Welcome To The Bullpen
I Ran Into Butch Cassidy
By Oscar Case
It was a rainy, foggy, cold, wet night when I stopped into The Lost Boot Saloon for a quick belly-warmer. The whiskey business was slow in the Lost Boot and no wonder. It sat at the bottom of Clay Hill all by itself. The town was on top of the hill, and when the road gets wet like tonight, nobody was going to venture down the hill on a horse or in a wagon. The wet clay stuck to everything and it was about eighteen inches deep. And that was not the only reason. The town was the only habitation around for miles at the edge of the Uintah Mountains. So, I found myself to be the only customer.
I removed my slicker and threw it over a stool to drain, shook the water off my Stetson, took one of the four remaining stools at the bar, and ordered a shot of 100-proof rotgut and a glass of beer from the bartender. He had been quietly watching my entrance from his position behind the bar, resting one elbow on it, his blue eyes alert and sparkling.
“Howdy, stranger. Bad night tonight, ain’t it?” the saloon keeper said, still staring at me, and then turning to grab a bottle and a shot glass.
I watched him fill the tumbler to the top and then draw a glass of beer before I said anything.
“’Tis that, all right, lousy weather, but the rain’s always good,” I said, downing the shot in one thirsty gulp and sipping on the beer. “When did this place open up?”
“Hasn’t been open long, and if it had been me, I would’ve picked another spot for it,” answered the barman.
“Are you new to the territory? I haven’t seen you around here before,” I said to make conversation.
He gave me a funny look, like I had asked a dumb question, and said, “Not exactly. Been around for awhile, checking things out for myself. Why?”
“Just making conversation. What did you do before taking up bartending?”
“I was an outlaw, they say. Name’sCassidy, Butch Cassidy. Ever hear of me?”
“BUTCH CASSIDY? That can’t be! He was reported dead a few years ago in South America!” I said, startled, and give him a good once-over. “You’re not spreading some manure, are you, trying to pull my leg?” I looked at him closer, but the only likeness I’ve seen was that picture taken down in Texas with the Sundance Kid and some woman, and there WAS a slight resemblance to that.
“Not a whit! No, sir, here I am standing here looking you in the eye, Butch Cassidy it is. I don’t have my gun, so I’m not going to be holding you up,” he said, and laughed. “Want another pull from the jug?”
“Sure, sure, Mr. Cassidy, give me another one and we’ll talk some more, since there ain’t no one else around to interrupt us,” I said. “How many banks did you rob and how many cattle have you rustled over the years, anyway, if you’re really that Cassidy?”
“Well, the Sundance Kid and some of the Hole in the Wall gang did our share of robbing and rustling all right. I don’t rightly recall the exact number, and I don’t dwell on it,” he said. “That was something, that big shootout in Brown’s Hole with the Wild Bunch, wasn’t it?”
“It sure was, and you lost a couple of your gang over in Nine Mile Canyon, picked up by
Oscar Beebe and the law from Price, as I recollect,” I answered.
“Oh, yeah. Those things happened from time to time.”
“Well, since we’re just talking between us, let me ask you, Mr. Cassidy, Butch, if you don’t mind. Did you ever have any moral qualms about the people on the other end of your justice? I mean all the damages and disruptions you and the gang caused, it made it pretty bad for some of them. And the law was after you until you were reported dead, as I recall,” I said.
He gave me another long stare with his blue eyes, rested his hand on the bar, and said, “Sundance and I parleyed about that once in awhile, but I’ve been at it for so long, I didn’t think too much about it. Why? Are you some kind of preacher or something, going to give me a nice long lecture on the morality of taking other people’s money? A lot of these people deserved what they got, and I always tried not to have to shoot too many people, but I can’t say that for Sundance. He was just too rambunctious. And we did help out a number of desperate folks, too, so it wasn’t all killing and robbing for our entertainment.”
“I’m not a preacher, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I wonder, if you could go back, would you just do it all over again?”
“Of course, some of it. Like I said, some of it was for good reason,” he replied.
“I don’t think I could’ve done anything like that. My bringing up never let me consider doing anything along that line. Like I said, though, I can see some of the good you did and that’s noteworthy, but the other stuff, uh-uh.”
“Some people have told me that. We have a different row to hoe in life, and mine just took me down that path,” said Cassidy.
We talked about this and that for awhile longer until the rain let up, and then I told him so long and that I had to find a way up that hill tonight.
He watched me pick up my slicker and toss it over a shoulder, and said, “Just go another mile or so west there, and there’s an old trail up the hillside out of the clay. You can’t miss it if you follow the hill around there to about where the cedars start. There’s a huge boulder at the bottom, and you just cut up the hill there. It’s the old outlaw trail I used to use occasionally. Good luck to you.”
I found the trail exactly as he said I would and made it up the hill into town in good shape, but kept the meeting with Butch Cassidy to myself. The next afternoon, I headed back home, taking the same trail. When I came near the saloon, I looked and looked for it, but it was nowhere to be found. I thought it must have been a mirage or a dream, I was pretty darn tired. Damn! I wish I would have pursued that conversation a little further. I bet I could have changed his mind about the whole matter, but I really didn’t have a chance to get into the thick of it. I must be losing my mind.
|
|
