Butch Cassidy the Lost Years (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

I
t had been a while since I worked a spread like this, but I remembered what needed to be done. Abner had done a good job of keeping the place up, and that sure helped. By the time spring was about to roll around, I had fixed everything that needed fixing. It had been a pretty mild winter. That first morning, back before Christmastime, was probably the coldest it got. The cattle came through it pretty well and were in good shape.

The nearest town, about fifteen miles southeast, was a wide place in the road called Largo. Not much there, but it had a store, and I had hitched the mules to the buckboard and driven in a few times for supplies. The first time I did, the storekeeper, a man named Clyde Farnum, had looked out the front window for a long moment and then said, “Ain't that Abner Tillotson's buckboard?”

“It was,” I said. “I bought it from him, along with everything else on the place.”

“Did you now?” Farnum said. He was a small man with perpetual beard stubble and a wary merchant's look in his eyes.

“Yes, sir, lock, stock, and barrel.” I put out my hand across the counter between us. “Jim Strickland's the name.”

He hesitated, but not long enough to be insulting about it. Then he shook and told me his name.

“Hard to believe ol' Abner would sell out,” he said. “He's lived on that spread for as far back as I can remember.”

“He said his health was goin' south on him.” I put a solemn look on my face. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Farnum, I don't think he had a lot of time left to him, and he knew it. I figure he wanted to be sure that his place was left in good hands, him having put so much work into it and all.”

“How'd he come to sell it to you? I don't like bein' nosy, mind you, but I considered Abner a friend.”

“So did a lot of people, I reckon. That's how he and I met, through some mutual friends back in San Marcos.”

That was a shot in the dark, but I thought since Abner had gotten married in San Marcos, he might still know some folks there.

Farnum didn't seem to think that was unusual. He just nodded and said, “I used to see a letter for Abner come through here now and then with a San Marcos postmark on it. I'm the local postmaster, you know.”

“Well, there you go,” I said with an easy grin. I've found that folks tend to be a lot less suspicious of me when I grin at 'em. I guess I've just got a friendly, trustworthy face.

“Are you going to change the brand?” Farnum asked.

“No, sir, I don't believe I will. I'd be honored to run the same brand that Abner established for all these years.” I thought that might help endear me to the locals, and again, make them less suspicious of me.

“That's a nice thing to do. What can I get you today?”

That was all it took. Farnum was a talkative sort and well-respected thereabouts, so after he accepted me I was a member of the community as far as other folks were concerned.

And I didn't even have to show him the bill of sale Abner had signed, although I was prepared to do so if need be.

Except when I went into town, I didn't see many people during those months. There was a road of sorts from the Fishhook to Largo, and somebody could have driven a car over it, I supposed, but nobody did. One day an itinerant preacher came by in a buggy and offered to save my soul in exchange for a meal. I gave him the meal but told him my soul was just fine.

“It's good that you're right with the Lord, son,” he told me. “You just never know in this world. You just never know.”

I couldn't argue with that. Life was a continual surprise. Sometimes I thought I was the never-knowingest son of a bitch on the face of the earth.

Another day I saw a rider coming over the hills to the north while he was still quite a ways off. I'm not as young as I used to be, but my eyes are still keen. I was outside working on the corral fence at the time. The Winchester leaned against the fence not far from where I was. But I put my hammer down anyway, went in the house, and buckled on that old gun belt of Abner's. I had tried some of that ammunition he had for the Remington, and it fired just fine. I went back to work but kept one eye on the rider.

He slowed his horse to a walk as he came up. As far as I could see, he wasn't armed. His horse looked plumb worn-out and so did he. Eighteen or twenty years old, I thought. The boy, not the horse, although I wouldn't have ventured a guess as to its age. He had the gauntness of long, weary trails about him.

It was a look I knew well.

He reined in and said, “Good day to you, sir,” nice and polite-like.

“Hello, son,” I said. “Your horse looks like he could do with some water.” I nodded toward the well. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you, sir. Is it all right if I have some for myself?”

“No.”

He frowned in confusion, then started to look mad.

“I've got coffee in the pot in the house, and you're welcome to some,” I went on. “I seen a lot colder, but it's still sort of a chilly day.”

He relaxed then and said, “I'm obliged to you again. I'll tend to my horse first.”

“That's what I'd expect.”

