Butch Cassidy the Lost Years (15 page)

CHAPTER 24

W
e pushed the cattle on into the hills, then headed back to the ranch headquarters to clean up. There was no air of impending celebration this time, like there had been before the dance. We were all quiet and solemn.

When we got there we found that Gabe already knew what had happened. Lester had told him when the sheriff returned there with Vince. The two of them had started off toward the county seat in Lester's automobile.

It was evening by the time we reached town, the sun having set while we were riding in. We didn't know where Vince's parents lived, but I figured they could tell us at the train station, so that's where we headed first. The ticket agent gave us directions to the house, which was a neat little white frame structure on a side street. A cottonwood stood next to it, and there was a little flower bed in front of the porch with a few green sprouts in it. In those hot, dry West Texas summers it would be a real battle getting any flowers to grow, but I supposed Vince's mother was the stubborn sort who gave it a try.

Several cars and buggies were parked on the edge of the street in front of the house. All the windows were lit up. We left our horses in the alley next to the house and went up the steps onto the porch, holding our hats. Some of the windows were open, and I heard a low buzz of conversation coming from inside as I knocked on the door.

The man who answered it was a stranger. He wore a sober dark suit and had a bald head and a white walrus mustache. He said, “Yes?”

“We're friends of Vince's,” I said. “I own the Fishhook spread, where he works.”

“So you're Jim Strickland,” he said. “I've heard Vince's folks speak of you.” He held out a hand and introduced himself. “John Hamilton. I'm a friend of the family.” As I shook with him, he added, “Come on in.”

He took us into a crowded parlor. The air was thick with grief and bay rum and perfume from all the visitors. Vince sat in an armchair that had been pulled over next to the end of a sofa. A slender, middle-aged woman with graying brown hair sat on that sofa, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with the lacy handkerchief she held. From time to time she reached over and squeezed Vince's arm. His face looked like it had been carved out of granite, and he didn't respond to the comforting touch of the woman I took to be his mother.

John Hamilton introduced me to some of the other people in the room, but I don't remember their names. I introduced Enoch, Gabe, and Randy. Bert seemed to know just about everybody already, which wasn't surprising considering that he and Vince had been best friends for a long time. Bert's folks were there, I think. I don't do too well with mourning. Things all sort of run together on me.

Eventually, though, I found myself shaking the hand of Vince's mother and saying, “I sure am sorry for your loss, ma'am. You have my deepest sympathy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Strickland,” she said. “I'm glad to know that my son has such good friends to stand with him at this time of trouble.”

“Yes, ma'am. Anything we can do to help, don't you hesitate to call on us.”

The other fellas shook her hand as well, Enoch and Gabe with the grave gallantry that men of their generation could summon up, Randy somewhat more awkwardly. Bert leaned over and gave her a hug, saying, “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Porter. I . . . I can't hardly believe that Mr. Porter is gone.”

That made her dab at her eyes again. She said, “None of us can, Bert. It's all just so shocking and terrible.”

I wanted to ask Vince how he was doing, but it didn't seem like the right time. Anyway, what could his answer be? Of course he wasn't doing any good.

The five of us drew off into a corner to stand together. Gabe muttered quietly enough that only we heard him, “Maybe we better leave. We done paid our respects. Ain't nothin' else we can do here.”

He was right about that. I figured we'd spend the night in town and stay for the funeral if it was going to be the next day. I looked around for John Hamilton, the man who'd let us in, and when I spotted him across the room I said, “I'll go ask Mr. Hamilton if they know yet when the service will be.”

I was making my way through the crowd when the room got quiet and folks started to shuffle aside from three men who had just come in. I didn't recognize any of them. They were all middle-aged, one tall and spare, the other two paunchy. The two paunchy ones wore suits that probably cost more than what most of the other men in the room earned in a year.

They went up to Mrs. Porter and Vince. The tall one shook hands with Vince, then took Mrs. Porter's right hand in both of his and said, “I just want you to know how sorry I am about this, Helen. If there was any way to bring Bob back, I would. I surely would.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rutledge,” she said. She seemed a little cooler and more reserved now, but her voice was sincere enough.

Rutledge let go of her hand and half-turned to gesture at the two men with him.

“This is Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Milton,” he said. “They're executives with the railroad.”

The one called Kennedy took his hat off, revealing slicked-down black hair. He looked like he ought to be tending bar somewhere, not running a railroad. He said, “You and your son have our condolences, ma'am. Your husband was a fine railroad man.”

I had a feeling Kennedy hadn't known Bob Porter or anything about what sort of railroad man Porter was. He was just there to express the line's sympathy. The other man, Milton, was more of the same, only with thinning fair hair.

