Butch Cassidy the Lost Years

by William W. Johnstone

As I stared at that lighted window, I realized that I didn’t know for an absolute certainty it was the Daughtr ys in there. Even if it was, I didn’t know who else might be in the shack with them. Wives, kids, maybe even an old dog or two. I didn’t want any of them getting in the way of a stray bullet.

  What I needed to do was draw them out some way, and I thought I saw a way to do it.

  That stovepipe poked up through the tar paper fairly close to the bluff. I circled around and climbed the bluff well away from the shack. Even though I was only about eight feet higher than I had been, the wind felt even harder and colder up there. I tried to ignore it as I cat-footed toward the shack.

  When I was behind that haphazard assemblage of lumber, I took off my coat. Under it I wore a thick flannel shirt and a pair of long underwear, but the wind cut through both garments like they weren’t there. Shivering and trembling, I hung the jacket on the end of my rifle barrel and extended it toward the stovepipe. It almost reached. I gave the Winchester a flick of my wrist. The jacket jumped in the air and settled over the top of the pipe.

  It wasn’t blocked off as well as if I’d been able to get out on the roof and stuff something down the pipe. From the looks of that roof, though, if a pigeon landed on there it might fall through. Doing it this way, some of the smoke was going to escape, but I thought enough of it would back up into the shack to do the job.

  I crouched there on the bluff waiting for something to happen. I didn’t have to wait long. Somebody started yelling and cussing inside the shack. The door slammed open and three men stumbled out, coughing.

  The Winchester held fifteen rounds, so I figured I could spare one. I put it into the ground near their feet, making them jump. They had made the mistake of all standing close together instead of spreading out, which told me they were pure amateurs when it came to being ambushed. I didn’t want to give them a chance to realize that mistake, so I yelled, “Stand right where you are! I’ll kill the first man who moves!”

  Well, they moved, of course. They twisted around toward the sound of my voice. One of them even started to reach under his coat. He stopped when I worked the Winchester’s lever and he heard that sinister, metallic clack-clack.

  It was a dramatic touch and I shouldn’t have done it. I should have already had a fresh round chambered. I have a liking for those little flourishes, though, and even though I’ve been told that they’ll get me killed someday, a man’s got to entertain himself from time to time.

  Still coughing from the smoke that followed them out the door, one of the men shouted, “Who in blazes . . . are you?”

  “Never mind about who I am,” I yelled back at him. “Is your name Daughtry?”

  “What the hell business is that of yours?”

  I pointed the rifle at him and said, “Just answer the question.” I tried to make my voice as cold and deadly as the wind.

  “I’m Ned Daughtry,” the man admitted. “These are my brothers Clete and Otto. You satisfied now, you son of a bitch?”

  “Anybody else inside?”

  A wracking cough bent the man forward. When it was over he said, “No, just the three of us.”

  “In that case,” I told him, “Abner Tillotson says you should all go to hell.”

  That threw them. One of the others said, “Who’s Tillotson to you?”

  “A friend,” I said. What else could you call somebody who was giving you a ranch?

  That decided it. They knew they’d gunned Abner, and they knew I’d come gunning for them in return. Wasn’t nothin’ left but to get to it.

  So that’s what I did.

  I already had the Winchester pointed at one of them, so I went ahead and shot him as soon as they started to reach. The slug bored through him at a downward angle, bent him back, and dropped him to his knees. I worked the lever as I swung the rifle and fired two more rounds as fast as I could crank them off. Muzzle flashes lit up the night, but despite them I still couldn’t see much. They returned fire. I went to one knee as a bullet whistled over my head.

  For a couple of heartbeats the night was filled with fire and lead from both sides of the fight. A second Daughtry brother stumbled and fell. I tried to locate the third one so I could shoot at him some more, but he was gone.

  I couldn’t see him, but he might be able to see me. I flattened out on top of the bluff.

  A part of my mind kept up with the shots even though I wasn’t really thinking about it. So I knew I’d fired nine times and had six rounds left. That ought to be plenty, I thought, but first I had to have something to shoot at.

