Stringer and the Wild Bunch

by Lou Cameron

  He was still working on that when someone called out that the grub was ready. “I’ll go fetch us some,” Pecos said, and he almost told her to stay put and read dirty books while he got the coffee and grub.

  Then he wondered why anyone would want to do a dumb thing like that. So he let her, saying, “Try to make it pronto, and don’t tell anybody about the kind of books you read. You may know them better than me. But I’m not built so tempting. So it sort of evens out.”

  He’d finished fooling with the whore pistol and was reading the book, or at least the captions under the dirty pictures, when Pecos returned. She brought the franks and beans in new-looking tin plates, and the coffee was in tin cups. As she rejoined him on the tarp, Pecos said, “We got plenty of coffee and beans, honey. I reckon Kid Curry was planning on holing up here for some time.”

  “I never thought he was all that bright,” Stringer said. “We can’t be all that far from his last train robbery and— Hold on. Didn’t one of those gents you shot say something about the old Green River hideout being known to the law these days?”

  She nodded. “Sure, everyone knows that. I wasn’t there, but I’ve heard others talking about how that mean old Charlie Siringo slickered even Butch Cassidy that time.”

  Stringer scowled down at his black coffee. “You say you, and others, have heard of Charlie Siringo? Tell me about him, honey.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” she replied. “Whilst the Wild Bunch was bigger, up yonder around Brown’s Hole and Diamond Mountain, this amiable saddle tramp rid in one night, and as they fed him, he confessed he was on the run from the law because of some little misunderstanding about brands. He said his name was Carter, Charlie Carter, and Butch allowed he’d come to the right place. Like I said, I wasn’t there, but it seems the skinny old cow thief hung about the Wild Bunch for a week or so. Butch even let him offer some suggestions on the best way to stop a train. The sly old dog seemed to know a lot about robbing trains. But although he agreed to help ‘em stop a U.P. Flyer in a month or so, when the time came, the old-timer just wasn’t there. Nobody thought much about it until they tried to stop that train and a whole damn posse jumped out of it, cussing and shooting. Our boys got away. But it was enough to make anyone study harder on who they’d been jawing with lately. I think it was Kid Curry who found out that sly old saddle tramp who called his fool self Carter was really Charlie Siringo of the Pinkertons.”

  She looked downright dismayed as Stringer balled up a fist and pounded his own thigh hard enough to leave bruises. When she asked what she might have said to offend him so, he hit himself some more and growled, “Oh, that lying two-faced bucket of eel puke! Not you. Not Charlie Siringo. I see it all now and I still feel dumb as hell. For I don’t know whether he slickered me the most or I slickered me the most!”

  She naturally asked what on earth he was talking about.

  He explained, “I spoke to Charlie Siringo no more than a few weeks ago in Cheyenne and he said something about going out after the Wild Bunch some more. Deputy Marshal Lefors had already left Cheyenne with the same stated intention. Can’t you see both of ‘em must have heard Kid Curry was gathering everyone together for another big job?”

  She shrugged. “So what? Neither of ‘em has caught up with us so far. When Charlie Siringo led a posse of pinks to the old hideout, everyone was gone.”

  He nodded. “Right. And yet Kid Curry told me he’d never heard of Siringo. He also told me all of you were headed back to that hideout Charlie Siringo already knows about. Don’t you get it?”

  She shook her head. “Not hardly. Kid Curry keeps forgetting his brothers are dead and makes up other stuff just for fun. But he’d surely know better than to head for a place the law knew about. We spent ever so much time finding this uncharted canyon. The Kid has to know we’re safer here.”

  Stringer sighed and muttered, “Beautiful but dumb. Think back to this morning and add it all up.” She frowned. “Well, let’s see. Slim was feeling too poorly to go on, so…”

  “Curry wasn’t worried one way or the other about Slim,” Stringer cut in. “He knew Banger and Will were having second thoughts about his leadership after getting so little for so much risk. He couldn’t have known you and Grat Winslow hadn’t been using those Pashas all that much recently. He was hoping all three of you would light out.”

