The Cassidy Posse (2 page)

Al could not place him exactly. Seemed like he was a rancher somewhere - not a lawman. Whoever he was, they must have stolen something from him. He was mighty pissed off. Al didn’t think the time was right to inquire whether the theft involved horses, cattle or firearms.

“Where’s Cassidy?” asked Bob Calverly again.

“Damned if I know,” said Hanier, trying his best to shrug with a chokehold around his neck and a deputy on each arm.

“Then I’m going to blow your damn head off,” announced the irate rancher. He used his free hand to put his revolver right behind Al’s ear.

Al studied the impassive faces around him trying to judge if it was a bluff. He was thankful there were real lawmen here instead of the rancher and some hired guns. They were known for shooting first and making up a story later. If you killed a known rustler, no one was going to question it much.

“You’d better talk fast,” said the short, impatient deputy.

He would never know if they were bluffing. Before the final card was dealt, their host’s teenage daughter, Katie, happened upon the scene at the sawmill.

“What is going on here?” she shouted. “What are you doing here Claude?” She demanded this of a large, gangly local deputy who had been recruited. He looked sheepishly at her but did not let go of his assigned arm.

“Watch your tone with us, Missy. This is a wanted man,” insisted the short deputy. “If you don’t tell us where his partner is, we’re arresting you for aiding and abetting known felons. We know you been running errands and picking up mail for Hanier and Cassidy.”

“That’s how we found them,” said the tall rancher smugly. “We followed you.”

Now Al knew this part was all pure bluff, but it visibly shook the young girl.

“They aren’t going to run a young girl into jail,” Al said with a sigh.

This irritated the short, impatient deputy. “Shut up,” he yelled and smacked Al on the side of the head with the back of his gloved hand. They weren’t going to quit until somebody broke, Al concluded. He finally nodded his head up the hill towards the bunkhouse.

Butch Cassidy sat upright on the straw mattress and covered his pale blue eyes with his muscular forearm. The sun was reaching for its noon height and broke through the window. He leaned over and tugged an old gunnysack curtain to block the glaring brightness. Groping around, he found his harmonica hidden in the covers and began to play “Sweet Rosie O’Grady,” the tune he had started when he fell asleep in his long johns. He wondered what his father Max, a Mormon, would think about this deal. Lazing around in bed until noon like some town hooker, not even bothering to get dressed. The old man worked his ass off his whole life and had nothing to show for it. He had me out working, holding down a man’s job, when I was thirteen, thought Butch. All the money went to buy a small herd for their ranch. After the Blizzard of ‘79, there were only two cows left. Old Max worked so hard he worked himself out of a homestead. His irregular church attendance went against him when another Mormon claimed the same property. It wasn’t like the Bishop was going to decide in favor of a “Jack Mormon” like Max Parker over a regular, upstanding member of the Saints. It didn’t matter what the facts were. The only thing Max did like a real Mormon was produce kids. Butch did not accurately know how many brothers and sisters he had now. This bothered him. The last time he saw Danny, had he said there were twelve?

Danny. He wished he hadn’t thought of him. Butch didn’t want to get depressed on such a bright spring day. He had become his younger brother’s idol after the Telluride bank job in ‘89. Danny soon tried to emulate his now infamous older brother but didn’t show much aptitude for the criminal life. He was caught for the small but serious crime of mail robbery. The last time Butch visited Utah, he could see the blame in his mother’s eyes. He remembered when he was a kid and he helped her plant a row of poplar trees in the yard west of the house. “Bob,” she had said, “you’re the oldest. You have to assume the responsibility. You have to grow tall and strong to support the weight of many branches.” He remembered feeling that weight increase with every child that was born into the family. He left after his sister Lula was born. His mother had said if she hadn’t arrived a few days early, Lula would have been a present for his eighteenth birthday.

