The Cassidy Posse

by D. N. Bedeker

  “I’ll contact him immediately,” Bill Stewart assured him as he rose and opened the door for the loquacious cowboy. He paused in the doorway still pondering the situation. “I don’t think old Harry S. Parker is fool enough to go chargin’ into Brown’s Park himself, but he might put you on to somebody can help yah.”

  “Well, thank you again, Mr. Ketchum,” said Bill Stewart closing the door.

  Police Chief Barnes sat at the end of the table with his arms folded. Mike McGhan sat and tapped his fingers on the worn, coffee-stained surface. There was an awkward silence until Bill Stewart finally sat down.

  “Interesting fellow,” said Stewart amicably. “He seemed to have a lot of insight into the situation.”

  “Mike,” Barnes began softly. “You’re the only one that knows Sean Daugherty well enough to identify him. We need you to go west and help them find this man and bring him back to justice.”

  The only one that knows him well enough, Mike thought. Bring him back to justice. Barnes could really lay it on when he wanted to. He looked out the room’s solitary dirty window at the desolate Bridgeport neighborhood outside. If it had been some scrubwoman that had been murdered, would Barnes be sending him halfway across the country to find her killer?

  “When do I leave?” Mike said abruptly.

  “There’s a train leaving at eight tomorrow,” replied Chief Barnes. “Theodore Carver has assured me that he will contact the governor of Wyoming himself to assure everything will be provided for you to bring his wife’s killer back to Illinois to stand trial.”

  “Everything,” said Mike with a wry smile. “I guess a guy can’t ask fer more than that. I want me partner Henry Bockelman tuh go with me.”

  “Oh, I wish I could spare him but he’s being assigned to the Dr. Cronin murder case,” Barnes replied with his polished election-year smile. “The press is asking for results and I have to have at least one of my two best detectives on the case. Of course, if Dr. Cronin’s killer has not been found by the time you return, you will also be assigned to the case.”

  “Of course,” replied Mike, returning Barnes’ politician smile. He chose not to argue the point. It might not be a bad idea to have Bockelman still here in Chicago watching over things while he was gone.

  CHAPTER 5

  TEXAS NEAR THE RIO GRANDE

  “Gonna be a warm one today, Pablo,” sounded out the lanky man as he entered the cantina, the swinging doors flapping like a bat in his wake. He removed his hat and slapped it against his leg to knock off the trail dust.

  “Si, Sheriff Tom,” agreed the Mexican bartender looking up from the glasses he was washing in brownish water. “She’s pretty warm for March, I guess.”

  The tall lawman ran his hand through his gray hair and placed his hat back on his head at a jaunty angle. He turned to the shorter sullen-looking young man with the dark complexion who was languishing against the bar a few feet away. “How’s this weather set with you, Billy?”

  The young man looked up suspiciously from the empty glass he was rolling back and forth in his hands.

  “Weather don’t matter that much to me anymore, Sheriff Langston. I found inside work now.” He self-consciously tried to adjust his ill-fitting new suit.

  “That’s what I heard,” said the Sheriff. “You’re working for Hewlett these days. Learning the saloon business.”

  “Beats the hell out of punching cows.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right there. Prices what they are, there’s no future for a young man in the cattle business these days,” the Sheriff agreed. “Lots uh cowhands just riding around begging for work.”

  “Saddle tramps,” Billy offered.

  “Times is hard,” shrugged the Sheriff. “Everybody gets down on their luck every once in a while.”

  “I make my own luck,” declared Billy. “Pablo, get me another whiskey.”

  “Get me a beer while your servin’ there, Pablo. I need something to wash down the dust.”

  “The wind, she is kicking up the dust,” said Pablo serving the Sheriff before attending to Billy’s whiskey. “You out lookin’ for somebody today?”

  “No, not really that far along on this one,” said the Sheriff. “Been out by Ben Gilman’s place. He found a man shot by the road near the Devil’s bridge. Strange as hell. This feller had just talked to Ben about work a couple hours before. Ben said he seemed like a nice enough sort but things being what they are, he couldn’t hire nobody. He thanked Ben anyway and rode out. A couple hours later, Ben finds him shot by the side of the road.”