Every instinct I had told me somebody was after him, probably the law. But it was none of my business and that's the way I wanted to keep it. He watered his horse, and I gave him some coffee and wrapped up some biscuits for him to take along with him when he left. I could tell by the awkward, grateful way he took the little bundle that he hadn't had anything to eat for a while but didn't want to wolf them down right in front of me.

He started to mount up, then paused and asked, “You wouldn't be looking to take on any riders, would you, sir?”

“No, son, I'm afraid I wouldn't.” Whatever trouble was dogging his trail, I didn't want any part of it.

He didn't tell me his name and I didn't offer mine. He rode on, and I kept an eye on him until he was out of sight.

A week or so after that, three more riders approached the ranch, but they came from the south this time. Since they came from the opposite direction I figured they probably didn't have anything to do with the youngster. As they drew closer I saw they were Mexicans in well-worn vaquero clothes. I met them out in front of the house with the Remington on my hip and the Winchester in the crook of my left arm.

“Howdy,” I called as they reined in. They were all in their twenties. One of them edged his mount slightly ahead of the others. He had a thick black mustache and the face of a hawk and looked like he should have been riding with Pancho Villa.

His voice was quiet, though, as he said, “Donde esta Señor Tillotson?”

I understood what he was asking, but I said, “Can you speak English, my friend?” I could get along in Spanish, but if he thought I spoke it fluently he might start going too fast for me to keep up.

“Sí, of course. Where is Señor Tillotson?”

“He sold the ranch to me a while back. Who are you?”

“Santiago Marquez,” he answered without hesitation. He tipped his head toward the other two. “These are my cousins Javier and Fernando. We work for Señor Tillotson. Or I should say, we did. We came to see if he was ready for us to start preparing for the spring roundup.”

Santiago was a well-spoken man and obviously intelligent. Apparently he accepted my story about buying the ranch from Abner, but I had a hunch he didn't trust me completely. I wouldn't have been surprised if when he and his cousins rode out, they headed straight for Largo to ask around about me.

For that matter, I didn't trust him completely, either. All I had was his word that the three of them had worked for Abner. They might be as crooked as the Daughtrys were. If I was going to give this business of being an honest rancher a try, I wanted to go about it the right way.

So I said, “Let me study on that, Señor Marquez.” What I really wanted to do was ask Clyde Farnum about him. “Can you ride back by here in, say, a week or so? I'm sorry to inconvenience you—”

He shook his head and said, “De nada. A week will be fine, Señor . . . ?”

“Strickland,” I told him. “Jim Strickland.”

He lifted his reins and nodded.

“We will see you in a week, señor.”

Neither of the other two had said a word so far. But before Santiago could turn his horse to ride away, one of them spoke up, and sure enough, the words came out so fast I didn't know what he was saying. But Santiago pointed to the northeast and told me, “It looks like you have more company coming, señor. This is a popular place today.”

Too popular, as far as I was concerned. I had come to value my privacy. I squinted into the distance and saw a buggy rolling toward the ranch houses. For a second I thought the preacher was back until I realized it was a different vehicle.

“Now who the blazes . . . ,” I muttered.

“I can tell you that, Señor Strickland,” Santiago said with a hint of a smile on his lips under that drooping mustache. “It appears that the sheriff is about to pay you a visit.”

CHAPTER 6

I
'd been living an honest, respectable life for several years now. It wasn't so much a matter of choice as it was of circumstances. And I had nothing to fear where my dealings with Abner Tillotson were concerned. Abner and I had struck an honest bargain, and we had both lived up to our ends of it . . . so to speak.

But old habits die hard, and just hearing the word “sheriff” made me look around for the nearest horse I could jump onto and light a shuck out of there. I tried to control that reaction, but I thought Santiago might've caught a hint of it. Like I said, he was smart and observant.

I kept my voice casual as I said, “The sheriff, eh? Wonder what he wants.”

“I suspect we will find out, señor.”

I thought maybe there was a trace of mockery in Santiago's words. He didn't act like he was leaving anymore, and the other vaqueros sat there stolidly on their horses, following their cousin's lead. They wanted to see what was going to happen. I couldn't blame them for being curious. I was wondering about that myself.

The sheriff's buggy rolled steadily closer. A fine matched pair of bay horses pulled it. Only one man rode on the seat. He wore a gray pinstriped suit, a black vest, and a white shirt buttoned up to the collar with no tie. A flat-crowned gray hat sat square on his head. Bushy side whiskers came down onto his jaw, flanking a rough-hewn face. Under a prominent nose that reminded me of a potato was a brown mustache. He wasn't what you'd call a handsome man.

