Papa stopped talking and began shaking his head. “I just can’t believe it,” he said.
“Believe what?” Mamma asked.
“I just can’t believe it was Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch,” Papa said. “Cassidy has never killed a man during a robbery and never operated around southwestern Utah.”
No wonder Papa found it hard to believe. Butch Cassidy was known as the Robin Hood of the west because he robbed the rich and gave to the poor. His real name was George Leroy Parker. He was born in Circleville when Utah was still a territory. The Wild Bunch committed robberies from Canada to Mexico and from Nebraska to California. But they spent most of their time in Utah at a place known as Brown’s Hole or another place called Robbers’ Roost near Hanksville, Utah. The rugged terrain of both places made it
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just about impossible to capture the gangnot that any posse tried very hard. Papa often said Cassidy had so many friends among legitimate people that a marshal or sheriff couldn’t get enough volunteers to make up a posse. Butch Cassidy and his gang were often seen in Hanksville, but the marshal made no attempt to arrest them. Cassidy and his gang had helped so many people in the town and spent so much money there that the townspeople would have probably tarred and feathered anybody who tried to arrest them.
Cassidy had the distinction of being the only outlaw who attended his own funeral alive. An outlaw identified as Cassidy had been killed at San Rafael Swell south of Price, Utah. Cassidy, concealed in a covered wagon, rode down Main Street in Price and saw what was supposed to be his body lying in state. Later it was discovered that the dead man was really a minor outlaw named Jim Herron who looked like Cassidy.
Mamma was the first to recover from her surprise. “Then how can you say it was Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch?” she asked.
“Sam Ludetl was on the train returning from a vacation in Salt Lake City,” Papa said. “He identified the leader as Butch Cassidy.”
“And just who is Sam Ludell?” Mamma asked.
“He is a blackjack dealer at the Fairplay Saloon,” Papa answered. “Before coming here about a year ago, Ludell worked in a saloon at Castle Gate. He was there when Cassidy and the Wild Bunch stole the mine payroll. You remember me printing the story in the Advocate about how Cassidy, posing as a cowboy, hung around Castle Gate for a week getting the lay of the land before the robbery. He drank and played
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poker in the saloon where Ludell was working during that week. That is how Ludell knew him.”
Tom shook his head. “Didn’t the outlaws wear masks?” he asked.
“They all had red bandanna handkerchiefs tied over their noses,” Papa said.
“Then how could Sam Ludell identify Butch Cassidy?” Tom asked.
“If you will just refrain from asking so many questions,” Papa said, “I will tell you. Paul Simpson was sitting in a seat by himself-Ludell was sitting by himself in a seat across the aisle from Simpson. Ludell said the leader of the outlaws leaned over and ripped open Simpson’s shirt with his left hand, while holding a gun on the cattle buyer in his right hand. He motioned for Simpson to remove the money belt and hand it over. Instead Simpson tried to d”aw’his gun and the outlaw shot him. Then in a dying gesture Simpson reached up and pulled down the bandanna handkerchief. Ludell claims that during the couple of seconds it took the outlaw to pull the bandanna back up that he got a good enough look at the’outlaw’s face to identify him as Butch Cassidy.”
Papa paused for a moment as he again shook his head. “Then there is Mrs. Parker’s story that corroborates Ludell’s story,” he said. “She was returning from visiting her sister in Cedar City. She claims that just before Simpson was shot she heard him say, ‘Butch.’ Now it is entirely possible that Simpson had seen Cassidy in person at some time or seen wanted posters of the outlaw. And it is also possible that he recognized the outlaw even with the race partly covered by the bandanna handkerchief. And it is also possible that
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Simpson, knowing Cassidy had never killed a man during a holdup, dared to go for his gun. Al! these things are possible. But I won’t believe Butch Cassidy killed Simpson unless Mark and the posse bring him back.”
Papa then looked at Mamma. “How about some supper now, Tena,” he said. “I didn’t have any lunch.”
After supper Papa said he wanted Tom and me to go to the Advocate office and help him. Papa operated the Washington press while Tom fed newsprint into it. I folded the newspapers and put the yellow mailing stickers on the ones to be mailed. Papa told me to hand print a mailing sticker and send a copy of the paper to the editor of the Hanksville Bugle. It was almost ten before we went to bed. I was very sleepy but there was one question that suddenly began to bother me.
“Why do cattle buyers carry such large sums of cash?” I asked Tom as we started to get undressed.
“Because it has always been the custom for cattle buyers to pay in cash,” Tom answered, “so the ranchers get their money right on the spot.”
“How much do you figure Mr. Simpson had in his money belt?” I asked.
“There must be five hundred head of cattle in the load ing pens,” Tom said. “That is about the same as last year. At ten dollars a head that would be five thousand dollars. I would guess that Mr. Simpson, not knowing just how many head of cattle there would be, must have been carrying about six thousand dollars.”
“Boy, oh, boy,” I said. “That is a lot of money. Why don’t you put your great brain to work on solving the train robbery and murder? I’ll bet the Brufoid Brothers would give you a big reward if you did.”
