The Cassidy Posse (29 page)

Word of this was just filtering back to Buffalo in bits and pieces. Although the Colonel had promised Sheriff Angus the regulators would be turned over to him for civilian trial, the crowd was not buying it. They wanted blood and revenge now.

As the remaining members of the posse made their way through the mayhem in Buffalo, a young boy darted out a door into the muddy street and smacked right into the side of Butch’s horse.

“Hey, slow down young fella,” Butch admonished him. “You’re gonna get yourself trampled.”

“Sorry,” said the excited youth. “I just heard there’s a second invasion party that was a couple days behind the first. They’ll be headed right into town while the sheriff and most of the fightin’ men are at Fort McKinney.”

“We just been down that way. We didn’t see any more invasion parties,” said Elzy.

The young man’s shoulders slumped, and his face bore the look of disappointment. This was the most excitement he had ever seen in the quiet little town of a thousand citizens. People from all over the state were there. The saloons were full of boisterous men that stayed up until all hours of the night arguing about the invasion. Gunshots were being fired with regularity adding to the chaos. The wood sidewalks were crowded with interesting new people: cowboys, rustlers, gunmen, gamblers and various other types of malcontents. Butch remembered when he was a kid on the family ranch in Utah, praying for anything that would break up the mind-numbing boredom.

“Just because we didn’t see’um don’t mean they’re not comin’,” said Butch. “But don’t worry, I heard the Wild Bunch was ridin’ hard from outah the west to protect the town.”

“Really, Mister,” said the kid, new life being given his imagination. “Ya suppose ole Butch Cassidy himself might be ridin’ into town?”

“Well, son, I heard ole Butch is in jail,” he said, turning to give a wink to the others, “but maybe some of the others like Kid Curry and News Carver might be here.”

The boy was off like a shot to spread the new rumor.

“Why would yuh tell the kid somethin’ like thet?” asked Mike.

“You grew up in Chicago,” said Butch. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Butch feeds on that stuff like a horse in a hayfield,” said Elzy.

“Then he tells us he’s goin’ straight,” said Sundance. He seemed a little miffed that his name was not mentioned among the heroes of the Wild Bunch.

They threaded their horses through the congested Main Street to the Occidental Hotel. Since he would be going back to jail, Butch reasoned he should stay in first class accommodations while he was out. He would sleep especially well knowing the Governor of Wyoming was paying for it. At first they had difficulty getting the desk clerk to buy the story about the Governor footing the bill until Mike flashed his Chicago badge at the clerk and let him read the warrant.

“We’re goin’ out on the town,” said Butch as soon the clerk gave them their key. “Too much happenin’ to sit around here. Why don’t you come with us, Mike?”

“Cause uh this,” said Mike, holding up his left hand to show the handcuffs that attached him to Sean.

“Oh, that,” said Elzy. “Can’t you just cuff him to the bed? He’s ain’t very lively.”

“He won’t be wanderin’ far enough we can’t catch him again,” Butch assured him. “This town’s a bustin’ loose tonight.”

“I dun’t have time tuh catch this lad again,” said Mike, waving them out the door with his free hand. “We’re leaving on the mornin’ stage. I got tuh get back to Chicago and figger a few things out.”

When they left, the fastidious desk clerk handed Mike his key.

“There’s probably more suitable accommodations in town to house someone like that,” he said pompously looking down his nose at Sean.

Mike looked over the well-appointed lobby of the Occidental Hotel. It was nice but relatively small by Eastern standards. “Duh ya know how many ov your lobbies they could fit in duh lobby of the Palmer House?”

The snobbish clerk sniffed in disdain, but got the message.

“I need tuh send a telegraph tuh Chicago,” said Mike. “Where’s duh nearest station?”

“It’s down about a block to your left,” said the clerk, his manners improved, “but that probably won’t do any good. It’s out of commission again.”

“Whaduh yuh mean ‘again’?”

