The Cassidy Posse (8 page)

“Yes, but not as many as a few years ago,” replied Phinias, “I am on the way in hopes of meeting with Sir Horace Plunkett who runs the EK Ranch. His father was Lord Dunsany.”

“Yuh mean it’s not enough fer those limey bastards tuh own Ireland, they got tuh try to grab up all they can over here!” Mike shouted, suddenly taking new interest in the conversation. “Didn’t we fight a war years ago tuh throw those tea-sippin’tyrants out ov this country and now duh law allows them tuh come back’n buy duh damn place.”

Phinias’ complexion pinkened from Mike’s eruption. He was quick to realize he had brought up the wrong subject to a couple of Irishmen. He looked down sheepishly at his sample case and busied himself putting it back together. Several passengers turned around to check out the commotion. Mike turned back towards the window.

“Don’t mind Uncle Mike, Mr. Trout,” Pat apologized. “He’s just a little short tempered occasionally. It comes from being a cop in Chicago. You have to deal with a lot of bad types and it wears on your nerves.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Phinias. “That job would try anyone’s patience.”

“A lot of stress,” Patrick assured him.

“Are there any more in your party?” asked Phinias, looking around the car for anyone else looking like a police officer.

Patrick looked uncharacteristically puzzled for a moment. He turned to Mike with a look of concern.

“Are there any more in our party?”

Mike turned back towards him. “Our party?”

“How come there aren’t any other officers with us?” he rephrased the question.

“Oh,” Mike shrugged. “Stewart was goin’ tuh give me a couple rookies. He said that’s all Barnes could spare on short notice. None of them had ever ridden a horse or fired a gun except in police training. I told him tuh forget about it. A crew like that would only slow me down. Then I end up with you.”

“So right now there’s you and me and this fellow Marshal Parker telegraphed you about.”

“Dun’t be lettin’ yer edgecated self get nervous,” said Mike. “Chief of Police Barnes told me duh Governor of Wyoming was goin’ tuh supply us with everything. We’re better off with some local deputies.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring.” Patrick could not help but think that he would be more comfortable if a larger Chicago contingent was embarking on this major manhunt.

“Did I overhear you say you were a newsman?” asked Phinias, still eager for conversation.

“Yes, sir,” Pat replied proudly. “For the Chicago Evening Post. It’s the best paper in Chicago.”

Mike turned back from the window and gave his nephew a long look.

“I’m just a cub reporter at this time,” he acknowledged, returning Mike’s look, “but if things go right on this trip, I could have my own desk. I would have to thank my uncle here for that, since he so generously agreed to let me accompany him on this adventure.”

“Yuh know Patrick, we ought tuh clear somethin’ up right now. This ain’t no damn adventure. I’m trackin’ uh wanted fugetive that is charged with killin’ duh next governor’s wife. If I dun’t find him and bring him back, there are gonna be some unhappy big shots back home.”

“There’s no misconception,” said Patrick. “If we don’t bring him back, I’m going to have a very unhappy editor.”

“Well, they must have confidence in you to send someone so young to cover a story of this importance.”

“I’ll be assurin’yuh, Mr. Trout,” Mike interrupted, “that the fact that he was the nephew of duh detective assigned tuh duh case come up in duh conversation.”

Pat smiled at the politeness Mike was showing the salesman. He could never remember his Uncle ever apologizing to anyone when he lost his temper, but he would go as far as to be polite if he felt badly about it later. That was as good as you were going to get from him.

“If the truth be known, it was the editor’s idea and not mine,” said Pat. “There’s a World’s Fair opening and I’m out here on the edge of civilization.”

“Bullshit,” said Mike, smiling his cocky little smile. “Yuh just told me this is duh hottest story in Chicago. Bigger than the Doc Cronin murder. When I haul this young scally-wag Sean Daugherity back tuh justice, you’re gonna be sitting there in the Whitechapel Club as duh center ov attention. Old Peter Finny Dunne will be askin’ yuh how it was bringin’ back this dangerous fugeetive and you’ll be sittin’ there like uh baron tellin’ him all about it.”

