Butch Cassidy the Lost Years by William W. Johnstone

you’ve got a job here on the Fishhook for as long as you want it.”
    He stared at me, unable to speak. When he finally found his tongue again, he asked, “Why would you do that for me? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
    â€œWell, hell, son,” I told him with a grin, “I’ve been in some pretty desperate straits myself from time to time. I know what it feels like to not have any hope, and then somebody holds out a sliver of it. You grab on to it because there’s nothin’ else you can do, not if you’re human. We’re all weak now and again. That don’t mean we don’t deserve a second chance.”
    â€œI . . . I can’t believe it.”
    â€œYou’d better believe it, because it’s the truth. There’s only one thing you’ve got to do right now for me.”
    He got a wary look on his face again, and I didn’t blame him a bit. It was probably going to be a long time before he trusted anybody completely again, if he ever did.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asked.
    â€œYou’ve got to give me your word you won’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, like trying to get on a horse and ride away from here. You’ve got to promise that you’ll be here when I get back from town.”
    He didn’t answer right away, even though we both knew he had plumb run out of options. I guess he still had enough pride he wanted to make it look like he was thinking about it.
    Finally he nodded and said, “All right. I give you my word. I’ll be here, Mr. Strickland.”
    I grinned at him again and told him, “Good. Finish your breakfast. You need to get your strength back as soon as you can. If you’re gonna ride for the Fishhook brand, you’re gonna earn your keep, son!”

CHAPTER 11
    B lood had soaked through the canvas in places, so I drew quite a bit of attention when I drove the buckboard into Largo late that morning with one of my saddle horses tied to the back. Farnum’s store was the center of the community, so that’s where I headed. Several men and even a couple of women followed me, forming a small crowd around the back of the buckboard as I stopped in front of the store, next to a Model T Ford somebody had parked there. I always saw a few automobiles every time I came to town, but bad roads and isolation meant most people out here still used horses and wagons.
    â€œWhat in tarnation do you have there, Mr. Strickland?” Tom Mulrooney asked me. He was a burly fella who owned the blacksmith shop.
    â€œIs that . . . blood?” one of the women asked. I didn’t know her name, but I recalled that she was a seamstress and ran the millinery shop. Her question managed to sound both horrifyng and interesting at the same time.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I told her as I hopped down from the seat. “You might want to step back. I’m afraid what’s under here would offend those with delicate sensibilities.”
    â€œIt’s dead men, isn’t it?” she asked.
    â€œYes, ma’am, it is.”
    I could tell she wanted me to peel back that canvas and let her have a look. So did most of the others. I saw the morbid curiosity in their eyes.
    Maybe it’s because of my own background, but it always bothered me the way any time an outlaw got killed, honest, respectable citizens would prop his bullet-riddled body up on a board and put it on display for folks to gawk at. Lawmen posed proudly and triumphantly with the corpse while photographs were made. Undertakers sometimes charged an admission fee just to gaze at the unlucky bastard. I’d even heard a story about how the body of a famous gunman had been stuffed and turned into an exhibit in a damned medicine show. I don’t mind admitting the whole thing annoyed the hell out of me. Even an owlhoot ought to have a right to a little dignity once he’d crossed the divide. Being left for