  Billy picked up the fresh whiskey and stared at it as he splashed it around in the glass. Sheriff Langston casually watched the younger man’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  “Yeah, strange,” said Billy after an awkward moment of silence.

  “Here’s his gun,” said the Sheriff, abruptly pulling a revolver from his duster.

  The sudden move startled Billy and he inadvertently touched the butt of his gun. The Sheriff took note of this and laid the gun gently on the bar.

  “That figures,” said Billy. “Only a saddle bum would have a double action Colt. You got to pull so hard to squeeze the trigger you can’t hit what you’re aimin’ at.”

  “He apparently was a real careful fellow,” said the Sheriff. “Maybe too careful in this case. Yah know how some fellers leave the chamber that the hammer rests on empty. I guess cause it was double action he thought he should leave the next one empty too.”

  “Don’t know much about double actions,” said Billy.

  “It didn’t work out for him well in a gun fight. When I found the gun, he must have pulled the trigger but he never got off a round. Somebody shot him three times in the chest. Close pattern too. Whoever he tangled with must have been pretty good.”

  The ends of Billy’s mouth turned up almost imperceptibly. The Sheriff raised the beer mug and took a long swig without ever taking his eyes off the town of Del Rio’s newest gambler.

  “That’s a nice looking sidearm you carry there, Billy. Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

  Billy stiffened perceivably. He looked at the Sheriff without looking him in the eye. Without speaking, he lifted the nickel-plated Colt Peacemaker out of its holster and laid it carefully on the bar next to the weathered lawman.

  “Four and three quarter inch barrel,” said the Sheriff. “That short barrel clears the holster fast.” The old lawman examined the weapon with a practiced eye. “Looks like you had it modified a might too. The trigger guard’s cut away. I heard that’s suppose to give you an extra split second edge if you were to draw on somebody.”

  “What you gettin’ at Sheriff?”

  “Nothing,” said Langston picking it up respectfully, “it’s just that this here is a real gunfighter’s rig.” He proceeded to sniff the barrel.

  “Did a little target practice yesterday,” said Billy, intercepting the question.

  “Always pays to practice,” conceded the Sheriff, “I hear you’re pretty good. Even took to calling yourself Kid Del Rio.”

  “There are those that call me that,” he said tersely. He snatched the revolver off the bar and slid it easily into his holster.

  “That’s not the kind of publicity the town wants,” said the Sheriff, unimpressed.

  A nondescript young man wearing a Derby hat sidled up next to them and broke the tension.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff Tom.”

  “Where did you get that fine looking hat, English Harry?” the Sheriff asked.

  “A fine Eastern gentleman gave it to me, Sheriff Tom,” he said wryly. “If you would like one, there should be another blowing off the next stage going through town.”

  The Sheriff chuckled involuntarily at the remark. “Not a good hat for me tah be wearin’ in west Texas. It’s fits you fine though. Aren’t you related to the Earl of Derby or somethin’?”

  “I’m the Lord Derby’s nephew,” Harry proudly acknowledged. “Good of you to remember, sir.”


  Harry was the town’s remittance man. His family had sent him to the American West with a monthly allowance in hopes he would be mercifully killed in some cowboy and Indian adventure. Sheriff Langston had run into remittance men before. Most were content to play cards, live with whores and drink themselves to death, but Harry was more ambitious than that. Maybe the family had sold him short.

  The Sheriff finished his beer and nodded to Billy before walking out the door.

  “What was that all about?” asked Harry. “Things looked like they were gettin’ a wee bit tense.”

  “It was nothin’,” shrugged Billy. “The Sheriff was just tellin’ me how he liked what I was doing for the town.”

  “Tryin’ tah put it on the bloody map, I’d say.”

  “Forget that meddlin’ old fart,” said Billy. “Do you have a game for me?”

