Butch Cassidy the Lost Years Read Online Free

were three of ’em. Three against one ain’t very good odds.”
    â€œYeah, but I can tell by lookin’ at you . . . You still got the bark on you, boy. I’m bettin’ my ranch . . . you can do it.” He laughed again. “Of course . . . I’m losin’ one way or the other . . . ain’t I?”
    To this day, I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe I just wanted to ease his way from this world into the next. But I said, “All right, Mr. Tillotson, I’ll do it. I’ll go after those rustlers. Can’t promise you I’ll kill all of them, but I’ll do my damnedest.”
    â€œThat’s all . . . anybody can ask of a man. You got paper and . . . a pencil?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œGet it. Write out a bill of sale . . . I’ll sign it. But gimme . . . another drink first.”
    I did that, then took out a book I’d bought in San Antonio. I’d picked it up because it was a story about a cowboy named Cassidy who had a bum leg, and that struck me as funny. The book had a blank page or two in the back, so I tore one of them out, flattened it on the cover, and after pausing to build up the fire a little and make it brighter, I used a stub of a pencil to scrawl a bill of sale transferring ownership of the Fishhook Ranch from Abner Tillotson to . . .
    Until that moment I hadn’t thought about what name I was going to put down. I had gone by several different names in my life. Sometimes it came in handy for a man in my line of work to be somebody else. I’d used the name Jim before, and to be honest I just plucked Strickland out of thin air. I didn’t recall ever knowing anybody by that name.
    So I wrote down “Jim Strickland,” and then I read what I’d written to Abner. He managed a weak nod and said, “That’ll be fine. You’re a good man . . . Jim.”
    I don’t know if he just ran out of breath before he said the name, or if he was telling me in his own way that he knew it wasn’t real and didn’t care.
    He held out his hand and said, “Gimme the pencil. Afraid I’m gonna get blood on it.”
    â€œDon’t worry about that,” I told him.
    He took the pencil. I held the book where he could sign his name on the page. His hand was shaking some, but I could read his signature. I didn’t think anybody would dispute the bill of sale, since he didn’t have any family, and anyway I wasn’t sure I would ever use it. While the idea of settling down held some appeal, I didn’t know if I could do it. I’d been on the drift for a long time.
    When he was finished his hand fell back in his lap. He said, “You better . . . get after ’em now. They got a shack . . . couple miles north of here. Ain’t much more than a lean-to . . . built against a little rise. Don’t trust ’em . . . they’re tricky bastards. I never should’ve . . . give’ ’em any warnin’ . . . Should’ve just started shootin’ first myself. You might want to . . . bear that in mind.”
    â€œI sure will, Abner,” I told him. “You better get some rest now, hear?”
    â€œYou think you could . . . see your way clear to leavin’ that flask with me . . . while you go after those skunks?”
    â€œSure, I can do that.” I pressed the silver flask into the hand that had held the pencil. He had dropped it on the ground beside him.
    â€œMuch . . . obliged.”
    He seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open now. His head rested against the dirt wall behind him. His chest still rose and fell, but slow, slow.
    I knew if I piddled around a little before riding out after the Daughtrys, Abner would be dead and I could forget the whole thing and go find the ranch house. His horse was long gone, doubtless having run off after the shooting, but I could pack his body in on my extra animal. I could even toss that bill of sale into the fire and