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“I might do just that,” Tom said, “if Uncle Mark and the posse don’t catch the outlaws.”
Uncle Mark and the posse didn’t catch the outlaws. They returned the same night because they didn’t have a chance of tracking them. Papa told us about it during lunch the next day. Southwestern Utah has several large lava beds left by extinct volcanoes. Just a few miles from the train robbery the outlaws had crossed one of them, leaving no tracks. Uncle Mark and the posse circled the lava bed trying to find out where the outlaws left it. They failed because the lava bed was surrounded by desert and the wind was blowing. Early Mormon pioneers complained to their leader Brigham Young about the wind in Southwestern Utah. They said they had to plant a seed and stand on it until it rooted or the wind would blow it away. The wind had erased all tracks wherever the outlaws had left the lava bed.
After lunch Tom told Frankie and me he was going to the depot to talk to Mr, Larson the stationmaster about the train robbery. Frankie and I went on to the common school. We met Tom on the corner when school let out.
“I’ve decided to put my great brain to work on the train robbery and the murder of Mr. Simpson,” he told us. “Tell Mamma I’ve gone to talk to Uncle Mark.”
“Can I come?” I asked.
“All right,” Tom said. “But Frankie, you tell Mamma that J.D. and I won’t be home until it is time to do the chores.”
Tom and I went to the marshal’s office. It was called the marshal’s office because Sheriff Baker was so seldom there. It was really a combination of the marshal’s and sheriff’s office and the jail. When the old marshal’s office had burned
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down years before, Uncle Mark was made a deputy sheriff as well as marshal and had used the office ever since. He was sitting at his desk with his Stetson hat pushed to the back of his head and staring at the ceiling. There were no prisoners in any of the three cells.
“I was just thinking,” he said, “it seems as if every time something serious happens around here Sheriff Baker is out of town.”
“That is why they made you a deputy sheriff,” Tom said.
“It’s a big county,” Uncle Mark said. “Sheriff Baker has a lot of territory to cover, but I do expect him back tomorrow.”
One thing I always liked about Uncle Mark. He never talked down to Tom and me. He treated us as if we were grown ups.
“I put my great brain to work on the train robbery,” Tom said as we sat down. “I don’t believe Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch did it.”
Uncle Mark looked at Tom with interest. “Why?” he asked.
“Because Cassidy has never killed a man during a robbery,” Tom said, “and because he and his gang have never operated around here.”
“I doubt that it was Cassidy and his gang too,” Uncle Mark said. “But I’ve got a little more to go on than you do.”
“What?” Tom asked.
“You will both have to promise anything I say won’t go any farther than the walls of this office,” Uncle Mark said.
Tom and I both promised.
Uncle Mark leaned back in his chair. “This train rob-
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bery was planned by somebody who knows this part of the country well,” he said. “Only somebody familiar with the area and knowing how strong the wind blows around here would have picked that particular place near the lava bed to hold up the train. And the leader of the gang was somebody who knew Simpson would be on the train and who also knew the cattle buyer on sight.”
“I can’t understand why Mr. Simpson was foolish enough to go for his gun,” Tom said, “when the leader of the outlaws had a gun pointed straight at him.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me either,” Uncle Mark said. “But that is what Sam Ludell said happened. No other passenger in the coach could have seen it.”
“If Sam Ludell recognized Butch Cassidy why didn’t the outlaw recognize him?” Tom asked.
“Ludell claims he saw Cassidy drinking and playing draw poker in the saloon in Castle Gate where he worked,” Uncle Mark said. “Claims Cassidy never noticed him because he was the blackjack dealer and the outlaw never played
blackjack.”
“What do you think really happened?” Tom asked. “I believe Simpson recognized the man who killed him,” Uncle Mark said. “It might have been from the clothing the man was wearinga ring on his finger or something like that. And I think Simpson was so surprised that he blurted out the man’s name. The outlaw, knowing he’d been recognized, had to kill Simpson. And I believe Mrs. Parker heard the name Simpson spoke. But as soon as the outlaws left Ludell jumped up and began shouting it was Butch Cassidy. And poor frightened Mrs. Parker imagined the name she heard was Butch. It might have been a name
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that didn’t even sound like Butch.”
“Why do you think Mr. Ludell insists it was Butch Cassidy he saw?” Tom asked.
“He was working in Castle (‘.ate when Cassidy and the Wild Bunch stole that mine payroll at the depot there.” Uncle Mark said. “I think when the train was held up the first thing that popped into his mind was the mine payroll holdup. And it is, possible the outlaw did look like Cassidy. Put them all together and Ludell is convinced it was Cassidy.”
“Thanks, Uncle Mark,” Tom said as we stood up. “See you later.”
“Hold it,” Uncle Mark said. “If you get any kind of a lead you must bring it to me. These men are wanted for murder and robbery. They have killed one man and wouldn’t hesitate to kill again, even a boy. rather than get caught. Promise?”
“I promise,” Tom said.
We left the marshal’s office and started for home.