  “That I do, Kid,” replied Harry enthusiastically. “Couple of cowpokes right off the trail.”

  “They got money?” Billy asked emphatically. “They aren’t more saddle tramps, are they?” He walked to the end of the bar and peered around the corner at the two cowboys sitting in the back of the cantina.

  “Blimey, put your hat on,” scolded English Harry. He placed the flat-brimmed black hat with the wide satin band on Billy’s head as carefully as if he were coronating a king. “Now remember all I taught you.”

  “Don’t worry, little man,” Billy said, irritated at any question of his competence.

  “You have to pluck that card out of the band as smooth as silk,” he cautioned.

  Billy brushed away his instructive hand and walked towards the two cowboys with the small Englishman dogging his heels.

  “Howdy,” said the older, more congenial, of the two cowboys as Billy approached. His dour young companion said nothing.

  Billy stood before them in his new, ill-fitting suit and smiled with casual distain. English Harry adroitly slid in between them. “This here is Billy Fayre, chaps,” he said cheerfully. “He weren’t doing nothin, so I asked him why don’t he set in with me friends Jim and Frank for a hand or two of cards. What could be friendlier than that, says I?” Harry pulled out the chair for Billy and then quickly took his own seat. He snatched up the cards and shuffled them with practiced dexterity. “Now what say we cut for the deal.”

  Jim sullenly stared at the lively Englishman a long, uncomfortable moment before finally cutting the deck and getting the game underway. He and his amicable friend won the first few small pots but their luck began to change as more money was introduced into the game. Jim began to drink a little too much to play effectively and his mood became ugly. Frank, always the peacemaker, was doing his best to quiet his young friend’s grumbling. When Billy got the deal, he called for straight poker with jokers wild. The hand he dealt to Jim apparently pleased him. He quit grumbling and raised the bet twenty dollars.

  “Too rich for my blood,” said Frank, throwing in his hand.

  English Harry fingered his chips as if he were really contemplating the wager. “Count me out, mates,” he finally conceded.

  Billy bore the semblance of a worried look. He reached up and scratched his head, tipping his hat back in a contemplative pose. He looked at his hand again and said with a long sigh “I’ll see your twenty and raise you twenty.”

  The young cowboy sat bolt upright in the chair with this development. He would be putting over a month’s pay on the table. A month of herding cattle, his skin being burnt by the sun and the persistent west Texas wind. A month of eating cold beans and dry dust washed down with bad coffee. He looked at his hand again and regained his confidence in what he saw there. Frank leaned over to put a word of caution in his ear but the irritable young man pushed him away.

  “I’ll see your twenty,” he said tersely pushing his last precious dollars forward.

  Billy smiled contemptuously as he laid down three Jacks and a joker to make four of a kind. Jim stared blankly at the cards that lay mocking him on the table.

  “That was all the money you got for your saddle,” said Frank.

  Jim laid down his hand: a full house - two fives and two kings plus one joker. He looked at Billy with contempt and it was returned in kind by the unblinking Kid Del Rio.

  “Two wild cards in the game and you both end up with one,” said Frank, amazed by the coincidence.

  English Harry smiled nervously knowing one of the five cards he had laid face down on the table was also a joker.

  “You never had that hat on before you sat down to play cards,” Jim challenged, raising the stakes of the game beyond money. “You weren’t wearin’ it when you was standin’ at the bar.” The table quieted instantly and the quiet spread in a concentric circle from the table until it enveloped the entire cantina.

  “I like to wear it when I play cards,” Billy replied matter-of-factly, his hands inching towards the edge of the table. “I used to wear a worn-out Stetson when I was a busted saddle bum like you. I don’t want to get that way again.”

  A look of fear crossed Jim’s face for an instant; the stakes of this game had gone too high and it was too late to fold. Billy rose from his chair and drew all in the same motion. The moment had come so quickly, Jim did not move until he saw the nickel-plated Colt clear Billy’s holster. He had barely touched the chipped wooden handle of his old revolver when Billy’s first .45 slug knocked him backwards. It was followed by a second and a third as Billy efficiently cocked and fired the short-barreled Peacemaker. Jim sprawled on the floor, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling, his feet still tangled in the chair. A crimson wave of blood spread from the center of his chest where the three slugs had entered in a close pattern.