He brought the buggy to a stop, gave the Mexicans a dismissive glance as if they didn't matter, and nodded to me.

“Good day, sir,” he said. He pulled back his lapel a little so the sun reflected off the badge pinned to his vest. “I'm Sheriff Emil Lester.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff,” I said with the usual friendly smile on my face. “Jim Strickland's my handle.”

Sheriff Lester looked around at the house and the outbuildings.

“This is Abner Tillotson's ranch,” he said.

“It was,” I agreed easily enough. “I bought it from him.”

“So I was told in Largo. I don't get up this way very often. Doings in the county seat, down on the railroad, usually keep me occupied.”

“Sheriff, I'd be glad to tell you the whole story,” I said, “but it'd please me if you'd light down and come inside so we can talk in the house.”

He didn't respond to the offer. Instead he looked at the vaqueros again and said, “Marquez, did you and the Gallardo boys know Señor Tillotson had sold his ranch?”

“No, Sheriff,” Santiago replied with a shake of his head. “Not until we rode up just a few minutes ago.”

“Farnum and the other folks in Largo knew about it.” Lester's voice had a challenging note to it, as if he didn't believe what Santiago had just told him.

Santiago shrugged and said, “We do not shop at Señor Farnum's store. When we go to Largo, we stop at the cantina, and when we leave the cantina, we go back to our rancho.”

“Fine, fine.” Lester tied the reins around the buggy's brake lever and started to climb down from the seat. “You boys can go on about your business now. You can come back later and talk to Señor Strickland about working for him . . . if he's still here.”

That comment with its veiled threat nettled me a little, but I kept the smile on my face. Santiago lifted a hand slightly and said to me, “Adios, Señor Strickland.” I got the feeling that he disliked Sheriff Lester more than he distrusted me.

“Adios, Santiago,” I called to him. “You, too, Javier and Fernando.”

They rode off at a good clip, dust kicking up from their horses' hooves.

Lester looked at me and said, “I suppose you can prove you bought the place from Tillotson?”

“I sure can. Come on in and I'll show you the bill of sale. Got coffee on the fire, too.”

He grunted noncommittally. When he was climbing down from the buggy his coat had swung open enough for me to see the butt of a revolver in a cross-draw rig on his left side. I would have been willing to bet that I was faster than he was, but I didn't see any need to prove it unless I was forced to.

We went into the ranch house, and I hung my hat on one peg near the door and the Winchester on a couple of others close by. Since I was the only one living here I didn't use the cook shack but did all my cooking in the fireplace instead. I had the coffeepot sitting on the hearth now, staying warm. I gestured toward it and said, “Arbuckle's?”

“Thanks.”

I got a couple of cups from a shelf and poured. As I handed Lester's cup to him, I said, “You know, Sheriff, you don't really sound much like a Texan.”

“I'm from Iowa,” he said. He didn't say what had brought him to Texas or how long he'd been here.

“I was born in Utah, myself.” I never minded admitting that. A lot of people were born in Utah.

He hadn't said thanks for the coffee, and when he took a sip of it, he didn't say that it was good or anything else about it. Some folks are just brusque by nature, and a significant number of them seem to become lawmen. I think maybe that's because they just don't like to talk much, and they think they can get by with saying, “Hands up” or “You're under arrest” now and then.

He got right to the point, asking, “When did you buy this ranch from Abner Tillotson?”

“Back in December it was.” When I had run into Abner and the Daughtry brothers that cold night, I hadn't been sure of the date, but I knew the month. Just as a guess I had put December 12th on the bill of sale, because I thought it was about two weeks until Christmas.

“You say you have proof of that?”

“Yes, sir, I sure do.”

I went over to a little box I'd found and started using for important papers. It wouldn't do for anybody to know that I still had Abner's trunk and the old Bible in it. That would raise too many questions, because anybody would figure he'd take personal possessions like that with him if he'd sold the place. They weren't like the tools and the furniture and the livestock.

I took out the bill of sale and the deed, which Abner would have given to me if we'd concluded our transaction the normal way. I handed them to Sheriff Lester to look at to his heart's content.

He didn't seem too impressed. He said, “You should have gone to a lawyer and had a proper bill of sale drawn up and witnessed. This is worthless in a court of law.”

“Well, sir, I suggested as much to Abner, but he was in a bit of a hurry. He said that would stand up just fine, because everybody around here knows his signature.”

“Possibly,” Lester said. “The sale should have been recorded with the county clerk, too.”

