by Will Hobbs
The outlaws were dressed like ranch hands and wore wide-brimmed slouch hats like mine. The trigger-happy louse with the beard was unmistakably Logan. I hadn’t forgotten the rustler’s cruel face. I recognized the man to the left—Harry Longabaugh, the Sundance Kid—from the marshal’s photo. As to the leader in the middle, stalking ahead of the other two with his gun pointed at the marshal’s chest, I’d met him in person and so had Till. Sandy hair, square jaw, piercing gray eyes. It was Butch Cassidy, the man we called Moneybags.
“Your guns ain’t friendly,” drawled the marshal while raising his hands. “I’m unarmed, as you can see, and so are these Quaker boys.”
“Quaker boys?” echoed Cassidy with a glance our way.
“That’s right, they wouldn’t harm a fly. Don’t you recognize me?”
“Why should I?” Butch snapped.
“What about your friends? What’s their names?”
“What’s it to you? Are you Charlie Siringo?”
“I’m Jim Clark. Come on, Butch, you remember.”
Cassidy strode closer, gun up and cautious. “From Telluride,” he said finally, and slowly holstered his revolver.
“Now you got it. San Miguel Valley Bank.”
Cassidy’s cohorts put down their guns, and I breathed easier.
Butch was still staring. “Telluride was a long time ago. You still the marshal?”
“Still am.”
“Where’s the badge?”
“In my pocket. Let’s say I’m here in a ‘unofficial capacity.’”
Cassidy broke into a grin. “I hear ya.”
“We’re saddle sore,” the marshal said. “Yonder shade looks inviting.”
Logan was giving me the evil eye, plainly wishing he’d left me for the vultures back at Hermosa Creek.
We’d barely sat down on the logs by their fire ring when Till came out with “What about us, Butch? Don’t you reconnize us?”
“Don’t call me Butch,” Cassidy barked.
“Should I call you Bob, or Leroy?”
“Hey, wait a minute, you’re the kid that kicked me in the shin!”
At this, Sundance hooted and slapped his knee.
“Pueblo train yards, that’s right,” Till said to Butch. “You were being a bully.”
Angry all over again, Cassidy turned his stare on me. “I made you a generous offer for your mules.”
“We didn’t want to sell,” I said with a shrug. “I mentioned we were on our way to our new farm in Hermosa. My mistake, I guess.”
The Sundance Kid looked perplexed. Logan spat a stream of tobacco juice.
Till said to Sundance, “What’s your name?”
“Harry Alonzo.”
“Harry Alonzo Longabaugh? Can I call you Sundance?”
Longabaugh laughed. “Call me what you please, little bugger. What’s your handle?”
“I’m Till, and this is my brother, Owen. As I was about to explanate, Butch had Logan here steal Peaches.”
“Steal your peaches?”
“Peaches is the name of our Appaloosa mule. Logan stole her and Hercules from our barn and drew down on Owen.”
“Hmm,” said Butch.
Harvey Logan wasn’t saying anything.
Till was just getting started. “Owen tracked Logan all the way to Telluride in a bad snowstorm! Logan sold off Hercules to work in the mines.”
“That’s low,” said Sundance, with a smirk in Butch’s direction.
“In Telluride, Logan had a saddle made for Peaches. It was all so Butch could have a new riding mule and get back at us.”
“Butch loves pranks, but that’s really low,” Sundance said, smirking some more.
“Bunch of fiddle-faddle if you ask me,” said Till.
It was about time I spoke up. “We reckon Peaches is here. We came to get her back.”
Sundance slapped his knee. “Best story I heard in years. You always did have trouble taking no for an answer, Butch, but you like kids.”
“Not these two.” He hooked his thumb at Till. “Especially the whippersnapper.”
“You boys have sure livened up the afternoon,” Sundance said. “We don’t get much company. So, if I get this straight, you’ve made the acquaintance of these two, but how’d you recognize me?”
“Easy,” said Till. “From the marshal’s photograph. It was taken in Fort Worth. Are Will Carver and Ben Kilpatrick here, too?”