I didn't like either of them. I knew their sort just by looking at them. Snake-oil salesmen, I thought.

Vince's mother was polite to them, though, even gracious. That was the way women were raised back then. They did most of their crying behind closed doors. In public they stayed as cool and unflappable as they could.

I eased on over beside John Hamilton and asked quietly, “Who's that fella Rutledge?”

“Stationmaster here in town,” Hamilton said with a frown. “Kennedy's the railroad's regional superintendent, and Milton's his assistant.”

His voice was curt. I said, “You sound like you don't like them very much.”

“I'm a railroader, too. Chet Rutledge isn't a bad sort for a stationmaster, I suppose. He has to do what they tell him. Kennedy and Milton just sit in their fancy offices and try to figure out new ways to make things harder for the men who actually make sure the trains run on time, the freight gets loaded, and the passengers are taken care of. They squeeze every nickel, every drop of sweat and blood out of us, every chance they get.”

I had known there was a good reason my instincts had told me I didn't like those two.

After mulling over what Hamilton had told me for a few seconds, I said, “When the sheriff brought the bad news out to the ranch and told Vince, he said something about the brakes on the engine giving out before it bumped that car?”

“That's what happened, all right,” Hamilton replied, his frown deepening, “but you won't find anybody who'll admit it now. When talk about a brake failure started going around the yard, Rutledge clamped down on that right away. Clamped down hard. If you ask Pete Abercrombie, the man who was in that engine, what happened, he'll tell you he hit the throttle by accident.” Hamilton made a disgusted sound in his throat. “As if Abercrombie would ever do that! He's been around engines, man and boy, for more than thirty years!”

“Everybody makes mistakes sometimes,” I said.

“Maybe so, but this wasn't one of those times. It was brake failure, all right, and I can tell you why it happened. Kennedy and Milton push those engines too hard, just like they do the people who work for them! The engines need to be brought into the roundhouse a couple of times a year to have the brakes worked over and everything else checked out, but that takes them out of service and the line won't allow that as long as they're running.”

“Sounds to me like you're sayin' the line's to blame for what happened to Vince's dad.”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.” Hamilton sighed. “But I'm the only one who'll still admit that. Rutledge shut everybody up until he could wire Kennedy in San Antonio and find out what to do. Kennedy gave him his orders over the telegraph and then came out here as fast as he could to make sure they were carried out. Anybody who wants to hang on to his job with the railroad had best toe the company line on this. That's why Pete Abercrombie's taking all the blame now. It'll hurt his reputation as an engineer, of course, but at least he'll still have a job.” Hamilton shrugged. “All that happened after Sheriff Lester set off to carry the bad news to the boy, I reckon. That's why he said what he did about the brakes. He didn't know what was going on here in town.”

“What about now? Won't Lester know something happened when he hears folks sayin' there was no brake failure?”

“How's he going to know any better? He's the sheriff, not a railroader. Abercrombie was right there. Lester will take his word for it, especially when everybody else who was in the yard backs him up.”

I studied Hamilton's rugged face for a moment and said, “You're telling the truth, though. Aren't you worried about losin' your job?”

“I would be if I gave a damn.” A humorless smile curved his mouth under that walrus mustache. “Doc says I've got something wrong in my gut. All I know is it hurts like hell most of the time. I'll be dead in six months, he says. So what can the railroad do to me?”

“Sorry,” I murmured.

Hamilton shook his head.

“Save your sympathy for the widow and Vince. I'm an old bachelor. Nobody'll be left behind to mourn me, and that's the way I like it. Whatever mark I make on the world, I'll make it while I'm here, and once I'm gone I won't give a good goddamn.”

That was a pretty good way to look at it, I thought. I said, “You figure on stirrin' up trouble for the line over the way they're lyin' about what happened?”

He hesitated for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head.

“No, and I'll tell you why. Helen Porter's got some money coming from Bob's pension, and there's a good chance the line will give her even more than that, just to keep things looking good. Me raising a big stink would just slow things down and maybe even put all that in jeopardy. I won't risk that. Money won't bring Bob back, but neither will causing a fuss. Besides, I'd be just one lone voice crying out in the wilderness, as they say. Wouldn't do a damned bit of good.”

“Probably not,” I said, although that black tide started creeping up inside me as I looked across the room at the trio from the railroad. I'd seen plenty of slick bastards like that in my time, and they always got my hackles up. I forced the anger back down and went on, “I came over here to ask you if you know when Mr. Porter's funeral will be?”

“Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon at the Baptist church,” Hamilton said. He was starting to look a little worried now. “You're not going to tell anybody what I said about . . . well, about the accident, are you, Mr. Strickland?”

