Butch Cassidy the Lost Years Read Online Free Page B

I’ve had what you might call a checkered past, but for most of that time, even in my wildest years, I had managed not to kill anybody. There had come a point where that changed—sometimes there’s just no other way out, and to be honest, there are some evil bastards in the world who just need killin’—but I still didn’t want to ventilate anybody who didn’t have it coming.
    As I stared at that lighted window, I realized that I didn’t know for an absolute certainty it was the Daughtr ys in there. Even if it was, I didn’t know who else might be in the shack with them. Wives, kids, maybe even an old dog or two. I didn’t want any of them getting in the way of a stray bullet.
    What I needed to do was draw them out some way, and I thought I saw a way to do it.
    That stovepipe poked up through the tar paper fairly close to the bluff. I circled around and climbed the bluff well away from the shack. Even though I was only about eight feet higher than I had been, the wind felt even harder and colder up there. I tried to ignore it as I cat-footed toward the shack.
    When I was behind that haphazard assemblage of lumber, I took off my coat. Under it I wore a thick flannel shirt and a pair of long underwear, but the wind cut through both garments like they weren’t there. Shivering and trembling, I hung the jacket on the end of my rifle barrel and extended it toward the stovepipe. It almost reached. I gave the Winchester a flick of my wrist. The jacket jumped in the air and settled over the top of the pipe.
    It wasn’t blocked off as well as if I’d been able to get out on the roof and stuff something down the pipe. From the looks of that roof, though, if a pigeon landed on there it might fall through. Doing it this way, some of the smoke was going to escape, but I thought enough of it would back up into the shack to do the job.
    I crouched there on the bluff waiting for something to happen. I didn’t have to wait long. Somebody started yelling and cussing inside the shack. The door slammed open and three men stumbled out, coughing.
    The Winchester held fifteen rounds, so I figured I could spare one. I put it into the ground near their feet, making them jump. They had made the mistake of all standing close together instead of spreading out, which told me they were pure amateurs when it came to being ambushed. I didn’t want to give them a chance to realize that mistake, so I yelled, “Stand right where you are! I’ll kill the first man who moves!”
    Well, they moved, of course. They twisted around toward the sound of my voice. One of them even started to reach under his coat. He stopped when I worked the Winchester’s lever and he heard that sinister, metallic clack-clack.
    It was a dramatic touch and I shouldn’t have done it. I should have already had a fresh round chambered. I have a liking for those little flourishes, though, and even though I’ve been told that they’ll get me killed someday, a man’s got to entertain himself from time to time.
    Still coughing from the smoke that followed them out the door, one of the men shouted, “Who in blazes . . . are you?”
    â€œNever mind about who I am,” I yelled back at him. “Is your name Daughtry?”
    â€œWhat the hell business is that of yours?”
    I pointed the rifle at him and said, “Just answer the question.” I tried to make my voice as cold and deadly as the wind.
    â€œI’m Ned Daughtry,” the man admitted. “These are my brothers Clete and Otto. You satisfied now, you son of a bitch?”
    â€œAnybody else inside?”
    A wracking cough bent the man forward. When it was over he said, “No, just the three of us.”
    â€œIn that case,” I told him, “Abner Tillotson says you should all go to hell.”
    That threw them. One of the others said, “Who’s Tillotson to you?”
    â€œA friend,” I said. What