The Cassidy Posse Read online

  Copyright © 2011 by D.N. Bedeker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design and illustration by Daniel C. Bedeker

  ISBN 0-7414-6151-X Paperback

  ISBN 978-0-7414-9475-7 eBook

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  For my grandson Dannis

  May this book inspire him the way

  my grandfather’s stories inspired me.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1- April Fool

  Chapter 2- April 1, 1892, Chicago

  Chapter 3- Chicago Society

  Chapter 4- A Man of The West

  Chapter 5- Texas Near the Rio Grande

  Chapter 6- Love Thy Mother

  Chapter 7- The Road West

  Chapter 8- The Deal of a Lifetime

  Chapter 9- Rock Springs, Wyoming

  Chapter 10- The Posse

  Chapter 11- Crossing the Great Basin

  Chapter 12- South Pass

  Chapter 13- The Shootist

  Chapter 14- The Circle C Ranch

  Chapter 15- Family Matters

  Chapter 16- Back on the Trail

  Chapter 17- The Rattlesnake Range

  Chapter 18- Unexpected Company

  Chapter 19- Mr. Simm’s Bad Day

  Chapter 20- The Pass

  Chapter 21- Billy’s Special Assignment

  Chapter 22- The Hole-in-the-Wall

  Chapter 23- The Outlaw Cabin

  Chapter 24- The Element of Surprise

  Chapter 25- The Lone Horse

  Chapter 26- The Man on the Hill

  Chapter 27- The Invasion Falters

  Chapter 28- On the Road to Buffalo

  Chapter 29- A Desperate Battle

  Chapter 30- In the Confusion of Battle

  Chapter 31- An Unguarded Moment

  Chapter 32- A Destiny Fulfilled

  Chapter 33- Crazy Woman Creek

  Chapter 34- Death From a Distance

  Chapter 35- A Violent end

  Chapter 36- Unexpected Help

  Chapter 37- Buffalo, Wyoming

  Chapter 38- So Close to Home

  Chapter 39- Conflict of Interest

  Chapter 40- The Homecoming

  Chapter 41- Through the Loop

  Chapter 42- The Best Laid Plans

  Chapter 43- End of the Line

  Chapter 44- Meeting the Family

  Chapter 45- Ten Years Later

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The inspiration for writing this novel began with a visit to the museum in Buffalo, Wyoming. A section of the museum chronicles the history of the Johnson County Range War in April of 1892 when the largely Eastern based owners of the big cattle outfits invaded the area with an army of 22 hired gunmen from Texas. These self-proclaimed regulators compiled a hit list of rustlers they intended to eliminate. The “invasion” (as locals called it) was the basis for Michael Cimino’s career-damaging movie Heaven’s Gate. As I walked around the museum reading the information on the various dioramas, it occurred to me that Cimino’s interpretation missed the humorous aspects of the ambitious undertaking. While he had immigrant men and women being slaughtered in his version of the shoot out at the KC ranch, in actuality the only casualty was a Texan who died of an embarrassing self-inflicted gunshot wound to the groin. In describing various events of the ill-conceived invasion in this novel, little literary embellishment was necessary to provide comic relief.

  While researching the Johnson County range war, I began to wonder what part Butch Cassidy, one of the area’s most famous outlaws, played in the proceeding. After all, the year before he owned a ranch near the “Hole-in-the-Wall” that was a suspected way station for a rustling operation. When I visited the “Hole-in-the-Wall” and crossed the famous passage (prudently on foot), I realized why the invaders did not want to attempt to breach the impregnable stronghold. Further research revealed that Butch Cassidy sat out the invasion in jail in Evanston, Wyoming, awaiting trial for stealing a horse. This was not a very satisfying answer to my question. Nate Champion, the only outlaw of note killed by the regulators, is thought to have been the one that first led Butch Cassidy through the “Hole-in-the-Wall.” It seemed only right that Butch should be involved in the events surrounding the invasion in some way. Thus the novel The Cassidy Posse was born. Robert Parker, aka Butch Cassidy, was well-liked and good for his word, which led to him being released from incarceration early on several occasions. It is on this precedent the novel is based. Our reason here is very plausible. He is secretly released until his upcoming trial to help guide a posse along the famous outlaw trail.

  The historical linchpin for Cassidy leading a posse for a Chicago detective is the fact that in 1902, he and the Sundance Kid were actually accused of robbing a train on the outskirts of Chicago. As I stared at the pictures of the two famous outlaws in a Chicago Tribune article dated July 6, 1902, I could not help but wonder if there was not some earlier connection to the windy city. It is commonly believed that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were in South America at this time. What could have brought them back for this brief visit to Chicago? It was a mystery crying out to be explained. Although my explanation is fictional, I can offer no conclusive proof that it is not true.

  In writing this Western mystery, I tried to portray the historical figures in the novel as close to their actual personas as research available would permit. An effort was made to correct the impression of Cassidy as an amicable, good-natured bungler that was created by the movie “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” He was anything but a bungler. Although he conscientiously tried to avoid shooting anyone, he was an excellent shot with both pistol and rifle. He succeeded in avoiding life and death confrontations with excellent planning.

  I would like to thank Gene and Sammye Vieh of the Willow Creek Guest Ranch at the “Hole-in-the-Wall” for their hospitality when I visited that area. I want to give a special acknowledgement to my brother Dan for providing his superb artwork for the cover.

  CHAPTER 1

  APRIL FOOL

  Al Hanier brought his axe down hard upon another log at the Davis sawmill. He felt the moisture of perspiration spread from under his arms and across his back. It felt good to sweat again doing honest work. It was a needed change. Nothing he planned for the long run but on the frontier in 1892, you were expected to earn your keep. He and his partner had spent all their cash living it up in Rock Springs that winter. Gambling, whores and high living leads to empty pockets. They’d be back in the money as soon as it thawed out a little and they could sell off the horses they had hidden away in the mountains. Al took off his coat and stretched his arms up towards the spr
ing sunshine. The snow capped Tetons loomed in the distance. He used his fingers as a comb to push back his dark, curly hair as he considered the landscape. Pretty place, he thought. Lots of trees. He had never been this far west in Wyoming before. He reached for his axe to thin out the forest some more when he heard a distinct and familiar metallic click. It was the sound of the hammer being pulled back on a single action Colt.

  “Put them hands up, Hanier,” said a voice from the trees. “Just the way you had’em be fine.”

  “Al Hanier,” shouted a sterner voice. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Al looked at his Winchester lying idle across two sawhorses. As he had been working, he had gradually put some distance between himself and his weapon. No chance. He reluctantly put up his hands.

  Four well-armed men quickly closed in on him and firmly grasped his arms.

  “Where’s Cassidy,” said the deputy, the one with the stern voice that Al recognized as Bob Calverly from Unita County.

  “Little out ah your jurisdiction, aren’t you Bob?”

  “Shut up,” commanded a short deputy. “I’m not.”

  “Your rustling days are over,” whispered a tall man who now had a stranglehold around Al’s neck. “I wish that Winchester of yours had been closer and you’d have gone for it. We would have ended your thievin’ permanently.”

  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.

  CHAPTER 2

  APRIL 1, 1892, CHICAGO

  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.”