“We can swing by the police station and get him out,” said Nell.
“Don’t bother,” she shouted as her nephew pulled her away. “You know how it goes. Once those cops see it’s us, they’ll drag it out all night just to mess with us.”
“Okay,” Nell waved as she got inside the carriage and closed the door shutting out the elements. Walter, she thought, yes, that was the taller one’s name. Her nephew was named Walter. And Clarence was known by a nickname. Binky. Edith’s nephew was Walter and his friend was Binky. One was more disreputable than the other. When they were just starting out and desperate, she would run to the window after a rich client had left and signal Binky as to where the unsuspecting mark kept his wallet. She had actually stood in the window and grabbed her tit if he kept it in his coat pocket or her ass if he kept it in his pants pocket. Walter and Binky would always set the mark up a few blocks away from the Palace so he did not suspect. The impressive-looking Walter, always suitably dressed, would stop the gentleman for directions and the dexterous Binky, always playing the fool, would run into him and relieve the mark of his wallet.
God, she was crazy back then. It had been a lot of fun. The excesses of youth filled the days with excitement. It was like she exploded from her strict Catholic upbringing. She did not like to think what those two characters had on her.
The carriage made a right turn and the glow of the street lights disappeared. She pulled back the curtain of the carriage window and saw garbage cans and litter. They were in an alley.
“Driver,” she yelled angrily, “Where in the hell are you going?”
“Just pulling over a second to adjust the rigging,” he answered but he did not stop.
She did not recognize the voice as one of the regular driver’s. It was very deep and low. She had heard that voice before. That afternoon. Fear rushed through her body like a prairie grass fire. She threw open the door and was looking for a soft spot to land when the carriage came to an abrupt stop. She launched herself out the door and was free for a brief moment before a huge hand came over the top of the carriage and caught her in midair. The huge hand closed around her throat and pulled her back towards the carriage. Nell clawed at the thick fingers with both hands as the life was crushed out of her. Her new satin shoes kicked helplessly against the polished lacquer side of the carriage. In a few minutes, the thrashing stopped and the huge hand released Nell’s lifeless body. It fell to the pavement and rolled into the garbage of the backstreets of Chicago.
CHAPTER 9
ROCK SPRINGS, WYOMING
Mike and Patrick moved as old men down the muddy main street of Rock Springs. Their bodies did not easily forgive the torture of several days extended rail travel in standard coach.
“I feel like somebody hit me in the back with a two-by-four,” said Patrick.
“Quit yer belly aching and help me tuh find the Marshal’s office,” said Mike, grimacing with each step.
“How hard can it be? This looks like the only street with any businesses on it.”
They walked the plank sidewalk along an unimpressive line of wooden facade buildings until they stood in front of one that boasted of a lady barber. A freshly-shaven man exited looking quite content with a shave and haircut that was enhanced by the temporary feminine company.
“Hey, buddy, where can I find Marshal Parker?” asked Mike.
He gave them a cursory glance and pointed to a solitary two-story building. “You’ll find the Marshal’s office just past the hotel.”
“Thank you,” said Patrick.
The man nodded politely and then put on his hat to protect his close-shaven head from the chilly spring breeze that blew down the open street. They held their overcoats closed at their throats as they walked along. Mike looked up at the dust blowing off the tops of the barren hills that surrounded the town.
“I thought Chicago was duh windy city,” he said, grabbing his Derby hat before a sudden gust blew it away. They pushed open the door to the Marshal’s office and began knocking the dust off before they introduced themselves.
“Wind’s pickin’ up a little this afternoon,” commented the large-framed, middle-aged man leaning back casually in a big wooden chair. He had his feet propped up on a nail barrel to keep them nice and warm against the pot-bellied stove that dominated the small room. There was a mangy-looking dog lying as if dead beneath his outstretched legs. A deputy, who was sitting on a desk next to the two empty cells, eyed them with curiosity. He resembled the broad-faced marshal only he was smaller and several years younger.
