The Cassidy Posse (23 page)

“Much obliged,” said Butch, examining the sorrel mare. “Big horse. Over sixteen hands. And stilled saddled and bridled. What do you make ah that?”

“I’d says her owner’s from Texas and he’s dead,” Sundance surmised.

“How duh yuh figur’all that?” asked Mike, the only real detective present.

“Cause his saddle looks like a Texas rig and cause he’s layin’ up there on the top of the hill.”

Butch looked for a moment and shook his head affirmatively. “Yep, I see him.”

Mike strained his eyes but could see nothing on the hill except bushy clumps of grass. He did not have the outlaws’ trail-sharpened vision.

When Elzy and the others returned with the horses and their gear, Butch showed them the horse they found that he was going to convert into a pack animal.

“She looks a little too spirited to be carrying a pack rig,” said Elzy.

“She’s better than that spasmed nag Gus stuck me with back in Rock Springs. I’m lucky I unloaded that one.”

“Rock Springs,” chuckled Sundance. “There’s another place I’m not welcome. Is that ornery old sonavabitch Harry S. Parker still marshal there?”

“Yes, he is,” said Butch emphatically. “I don’t know where you’re going as the Sundance Kid, but don’t go there.”

With that advice, he stuck out his hand to bid Sundance farewell.

“Hell, I’m going with you,” declared Sundance, leaving the hand hanging in midair.

“What? You just said I was crazy to be goin’ to Buffalo for a hundred dollars.”

“There’s more to it than that,” said Sundance. “I’ve known you for a few years, and I know neither one of us likes Red Alvins. You and Elzy are up to something and it’s bigger than a hundred bucks. I’m going along to satisfy my curiosity.”

“I guess you got nothin’ better to do now that you’re out of the saloon business,” remarked Elzy.

“My saloon in Montana lasted as long as yours did,” Sundance said with a mirthless smile, “and I didn’t have nobody get shot every night like your ‘Gambling Hell Saloon’.”

“That wasn’t the name.”

“Well, that’s what everybody called it.”

“Would you two girls mind knocking it off?” interceded Butch. “I think we all know you both were a bust as saloonkeepers. We got other things to attend to.”

“Like what?”

“Like catchin’ up to Red Alvins. I think we ought to bury that feller up on the hill first. I’ll do that first and catch up with you,” he said as he tied the big horse off on a bush.

“Just leave that mercenary sonavabitch to the buzzards,” said Sundance. “That what he’d do for you.”

“It wouldn’t be right,” declared Butch. “I already left one misbegotten soul unburied so far.”

“We ought tuh be checkin’ him out tuh see if he’s got anything interestin’ on him,” said Mike.

“Mike’s right,” said Butch. “He’s coming with me. You and Elzy catch up with Red. He knows both of ya. That nervous-looking crew he’s headin’ up will be less likely to take a wild shot if you two are in the lead.”

“Okay Butch,” Sundance agreed with a devious smile, “but I’d rather go with you and Mike so he could tell me how he taught you to rope and rustle and all.”

The coyote turned to Billy Fayre and beckoned him forward with a devious smile on an almost-human face. He was moving towards an adobe hut in the distant darkness. Billy followed, stumbling through the desert waste alone. The cactus needles tore at his exposed skin. He looked down and he was naked in a barren land except for a gun belt. The coyote laughed at him and whispered derisively “Kid Del Rio.” He reached for his gun to shoot the beast, but the holster was empty. It brought him to the lighted window of an adobe hut and he looked inside. There was Rosita, laughing and drinking from a bottle of Champagne. She was entertaining a well-dressed man sitting at the table. He had on a Derby hat and a bag of gold around his neck. Billy didn’t know how he knew it was a bag of gold; he just knew. The coyote was suddenly upon him, pushing Billy to the ground. It sat on him and began poking him in the chest with its paw still whispering “Kid Del Rio.”

The sharp jabbing at his chest aroused Billy to a semi-conscious state. His eyes opened to see a blurred shape leaning over him methodically poking his finger into his ribs.

“He’s alive,” the blurred shape announced.

The blurred shape was not the coyote, but the man wearing the Derby. His nice suit was gone as well as the bag of gold around his neck. Then he miraculously split in two and doubled.

“Looks like somebody smacken ‘im in duh head uh good one,” said the image. “Look at his eyes. He’s got uh concussion fer sure.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there before,” the second image said. “Bronc threw me up against ah fence.”

“We probably shouldn’t be movin’ him but we got no choice on that. Unless yuh just want tuh shoot the bastard and put ‘im out ov his misery.”

“That’s a fine suggestion coming from a lawman.”

“Careful what yuh say,” cautioned Mike. “We dun’t know if he’s pickin’ up any ov this conversation.”

“I don’t think he knows much of what’s goin’ on.”

Billy suddenly rolled over in the grass and began vomiting.

“You recognize him?” asked Mike.

“If he’s from around these parts, I ain’t never seen him. Looks like he might be part Mexican. Probably with that bunch of pistoleros they brought up from Texas.”

“Uh regulater,” said Mike, scratching his stubbly two day old beard. “What are we gonna do with ‘im?”

“I’m gonna let this be your call, Mike,” said Butch, shaking his head. “This is your posse, not mine. I’m just the guide.”

“What’s gonna happen if we were tuh leave ‘im?”

“Once we clear out, the wolves will smell weakness and close in on him. The buzzards will clean up the rest.”