  “What about you and Slim, then?” she asked.

  “What sort of a sissy could even the Wild Bunch take me for?” he said. “Curry figured I’d have no trouble slipping away from anyone that sick.”

  She brightened and asked, “Oh, do you reckon he could have wanted to let you go, honey?”

  “He was counting on it. He wanted me to tell the whole world the Wild Bunch was headed back to its old haunts. The lawmen searching for us right now would have thought that was mighty dumb. But since Kid Curry’s done dumb things before, they might have bought it. I know I did, at first.”

  “Well, there’s no harm done, lover,” she said. “Now that you know Kid Curry won’t really mind if you light out—”

  “You can’t be that innocent,” he cut in wearily, and when he saw she seemed to be, he explained, “I was supposed to get away before I knew where you all were really hiding out. Now that I know about this canyon…Well, Kid Curry said he has plenty of booze and beans in store. I sure don’t want to stay here until they’re all gone, even if Curry lets me last that long!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Stringer would never know for sure whether Kid Curry had come up with the notion or whether Arkansas had simply seen a seemingly sure-fire way to add to his rep without any risk. After everyone had eaten, the sky above was still light enough to make out the bugs the bats from the canyon walls had started to chase across the gloaming lavender clifftops. Most of the bunch had gathered to take part in or at least watch the game of horseshoes someone had improvised up the canyon a piece. Not wanting to attract attention, Stringer and Pecos reclined on the tarp they were sharing at the base of the cliffs. Arkansas found them anyway.

  The sardonic bully was smiling as friendly as he could manage. “Howdy, newspaper boy,” he said. “I was just planning on a little target practice down the other way. We got lots of empty cans and jars to shoot at. Why don’t you show us how good you are with that .32 you found?”

  Stringer tried, “I’d admire that. Only I only have the five rounds I found with it.”

  “Hell,” Arkansas said, “I can get you some more .32 rounds. Half the gals in camp favor bitty bullets for their bitty guns. What’s the matter, newspaper boy? Are you afraid the noise will hurt your dainty ears?”

  Stringer got wearily to his feet. “Well, I’ve yet to fire the piece, if it really fires. So let’s not bet any money until I’ve had a chance to get used to the balance.”

  Arkansas assured Stringer they were only playing for fun. When Pecos got up, too, Arkansas said, “You’d best stay here. Target practice is for men only.”

  “The hell you say,” Pecos replied, “I guess if you two can shoot cans, I can shoot cans, can’t I?”

  Arkansas shrugged. “Well, far be it from me to order Kid Curry’s true love about. But you got to promise not to get in our way.”

  The three of them headed away from the horseshoe game and scattered bedding. The only one who seemed interested in where they might be going was the young wrangler Stringer had met before. When he asked what was up, Pecos said, “We’re gonna shoot up some jars and cans.” So the wrangler tagged along to watch.

  The four of them got down to a slight bend in the canyon. Arkansas had already set up a row of jars and cans against the base of the cliffs. “You go first, MacKail,” Arkansas said. “I want to see how good you shoot afore I risk making a fool of myself.”

  Stringer shrugged and drew the busted .32 from under his denim jacket. As he did so, and as he sort of expected, Arkansas roared, “Pull a gun on me, will you?” and went for his own .45.

  He looked more surprised than hurt, at first, w
hen Stringer fired the gun in his hand, three times, and put a line of button holes where Arkansas had never had any button holes before. “Aw, how did he ever do that?” Arkansas muttered, and fell in a heap at Stringer’s feet.

  Slim was the first to arrive who hadn’t actually seen the attempted murder of Stringer. Stringer thought it best to lower the smoking muzzle politely as Slim drew, casually, and demanded to know how come old Arkansas lay dead like that.

  “He started to draw on MacKail, here,” Pecos said.

  Slim shook his head. “You ain’t exactly what I would call an objective witness, Pecos.”

  The young wrangler said, “Well, I don’t know what you’re objecting to, Slim. But I just saw what Arkansas tried to pull, and it was mighty dirty, even for him. He invited us all to shoot them jars and cans, yonder, with him. Then, when this gent took out his gun to do so, Arkansas tried to say it was personal and went for his own.”