“Well, Lieutenant McGhan, in normal times it’s usually out. Cowboys like to use those little green glass insulators for target practice. Immigrants cut down the poles for firewood. That is normal times, mind you. In times like this, there is almost no chance of it working. The regulators cut it a week ago and it hasn’t been working since.”

Mike acknowledged the situation grim-faced and pulled Sean Daugherty up the stairs to their room. He needed to get a hold of Bockleman. He had no idea what he would be facing in Chicago. As he tried to fall asleep in his first real bed in a week, troubling questions kept plaguing his mind. Why had Bockleman and everyone else he asked for been tied up on other cases? Chief of Detectives Stewart’s list of those available had all been inexperienced rookies. They knew he would turn them down. Then in the rush, they gave him the impression there would be men waiting for him in Wyoming. If it had not been for Marshall Parker springing Butch Cassidy, he would have been out there in the middle of nowhere with just his nephew Patrick against the crazed Kid Del Rio. And who was this Mr. Simms and who hired him? Who had paided an assassin to take him out of the picture? A picture Nell Quinn was no longer a part of. Was it coincidence she was murdered and he left town?

He took out the mysterious telegram from Bockleman. He read again the move in a chess game that was never played. A move he was told that would, if made first, result in the knight trying to jump his own pawn. He fell asleep unable to shake the feeling that he was a pawn to be sacrificed.

“Next stop Joliet,” the conductor called out.

Mike lifted his free right hand over his head and tried to stretch. They were only about forty miles out of Chicago now. The trip sitting on wooded seats in common coach had been brutal. The motion awakened the deeply depressed Sean Daugherty, who was sitting next to him cuffed to his left hand. Mike reached in his vest pocket for the key and unlocked the handcuffs. They were beginning to chaff on both of them. So far, his prisoner had not given him any indication he was thinking of escape. He seemed to be resigned to his fate. In the two-day train ride, Sean had talked of the agony he felt that he might never see his darling Sarah again, and then the agony that if he did see her again, and she didn’t believe that he did not kill her mother.

Kansas City was the end of the line for the Union Pacific and they had to switch to the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe for the final leg into Chicago. The conductor told him that he had orders to give Mike and his prisoner a car of their own. It seemed unnecessary but Mike understood their concern considering the significance of the charges. He felt the money would have been better spent buying them two high-priced tickets on one of the private Pullman cars. The thought of sitting in one of the plush velvet rockers with his feet up on an ottoman was very appealing to him at this point in the journey.

With the car to themselves, Mike ceased to worry about Sean making a break. The boy had taken to walking back and forth in the empty car talking at great lengths about his problems. Occasionally the train would lurch and throw him into a seat but, undaunted, he would soon resume his pacing. Last night he was putting himself through so much anguish, Mike reattached the cuffs for fear Sean might make a break and throw himself off the train to commit suicide.

“Whatcha writtin’ about?” asked Sean, using his liberated hand to point at the pad of paper on Mike’s lap.

“Ah, nothin’ really,” Mike said. “I was just tryin’ to put together a letter tuh send to Marshall Parker thankin’ him fer all his help.”

“What about those fellers thet helped yuh find me? It would seem they be desarvin’ the lion’s share ov the credit. Butch and Elzy and that one they called Sundance. Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant McGhan, but you’d have been a babe in the woods without the aid ov those fine lads.”

“Yeah, I’m puttin’ somethin’ in here about how Butch was real important in yer capture. Maybe his lawyer can use it at his trial.”

“I would hope yuh would. Those lads got up early tuh see us off on the stagecoach.”

That elicited a chuckle from Mike.

“Well, the truth be known, they was out all night and they stopped tuh say good-by on the way back to the hotel.”

“It was still uh fine gesture just the same.”

A fine gesture indeed
, thought Mike. The three of them showed up at the stage drunk as lords and trying to sing “My Wild Irish Rose.” He had been out there too long. The cowboy way was beginning to make sense to him. If you live out in the open and sleep under the stars, the moments you have to spend in town were too precious to waste; you went non-stop at night until you passed out, and you slept during the day.