“You know, J.D.,” Tom said, “I think Uncle Mark is right about everything except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“He said Mrs. Parker might have heard a name that didn’t even sound like Butch,” Tom said. “But no matter how frightened she was I don’t think Mrs. Parker would have said it was Butch, even with I.udell yelling it was Butch Cassidy, unless the name she heard did sound like Butch.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked.
“What it the name Mrs. Parker heard was a name like Bill or Harry or Steve?” Tom asked. “She would know darn well it wasn’t Butch no matter how frightened she was. My
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great brain tells me that it has to lie a name that sounds like Butch.”
Uncle Mark received a telegram from the Bruford Brothers after we’d left him. He stopped and showed it to Papa who told us about it when he came home for supper.
“They asked Mark to arrange with the local undertaker to ship Mr. Simpson’s body to Kansas City for burial,” Papa said. “They also asked him to notify the ranchers who have cattle to sell that they are sending another cattle buyer named Harold Perkins to take Mr. Simpson’s place. But Mr. Perkins won’t be able to arrive in Adenville until Saturday. I don’t believe the ranchers will complain though, because the Bruford Brothers have agreed to foot the bill for hay to feed the cattle until Mr. Perkins arrives. They also asked Mark to hold Mr. Simpson’s personal possessions and give them to Perkins to take back to Kansas City with him.”
After supper Tom, Frankie, and I did our homework. Then Frankie and I began playing checkers sitting on the floor in front of the parlor fireplace. Tom came into the room with a pencil and notebook. He sat in a chair, wrote down a word, and stared at it. Then he wrote some more words and stared at them. Even Papa became curious.
“What are you writing in that notebook that is so interesting?” he asked.
“I’m trying to find a name that sounds like Butch,” Tom said. “I’ve found words like clutch, crutch, much, such, and touch. But the only name I can think of is Dutch. Do you know anybody called Dutch?”
“Yes,” Papa said. “Dutch Wegland. He is an old-time prospector. Comes into town about twice a year looking for a grub stake. But Dutch is an old man now in his seventies
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and a loner and not the type of person who would rob a train.”
Tom shook his head. “Mr. Simpson sure as heck wouldn’t say a word like crutch before being shot,” he said.
“I don’t know about that,” Papa said. “A man facing death is liable to say anything. I remember when Hank Davis was hung in Silverlode after being convicted of murder. The last thing he ever said was. ‘trees.’ No doubt about it. The marshal and hangman heard him-say ‘trees’ just before the trap was sprung.”
Tom shut the notebook. “I give up,” he said.
Papa studied Tom for a moment. “I know there is something you aren’t telling me,” he said, “because you gave up too easily. I think I know what it is-Sheriff Baker will be back tomorrow or the next day. I suggest you leave the train robbery up to him and your Uncle Mark.”
And that for my money was like telling a kid who has just bought an ice cream cone to throw it away.
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CHAPTER FOUR
Tom and the Numbers Irick
TOM SURPRISED FRANKIE and me by going up to bed at the same time we did that night.
“How come you are going to bed an hour early?” I asked as we entered the bedroom.
“Yeah, how come?” Frankie said.
“My great brain has to figure out how it would be possible to recognize somebody who is masked,” Tom said.
“Uncle Mark said it could be a ring on a finger or the clothing the outlaw was wearing,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Tom said. “Nobody would be dumb enough to wear a ring or clothing they knew would be recognized. I’m going to try an experiment.”
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The Great Brain got a bandanna handkerchief from his dresser drawer. He put it over his nose and tied it around in back of his head. Then he got a hat from the clothes closet and put it on.
“Now, you two take a good look at me,” he said. “How do you know it is me?”
“Who else could it be?” I asked.
“Yeah, who else?” Frankie said.
“If you didn’t know it was me,” Tom said, “how would you guess it is me?”
“From the clothing you arc wearing,” I said, showing him I wasn’t a dumbbell-
“Now imagine that I’m wearing clothing you’ve never seen,” Tom said. “How would you know it was me?”
I stared at him for a couple of minutes. “The only way
I could guess it might be you would be from the freckles on your high cheekbones and forehead. But lots of kids have freckles.”
Tom removed the bandanna and hat. “This is a tough one,” he said, “but there has to be an answer.”
Frankie got between us. “I’d know it was you even if you covered up all your face.”
Tom dropped to his knees and put his hands on Frankie’s shoulders. “How would you know?”
“By the scar on your hand,” Frankie said.
Tom removed his left hand from Frankie’s shoulder and stared at it. He had given himself a nasty cut with a knife he was using to top beets from our garden before Frankie came to live with us. It had left a scar on the back of his hand about two inches long. He gave Frankie a little hug.
“Thanks, Frankie,” he said. “Now we are getting some-where.”
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The next day after school we went home and changed clothes. Eddie Huddle came over to play with Frankie. Tom and I sat on the back porch steps. I knew his great brain was working like sixty as he kept staring at the scar on his hand.
“Got it!” he said, jumping to his feet. “I’m going to the barber shop. Maybe Mr. Forester can give me a clue.”
“Can I come?” I asked.
“If you keep your mouth shut no matter what I say,” Tom answered.
Return of the Great Brain Page 5
