“Hear what?” Black said, a volume of disrespect and disdain in just two words.
“They’re planning to bury that hung Apache in the white folk’s cemetery,” Landis said. “I work for Thaddeus Wraith the undertaker and overhead them all talking about it.”
Roper’s ears perked up, and he said, “Who’s planning to bury him there?”
“I don’t know their names, but it’s two stagecoach fellers,” Landis said.
“Then I’m betting the farm that it’s Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon,” Roper said, smiling.
“I dunno,” Landis said. “Two stagecoach fellers, that’s all.”
Normally Big Jim Black wouldn’t have given a tinker’s cuss where the Apache was buried, but he listened to the outraged murmurs of the saloon patrons and wondered if it would be good for his reputation to get involved.
“Today redskins, tomorrow niggers,” one half-drunk rooster said. “That’s how it happens.”
“My brother is buried in Concordia. I don’t want him lying beside no damned Apache,” said another man.
“Damned disgrace,” said a third, slamming his fist on the bar for emphasis. “The Apache murdered an army officer at the fort and cut off his head is what he done.”
Then, a rube in a celluloid collar and striped mustard and green tie said, “What we gonna do about it, Mr. Black?”
Two things pleased Black about that question. One was the respectful use of “Mr. Black,” the other the unspoken acknowledgment that he was the leading citizen of El Paso.
Black considered his options, then made up his mind.
“There will be no murdering savage buried at Concordia,” he said. “And I’ll kill any man who tries.”
This drew a cheer, but Seth Roper said nothing. He was highly amused. Lucian Carter had stuck a knife in Major Morgan’s back and then created the indignant uproar that had ended in the lynching of the Apache scout. By rights, Carter should bury the Indian. But Roper thought this a fine way to get rid of Ryan at no risk to himself. The redheaded shotgun guard had been a thorn in his side for too long.
From his towering height, Jim Black looked down at Landis and said, “What’s your name?”
Flattered that the great man would ask him such a question, the little undertaker’s assistant smiled and said, “Miles Landis, Mr. Black, but everybody calls me Landy.”
“Landis, get back to the undertaker and when the Apache’s body is about to leave for Concordia, come tell me,” Black said.
“Be an hour or so, I think,” Landis said.
“Come tell me,” Black said. “Now get the hell out of here.”
* * *
The railroad clock on the saloon wall claimed it was two minutes after ten when Miles Landis burst into the saloon and yelled, “They’re on their way!”
Big Jim Black nodded, drained his whiskey glass, and pushed away from the bar. “Let’s go,” he said to the expectant crowd and, cheering, they followed him out of the saloon.
Seth Roper tagged along, grinning. This was going to be fun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The main entrance to the Concordia Cemetery, where in 1895 John Wesley Hardin would be buried, is on Yandell Street, in Jim Black’s day only a ten-minute walk from the Platte River saloon. Black gathered more gawkers as he walked purposefully toward the graveyard, and a few of the more excited, or drunk, fired shots into the air, announcing the coming of the man who would see justice done and the Apache lovers banished from Concordia and possibly El Paso itself.
Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon had walked behind the hearse to the open grave, and now they watched as Thaddeus Wraith and a helper manhandled the pine box to the edge of the deep, rectangular hole.
Alerted by the random shots, Buttons looked toward the cemetery gate and said, “Red, we got company.”
Red nodded. “Seems like. I didn’t think the Apache was so popular.”
Like a gunfighter Moses heading for the Red Sea, Jim Black led his raucous followers through the cemetery to the gravesite. The big gunman dismissed Wraith, considered Buttons for a moment, then settled on Red.
“You ain’t burying that murdering savage here,” he said. “Git the box back in the hearse and take him elsewhere.”
“There is no elsewhere,” Red said.
“The hell there isn’t,” Black said. “You got the whole of Texas to bury that animal. Go somewhere far and dig a hole.”
“I got a hole already dug,” Red said. “I don’t need another.” He turned to Wraith. “Bury him.”
The undertaker hesitated, his fearful eyes on Black, who was unused to such open defiance and was on a slow burn. “Undertaker, try to put the savage in that grave, and I’ll kill you,” he said.
Wraith hopped back from the pine box, uncertain of how to proceed and now thoroughly frightened.
Red’s own anger flared. “Hell, let me do it,” he said.