I knew he was just worried about Mrs. Porter getting what was coming to her, so I smiled and shook my head. Hamilton wasn't scared of the railroad. No man who could face his own end as calmly as Hamilton appeared to be facing his could be considered a coward.

“No point in me saying anything,” I told him. “I'm no railroad man, and I was thirty miles away when it happened, to boot. I don't know anything for a fact.”

He nodded and said, “I'm obliged to you. I don't know what made me run off at the mouth that way.”

“Folks say I'm easy to talk to.”

He just grunted.

When I rejoined the rest of my bunch, Enoch said, “You and that fella palavered for a long time, considerin' that you just went to ask him when the funeral was.”

“And I found out, too,” I said. “Two o'clock tomorrow.”

“You plan on us stayin' in town for it?”

“That's right.” I was sure Chet Rutledge would show up for the service, since he'd been Porter's local boss. But I hoped that Kennedy and Milton would have the decency to stay away now that they'd paid their respects to the widow.

If I had to look at their faces again while everybody was mourning the loss of a man who'd died because of their penny-pinching, I wasn't sure what I would do.

But there was a good chance it wouldn't be pretty.

CHAPTER 25

O
ne of the things I hate most is a funeral. The music, the preaching, the praying, the crying . . . all of it gives me the fantods and always has. And no man gets to be the age I am without going to a hell of a lot of them.

Bob Porter's funeral was no different. The Baptist church was almost full. Vince, wearing the same suit he'd had on the night before, sat up front with his mother, of course. Me and the rest of the fellas from the Fishhook stayed in the back, on the last pew, in fact.

Because getting pinned between those two freight cars had mashed Porter so bad, the casket was closed and nobody had to go through the ritual of walking by slowly and gazing at the dearly departed, which always struck me as just downright morbid. I don't know about you, but I don't want somebody's last memory of me to be what I looked like when I was dead. That old pard of mine, the one I'd ridden with for so many years and loved like a brother, the last time I'd seen him he was full of bullets and had bled out his life in a dirt-floored shack. There have been many times I wished I'd died with him that day.

Fate has its own plans for all of us, though, and you'd be wasting time to argue with them.

But sometimes you can sort of nudge fate into doing right by folks. That thought weighed heavy on my mind that day at Bob Porter's funeral.

When it was over we all walked out into the cemetery behind the church for the graveside service, which was even worse than the goings-on inside. The preacher finally wrapped that up, and folks started to leave. The gravediggers stood under the shade of a scrawny tree, leaning on their shovels and waiting until everybody was gone to start filling up the hole.

Vince came over to me and said, “I'll be coming back to the ranch with you and the rest of the fellas, if that's all right with you, Mr. Strickland.”

That took me by surprise. I said, “Are you sure you want to do that, Vince? I figured you'd probably stay here in town so you could help your ma . . .”

“Mr. Rutledge offered me a job as a baggage handler,” he said. “Told me I might be able to work my way up to ticket clerk one of these days. But I don't want to work for the railroad, Mr. Strickland. I'm a cowboy now. That's my job.”

Vince had been cowboying for a couple of months, which was hardly long enough for him to decide that ought to be his lifelong profession, but I supposed I could understand why he didn't want to be around that railyard all the time.

“I don't mind you comin' back to the ranch,” I told him, “but I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to leave your mother alone at a time like this.”

“I already talked to her about it. She says it's fine. She has plenty of friends here in town who'll help her out any time she needs it. And she'll be getting the money from my dad's pension pretty soon. Whatever wages you pay me, I'll send 'em to her. I don't need any money.”

“Are you sure about this, son?”

He nodded and said, “Certain sure, Mr. Strickland. As soon as I get out of this monkey suit and back into my regular duds, I'll ride on back with you and the boys, if that's all right.”

I put a hand on his shoulder and nodded.

“Of course it's all right,” I told him. “We'll be darned glad to have you back.”

Despite what I said, I was worried about the youngster. He hadn't cried any during the service, as far as I could tell, maybe hadn't cried since Sheriff Lester came out to the ranch to break the news to him. Some fellas are like that. They wrap everything up so tight inside 'em that nothing can get out, good or bad. And if that control ever slips, even a little, they're liable to fly apart like a balloon blown too full of air.

It might be a good idea for me and the rest of the crew to keep an eye on Vince for a while, I told myself.

We got back to the ranch late that night, and everybody was up early the next morning, going about their work. In fact, I drove the whole bunch of us pretty hard for the next few days, myself included. Staying busy was the best thing in the world for Vince right then, I figured, and not only that, it was getting a lot of work done around the place.