  I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything except the wind. But I knew somewhere out there was a fella who wanted to kill me, and I didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit.

  He was a slick bastard. Got around behind me somehow. If he hadn’t stumbled a little in the dark and made a tiny noise, he might’ve plugged me. As it was, I rolled over just in time to feel his shot whip past my ear and hit the ground instead of blowing off the back of my head.

  A Winchester’s not real good for close work. I got a shot off, but it must’ve gone wild because he was on me, kicking me in the side and screaming curses at me. I dropped the rifle, grabbed his leg, and heaved on it. He fell and landed on top of me, and we both went off the edge of the bluff and dropped two feet to crash onto the shack’s roof.

  It was just as flimsy as it looked. We broke through it and fell another few feet, landing on a table this time. He was still on top of me, and the impact was enough to knock the breath out of me for the second time tonight. I was half-stunned and my muscles didn’t want to work, but I forced them to anyway. I shoved him off the table onto the floor.

  The smoke had cleared out some with the door open, but there was still enough of it in the air to sting my mouth and nose and eyes as I rolled off the table the other way. I put one hand on the table to steady myself as I looked around for a weapon of some sort. My rifle was still up on the bluff, and I didn’t know if the last Daughtry had managed to hang on to his pistol when we fell through the roof.

  He had. The damned thing blasted again as he rose up on the other side of the table. But he hurried his shot and it went into the wall behind me. I didn’t give him a chance to get off another one. I grabbed the handiest thing I could and flung it at him.

  That was a kerosene lantern sitting on a shelf against the wall. It hit him and broke, and fire leaped up on his chest and set his beard on fire. He got so worked up about that, yelling and jumping around, that he forgot about trying to shoot me again. I leaped onto the table and pushed off of it into a diving tackle that took him off his feet. The back of his head hit the hard-packed dirt floor with a sound sort of like what you hear when you drop a watermelon. He didn’t move after that, just lay there with the fire consuming his buffalo hide coat, his beard, and his face.

  I knew that was really going to stink, so I picked up the revolver he’d dropped, tucked it behind my belt, and grabbed his ankles so I could drag him outside.

  I hadn’t forgotten about the other two brothers, so as soon as I had the burning one out of the shack, I dropped his legs and drew the gun, even though I didn’t know whether it still had any bullets in it. Turned out it didn’t matter, because neither of the other Daughtrys were moving and never would again unless somebody picked them up and carried them. I didn’t intend to waste that much effort.

  From the corner of my eye I saw some other flames and looked up to see that the heat from the stovepipe had finally set my coat on fire. I let out a heartfelt, “Son of a bitch!” That coat was a good one, and without something to break the wind I might still freeze before morning.

  Stay here tonight, I told myself. The shack was pretty drafty, but there was a fire in the stove. I could make my way back to the gully in the morning.

  But by then coyotes and maybe even wolves would’ve been at Abner’s body for sure, and they might have gone after my packhorse and supplies, too. Sighing, I looked around the inside of the shack for something I
could wear.

  I found another buffalo-hide coat. It stunk to high heaven when I shrugged into it, but it was better than nothing. I found a box of cartridges, too, and reloaded the Colt I had picked up.

  I stood by the stove for a few minutes to warm up as much as I could before venturing out into the night again. When I knew I couldn’t postpone it any longer, I climbed up onto the ridge, got my rifle, and then went in search of my horse.

  He had wandered off but hadn’t gone far with his reins dangling like that. The whole affair had spooked him some. I hadn’t had him long enough for him to be used to such violent ruckuses. Hell, I wasn’t used to such ruckuses, and I’d been in the middle of plenty of them over the years. I had to whistle a little tune and talk soft to him for a few minutes before he settled down enough for me to catch him.

  Maybe he just didn’t want somebody wearing a coat that stunk that bad on his back.

  Soon I was riding south again, hoping I could find the gully where I’d left Abner Tillotson and my other horse.

  CHAPTER 3

  At least the wind was at my back during that ride, instead of trying to scrape the flesh off my face with knives of ice, like it felt when I was going north. I had to use my bandanna to tie my hat on and keep it from blowing off.