“Touch that box and you’re a dead man,” Black said.
“And you go to hell,” Red said.
A crowd of close to a hundred people watched the action, their excitement-hungry eyes moving expectantly from Ryan to Black and back again. A deadly insult had just been thrown by the redheaded man, and they knew Black would not let it stand. He did not disappoint them.
Big Jim considered going to the gun, but decided against it. When he outdrew and shot the redhead there were some who might see it as murder, and that would be inconvenient. Besides, the crowd wanted a show and Black wanted the insolent stagecoach driver, or whatever the hell he was, dead. Best do it with his hands. Black looked Red over . . . a little over six feet, good chest and shoulders, big, flat-knuckled fists that spoke of punching power . . . the man would be a handful, but he’d outfought and killed bigger, tougher men, and Black had no doubt he could beat the redhead. No, not beat him, pound him into a pulp, hit him hard again and again . . . and kill him with the final blow.
“What the hell is your Indian-loving name, mister?” Black said.
“Red Ryan, shotgun guard of the Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company.”
“You’ve got a bandage on your head,” Black said. “That supposed to get my sympathy?”
Red reached up, slid the bandage off his head, and tossed it away. “Any time you’re ready,” he said.
“Well, Mr. Ryan, it seems I have to beat some manners into you,” Black said. He took off his coat and gave it to an onlooker, and then his cartridge belt and holstered Colt. “Do you have the sand for a fistfight or are you showing yellow, all wind and piss?”
Red didn’t answer that question. He saw Seth Roper in the crowd and said, “Roper, are you taking a hand in this?”
The man shook his head. “Ryan, this is between you and Mr. Black. But, if you want my advice you’d better pick up your dead Apache friend and walk away from this. Jim is way too much for you with fists or a gun.”
That last brought cheers and catcalls from the crowd, and somebody yelled, “Go get him, Big Jim!”
Black looked arrogant and sure, his knotty fists bunched, a fighting man confident in himself and his ability to maim and kill with his bare hands. He looked huge, a giant with enormous strength and ability who would absorb all kinds of punishment and still be standing when the fight was over and his opponent lay bloody and beaten at his feet.
Of course, what Black didn’t know was that as a booth fighter, Red Ryan had taken on all comers and had fought men as big and mean as Black to a standstill. Red had not trained for years and had lost a step or two in quickness, but he was still a powerful puncher and as tough and durable as they come. And he had sand.
Red unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Buttons Muldoon, and the driver whispered, “Red, he’s awful big.”
“I know he is,” Red said.
“Maybe we should take the Apache somewhere else.”
“No, we bury him here,” Red said. “He’s already suffered one wrong, and I won’t do him another.”
“Red, I don’t want
to bury you here with him,” Buttons said. “Hell, look at the size of that man.”
“He’s a man mountain, all right,” Red said. “Well, I guess it’s time to read to him from the book.”
Red stepped forward, eager to get this uncertain thing over. As he came in, Black landed a stiff right jab to his face followed by a swinging left that missed. But the jab landed squarely on Red’s chin and there was power behind the punch, cautioning Red that his opponent was a man to be reckoned with.
Red used his footwork, for the moment keeping his distance, but Black pressed the action. The big man missed with a right and Red countered with a jab, but a sudden, lightning-quick straight left by Black landed on the button and dropped Red like a felled oak. He landed on his back, his wounded head reeling, and Black came in with the boot. With a sickening thud a vicious kick slammed into Red’s ribs, and as he tried to roll away Black’s boot swung again. The toe caught Red’s left temple, a kick that rocked him, and searing lightning bolts flashed in his head. Grimly hanging on to consciousness, he tried to get to his feet and failed. Now he was down on all fours, vulnerable to another kick from Black, and the big man grinned and came in for the kill.
Buttons intervened and saved Red Ryan’s life.
He ran to Red, grabbed him under the armpits, and hauled him to his feet.
Black, confident, sure of the fight, stood back with his hands on his hips and laughed, and the crowd laughed with him. But then the big man’s face hardened, and he said, “Do that again, stagecoach man, and when this fight is over and he’s dead, I’ll beat your damned face in.”
“Buttons, leave me be,” Red said, angry now as he jerked out of Buttons’s grasp. He raised his fists and covered up. “When you’re ready.”