Cassidy was peeved. “Clark, you got that picture? We’re the only ones got that picture.”
“You don’t say,” drawled the marshal. “I got one in my saddlebags. By now it must be plastered in every post office in the country.”
Clark fetched it, and the desperadoes took a close look. Sundance said, “The joke’s on us, Butch.”
“This is stupid,” growled Logan.
Butch turned on his errand boy. “They trailed you all the way to the Roost. How’d that happen?”
“Give ’em a medal! It was bound to happen someday.”
“You used the hoof bags?”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
“And the catch bags?”
Logan’s answer was a sneer. Till was enjoying this no end.
“I told you!” Cassidy thundered. “Always use the catch bags! Now what do we do?”
“My mistake. I’ll take care of ’em for you, all three.”
“Take care of ’em?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know. You’re through, Logan. Grab your stuff and git.”
The marshal added, “Just so you know, Harvey Logan—alias Kid Curry—the bounty on you is up to eight thousand.”
Logan turned to Butch. “In that case I want more.”
“More what?”
“More loot.”
“You got plenty after the last job. So long and good luck.”
“Not that direction,” said the marshal, pointing downstream. “Unless I collect my packhorse first.”
I exchanged glances with Till. Now was the time for Clark to announce he was taking Logan. But the marshal was unarmed, and didn’t say a word.
“You heard him,” Butch said to Logan. “Use the back door. You got plenty of time to make yourself scarce before the marshal can send any telegrams.”
Harvey Logan stomped off cursing a blue streak.
I was keen on seeing Peaches and said so. Till got up with me. To my surprise the Sundance Kid joined us. Leaving Butch and the marshal to catch up on old times, I supposed. As we passed by the cabin, Logan was collecting his stuff. He stood in the open door and gave us more dirty looks.
It was strange to be walking alongside an outlaw wearing a gun, but reassuring under the circumstances. Unlike Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid wore a ready smile. Sundance was watching out for us until their ex-partner was gone.
We passed the empty corral and then, after all this time, we finally laid eyes on Peaches. Along with three horses, she was hobbled and grazing in the grass up the creek. “Peaches!” Till called as we drew close.
Peaches whinnied in reply, and pointed those long ears our way. “Yep, it’s us!” I cried. Peaches lifted her head and brayed. Pretty soon she was taking the scent of our hands and nuzzling us up and down and snorting. “We found you at last,” Till told her. “And we’re taking you home,” I added.
Logan passed by without a word or glance. We watched him ride out. “Good riddance,” Sundance muttered.
The three of us went and sat on the creek bank. Peaches followed, keeping us close.
Butch’s sidekick took his time rolling a smoke. It seemed like Sundance was somewhere else in his mind, tired and glum in equal measure. When he returned to the present, he said, “You boys got a lot of sand to come all this way.”
“All the way from Kansas,” Till replied, and went on. I was surprised to hear him telling about Pa dying. Till was finally accepting it. He soon changed the subject: “What’s it like to be an outlaw?”
Sundance shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish
it on anybody. You start out small, and after a while it gets out of control.”
“Like Butch stealing a pair of overalls?”
“You heard about that?”
“I read it in a book.”
“What’d it say?”
“He was the oldest of eleven kids . . .”
“Close, it was thirteen.”
“Well, he rode a long way into town, except the store was closed when he got there. So he broke in—”
“Let himself in. The way Butch tells it, the door was open.”
“So, he took the overalls and left some kinda note. Said he’d come back and pay for ’em, but the owner got him arrested anyway.”
“The district attorney decided not to prosecute, but Butch didn’t let it go. Still resents it.”
“What about you? How did you—”
“Me, I don’t have an excuse. I’m what you might call temperamentally unsuited.”
“Unsuited to what?”
Sundance laughed. “To making an honest living.”
Till was vexed. “But really, how come?”
“It’s not an honest game. The bigwigs expect you to slave for crumbs.”
“You’re a wanted man, right?”
“In seven states I know of. It gets old.”