  The fire was still burning by the time I reached the gully. Abner’s body was undisturbed. Cold as it could be, too. He’d either been dead when I rode away earlier or had crossed the divide soon after. The packhorse was still there, too, and if a horse’s neigh can be said to sound disgusted, the one he let out when he saw me sure did. It was like he was asking me what the hell I was thinking, going off and leaving him alone in a gully with a corpse.

  “At least I came back for you, old son, instead of gettin’ myself killed, too,” I told him as I took one of my extra blankets from the pack. I spread it out on the ground, laid Abner’s body on it, and rolled him up in it.

  He was heavier than he looked, and I could’ve used some help getting him onto the horse. Everybody I’d ever relied on to give me a hand was either dead or in prison, though, or else dropped off the face of the earth so I didn’t know what had happened to them. I was on my own and had been for several years. I didn’t like it much—I’m a friendly cuss by nature and enjoy having people around to compliment me on how clever I am—but that was the hand life had dealt me.

  I finally got Abner loaded. I led both horses out of the gully. The wind had actually died down a mite, the norther having expended some of its force. I saw a few stars overhead through gaps in the clouds, and they helped me steer a westward course.

  By morning the wind would die down all the way, I knew, and the clouds would break up and clear off, and the temperature would drop like it had fallen in a well. I could have tried to ride it out in the gully, but it would be better if I could find the ranch house.

  The starlight helped, and so did the good sense of direction I’d been born with. Some hills rose to the north and south, and smack dab in the middle of the valley between them I found Abner’s ranch house. It was an adobe in the Mexican hacienda style, with a good-size barn, a couple of corrals, a cook shack, a small bunkhouse, a blacksmith shop, and a smokehouse. Of course, I didn’t know all that at the time. I could see some buildings scattered around, but I didn’t explore them. I just put the horses in the barn, unloaded Abner’s body, and carried it into the house. It was dark as sin inside, so I laid him on the floor until I had fumbled around, found a lamp, and got it lit. Then as the yellow glow filled the room I picked him up again and placed his blanket-wrapped corpse on the bed in the back corner.

  There was a fireplace on the other side of the room with a supply of wood piled up beside it. I got a good blaze going so the place could warm up while I was tending the horses.

  It was still chilly but reasonably comfortable in there when I came back in from the barn. I stopped outside long enough to hang that buffalo-hide coat on one of the vigas sticking out below the roof. I didn’t want that stinking thing in the same room with me all night.

  The adobe had one main room with the fireplace and a table and chairs on one side, an old sofa and a couple of rocking chairs on the other side, and the bed in the back. A bookcase full of books stood against the wall between the rocking chairs. It appeared that Abner was an avid reader, like a lot of men who live alone. The lamp was on a small table beside one of the chairs. It had a green glass base and a ceramic top with roses painted on it, not exactly the sort of thing you’d expect to find in an isolated ranch house where a rough old cattleman lived alone. I suspected there had been a woman in Abner Tillotson’s life at one time or another, and this lamp was a memento of their time together. That was a story I’d likely never know.

  I had brought in my supplies, so when the flames in the fireplace died down a little I boiled some coffee, fried some bacon, and ate it with a couple of leftover biscuits I’d had wrapped up in my saddlebags. It was meager enough fare but satisfied my hunger. I didn’t mind preparing a meal with a corpse on the other side of the room, and I wasn’t going to be bothered by sleeping in the same room with him once I stretched out on that sofa. I had occupied closer quarters with dead men before.

  After I’d eaten, the weariness hit me. I didn’t try to fight it off. During the night I got up a time or two and put more wood on the fire, but I just wanted to keep the chill off. I didn’t want to warm things up too much with Abner in the room, but I wasn’t going to leave him outside where varmints might get at him, either.

  I was up early the next morning, and it was as cold as I’d figured it would be. I’d never felt a witch’s teat or a grave-digger’s ass, but I didn’t see how they could be any colder than that December morning on the Texas plains. My breath fogged up like a thunderhead in front of my face when I went outside. But the wind was still so it didn’t feel too bad.

