The Cassidy Posse (5 page)

“The horse thievin’ trade has got tricky now,” said Ketchum. “Ustah be they could steal a horse and sell it a hundred miles away and they was pretty safe from being caught up with. Now the markings are better and the lawmen are keepin’ better descriptions of stolen property. These days the only safe thing fer them to do is steal a couple hundred miles away. Even farther. I was buying Herefords from T.L. Miller in Beecher just south of here. I noticed Red was over at the horse corral eyein’ a pair of prize Belgiums when we were down there. I guess that was his game all along. Anyhow, he went back that night to gettum and one of Miller’s hands was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Why were yuh comin’ tuh Chicaga tuh buy cattle?” asked Mike. “Now there’s something’ you can’t be havin’ a shortage ov.”

“The whole cattle market is changing too,” explained Ketchum. “People don’t want to chew on those tough old longhorns anymore. They want tender beef. The big cattle companies are changing everything. The small rancher has a tough time survivin’ these days. Lots of the boys keep their head above water by rustlin’ a few from the big outfits. Claim they were mavericks if anyone ever calls them on it. Everybody knows they probably won’t get convicted if they do get caught. Jury always has some friends on it. Now ya got a lot of damn immigrants comin’ in and pickin’ up the trade. The big cattlemen got the maverick law repealed, but it’s still tough for the big companies to get a conviction from a local jury. Problem is where do you draw the line once yuh step over it? I got two brothers courtin’ that sort uh trouble. They started by changing a few brands. The maverick law made it easy tah do. Now they’re ridin’ the outlaw trail. That’s where I got ole Red. He rode with my brothers but swore to me he wanted ta go straight. He was okay for ‘bout a year but then he got bored with punchin’ cows.”

“So would it be yer guess that this here Red will be taken up his bad ways again and takin’ our young Sean with him?” inquired Mike.

“Well, being men wanted for murder, I don’t see they got much choice but ta hit the outlaw trail,” Ketchum concluded. “Once they reach it, you fellers will pay hell ta find ‘um.”

“What is this outlaw trail?” asked Barnes.

“Well, it starts at the Hole-in-the-Wall up in Wyoming, goes down through Brown’s Park on the Colorado state line and ends up in southeast Utah at a God forsaken place called Robber’s Roost. Ain’t gonna find a lawman ta go into none of those places. Even if they do make it out, they come up empty.”

“I don’t think that is going to be a problem,” Barnes assured him. “We have sent telegrams to several law enforcement officials in the state of Wyoming already. The woman who was killed was the wife of the man who is very likely to be Illinois’ next governor. I am sure when they see the importance of bringing her killer to justice, we will receive full cooperation.”

“Okay,” Ketchum said with an ironic chuckle. “I suppose high-powered politics might change things.”

“Yuh dun’t seem too convinced, Mr. Ketchum,” said Mike.

“All I knows is what I see’d. Since my brothers went bad, I ain’t see’d any lawman try ta trail them into outlaw country. You take Robber’s Roost. There is only three ways ta get in that damn place and none of them easy. Hell, the Hole-in-the-Wall is even worst. You got a trail not much wider than a horse’s ass clingin’ ta the side of a cliff. A couple ah guys with Winchesters could pick off a whole army comin’ down it. And you better have some political muscle if you go into Brown’s Park. The damn place is in three different states. Most lawmen feel real uncomfortable operating out of their jurisdiction. If you fellas got all these political connections, you better get a hold of the President, old Benjamin Harrison himself, and have him send in the cavalry.”

“We will take all that into consideration,” Barnes said condescendingly.

“Yuh got any idea which one ov those den uh thieves that they might be headin’ fer?” asked Mike, still wishing to pursue the subject. “You said that this Red ustah ride with yer misguided brothers. Would you be venturin’ uh guess?”

The question gave Ketchum pause and he rubbed the whiskers he imagined he had on his now clean-shaved face. “I suppose if a fella had tah look somewhere for them jaspers, it might as well be Brown’s Park. Red seemed to talk about that more’en other places when he had him a couple drinks in him and started braggin ‘bout his outlaw days. I think he had a thing fer one of the Bassett girls down there.”

“Well, thank you Mr. Ketchum,” said Barnes with an air of finality. “That is where we can begin our search.”

Ketchum adjusted his Stetson over his eyes and rose to leave. “Yuh could get off at Evanston or Rock Springs. Those are the biggest towns that the railroad goes through around Brown’s Park. I’d get a hold of Marshal Parker in Rock Springs. He’d be your best bet for gettin’ yah set up tah go in there.”

“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.

“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.”