“But how will it end?”
The famous robber flicked his cigarette, unsmoked, into the creek. “¿Quién sabe? We passed the point of no return a long time ago. One thing’s for sure—I ain’t goin’ back to prison.”
With that, Sundance peeled off and disappeared around the bend, back toward Butch and the marshal. We lingered with Peaches maybe fifteen minutes. Suddenly, like an apparition from hell, Harvey Logan appeared from up the creek. He spurred his horse into a lope and was on us in no time. We looked over our shoulders, but there was no help in sight.
The reins were in his left hand. His right was at his hip, ready to draw his pistol. His features were hateful as ever and smug as can be. “Forgot something,” he said with a grin.
“What’s that?” Till retorted, his voice trembling yet defiant.
“To kill your stupid mule.”
There was maybe thirty feet between that louse and us, and less than half that between him and Peaches. With a sneer on his lips, Logan drew and pointed his revolver at her head. Enjoying the moment, he paused to meet my eyes and mock me. “Like I said, it’s your misfortune.”
I felt utterly helpless. As Logan readied to shoot, his horse took a step or two. He had to wait before he could aim again, long enough for my mind to lurch and think of something. Was it still there? I slid my hand into the pocket of my mackinaw and took hold of that strange rock, round as a baseball. I reared back and let it fly.
No shot rang out. Logan fell from his horse to the ground, knocked out cold, or was he dead?
“You got him!” Till crowed. “Owen, you beaned him! What a throw!”
“Plumb lucky,” I said.
We approached cautiously. It appeared I only grazed him. A gash above Logan’s ear was bleeding. I knelt and put two fingers on his jugular. “Alive,” I reported.
Till sprang for Logan’s six-shooter where it had fallen, cocked it, and stood back, aiming with both hands. “Keep him covered,” I said.
“You bet I will.”
I undid Logan’s bandanna from his neck and folded it into a long strip as neatly as my trembling hands allowed. I rigged it across his forehead and around his temples, and tied it tight at the base of his skull.
When Logan came to a few minutes later, we had him covered with his sidearm and rifle. He rode off dazed without either one.
25
Where Will You Go?
BACK AT THE cabin, Butch and Sundance took Logan’s weapons off our hands and listened with amusement to our story. “Good for you,” they said, and “Serves him right.”
When we caught up with the marshal, he was pulling his saddlebags off his horse. He seemed more annoyed than interested. “Are you gonna get after Logan?” Till ventured to ask. “Before he gets away? We’ll split the bounty with ya.”
“Quit your sass, he ain’t worth the trouble. You boys go and collect the packhorse.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. The marshal was up to something, but what?
“Don’t unpack him when you bring him back,” Clark added. “We might not be staying. For the time being, hobble our horses with theirs so they can graze.”
Till and I saddled up and rode down the creek to fetch the packhorse. We wondered why the marshal was undecided about roosting with Butch, his old buddy. The obvious answer came to us shortly. He didn’t trust him.
Tethered to a low branch on that lone cottonwood, the marshal’s packhorse snorted his disapproval. He’d been left in sight of water and a patch of grass without resort to either. We got off our horses and tied up. Till took a seat on a fallen limb. I told him I was going to walk the packhorse up to the running water for a drink. “Sounds good,” he said. “Think I’ll take a snooze.”
When I got back Till was nowhere in sight. I fought the impulse to call out, and thought about where he might be. Then I knew: behind the rock slab where the marshal stashed his weapons.
Till was so preoccupied he didn’t hear me coming. He was sitting cross-legged with the marshal’s ivory-handled revolver in his lap, admiring its deadly perfection and making the cylinder go click-click-click. When he suddenly saw me, he looked up like a guilty thing surprised.
“Till,” I said, none too pleased.
“This is Colt’s Peacemaker,” little brother said reverently, “the gun that won the West.”
“It’s big,” I allowed. “Longer than Logan’s.”
Till nodded gravely. “Thirteen inches tip to butt.”