“George,” the congenial Marshal said to his deputy, “get these gentlemen some chairs and a cup of coffee so they can warm up by the fire. My guess is they came all the way from Chicago. Let’s show them some hospitality.”
“Thank you, Marshal,” said Patrick, settling into the chair and accepting the cup of coffee.
“I’ll stand,” said Mike. “I been sittin’ fer two days.”
“You must be Detective McGhan,” said the marshal pulling his legs off the barrel and rising to shake hands. “Did yah get my telegram?”
“That I did,” said Mike.
“I got several telegrams myself since then,” the Marshal continued. “One from the Governor of Wyoming himself urging me to give you the utmost support.”
“That is good to hear,” Mike replied.
“Yes it is. When that young feller killed Theodore Carver’s wife, he bought himself a pack of trouble. You don’t do something against the big boys. They are pretty well-connected. Yep, this young Sean, uh…”
“Daugherty,” said Patrick helpfully.
“Yep, Daugherty,” repeated the Marshal, extending his hand to Patrick without finishing his thought. “And who might you be, young man?”
“That’s me nephew, Patrick,” Mike interjected. “He wasn’t supposed tuh be here but he’s got a few connections ov his own.”
“I’ll be damned,” laughed the deputy, “Pat and Mike. We been hearing jokes about you guys for years.”
“We’re nothin’ tuh joke with,” Mike said irritably.
“George,” said the Marshal. “Why don’t you get Butch? I told him to wait over in the barn at the livery stable. Tell him to use the back door.”
“The other George Parker,” the deputy said sarcastically. He pushed himself off the desk again and ambled out the door.
“Please excuse my brother,” apologized the Marshal. “He rubs people the wrong way on occasion.”
“Who’s this other George Parker he went to get?” asked Mike.
“When Butch came to town he was called George Parker, same as my brother. Since both of them have a talent for trouble, folks had a hard time figurin’ who did what. My brother still thinks he did it on purpose as a joke. After a while he became Ed Cassidy. Since he worked for old man Gottsche cutting up beef, people started callin’ him Butch. Course there was talk he brought a lot of experience to the job haven’ been cuttin’ up other peoples’ beef for years.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed as he got the drift of the remark. “So this is the Cassidy yuh was referrin’ to in yer telly-gram. This here’s the fella that can get me in and out ov anyplace. What’s his real name?”
“Don’t really know for sure,” said the Marshal lounging back in his chair. “Out here names are funny things. You might meet the same feller three times and each time there’s a different name attached to the same face.”
“Why would that be?” Patrick inquired.
“Aliases,” Mike said knowingly.
“Yes, that’s it, son,” the Marshal sighed. “The West has got a lot of places for a man on the run to get lost.”
“So what’s this Cassidy runnin’ from?” asked Mike. “Is there any more on him than helping himself tuh cattle that ain’t his?”
“He answers the description on a warrant for a Robert Leroy Parker who was involved in a bank holdup a few years back. But, after he saved my ass in a saloon fight, I stopped wonderin’ about the matter.”
“I dun’t get it,” said Mike. “Why would uh guy whose probably lookin’ at jail time want tuh help us?”
“It’s a little further along than probably,” said the Marshal, leaning forward in his chair and smiling almost apologetically. “Butch really messed up this time. I got him out of the jail in Evanston to help you fellas. They arrested him on some trumped up charge of stealin’ a horse. Butch assured me he bought the horse last fall from a fella from Johnson County.”
“Johnson County,” said Patrick. “That’s where the salesman on the train said they were having all the trouble.”
“Now just because the horse came from Johnson County don’t guarantee it’s stolen’,” said the Marshal defensively. “Be that as it may, Butch didn’t have the four hundred dollars to make bail, and I couldn’t see him wastin’ away in jail when you fellas need an expert guide to lead your posse.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is this Cassidy is helpin’ us just to get out of jail,” said Mike.
“There’s more to it than that,” the Marshal assured them. “Butch wants to go straight. This brush with the law really scared him. One of the deputies shot him in the head. Must have caught him at just the right angle cause the slug bounced off his thick skull. Knocked him out though so they took him in real peaceful.”