  It hadn’t been cold enough, long enough, to freeze the ground. Once I’d looked around and found a suitable spot for a grave, I didn’t have much trouble digging it. My side was a little stiff and sore where that Daughtry brother had kicked me, but some shovel work loosened it right up.

  The place I picked was on a little rise off to the south that overlooked both the ranch headquarters and the little creek that ran nearby. The view wasn’t all that much just then, but I figured it would be pretty nice come summer.

  There was a buckboard in the barn, along with a couple of mules and two horses besides my pair. I hitched the mules to the buckboard, loaded Abner on it, and drove out to the hill where I’d dug the grave. When I got there, I found a strange horse waiting. The saddle he wore told me he was likely Abner’s mount, come home after spending a cold night wandering around. I said, “You’re lucky you didn’t freeze to death, hoss.”

  He tossed his head in agreement, then stood there watching solemnly while I lowered Abner into the grave and shoveled dirt back into the hole.

  When I finished I took off my hat and said, “Lord, it’s been a while since we talked, but I’m hopin’ you recollect who I am. This man was named Abner Tillotson. You’re probably better acquainted with him than I was. I didn’t really know him, but he struck me as a good sort. He didn’t cut down on those rustlers when he could have and probably should have. So maybe you’ll have the same sort of mercy on him and welcome him home up yonder. That’ll do it, I guess. Amen.”

  When it warmed up some, I’d make a marker and put it out here on the grave. For now that was all I could do. I led the horse back to the barn, and after I’d unhitched the mules I unsaddled him, broke up the ice on the water bucket in the stall where I put him, and dumped some grain in the trough.

  I went back in the house and started fixing some breakfast. Funny thing, the night before I’d felt like this was still Abner’s place and I was just a guest. That feeling had stayed with me while I was burying him. But now when I looked around the room it was different.

  It surprised the hell out of me, but I realized that I was home.

  CHAPTER 4<
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  Later that day I put my saddle on the horse I’d been using as a pack animal and rode back to the Daughtry place. I didn’t have any trouble finding it. It didn’t look any better in broad daylight. The three bodies lying scattered around in front of the shack didn’t help its appearance any, especially since the buzzards and coyotes had already been at them. In fact, a couple of the black-winged scoundrels abandoned their feast and flapped off lazily as I rode up. They squawked in annoyance at me. I ignored them and rode on to the corral.

  Abner had said the brothers were hazing off a dozen of his cows when he came upon them. I counted the critters in the corral and came up with eighteen. I couldn’t be sure where the other six came from without examining the brands, but I figured there was a good chance they were Fishhook stock, too, so I opened the corral gate and drove out the whole bunch. They were mine now.

  That left the three horses in the shed. There was no telling when somebody else would come along. Might be days or weeks or even months. I opened the gate on the front of the shed and let them out, too. I didn’t want to be caught with horses that had belonged to three dead men, so I took off my hat, waved it in the air, and yelled at them until they ran off. It was a hard thing, turning them loose to fend for themselves that way. But life has a habit of giving us hard choices sometimes.

  I drove the cows back to the Fishhook. This couldn’t be all of Abner’s herd—my herd, now—but I didn’t know yet where he had grazed the others, so I let them stop along the creek. There wasn’t much grass there, but enough to keep them from straying, I hoped.

  With that chore taken care of, I spent the rest of the day exploring the ranch, including all the buildings around the main house. I didn’t know the boundaries of Fishhook range, but I rode a good distance north, south, east, and west, making a big circle around the place. I had the Winchester with me, plus the Colt revolver I had taken from the Daughtry brother who’d kicked me in the side.

  I found another couple hundred head of stock scattered along the base of the hills to the south. They were branded with a crooked mark I took to represent a fish hook, plus the letters AT. I might change the brand later on, I thought, to something that fit better with the name I had chosen, Jim Strickland. Or I might not. It all depended on how ambitious I was feeling. After I’d been here a few months I might decide to sell the place and move on. But I wanted to give it a fair chance, although I had already honored the deal I’d struck with Abner. All three of the men responsible for his death were dead.