I suggested he put it back in the marshal’s gun belt, and he did. I guessed Till hadn’t played with the rifle yet. It was lying there on a flat rock next to the pigsticker in its sheath.
Till said, “The marshal didn’t say nothin’ about his weapons. Should we bring ’em?”
I had to think about that. “He felt safer around the outlaws without them. We better leave it that way.”
When we got back to the Roost, no one was around, not even up the creek where we took the horses. It appeared that Cassidy, Sundance, and Clark were off on a walk. Since when did the marshal go for walks?
“It’s about plunder,” Till declared. “That’s why the marshal was gettin’ his saddlebags. They got some loot hid somewhere, and they’re gonna give him some.”
“Till, you might’ve just hit the bull’s-eye, and I can explain what that’s about. Back in Telluride, people say that when Butch was making his getaway eleven years ago, he left a payoff for the marshal under a log.”
“I remember Clark tellin’ us he was out of town.”
“Like he arranged with Butch! Here’s what I’m thinking. Once the marshal found out how much Butch and the other two stole—more than twenty thousand, more than he guessed they would—he’s been bent out of shape about it ever since. Whatever they left for him, he thought he deserved a bigger cut.”
Till liked my line of speculation. “Maybe a quarter share, like a equal partner. That’s what he’s been after all this time, ever since we left Telluride. We’re onto him, Owen!”
“Maybe from the first, way back in his office, the marshal was thinking of us as a ploy to get into the Roost. Even the white flag! Maybe this whole trip was never about chasing a rustler or collecting a bounty like he told the Hites, or getting Peaches back. Clark knew that Logan was headed for the Roost to hand off Peaches, and what he really was after was this meet-up with Butch that he’s having right now.”
“Which explanates why he never tried very hard to catch up with Logan.”
“He played us like fish, Till.”
“Like sapheads! Like chumps! Hey, what if Butch and Sundance don’t wanna share? They’re packin’ guns and he ain’t.”
The country surrounding the Roost was smooth, solid rock
—slickrock, as it’s called—and there was no telling where they’d gone. Somewhere out there, in some crevice, Butch Cassidy had a cache of plunder.
It wasn’t long before they came walking in, all three with saddlebags over their shoulders. Butch and Sundance eased theirs down, bulging and heavy, so full the flap straps barely reached the buckles. Canvas was showing in the gaps. The marshal’s bags weren’t quite as full. They made clinking metallic sounds as he set them down.
It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what was doing the clinking: high-denomination gold coins.
Butch and the marshal were straight-faced, but a smile was playing on the lips of the Sundance Kid. He was plenty sturdy, a bit taller than Butch and wider across the shoulders, but his features were pleasant by nature. You wouldn’t take him for a gunman and a robber.
“You two got the packhorse?” the marshal barked at us, ugly as can be.
“We got him,” I said.
“Packed and ready?”
“Still packed.”
“Brought my guns?”
I hesitated. “You didn’t say to.”
“Are they still where I put ’em?”
I knew he wouldn’t want me to say the real reason I left them, not in front of Butch and Sundance. I said, “We didn’t look.”
Clark exploded. “How do I know they’re still there?”
We’d never seen him like this. Till and I exchanged glances and Butch and Sundance did the same. The marshal was all red in the face, vein-popping enraged.
“No need to be slantindicular,” Till told him.
“Slantindicular!” he stormed. “What’s that, kid?”
Till made a silly face. “Beats me.”
The marshal lunged at him with that huge right hand. “I oughta wring your neck!”
The Sundance Kid grasped the marshal’s wrist, and the marshal shook him off. “I’m leaving,” Clark told the outlaws. To us he said, “You two are on your own.”
Till stuck out his jaw. “Suits me.”
The marshal stared at me long and hard. “On second thought, get your mule and be quick about it.”
I considered the menace in his eye. Now that he’d revealed himself a volcano, I was plumb scared of sticking with him. It was obvious we knew what was in his saddlebags. I said, “We’ll bring your horses back to Telluride, but we’d rather poke around by ourselves.”