“I can understand why thet might lead uh man tuh be reconsidin’ uh life ov crime,” Mike conceded.
“Anyhow,” continued the Marshal, “he wants tah do something to set himself right with the authorities before his trial in July.”
“To perform some service for the community,” said Patrick.
“Exactly,” said the Marshal. “I like the sound of that - a community service. You have a knack for turnin’ a phrase, young man.”
“He’d better have,” said Mike. “He’s a damn newspaper rayporter.”
“A reporter,” said the Marshal with some satisfaction. “I been sittin’ here thinkin’ that young fella don’t look like a lawman. He looks too smart for that, right Mike?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Mike did not know quite how to take the laconic Marshal and that’s the way Marshal Harry S. Parker wanted it. Mike McGahan wasn’t the first big city lawman to cross his threshold.
“You don’t have to worry about Butch,” the Marshal assured him. “Where you’re goin’, you’ll need somebody who knows the country and the people. You can’t get no better man for that job than Butch Cassidy.”
“I’ll have tuh be takin’ yer word on thet,” said Mike. “Who else yuh got goin’ with us.”
“Nobody,” replied the Marshal, surprised. “I got the telegraph from the governor. He said to provide you with horses, supplies, guns and ammo, but there was no mention of deputies. I thought you’d be bringin’ your own boys outah Chicago.”
“Duh boys they were offerin’ weren’t warth duh price ov a train ticket.”
“I can telegraph the governor’s office tomorrow and see if they can requisition some more money for deputies.”
“How long would that take?”
“Don’t rightly know,” the Marshal admitted. “Never had cause to get in touch with the governor before. Probably a couple days.”
“Forget it,” said Mike, “Daugherty could be in Montana by then.”
The back door of the Marshal’s office swung open and deputy George Parker entered followed by a sandy-haired young man of medium height and muscular build. He had deep-set blue eyes that quickly took in everyone in the room. He greeted the marshal with a handshake and an engaging smile. The dog, which they thought to be dead, came alive and began licking the young man’s hand. He called the mutt by name and reached down and scratched it behind the ear.
“Butch, this is Mike McGhan and his nephew Patrick from Chicago,” said the Marshal, making the introductions. “Like I was tellin’ you earlier, they’re under a lot of pressure to find an escaped fugitive that’s supposed to be ridin’ with Red Alvins. They figure he headed this way.”
“We was tipped off by uh railroad porter that five men boarded uh train going West the morning after the escape,” Mike informed them. “He got suspicious cause a couple ov ‘em still had on jailhouse issue pants.”
“They didn’t even break up and go on separate cars?” Butch asked incredulously. “And Red could never figure out why I didn’t want him ridin’ with me. He never did have enough sense to spit downwind.”
Marshal Parker gave Butch a cautioning look and he realized he was thinking out loud.
“I been doing some checkin’ around since you put me up to this deal, Harry,” Butch continued, “Jensen down at the station didn’t see Red get off here. Nobody west of town has seen ole Red yet. Not like him to deny himself western hospitality and not stop at some ranch to eat. Elzy Lay rode out on the south road this afternoon for me. Goin’ to see if Red and his bunch might have stopped at the Hazlett place. Mrs. Hazlett will always kill a chicken and cook it up if company stops by.”
“This deal we got don’t include Elzy Lay,” the Marshal cautioned. “He may be a charmer and educated and all, but he’s still a thief.”
“Elzy don’t ‘spect nothin’, Harry,” Butch assured him. “He’s just helpin’ out. Nobody knows Brown’s Park like he does. He’s always sparkin’ those Bassett girls.”
That being understood, the Marshal next directed his attention towards Mike and Patrick. He scratched the gray stubble of his two-day-old beard and inspected them thoughtfully.
“George, take these gentleman over to the general store and get them some proper clothes and equipment for the trail,” he said as he rose and walked towards a rack of long guns on the wall. “Those nice suits won’t hold up well in Wyoming in the springtime. We can get a major snow this early in April.”