Danny. He thought of his younger brother serving a life sentence in a Federal prison in Detroit. His mother was devastated. The family had spent everything they had on lawyers. Butch had offered to pay, but she would take none of his “tainted” money. She had even contacted the President of the United States to no avail. Danny was definitely the heaviest branch Butch was supporting. Even if he got the whole “Wild Bunch” together, he didn’t believe they could break him out of Detroit. He had never been east but he knew the cities were different back there. They were much bigger. It would take too long to get out of town. The law would be on you before you hit the city limits.

He stretched his sturdy arms and legs, smiling to himself as he thought of his little joke. Whenever asked, he told authorities he was from New York City. Some day he would see it though - the biggest city in the United States. He would see Chicago and St. Louie too.

He had to get up before he got any fatter and lazier. He reached down and grabbed a roll of fat that was beginning to form around his midsection. Winter fat, he assured himself. That would disappear as soon as they became active again. He was waiting on a letter about a deal for a dozen of the horses they had hidden. Where was Katie? He was only going to lie down until she got back with the mail. Judging by how high the sun was in the sky, that should have been an hour ago. She probably ran into some beau in town.

Butch heard stealthy footsteps approaching the bunkhouse. He didn’t know whose they were but they were not a teenage girl’s. Maybe Al was going to play an April fool’s joke on him. He had been the brunt of enough of Butch’s jokes and perhaps it was payback time. The winter had made Butch complacent, and he wondered a minute too long. His gun was on a chair by the bed when he heard the strange voices.

“George Cassidy,” shouted a stern voice. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

This could not be happening
, thought Butch. Not now. Not another Parker brother behind bars.

“You’d better get ta shooting,” he shouted at the voice behind the door and scrabbled out of bed for his gun.

Bob Calverly barged through the unlocked door and, pointing his gun at Butch’s stomach, pulled the trigger. The gun misfired. Butch saw his whole 26 years pass before him in that instant. Enraged, he grabbed the end of Bob’s gun, but the lanky young deputy spilled into the room between them, breaking his hold on the barrel. The youth proceeded to bear hug Butch while Calverly kept pulling the trigger of his faulty revolver. He had just broken away from the clumsy but powerful deputy when the gun fired hitting Butch in the head.

A spectrum of colors poured from the door of Rosie’s House of Pleasure into the dreary mist that hung over South Clark Street. Like so many pinched flower petals, the ladies of the evening were stuffed into the rear of the waiting horse-drawn paddy wagon at the curb.

“Vhen I zay move, I mean now,” screamed the paunchy cop with a drooping handlebar mustache. “You whoors move to der front of duh vagon.” He whacked the closest gaudily-dressed prostitute on the back with his nightstick to emphasize his point. She screamed in pain and pushed the girl in front of her forward breaking the bottleneck at the narrow door.

“Leave her alone, you Hun bastard,” shouted the prostitute’s employer, little Rosie McKay. She swung at him gamely with her pink parasol. The overweight cop tried to duck but slipped, falling against the wagon wheel.

Two detectives in worn suits but fashionable Derby hats were watching the scene with casual amusement.

“Jayzus, Rosie, dun’t be calling’ that fat Dutchmen a Hun,” said the stockier of the two. “You’d be insultin’ me good friend Bockleman here.”

“Do you need some help with these lovely ladies, Van Ech?” asked the tall, thin detective with mock seriousness. “A load of whores being kept from gainful employment is a handful for any officer of the law.”

“Go to hell, both of yuh,” bellowed Van Ech. A younger patrolman grabbed the parasol from Rosie and allowed the overweight Van Ech to regain his feet. “You dink you’re a couple uh smart bastards now dat you’re not valking uh beat.”

“This is the part I be missin’ the most, patrol offeecer Van Ech,” said the husky Irishman. “The bringin’ ov these whores to justice.”

“Ah, the smell of cheap perfume mingling with sweat,” chimed in Bockleman. “That’s how I want to remember this day.”

“Dat’s not vot brought you down here to der Levee, Lieutenant McGhan,” said Van Ech knowingly. He glanced across the street at a stately three-story house with a royal blue awning over the door. “Vell, I don’t zee any grand carriages out front fer once. I dink maybe it’s time ve paid ah visit to vun of der finer flesh palaces of duh district. Maybe the lovely Nell Quinn herself might be dere.”