“Yuh think you’ll ever see those boys again?”

“Probably not in this lifetime,” Mike said with a smile. He had to admit he liked the criminal element better out West than he did that in Chicago. They had more class and character. There was still honor among thieves.

“Yuh think thet Butch will go straight like he said?”

“The criminal mind is hard tuh figure,” said Mike. “I suppose it depends on how the trial goes. He should be okay. I met his lawyer and he’s just the kinda obnoxious sonavabitch yuh need tuh represent yuh proper.”

“Who will I be blessed with?” asked Sean. “Some overloaded welfare lawyer the court appoints fer me.”

Here he goes again
, thought Mike. He wanted to kick himself for bringing up lawyers. At least it was a different topic. Three times last night he had heard the story of the benevolent Mrs. Potter Palmer, Queen of Chicago society, and her egalitarian school for society girls that chose to marry below their station in life. He didn’t know much about the inclinations of society debutantes, but he couldn’t picture Sarah Carver giving all that up to marry a poor Irish lad.

Mike spotted a copy of “Spaulding Guide” lying discarded on the floor and picked it up. Al Spaulding had outdone himself this year by including baseball team photos with the rosters.

“So how do yuh think Jimmy Ryan will do this season?” Mike asked in an attempt to lighten things up.

“Who?” puzzled Sean. He had been staring out the window at the flat Illinois countryside as he contemplated his grim fate.

“Jimmy Ryan, duh greatest White Stockings outfielder ever,” said Mike as he pointed him out in the team picture. “Duh man that hit six leadoff homers in ‘89. He led the league in home runs, hits and assists and everything else they come up with.”

“Oh, yeah, but they’re the Cubs now.”

“Cubs, hell,” said Mike angrily. “They been the White Stockings since I was uh boy. They won duh pennant every year from ‘80 through ‘86. Look at the picture. What color socks are they wearin’? White!”

“They didn’t win the pennant in ‘84 and ‘85,” Sean quietly countered as he turned back towards the window and sunk back into his melancholia. He sat mournfully staring at the setting sun. Abruptly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn blue piece of paper. He seemed to want to read the note one more time before he lost the daylight. Reading the note had become a compulsion to Sean. Maybe it was a way of reassuring himself that Sarah existed. Something troubled Mike about the note, too, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

A congenial-looking conductor wandered into their solitary rail car.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I was told you weren’t to be disturbed, Lieutenant McGhan, with you having a dangerous murderer in custody and all, but I was just wondering if everything was all right.”

“The porters have been taken’ care ov us all right,” said Mike, grateful to have someone to talk to besides the morose Sean after a day of isolation. The Negro porters came and went with quiet efficiency, but were schooled not to engage in conversations with the passengers.

“Well, okay then,” said the conductor, peering curiously at Sean. Mike suspected the real purpose of his intrusion was to get a look at the killer of Theodore Carver’s wife. When Sean’s picture hit the front page of every newspaper, he probably wanted to brag that he had seen him in person.

“How much longer do yuh figger ‘til we get into Chicago?” asked Mike.

“Oh, about an hour and a half. That is if we can keep this stop in Joliet to fifteen minutes.” He looked out the window as he talked to see buildings replace the rural landscape. “When we leave here, about the time we get up to full speed, we’ll have to start slowing down for Chicago.”

“It’ll just feel good tuh get home,” Mike sighed. “I’m gonna stretch my legs with uh nice walk down Michigan Avenue. Maybe I’ll go down by the lake. Yuh ever been there?”

“No, sir,” said the conductor pleasantly. “I’m from Rockford.” He stood next to them with a curious smile and looked around the railcar.

“Somethin’ wrong?” asked Mike.

“No, it’s just I thought your fellow officer, the tall fellow, would have joined you. I just saw him in the dining car. He’s the one that gave me the order from the Chicago Police Department to separate you from the rest of the passengers. He said you had a very dangerous criminal in your custody.”