Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania
March, 1901
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They set out from Ligonier before dawn. Harry Longabaugh wasn’t crazy about the idea, but Roy Parker prevailed on his friend. As they left town on rented horses, each man kept his own counsel for the first few miles. The drunken paddy had said the mountain was about eighty furlongs from town. That figured to be ten miles.
“This is a dumb idea, Roy.”
“How so?”
“You heard the townspeople. Soon as I mentioned Fareysdowne Mountain.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you Harry?”
“No, but what if they’re right?”
Roy Parker lit a freshly rolled cigarette and spat tobacco from the tip of his tongue. “I figure that Argyll fellow planted lots of gold up on that mountain. If people came looking, what would he have to defend it? A flintlock. No, the way I figure it, best way to keep people away from the gold is to invent stories about the supernatural. Mountain’s haunted, don’t come there.”
Harry snorted and spat over his shoulder.
“People have gone missing, from what I’m told.”
“Sure. People go missing all the time. Makes the ghost stories believable.”
“I still think we’re making a mistake.”
“You’re free to head west to the riverboat, Harry. I’m not leaving the county without enough gold to fill these saddle bags.”
He wanted that gold, and Harry could come along or head to Pittsburgh alone. After all, this entire debacle had been his fault.
Etta had remained on the ship—with the bulk of their money. She’d be in Buenos Aires by now and probably living it up. Nah, he knew better. She was head over heels for Harry and always had been. She’d wait and worry. Like the time the newspapers reported his and Harry’s untimely deaths. She’d fallen to pieces. He snorted.
“What?”
Roy stopped chewing his lip. “Nothin’. Just thinking.”
“You’re good at it, so what were you thinking?”
“Just that the news of our deaths last year had been greatly exaggerated.”
Harry gaped at him like a blinking owl. “I don’t get it.”
“Sam Clemens…Mark Twain. His cousin had taken sick but news came out that Twain had fallen ill and died. Wrote a letter stating that news of his death had been greatly exaggerated.”
Harry pushed the rim of his bowler up with his thumb. “How do you know such things?”
“I read. You should take it up.”
“Yeah. What Etta tells me.”
They moseyed onward for the last few miles, and just as the sun peeked over the eastern hills, they reached the Carnahan summer estate. Harry
dismounted and headed into the brush alongside the dirt road. Roy got down, too, but he worried more about the saddle bags being big enough. They might be able to stuff a few pounds of gold into each bag. That, of course, was assuming the Irish sot wasn’t talking through his hat.
“What if there’s no gold up there, Harry?”
His partner finished repairing himself and ambled to Roy’s side. “Then, we kill him for wasting our time.”
“You kill him.”
“Right. I forgot you bein’ a Mormon and all. Robbing trains and banks is scriptural but killing ain’t.”
“Let me remind you, neither of us would be in this predicament had it not been for your fleshly desires for bourbon whiskey and Cuban cigars.”
Harry stuck out his chest. “You didn’t have to go with me!”
Roy smacked his partner’s arm. “You couldn’t find your way out of town if it weren’t for me or Etta.”
“That’s not fair! I was only going to the end of the dock, and how was I to know a city copper would recognize me?”
“Doesn’t matter, Harry. We couldn’t get back to the ship, and we only have about five hundred between the two of us. We need that gold. And, just so you know, there’s a big difference between stealing people’s money and killing them.”
“But—”
“Mount up. We gotta find that paddy and soon.”
March, 1901
[FONT='Calibri','sans-serif'] [/font]
They set out from Ligonier before dawn. Harry Longabaugh wasn’t crazy about the idea, but Roy Parker prevailed on his friend. As they left town on rented horses, each man kept his own counsel for the first few miles. The drunken paddy had said the mountain was about eighty furlongs from town. That figured to be ten miles.
“This is a dumb idea, Roy.”
“How so?”
“You heard the townspeople. Soon as I mentioned Fareysdowne Mountain.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you Harry?”
“No, but what if they’re right?”
Roy Parker lit a freshly rolled cigarette and spat tobacco from the tip of his tongue. “I figure that Argyll fellow planted lots of gold up on that mountain. If people came looking, what would he have to defend it? A flintlock. No, the way I figure it, best way to keep people away from the gold is to invent stories about the supernatural. Mountain’s haunted, don’t come there.”
Harry snorted and spat over his shoulder.
“People have gone missing, from what I’m told.”
“Sure. People go missing all the time. Makes the ghost stories believable.”
“I still think we’re making a mistake.”
“You’re free to head west to the riverboat, Harry. I’m not leaving the county without enough gold to fill these saddle bags.”
He wanted that gold, and Harry could come along or head to Pittsburgh alone. After all, this entire debacle had been his fault.
Etta had remained on the ship—with the bulk of their money. She’d be in Buenos Aires by now and probably living it up. Nah, he knew better. She was head over heels for Harry and always had been. She’d wait and worry. Like the time the newspapers reported his and Harry’s untimely deaths. She’d fallen to pieces. He snorted.
“What?”
Roy stopped chewing his lip. “Nothin’. Just thinking.”
“You’re good at it, so what were you thinking?”
“Just that the news of our deaths last year had been greatly exaggerated.”
Harry gaped at him like a blinking owl. “I don’t get it.”
“Sam Clemens…Mark Twain. His cousin had taken sick but news came out that Twain had fallen ill and died. Wrote a letter stating that news of his death had been greatly exaggerated.”
Harry pushed the rim of his bowler up with his thumb. “How do you know such things?”
“I read. You should take it up.”
“Yeah. What Etta tells me.”
They moseyed onward for the last few miles, and just as the sun peeked over the eastern hills, they reached the Carnahan summer estate. Harry
dismounted and headed into the brush alongside the dirt road. Roy got down, too, but he worried more about the saddle bags being big enough. They might be able to stuff a few pounds of gold into each bag. That, of course, was assuming the Irish sot wasn’t talking through his hat.
“What if there’s no gold up there, Harry?”
His partner finished repairing himself and ambled to Roy’s side. “Then, we kill him for wasting our time.”
“You kill him.”
“Right. I forgot you bein’ a Mormon and all. Robbing trains and banks is scriptural but killing ain’t.”
“Let me remind you, neither of us would be in this predicament had it not been for your fleshly desires for bourbon whiskey and Cuban cigars.”
Harry stuck out his chest. “You didn’t have to go with me!”
Roy smacked his partner’s arm. “You couldn’t find your way out of town if it weren’t for me or Etta.”
“That’s not fair! I was only going to the end of the dock, and how was I to know a city copper would recognize me?”
“Doesn’t matter, Harry. We couldn’t get back to the ship, and we only have about five hundred between the two of us. We need that gold. And, just so you know, there’s a big difference between stealing people’s money and killing them.”
“But—”
“Mount up. We gotta find that paddy and soon.”