He started to cross the street but Lieutenant McGhan quickly blocked his path.

“I think yer paddy wagon is already full, Sergeant,” he said, his voice now devoid of all humor.

Van Ech stood toe-to-toe with the brawny Irishman whose pale blue eyes were staring at him malevolently. The older officer sensed he had put himself in a losing situation but his pride would not let him back down easily. “I dink I am der judge of such dings as how many whoors I can stick in mine paddy vagon.” He turned back towards the young uniformed officer sitting high on the seat with the reins clenched in his hands. “O’Brien, do ve have any more room in der vagon?”

O’Brien winced at being drawn into the confrontation. Lieutenant Mike McGhan was a near legend in his Bridgeport neighborhood - the hero of the Haymarket riot. It was said he shot at least four German anarchists. Old men stood in line to buy him a drink. Sergeant Van Ech, on the other hand, was an incompetent buffoon but still his immediate supervisor.

“Ah, well, I don’t know, sir,” he said diplomatically. “It may be a wee bit crowded.”

“Vell, I guess I should have known better dan to ask another Irishman for an opinion,” said Van Ech with a wry smile. He wheeled his hefty frame around and headed back towards the paddy wagon.

“Don’t worry, Mike,” shouted Bockleman. “If he would have got through you, he’d have had me to deal with.”

He had already crossed the street and was sitting on the steps under the blue awning.

“You’re forgettin’, yuh skinny-arse Hun, that I’ve seen yuh fight before.”

“I’m a new man though,” announced Bockleman. “I’ve been taking advantage of Chief of Detectives Stewart’s generous offer for the improvement of the physical condition of the department.”

“Dun’t tell me yuh been down tuh duh Bathhouse doin’ callystennicks.”

“That’s right. Push ups, sit ups and jumping jacks. It wouldn’t hurt you for once to follow one of the Chief’s progressive exercise programs. I’ve noticed you’re putting on a little weight around the middle.”

Mike jumped a puddle to reach the sidewalk and bounded up the steps. He caught Bockleman by the collar and pulled him through the door. Bockleman grabbed him by the leg and brought Mike down in a heap at the feet of an elegant redhead.

“You boys are going to have to grow up a little before you’re old enough to enter this establishment,” said the stately Nell Quinn.

Mike looked up at the beautiful face looking coyly down at him. “Me last birthday yuh was worried I was too old tuh get it oop anymore.”

“Well, thirty-two is an awkward age,” she said with a teasing smile.

He untangled himself from Bockleman’s long legs and picked up his Derby, placing it jauntily over his unruly shock of sandy brown hair. Mike followed Nell up the staircase to a luxuriously decorated room on the third floor. It was a large living area graced with two elongated windows facing the street. On a clear day they provided a view of Lake Michigan. Tonight a spring rain had beat against them and beads of water ran in curious channels down their impressive length. Nell drew the blue velvet drapes closed and lit the gold-trimmed gas chandlier.

“I want to thank you for saving me from one of those embarrassing raids,” said Nell. “I’ve taken a ride in a paddy wagon before and do not wish to have the experience again.”

“Sergeant Van Ech is just pissed because he’s got ten more years on duh force then Bockleman or me and he’s still wearin’ that silly looking unifarm. What that stupid Dutchman dun’t understand is no matter how much he kisses Chief Stewart’s arse, he still’s not gonna make him a detective. That sorry bastard couldn’t find a hole in duh ground with a shovel.”

“Well, I just want to thank you anyway,” she said politely as she picked the long pins out of her hat and removed it. The sight of her slender white arms high in the air excited him. She shook her long red hair loose and began to look around in her purse. Mike scrunched up his pug Irish nose. She wasn’t going to give him protection money, he thought. That would take the magic out of their relationship. Instead, she pulled out a small mirror to check the back of her hair.