after the only jail he never slipped out of,” said Flatnose Curry.

“It was brand new,” explained the newly-anointed Sundance Kid. “They hired extra guards to keep me in there. If Wyoming had renegotiated their deal with Illinois in time, I’d ah went to Joliet. I would have been able to slip outah there easy.”

“Like hell yuh would ov,” Mike growled under his breath from the corner.

Unfortunately, it was loud enough to be picked up by the keen hearing of the Sundance Kid.

“Whose your new friend?” he asked Butch, looking over Mike appraisingly.

Butch smiled and hesitated a moment. “Ah, that there is Mike Ward. We go way back. He’s a good man.”

“Mike Ward?” Sundance questioned. “I’ve known you for a couple years, and I don’t recall you mentioning a Mike Ward. This feller sounds a bit Irish.”

“Well, he is… that’s obvious,” said Butch. “His real name is, ah, Mike Cassidy.”

“No kiddin’,” said Sundance in amazement. “This is the guy that taught you how to ride, shoot and rustle.” Sundance got out of his chair and walked to the corner to offer his hand to Mike. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Mike shook his hand while moving behind Longabaugh’s body to shield himself from view. Sean Daugherty gave a disinterested glance in their direction and went back to mending his shirt. Two members of the Alvins’ gang looked at him from the doorway but showed no signs of recognition. Fortunately, Mike hadn’t had the pleasure of arresting either one back in Chicago.

“Who are these young fellers?” Sundance asked, noticing Jack and Luke trying to stand in obscurity.

Butch glanced at Elzy for help. He received only an amused smile. Butch knew the name of Cassidy had been overused at this point.

“This here is the Rattlesnake Jack,” he said pointing to Jack. “And that’s his partner Luke. Both are good men.”

The outlaws at the table nodded to them respectfully. Any friend of Butch’s was okay. Jack and Luke felt some pride as they moved from the shadows to center stage.

“Rattlesnake Jack,” Sundance repeated, perplexed. “Where you from?”

Before Jack had an opportunity to put his foot in his mouth again, the Logan brothers burst through the door to save the day.

“Get your guns, boys,” yelled Harvey Logan. “There’s regulators comin’ over the hill.”

The alarm was punctuated by the sound of a distant shot coming through the open door. The inhabitants of the cabin scurried in every direction at once. Butch was the only one that stood there looking relieved. Rifles appeared from various locations in the cabin and were used to knock out the window glass to take aim at the surrounding hills.

“What the hell are you stupid sonabitches doing!” screamed Flatnose Curry. “I brought those windows all the way from Buffalo. They’re special ordered so they open. Do you have to destroy everything?”

“Well, we is outlaws,” reasoned News Carver.

Not wishing to challenge that logic, Flatnoose grabbed his Winchester and carefully gazed out the doorway into the failing light of sundown.

“How many were there?” he demanded.

“Five,” was the reply.

“Five, they must be just a scoutin’ party,” reasoned Flatnoose. “The main bunch will hit us at dawn like they did Nate Champion. We may as well just post lookouts and try and get some sleep. We’ll spread out before dawn so’s we all aren’t caught in this cabin in case they try to burn us out.”