Having said that, Mike arose suddenly and began kicking Pat’s long legs out of the way in an effort to get past.

“Where are you going?” asked Pat.

“Sun’s up. It’s time fer me coffee.”

Mike pushed his way down the aisle towards the dining car.

“Uncle Mike is a man of regular habits,” said Pat, “I don’t think all this traveling agrees with his disposition.”

“Well, again, I am sorry for bringing up Sir Horace Plunkett. Actually, he hasn’t returned to EK ranch since his father died a few years ago and left him a handsome inheritance. I was shamelessly name dropping to impress you and it backfired. I forgot about the strained relationship between the English and the Irish. In my youth, I wasn’t given to exaggeration, but it’s something one seems to develop in my line of work.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” said Pat. “You have to be confident to sell. Maybe you can sell your fencing to whoever runs this EK ranch now.”

“Oh, the idea of a 1,000 acre cattle pen is largely my imagination. I sold the company on the concept to keep my job. The foreign investors may have diminished, but the big ranch owners still there have the same attitude. They were brought in by Eastern moneymen who enthralled them with stories of the free range. Get rich on public land. They don’t want to buy land. They want to run huge herds on the public domain with no investment. That’s why my prospects in Cheyenne are dim. If I don’t close a deal there, I’ll have to go up to Buffalo again. I always get some small orders there but the situation in Johnson County is getting very scary.”

“Why is that?” asked Pat.

“Have you noticed everyone wants to go to the front of the train and see the private Pullman car that belonged to cattle baron Morton Frewen when he was the head of the Powder River Cattle Company? No one pays any attention to the last car packed with immigrants. Many of them will be headed towards the Powder River country to start farms or live with relatives that have already settled there. When they get hungry enough, they will pick off a steer from one of the big outfits and call it a maverick.”

“Maverick? What’s a maverick?”

“It’s a calf whose mother has died,” said Phinias. “According to the law of the range it belongs to whoever finds it and put his brand on it. Over the years enterprising cowboys have used a straight running iron to change an existing brand and claim that steer as a maverick. When it was just out-of-work cowboys doing it, the big spreads were annoyed. Now you have immigrants outright stealing strays to feed their families, and the owners of the big outfits want blood. I’m afraid to go there. I’ve been hearing rumors about the cattlemen preparing a special train in Cheyenne for an outright invasion. Something bad is going to happen.”

“You know, this must have been what that rascal Sam T. Clover has been writing about over at the Herald. He’s been going on about an insurrection in Wyoming.”

“Well, you could very well have more than one story to cover,” Phinias said, nervously straightening his tie.

“When it rains it pours,” sighed Patrick.

The train suddenly lurched and the irritating screech of steel against steel could be heard above the usual rattling. Mike was returning to his seat from finishing his perfunctory morning cup of coffee. He fell against a middle-age woman and mumbled an apology.

“Cheyenne,” Mike announced just before the conductor shouted it out for all to hear.

“Oh, this is where I get off,” said Phinias, half rising from his seat in anticipation. He began nervously gathering up his sample case and valise. “Are you and your uncle getting off in Cheyenne to eat?”

“Yeah,” said Mike. “They dun’t seem tuh want to serve duh common folk in duh dining car.”

“You’ll have to hurry at the Harvey House at this station,” Phinias warned as they followed him down the aisle. “They only give you ten minutes and you have to pay in advance. If you don’t get your order before the train starts back up, they just keep your money and you’re out of luck.”

“Everbody’s got uh con tuh separate yuh from yer money,” Mike concluded.