  Slim stared morosely down. “I reckon I’ll have to take your word on that,” he murmured, “even if it sounds mighty stupid, even for Arkansas. Who but a total idjet would slap leather on any man who already had his own gun out? Anyone can see Arkansas went down with his own piece still in its fool holster.”

  Pecos said, “Well, he got it part ways out afore MacKail here taught him better manners. I could see he was out to collect another scalp. But you’re right, it sure was dumb of him to wait that long. Mayhaps he figured it would sound more glorious if he nailed a man who had an edge on him. Who ever would have thought Arkansas was so brave?”

  By this time others were arriving. Kid Curry was in the lead, walking kind of funny. He had his own gun out, but before he could shoot anybody Slim said, “It’s over. Arkansas picked a fight with MacKail, here. You can see who won.”

  “Damn it,” Kid Curry said, “I should have knowed better than to let a prisoner pack a gun, even a bitty one. You’d best hand it over, Bathwash. I got enough trouble with my real pards shooting one another up for no reason.”

  Stringer shrugged and handed the .32 to Slim. The lunger started to pocket it, frowned thoughtfully, and held it up to the light. “How come you put a French letter on this pistol, Stringer?” he asked. “I’ve heard of gents being worried about the clap, but on a gun?”

  “The mainspring’s busted,” Stringer said. “I figured it might still fire if I twisted the rubber like that and looped it around the trigger guard and hammer spur. I’d heard you could get a gun to fire with a stout rubber band slung so. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure a Pasha would be strong enough.”

  Slim glanced down at the dead man between them again as he put the .32 away. “It worked better than Arkansas likely expected. I take back what I said about him being a total idjet. He was smart enough. He just run into someone a mite smarter. That’s all it takes when you’re playing for keeps.”

  “Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Kid Curry asked. “I can see that someone tried to do someone dirty. But who did what, with what, to whoever?”

  “Let’s get you back to the fire afore you fall down, Kid,” Slim said. “I told you it was over and all’s right with the world. Arkansas tried to murder MacKail and got killed instead. I’ve disarmed MacKail, so he’s not likely to kill nobody else this evening, see?”

  “Well, I still don’t like it,” Kid Curry said. “He was supposed to write nice things about me for his paper, not shoot old Arkansas. We’re running mighty low on real gunslicks, Slim. How am Ito hold up another train if I can’t get nobody but whores and runaway kids to follow me no more?”

  Slim led Curry away, speaking sweet words of devotion. As Pecos led Stringer in a less dangerous direction, they both heard the young wrangler who’d helped them say, for all to hear, “I guess I know who’s a grown bandit and who’s still a kid around here. I may be young, but I ain’t drunk, and I’ve yet to gun anybody dog-shit yaller.”

  As Stringer and Pecos walked away, they heard other ominous murmurs. The young wrangler was telling everyone who’d listen about the dirty trick Arkansas had tried. Nobody seemed interested in doing anything about his body. But the evening was still young, and they had a right to be excited about the first dead man at least some of them had ever seen.

  As they got back to their own bedding and stretched out in the gathering darkness, Stringer observed, “If Kid Curry’s not careful, he’s likely to have a power struggle on his hands. Boys who like to take orders seldom run off with owlhoot gangs. So a leader has to sound convincing as hell, and Kid Curry just messed up that last train robbery pretty good.”

  “I wasn’t so worried about the money,” Pecos said. “I was hoping to meet up with Cousin Etta here when Kid Curry sent word the Wild Bunch was gathering again in full strength. Do you reckon Etta could have really lit out to South America with Sundance, like they say?”

  Stringer shrugged. “Wherever she, Sundance, and Butch Cassidy may be tonight, they sure don’t seem to be here. I’m starting to see why. Kid Curry is hardly the leader I’d choose if I ever decided on a life of crime.”

  “He’s not so bad when he’s sober,” she said. “You got to admit he got us away clean, and almost slickered you whilst he was about it.”