“I just haven't had a chance yet to get down to the county seat and take care of that. I plan on doing it, though, as soon as I can.”

“I wouldn't tarry if I was you.” Lester handed the papers back to me. “Where can I find Mr. Tillotson, so I can check on all this with him?”

I shook my head and said, “I don't rightly know. He didn't say where he was going when he pulled out.”

“Clyde Farnum says Tillotson was in poor health.”

Actually, I had told Farnum that, but evidently the storekeeper had taken it as gospel, which was a good break for me. I said, “You know, I got the same feeling, but I didn't ask for details. I don't like to pry too much in a man's business.”

Lester grunted. Prying was what he did for a living, I supposed.

“I'd feel better about this whole affair if I could talk to Tillotson,” he said. “For all I know, you murdered him and just moved in on the place.”

It wouldn't be natural for a man not to be a little offended at an accusation like that. So I huffed up a mite and said, “By God, Sheriff, I don't care for what you're insinuatin'.”

“I'm not insinuating anything. I'm flat out saying it.” He looked at me like he was daring me to prove otherwise, too.

“If you think I murdered Abner Tillotson, what you are is flat-out wrong. I wouldn't have harmed a hair on that old man's head.”

“Good friends, were you?”

“No, but I liked him, and I wish we'd gotten to spend more time together. Now, I don't want to get too testy, Sheriff, but I've shown you the bill of sale and the deed. What more do you need to see?”

“What about if I take a look around the place and see if there's a grave a few months old?”

“Go ahead,” I told him. “You won't find any, because there ain't none.”

I was glad I'd changed my mind about putting up a marker for Abner, up yonder on the hill. I had decided it might be safer in the long run to let the grave go back to nature, and I didn't figure Abner would mind. To that end, I'd tamped the dirt down good, scattered some rocks around, and even transplanted a couple of cactuses over there, making it look like they'd been growing there all along. I didn't think the sheriff would spot anything different about the ground by now.

Some people might wonder why I didn't just tell the law everything that had happened to start with. I was in the right for once. Everything I'd done had been to bring the killers of an old man to justice and recover his stolen property.

The problem was that the bodies of the Daughtry brothers had me leery. I worried that some hotshot lawman might make me out to be a murderer. I was the only man alive who knew the truth of what had happened that night, and that right there would be enough to make a lot of badge-toters suspicious. Better to keep everything as simple as possible, I thought.

For a minute I thought the sheriff was going to take me up on my invitation to go ahead and search the place. Then he took another drink of coffee and set the cup on the table.

“All right,” he said. “But I'm going to look into this, Strickland. If I come out here to talk to you again, you'd better be here.”

“Sheriff, I'm not planning on going anywhere,” I said honestly. I was taking to the ranching life better than I thought I might, and I figured I'd stay on until I got tired of it.

Lester gave me a curt nod and started to turn away. He stopped and said, “You know the Daughtry brothers?”

He probably hoped to throw me for a loop by asking it out of the blue that way, but I didn't let it faze me.

“Can't say as I do,” I told him. “Do they live around here?”

“They did. Folks in Largo said they hadn't seen them for several months, so I drove up to their place before I came here.”

I shook my head and said, “I don't even know where it is.”

“About four miles northeast of here. Sorry little outfit on the edge of Fishhook range. I've had it in mind that the brothers—there were three of them—had been rustling some of Tillotson's stock.”

“I haven't lost any cattle,” I said, telling the truth again.

“I suppose not. The Daughtrys are gone. Looks like they abandoned the place. No horses, no cattle, and the shack was falling in. They'd left some personal things behind, but nothing to amount to anything.”

It appeared that I owed a debt of gratitude to the buzzards, the coyotes, and the wolves. They had dragged off and disposed of the remains, probably scattering the bones across the prairie. A Daughtry skull might turn up sooner or later, but likely it would just remain an unsolved mystery.

I said, “No offense, Sheriff, but from the way you described them, it's good riddance to those fellas, wherever they went.”

Lester nodded slowly and said, “I suspect most of the citizens in the county would agree with you, Strickland.” This time he turned and went to the door, pausing only to say, “Thanks for the coffee.”

That surprised me, but I had the presence of mind to say, “You're welcome. Come on back any time you're of a mind to.”

He gave me a hard look.

“If I have a reason to be here, I will be.”

With that he climbed up into the buggy and drove off. I wasn't sorry to see him go.

Even when I haven't done anything wrong, me and star packers just don't mix.