Four or five days had gone by when John Hamilton showed up. Scar's barking warned me that something was wrong. I stepped out of the barn where Enoch and I had been doing some horseshoeing and I shaded my eyes with a hand as I peered toward a buggy rolling toward the buildings from the direction of Largo.

At first I thought Sheriff Lester must've traded in that automobile the county bought for him and had gone back to a more familiar mode of transportation, and then I wondered for a second if it might be Reverend Hatfield and his daughter. The idea of seeing Daisy again made my pulse jump a little.

Then I realized the buggy wasn't either of those. When it came closer I recognized Hamilton's big white mustache.

“That's the fella you talked to for so long at Vince's mama's house, ain't it?” Enoch asked.

“Yeah. Wonder what he wants.”

Hamilton brought the buggy to a halt in front of the barn and climbed down. His face was gray, and it wasn't just from the dust his two horses had kicked up.

“Howdy, Mr. Hamilton,” I greeted him. “What brings you out here?”

“I need to talk to the boy,” he said.

“You mean Vince?”

“That's right.”

I said, “Last time somebody showed up and wanted to talk to Vince, they weren't deliverin' good news.”

“Neither am I,” Hamilton said. He winced and caught hold of the buggy to steady himself.

“Are you all right?” I asked him.

“Aw, this damned gut rot of mine is acting up. That six months the doc gave me might've been optimistic.” He shook his head. “But that's not why I'm here. Something's happened that Vince needs to know about.”

“Something happened to his ma?” I sure hoped that wasn't the case. The boy didn't need to lose both of his folks so close together.

“No, she's all right . . . physically.”

I slipped my hands in my hip pockets and said, “You'd better go ahead and tell me what this is about, Mr. Hamilton.”

“I'm not sure it's really any of your business,” he said with a stubborn frown.

Enoch said, “That redheaded sprout's our friend, mister. I reckon that makes it our business.”

Hamilton thought about it for a second and then shrugged. He said, “I don't suppose it really makes any difference. Vince would tell Bert, and Bert Chadwick never kept a secret in his life. That boy's face reads just like a book.”

“You were about to tell us what happened,” I reminded him.

“Yeah. Chet Rutledge came to see Helen Porter yesterday morning. He'd had word from the regional office in San Antonio about Bob's pension.”

“They're fixin' to pay it?” I asked, but I already had a feeling that wasn't going to be Hamilton's answer.

“Hell, no,” Hamilton said. He looked like he'd just bitten into the sourest persimmon ever grown. “According to Kennedy and Milton, Bob borrowed on what he had coming and never paid it back. There's nothing left. They're not going to pay her one thin dime.” His voice shook with anger. “It's a damned lie. Bob Porter wasn't a borrowing man. They faked up some paper and made it look like he signed it, but it's a lie.”

A heavy silence lay there between us for a few seconds before I said, “The railroad's not givin' her anything?”

“Not a thing.”

“Not even something for them bein' at fault for his death?”

“But they weren't at fault, according to the official report. It was an accident.”

That sour taste was in my mouth now. I didn't like it, not one bit.

“As soon as I found out about it,” Hamilton went on, “I hitched up my buggy and came to tell Vince. Made it to Largo yesterday afternoon and spent the night there last night. Figured the boy had a right to know.”

“Yeah, he does,” I agreed. I turned to Enoch. “Can you ride out on the range, find Vince and the other boys, and tell 'em to come on back in?”

“Sure. You want me to let Vince know what's happened?”

“No, I'll tell him.” I looked at Hamilton. “Unless you'd rather.”

He shook his head and said, “I don't suppose it really matters who tells him, as long as he knows. I'd just as soon get back home. I've never had any fanciful notions about dying with my boots on. I'd rather be in my own bed.”

“You're welcome to spend the night here if you want,” I offered.

“No, thanks. I'll be going.”

“Mr. Hamilton,” I said. He paused as he started to turn away. “I need to ask you one more question.”

“All right.”

“Are you absolutely sure there's no truth to what Kennedy and Milton are claiming about the money coming to Mrs. Porter? They'd really do that? Cheat a widow woman out of what's got to be a piddlin' amount to the likes of them?”

He looked me in the eye and said, “I swear on what's left of my life, Strickland, that's what they're doing.”

I smiled and said, “All right, then.” I put out my hand and shook his. “Thank you for makin' the trip out here. It couldn't have been easy for you.”

“Not much in life is easy. But as long as we're here, there are things that have to be done.”

“Yes, sir, there sure are,” I agreed.

I had thought time was the only thing that would help Vince get over what had happened to his pa, but I knew now that I'd been wrong about that.

Vengeance might help, too.