They watched Phinias struggle with his bags as he exited from the wooden platform, then they fell in step with the hungry collection of travelers headed for the dining room. There was a prominently displayed sign posted at the entrance that declared: THE BELL RINGS TWO MINUTES BEFORE THE TRAIN STARTS. Forewarned, Mike quickly muscled his way through the crowd to the serving bar and ordered two rolls and two cups of coffee. The porter asked to be paid in advance and Mike warily gave him the money with a strong admonition to be quick about it.

While they waited for breakfast, three hard cases with big cowboy hats and long dusters sauntered in, and the pushing throng parted for them like Moses at the Red Sea. An Eastern dude got up from one of the few prized stools that surrounded the serving counter and moved away. The trio hooked their cowboy boots into the brass rail and stared the room down confidently. The shorter one in the middle seemed to be in charge. He wore a big Stetson with a red lone star on the side. There were hushed whispers about them being from the special train. A porter started to set aside their order to wait on the cowboys, but felt Mike staring at him and thought better of it. The shorter cowboy took note of the delay and eyed Mike with a curious smile. He peeled back his duster to reveal a holstered Colt strapped to his leg. Mike looked at him, unimpressed, and taking his coffee and rolls in hand, disappeared into the crowd.

As they stood by the doorway looking out upon the switching yard, a well-tailored gentleman from New York pointed out a rail passenger car sitting on a siding alone with all the curtains drawn closed.

“What’s it all about?” asked Patrick.

The New Yorker looked at them narrowly and said, “There are some very influential people back East that are not very happy about the current state of lawlessness in Johnson County.”

Mike took a closer look at the rail yard and his policeman’s instincts sensed trouble. There was the bustle of tense activity that surrounded a military expedition. Grim-faced cowboys loaded horses into three stock cars while heavily-armed men stood in small groups inspecting each other’s firepower. Winchester rifles were being openly displayed and admired by men that were obviously not going hunting. There was a tight group of men in business suits engaged in terse conversation by a car that was being filled with baggage. Excess baggage. Whoever they were they were not used to traveling light. This was no hunting trip.

The bell tolled announcing two minutes until departure, and Mike and Patrick quickly boarded the train. Once they were underway, Cheyenne disappeared from the window.

Nell Quinn stepped through the doorway of the Palmer House like she was the new owner. She looked radiant in her green silk dress and matching wide brim hat trimmed with feathers. She carried a parasol by
Poi ret
, Paris’s most influential couturier, which she wielded like a sword of equality that would lay low all class barriers. Nell had purchased it at Marshall Field that morning. The society matrons may not speak to her in Chicago’s premier department store, but they sure as hell weren’t going to outspend her.

The
martre de
this evening was Leo, the Englishman. The sight of her always made him nervous, thus he always seated her quickly. Her guess was that he wanted her out of sight as fast as possible. She and Edith were never given a conspicuous table and they liked it that way. They could live without seeing who, among the “who’s who” of Chicago, was walking through the door of the Palmer House. Chances are she had already seen some of them today sneaking into her and Edith’s Blue Palace. In their place, it was the “who’s who” that wanted to be inconspicuous so she supposed turn about was fair play.

Leo led her quickly down a side aisle without taking time to greet her. He brought her to a table in a remote corner of the room.

“Hi, babe,” Edith greeted her in her worn, scratchy voice. She was ten years older than Nell and in their business that was a lifetime. “What happened to you? You were supposed to ride with me. Geez, you talked me into spending a fortune on that fancy carriage and you’re taken public transportation. It don’t make sense.”

“I told you something came up,” said Nell.

“Well, you’re coming home in the carriage, aren’t you?” asked Edith with a concerned tone.

“Yeah, sure,” Nell assured her.

There was an awkward moment of silence.

“Geez, kid, you look like a million bucks in that dress,” Edith said finally. “You always did look great in green. It’s your green eyes and red hair. Green is just your color.”

“Christ, what’s with all the compliments?” said Nell. “You’ll turn a girl’s head. If you were a guy, you’d have me in bed already.”