“Sweet Jaysus,” cursed Mike. He looked again at the retching Texan. “I’ve seen this laddy-buck before. At duh Harvey railroad restaurant in Cheyenne. He was a lot cockier then, but I’m perty sure it’s the same fella. I usually dun’t ferget a face.” He reached over the convulsing body and picked up a cowboy hat with a red lone star on the side. “And I know I remember this hat” he continued with assurance.

“Well, I can see your curiosity has got the best of ya. Let’s take him along. Wait til I get mounted up and then throw him across the horse in front of me til we get him back to his. I’ve brought in a lot of maverick calves that way.”

“I’ll bet they was mavericks,” mumbled Mike as he lifted Billy and deposited him on Butch’s horse.

“Whud ya say?”

“Nothin,’” replied Mike, swinging into the saddle and spurring his mount western-style. “We’d better catch up tuh those guys before they use their big mouths to dig us uh hole we can’t get out ov.”

Farther up the trail, Elzy and Sundance were riding drag with the Red Alvins bunch, looking over their shoulders for Mike and Butch.

“You sure they’re comin’?” Red shouted back to them. He was not overjoyed to have them join his little group, but knew he could not refuse as formidable a gunman as the Sundance Kid. He reasoned that the notoriety of the company he was keeping would more than balance his inevitable loss of the commanding role. The “gang” he was leading would do nothing to spread his fame in the western outlaw community. There was Simon the pick pocket and Ticks the jewel thief; these were not viable talents to bring to the frontier. And then Riley the drunk who volunteered for their daring escape from the Cook County jail only because he was inebriated. His only contribution so far was to have warned Red of the possible problem with youngest member of the group, Sean. Riley had informed him that Sean killed the wife of a prominent Chicago politician, and that it would not be something the powers that be would let slide. For he and the rest of his penny-ante gang, the perfunctory warrants would be issued, and they would not have to worry until they were unlucky enough to be apprehended for their latest crime. Sean, on the other hand, would have the law out looking for him. Top lawmen. The kind you didn’t want dogging your trail. He was going to leave Sean at the Hole-in-the-Wall cabin, but the place cleared out in a hurry. He thought of shooting him, but that would not be good for the rest of the gang’s morale.

“Hey, Red,” shouted Elzy. “Hold it up. They’re coming.”

Red Alvins reined in his horse and turned his party around to wait for Butch and Mike and their new burden. As they got closer, Riley inched his horse up next to Red’s.

“Seems like I know that guy from somewhere.”

“What guy?” Red said impatiently. “The one trailing the big horse with the body over the saddle. That’s Butch Cassidy.”

“No, the other one. The one in the cowboy hat.”

“How would you know somebody ridin’ with the Wild Bunch? You never been west of the Mississippi before. I think ya been drinkin’ again.”

Red was relieved that Butch had caught up before they crossed the Powder River. The usually passive stream was looking very vigorous with an infusion of water from the melting snow. His gang out of Chicago were not proving themselves to be much as horsemen. He remembered from Brown’s Park that Butch always had a special touch with getting horses and their riders across fast current unharmed. He looked to the east and saw the smoke still rising from the smoldering ashes of the KC ranch where Nate Champion and Nick Ray had been gunned down. Buffalo was a little more than forty miles down the road. The army of regulators may already be there. This was the biggest thing to ever hit Wyoming and he may be missing the action. With this thought, he spurred his reluctant pony into the swirling current.

Little Jake and the tired and wounded remnants of the special assignment detail caught up with the main contingent of the regulators sometime after midnight. A bright moon and the deep ruts cut by the three overloaded supply wagons made it possible for Jake to track the slow moving procession after dark. The 46 miles between the KC Ranch and Buffalo were proving to be long ones for the invasion force.

When little Jake’s crew finally rode into camp, they thought their sleepy senses were deceiving them. There in the moonlight was the brigade of regulators attempting to perform close order drills. Major Walcott sat on his horse deriding them with a barrage of epitaphs, many they didn’t deserve and many they didn’t understand. The reluctant marchers stumbled around, falling into one another, either half drunk or half asleep.

“I don’t believe you boys came back here,” said a voice from behind one of the wagons. It was Charlie, one of the teamsters.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Little Jake.

“The scouts came back about an hour ago with the news that the Sheriff of Johnson County and a posse was waitin’ up ahead for them. The Major didn’t believe ‘em and rode out to check out the story. The arrogant sonavabitch couldn’t believe anybody would have the balls to oppose him. Then somebody in the posse must have fired a shot and made the Major a believer. He charged back here all in a huff and found that everybody that wasn’t sleepin’ was playin’ cards. Anyhow, the Major comes back like he’s Moses come back from the mountain and starts rantin’ on about everybody being lazy and unprepared for combat and all. A couple of the Texans gave him some lip about it being the middle of the night and he goes nuts. Pretty soon he’s got them all out on the flat there practicing to be in a Fourth of July parade or something.”

Jake watched the insane procession for a moment shaking his head in disbelief. Then he remembered his purpose.

“Charlie, where’s Doc Bingham? Slim’s been shot.”

“Bad?”

“I never knowed anybody that was shot good,” quipped Slim, looking a little pale slumped in his saddle but still in good spirits.

“I think Doc is over by the Major’s command wagon watchin’ the show.”

Little Jake and his bunch skirted around the parade ground so as not to be noticed by the Major. They found Doctor Roger Bingham sitting on the tongue of the wagon, warming himself by a fire, watching the comic procession.

“Doc, Slim’s been hit. Can you take a look at him?”

The Doctor was startled and jumped to his feet. “That you Jake?” he asked tentatively.

“Yep, it’s me. I said Slim’s been shot. Can you take a look at him?”