“Just so we don’t have another like ‘87,” said Butch. “There was four foot of snow layin’ on the flatlands. Cattle froze in their tracks.”
“The winter of death,” the Marshal muttered solemnly to himself. “It wiped out a lot of small ranchers.” He fumbled around for a key and unlocked the chain running through the trigger guards of a row of Winchesters. He selected two and handed them to Mike and Patrick.
“I’m not here to shoot anyone,” said Patrick, holding the rifle by the end of the barrel.
“I can see that,” observed the Marshal. “But if ole Red decides to take a shot at you, you’ll change your mind quick enough.”
“Oh,” Patrick said meekly. He glanced at how Mike cradled the weapon in his arm and attempted to copy him.
“And George,” the Marshal continued. “Get them the best room next door at the hotel. They’ll need a good night’s sleep before settin’ out in the morning. Butch can take care of pickin’ out the horses since he’ll have to sleep outah sight at the livery anyhow.”
“Who’s going to pay for all this, Harry?” asked George in a manner only a deputy who was also a brother could get away with.
“The governor of Wyoming,” declared the Marshal. “He asked me to give them the utmost support. He sure as hell is going to pay for it, ain’t he?”
At that moment the door swung open and a hawkish-featured man in a well-tailored suit barged into the room.
“Hello Douglas,” said the Marshal with a sigh. “I been half expecting to see you.”
“Good,” he replied as he reached out carefully to touch the purplish bump on Butch’s forehead, “I hate to surprise people.”
“Douglas here is an attorney-at-law,” the Marshal announced without enthusiasm.
“Marshal Parker, I would like a written agreement of clemency signed by the Governor before my client embarks upon this perilous manhunt.”
“I’ll just bet you would but you’re not goin’ to get it, Douglas,” said the Marshal emphatically. “This whole thing’s got to be done on the hush-hush. I didn’t even sign the surety bond for the deputy from Evanston releasing Butch into my custody. I got to get re-elected here next term. In case you forgot, Butch and the rest of that w
ild bunch from Brown’s Park raised a lot of hell in town this winter. People are already down on me cause all I did was take Butch’s watch as a fine. They say I’m soft on him cause he saved my life.”
“Well, as you know, Marshal, he also saved my life in a similar circumstance, so I fervently desire to look out for his best interests,” said Douglas.
“Damn, Douglas where do you come up with those ten dollar words?” laughed Cassidy, amused by all the fuss. “You could talk a cow outah her calf.”
“He can sure put up a big crop of words,” agreed the Marshal.
“You saved his life too?” asked Patrick of Butch, both bewildered and amused. “Then I guess you’re a good man to have along.”
Cassidy just looked at him and gave him a grin that was somehow both sheepish and cocky at the same time.
CHAPTER 10
THE POSSE
“You fellers look fresh as a mountain mornin’,” said Butch good-naturedly. He was waiting at the entrance to the livery barn with the doors wide open.
“The clothes I wore were good enough,” Mike complained. He had donned Levi’s and a heavy wool ranch jacket, but still wore his police issue shoes and his Derby hat. Patrick, however, had been talked into the complete makeover. He was now indeed a man of the West. His gangly six-foot frame stood even taller in a pair of cowboy boots with fancy stitching on the sides and toes. He wore a full-length tan duster topped off with a ten gallon white Stetson. If he could have managed a steely-eyed look, he would have belonged on the cover of a Western dime novel.
Butch had to look away for a moment and when his gaze returned to them, he had only a slight hint of a smile. “First time out West for you gents?”
“Why, ah, yes,” said Patrick, not sensing the humor.
“Well, all we gotta do now is find you each a decent horse,” Butch concluded.
A thin, unkempt old man limped around the corner and stopped in awe of Patrick.
“Damn, I never saw that much new gear on one body afore. Well, I’ll take that back. Saw one of those manny-cans once in a store window in St. Louie…”
The Cassidy Posse Page 7
