Butch Cassidy the Lost Years by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2013-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 24

We pushed the cattle on into the hills, then headed back to the ranch headquarters to clean up. There was no air of impending celebration this time, like there had been before the dance. We were all quiet and solemn.

When we got there we found that Gabe already knew what had happened. Lester had told him when the sheriff returned there with Vince. The two of them had started off toward the county seat in Lester’s automobile.

It was evening by the time we reached town, the sun having set while we were riding in. We didn’t know where Vince’s parents lived, but I figured they could tell us at the train station, so that’s where we headed first. The ticket agent gave us directions to the house, which was a neat little white frame structure on a side street. A cottonwood stood next to it, and there was a little flower bed in front of the porch with a few green sprouts in it. In those hot, dry West Texas summers it would be a real battle getting any flowers to grow, but I supposed Vince’s mother was the stubborn sort who gave it a try.

Several cars and buggies were parked on the edge of the street in front of the house. All the windows were lit up. We left our horses in the alley next to the house and went up the steps onto the porch, holding our hats. Some of the windows were open, and I heard a low buzz of conversation coming from inside as I knocked on the door.

The man who answered it was a stranger. He wore a sober dark suit and had a bald head and a white walrus mustache. He said, “Yes?”

“We’re friends of Vince’s,” I said. “I own the Fishhook spread, where he works.”

“So you’re Jim Strickland,” he said. “I’ve heard Vince’s folks speak of you.” He held out a hand and introduced himself. “John Hamilton. I’m a friend of the family.” As I shook with him, he added, “Come on in.”

He took us into a crowded parlor. The air was thick with grief and bay rum and perfume from all the visitors. Vince sat in an armchair that had been pulled over next to the end of a sofa. A slender, middle-aged woman with graying brown hair sat on that sofa, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with the lacy handkerchief she held. From time to time she reached over and squeezed Vince’s arm. His face looked like it had been carved out of granite, and he didn’t respond to the comforting touch of the woman I took to be his mother.

John Hamilton introduced me to some of the other people in the room, but I don’t remember their names. I introduced Enoch, Gabe, and Randy. Bert seemed to know just about everybody already, which wasn’t surprising considering that he and Vince had been best friends for a long time. Bert’s folks were there, I think. I don’t do too well with mourning.

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