  Stringer shrugged and lay back. “I reckon we all have our stupid moments. Leave my fly alone, honey. It’s not dark enough for that yet.”

  She giggled. “I just wanted to see if you still liked me. I hope it gets dark soon. There’s a position on page sixty-nine in that book that I’ve yet to try, and I thought I knew all of ‘em by now.”

  He chuckled. “I know the one you mean. It won’t work.”

  She asked how he knew, and he said, “Like most men, including the artist who drew those naughty pictures, I’ve got an imagination I just can’t twist my torso into. Take my word for it. Even if we could get into such a wild position, it would be uncomfortable as hell.”

  She might have insisted on trying it anyway, later. They would never know. For just as it was getting dark enough to make out the first stars up yonder, one of the other camp followers came over to tell Pecos she was wanted at Kid Curry’s fire.

  Pecos got up to follow the other gal, assuring Stringer she’d be right back. He doubted that. It made him a mite angry. But she’d chosen this sort of existence, there was nothing he could do about it, and as long as he was alone for the moment in such tricky light, it would be as good a time as any to find out if he could climb the canyon walls.

  He decided he might just be able to, after he’d tried here and there along the vertical but rugged cliff face. But taking such a chance, just to get to the top, made no sense unless he had somewhere to go.

  Even with a full night’s lead, afoot, his chances of beating the riders a no doubt pissed-off Kid Curry was likely to send after him back to civilization were slim. For one thing, he wasn’t sure where civilization might be from here. They’d done some serious riding since they’d left those railroad tracks. He was sure he could make it back in time, of course. But how much time would an unarmed man on foot be given by the Wild Bunch?

  He tried to tell himself they might not follow him all the way. But just how far was moot. Once Kid Curry saw he was gone, the gang would have but two choices. They could track him down and kill him before he could tell anyone else about this canyon, or they could find another hideout, fast.

  Pecos, or Opal, had told him they’d had a hell of time finding this one. So, yeah, they’d try like hell to catch him, even at some risk. They’d have to. Anything else would be even riskier for them. Once he made his break, he was committed for good. All that was left to decide was whether he wanted to make a run for it on foot and unarmed, or stay here in the same grim condition until Kid Curry made up his unstable mind. Drunk or sober, sooner or later it had to occur to Kid Curry that there was just no way to let a reporter who’d interviewed you ride out of your last hideout alive. And what the hell, he had all the news about Kid Curry that was fit to print anyway.

  Stringer decided to wa
it until later, when everyone but the guards posted near the canyon mouth would likely be drunk or at least asleep. He smoked one cigarette and was building another when Pecos rejoined him, sobbing, and flopped down beside him. “Call me Opal and get me out of this fix, honey. Kid Curry was too drunk to go all the way with me just now. But sooner or later he has to be able to get it up, and he needs a bath just awesome.”

  Stringer took her in his arms to comfort her, saying, “Well, if you could get us some ponies, and if you know the night guards well enough—”

  “It won’t work,” she said, “Kid Curry must have wondered why I wouldn’t call him honey lamb just now. So before he fell down entire for the night, he told everyone within earshot that I was his one true love and that he’d skin anyone who trifled with my virtue, or let me go off after Grat.”

  Stringer hesitated before he told her, “No matter who you want to go after, you’d best make certain in your mind that you really mean it. I noticed this afternoon that you climb rocks pretty good, Opal. But I don’t know, those cliffs all about are mighty high. One slip could do you a lot more damage than any dirty cuss with food in his moustache, and I could give you back those rubbers if you like.”

  She shuddered in his arms. “He’d likely kill me anyway if I puked whilst he was trying to come in me. I ain’t afraid of heights. But what about horses, honey?”

  “I can’t see hauling two ponies up those rocks,” he said. “We’ll have to leg it once we get to the top, and I have to tell you true, I don’t know where we’ll be when and if we do. If it’s a flat-top mesa, we may be able to put some distance between us and them by the time we’re missed. If it’s all jagged rimrock, we won’t. Either way, we have to have some firepower. What happened to those guns Banger and Will used to wear?”