  “Damn, you didn’t have to kill him!” Frank screamed.

  Billy looked away from the fallen man and towards the source of criticism of his judgment. He cocked his smoking gun and, moving the barrel a few inches to the right, fired again. The back of Frank’s head splattered on English Harry and he looked at the blood and bits of bone and brain soiling his coat sleeve with curious, speechless horror.

  Billy Fayre, alias Kid Del Rio, holstered his gun and moved quickly towards the door. When he reached the sunlight, he turned to see the eerie smoke he had created masking the stunned faces. He mounted someone’s horse and was gone. He dug his spurless heels into the side of the animal until he reached a shack several miles from town.

  “You are in trouble,” Rosita insisted. “That is why you must leave so quickly. You never say a word to me about leaving and now you must go right now.”

  “Si,” said Billy, “muy pronto.” He took a silk shirt with a ruffled front out of the dresser and considered it a moment. “Here, give this to your next hombre. I don’t think I will be needing it where I’m going.”

  “And where are you going in such a big hurry?”

  “English Harry told me about some big shot up in Paris looking for regulators to go to Wyoming. There’s some saddle tramps up North that have took to rustling cattle off the big outfits. They got to be taught right from wrong.”

  “Regulator - that’s a fancy name for a hired gun. You’re just a paid killer!”

  Billy turned towards her with his hand raised but Rosita quickly rolled across the bed, putting an obstacle between them.

  “Damn it, I won’t take no shit off a whore. It’s just not gonna happen.”

  “I told you I am not a whore no more!” she screamed. “I do laundry. I do laundry just like my mother did. I am not a whore.”

  “Hey, okay, settle down,” Billy said mockingly. “I keep forgetting you changed occupations.”

  “Why you got to always say and do things to hurt me,” her eyes narrowing on Billy. “I know you since we are kids but I can’t remember when you got so mean.”

  “Well, it just must have happened real gradual like.” He reached into a narrow closet and pulled out a Winchester. “Where’s my duster at? I know I put it in here.”

  Rosita sighed and walked into the backroom of her unpainted two-room
shanty. She returned in a moment with the full-length leather coat dragging on the floor. “I packed it away. I think you don’t need it till next winter.”

  “Well, spring in Wyoming is like winter around here.”

  “How you know? You never go any farther from this God forsaken place than me.”

  “Well, I guess I know a few things more about the world than a Mexican whore.”

  “Now I am a Mexican whore,” she said challengingly. “If I were a gringo whore, I would know a little more. I would know what the weather was in Cheyenne and Denver and maybe New York City.”

  “Maybe so,” said Billy, looking at her with a malicious grin.

  “Why you always try to act like you are better than me? Now you turn your nose up at Mexicans and you are part Mexican.”

  He reached out suddenly and grabbed her by the throat and raised her up precariously on her tiptoes. “Where’d you hear shit like that?”

  She looked at him sullenly and without fear. “Old Juan Hildago told me. He said your grandmother married his brother the day Texas became a state. That was back in 1845. He said she was a fine lady.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about my grandma being a fine lady. She raised me til I was twelve. She’d have lived a lot longer if she didn’t burn herself out worrying about my useless mother. There weren’t no use worrying about trash like her. If she wasn’t making someone’s life a misery, she just didn’t feel right. She’d have went to bed with a damn coyote if it had two bucks.”

  “Maybe that is why you are so crazy, Billy Fayre. You are part coyote. I guess you’d think that is better than being part Mexican.”

  Billy’s anger suddenly subsided and he looked very solemn. “No, Rosita, I surely don’t think that. At least you know who you are and who your people are. My mother said she married a guy named Fayre. Probably another one of her stories. I wouldn’t know my ole man if I bumped into the sonavabitch on the street. For all I know, he could have been a damn coyote.”