Butch Cassidy the Lost Years Read Online Free Page A
Author: William W. Johnstone
watch it burn. A part of me wanted to. If Iâd wanted to live the life of a rancher, I couldâve stayed in Utah when I was a kid.
Anyway, I couldnât rightfully condemn the Daughtry boys for rustling. My own past was not without blemish in that respect, and I never cared for the idea of being a hypocrite.
But shooting an old man in cold blood . . . well, I had to admit that rubbed me the wrong way. I didnât really know a blasted thing about Abner Tillotson, but I like to think Iâm a pretty good judge of character, and my instincts told me he didnât deserve to go out like this.
I folded the page with Abnerâs signature on it and stuck it in my hip pocket. Then I went over to my horse and put the book back in the saddlebags. I looked at Abner but couldnât tell if he was breathing or not.
âIâll be back, Abner,â I told him anyway.
Then without thinking too much about what I was doing, I untied the reins, swung up into the saddle, and rode off into a dark, bone-chilling night in search of a trio of murdering rustlers.
CHAPTER 2
I f you were to ask me about the coldest Iâve ever been, you probably wouldnât think that it would be when I was in Texas, what with me spending so much time in Utah, Wyoming, Idaho, and places like that. But all these years later, even on the hottest day of the summer, a shiver still goes through me when I think about that night ride across the Texas plains.
I left the packhorse in the gully with Abner. I left the fire burning, too, which went against the grain because of the danger of prairie fires. My hope, though, was that it would keep the scavengers away from him for a while. Maybe I would get back before the fire burned down completely.
He had said the Daughtry place was a couple miles north of the gully. It was too dark to be sure how much ground I was covering, but I was counting on spotting a lighted window to steer by. Until then I had to rely on instinct to keep me going in the right direction.
After a while, just when I started to worry that I was lost and wouldnât even be able to find my way back to the gully, a faint yellow glow appeared in the distance ahead of me. It was tiny at first but got bigger as I rode toward it. Eventually I was able to tell by its roughly rectangular shape that it was the window Iâd been looking for.
From what Abner had told me, I felt confident that I was approaching the Daughtry place. He hadnât mentioned anybody else living around these parts.
With the wind blowing out of the north the way it was, I didnât think they would hear my horseâs hoofbeats. Just to be sure, though, I reined in when we were about fifty yards away. I didnât see anything close by where I could tie the horse, so I let the reins dangle and left him ground-hitched. I pulled the Winchester from the scabbard and started toward the light on foot.
When I got closer I could make out more of the details, even on that dark night. The shack looked like a jumble of boards piled against the face of a little bluff. It had a tin and tar-paper roof with the iron stovepipe sticking up through it. With the bluff to block the wind and a fire going in the stove, it might be halfway comfortable in there, I thought.
Off to the right was a shed that actually looked more sturdily built than the shack. I saw several bulky shapes huddled together in there. I guess the Daughtrys knew how important it was for a man to take care of his horse. Beyond the shed was a corral. The stolen cattle stood stolidly inside it with their back ends turned toward the wind.
It would have been easy enough to kick the door down and go in shooting. They wouldnât know I was anywhere around until it was too late for at least one of them, and probably two. Maybe, if I was really lucky, all three of them. I mulled it over for a minute or so and came mighty close to doing it that way.
But something stopped me. As I mentioned,
Anyway, I couldnât rightfully condemn the Daughtry boys for rustling. My own past was not without blemish in that respect, and I never cared for the idea of being a hypocrite.
But shooting an old man in cold blood . . . well, I had to admit that rubbed me the wrong way. I didnât really know a blasted thing about Abner Tillotson, but I like to think Iâm a pretty good judge of character, and my instincts told me he didnât deserve to go out like this.
I folded the page with Abnerâs signature on it and stuck it in my hip pocket. Then I went over to my horse and put the book back in the saddlebags. I looked at Abner but couldnât tell if he was breathing or not.
âIâll be back, Abner,â I told him anyway.
Then without thinking too much about what I was doing, I untied the reins, swung up into the saddle, and rode off into a dark, bone-chilling night in search of a trio of murdering rustlers.
CHAPTER 2
I f you were to ask me about the coldest Iâve ever been, you probably wouldnât think that it would be when I was in Texas, what with me spending so much time in Utah, Wyoming, Idaho, and places like that. But all these years later, even on the hottest day of the summer, a shiver still goes through me when I think about that night ride across the Texas plains.
I left the packhorse in the gully with Abner. I left the fire burning, too, which went against the grain because of the danger of prairie fires. My hope, though, was that it would keep the scavengers away from him for a while. Maybe I would get back before the fire burned down completely.
He had said the Daughtry place was a couple miles north of the gully. It was too dark to be sure how much ground I was covering, but I was counting on spotting a lighted window to steer by. Until then I had to rely on instinct to keep me going in the right direction.
After a while, just when I started to worry that I was lost and wouldnât even be able to find my way back to the gully, a faint yellow glow appeared in the distance ahead of me. It was tiny at first but got bigger as I rode toward it. Eventually I was able to tell by its roughly rectangular shape that it was the window Iâd been looking for.
From what Abner had told me, I felt confident that I was approaching the Daughtry place. He hadnât mentioned anybody else living around these parts.
With the wind blowing out of the north the way it was, I didnât think they would hear my horseâs hoofbeats. Just to be sure, though, I reined in when we were about fifty yards away. I didnât see anything close by where I could tie the horse, so I let the reins dangle and left him ground-hitched. I pulled the Winchester from the scabbard and started toward the light on foot.
When I got closer I could make out more of the details, even on that dark night. The shack looked like a jumble of boards piled against the face of a little bluff. It had a tin and tar-paper roof with the iron stovepipe sticking up through it. With the bluff to block the wind and a fire going in the stove, it might be halfway comfortable in there, I thought.
Off to the right was a shed that actually looked more sturdily built than the shack. I saw several bulky shapes huddled together in there. I guess the Daughtrys knew how important it was for a man to take care of his horse. Beyond the shed was a corral. The stolen cattle stood stolidly inside it with their back ends turned toward the wind.
It would have been easy enough to kick the door down and go in shooting. They wouldnât know I was anywhere around until it was too late for at least one of them, and probably two. Maybe, if I was really lucky, all three of them. I mulled it over for a minute or so and came mighty close to doing it that way.
But something stopped me. As I mentioned,
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