Black shook his head and then yelled, laughing, to the crowd, “Well, you all heard the man. And I’m good and ready.”
He came in swinging and connected with a hard right that rocked Red on his heels and made scarlet-stained saliva erupt from his mouth. Black smelled blood and grinned. He threw another hard right that barely missed, glancing off Red’s head. Trying to drop Red again, a wild left hook by Black flew over Red’s bobbing head and for a moment the big man was off balance. Red jabbed, a hard right and a left, and then quickly danced away. The crowd gasped. The unthinkable had happened. Black was bleeding heavily from a cut over his right eye. Enraged, the big man dashed away scarlet gore with the back of his hand and then came in swinging, looking for a knockout. Red avoided the wild punches and his straight right snapped Black’s head back. And then another and another. The big man had been hit hard, and he knew it. And so did the crowd. Now there were a few people cheering for Red, and more joined them when Red threw a pair of hard lefts that connected, and his superior footwork paid off when Black caught air with his answering right and then gasped, openmouthed, when Red connected with a hard shot to the big man’s belly.
Red Ryan had recovered from the beating he’d taken earlier. Now he was in his element, the boxing skills he’d learned in all those fights as a professional pugilist coming back to him. Hell, suddenly he was enjoying himself.
Black was fast running out of steam, and he knew he had to end this. It seemed that the redhead was made of iron. Black connected with a right to Red’s forehead that the smaller man shrugged off, countering with hard lefts as Black backpedaled, seemingly with no answers to Red’s punches. Red blocked the big man’s powerful right-hand shot, a case of too little, too late, and then charged and landed two rights to Black’s face. The big man hung tough and connected with a left hook that staggered Red, hurting him. But he recovered and nailed Black with a fast, powerful left to the chin that dropped him. The crowd gasped as the big man struggled to his feet, but Red Ryan was relentless. He nailed Black with another left that staggered him, but the big man countered with a flurry of punches that Red easily blocked. Sensing that Black was tiring, Red stalked the big man, and when Black telegraphed a looping left, Red stepped inside and nailed him with a massive right uppercut to the chin. The big man’s legs went out from under him, and his lights went out. He sprawled unconscious on the ground and lay as still as a dead man.
Insanity in individuals is rare, but in a mob, it’s the rule. The crowd’s hero was down and now, out of its mind with adulation, it hailed his conqueror. In fact, many cheered when Red, hurting from the top of his head to his toes, said to Thaddeus Wraith, “Bury the Indian and get this damned thing over.”
The undertaker, looking at Red as though he was suddenly afraid of him, sprang to his work, and he and his assistant prepared to lower the coffin into the grave.
But Jim Black was not yet done.
The big man’s coat had been folded neatly and placed on the ground, his holstered Colt laid on top. The gun would help him save face, otherwise he knew he was finished in El Paso and probably in every other town. The cut above his eye dripping blood, Black crawled on all fours for his revolver. His battered face took on a demonic expression as he drew the Colt from the leather. Ryan had his back turned to him. No, a shot in the back would not look good to the crowd. Better to give it to him in the belly.
“Ryan!” Black yelled.
Red turned, and an instant later a single gunshot hammered apart the morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Big Jim Black rode a .45 bullet into hell. It was a beautiful shot, right in the middle of the forehead, and the man who pulled the trigger . . . was Seth Roper.
Red Ryan took in the situation at a glance, as did the gawking, unbelieving crowd.
Roper holstered his gun and said, “I won’t see any man shot in the back.”
It was bald-faced lie.
Killing Black had been on Roper’s mind for awhile, his ace in the hole. If things didn’t work out as planned with the widow Morgan, he’d take Black’s place as the premier gunman in El Paso with all the financial and social gains that implied. As an alternative scheme, it was strictly second best, but Roper had figured all the angles and it would do for now.
Red Ryan was stunned and puzzled. He buckled on his gun and then stepped to Roper. “Why?” he asked.
“You heard what I said, Ryan.”
“Not allowing a man to be shot in the back wasn’t the reason,” Red said.
Roper shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
“You saved my life,” Red said.
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
“I’m beholden to you.”
“Don’t let it prey on your mind, Ryan. I would’ve done it for anybody.”
“But not for me, unless you thought you had something to gain.”
Roper smiled. “Like I said, believe whatever the hell you want. Now bury your Indian. Killing a man before breakfast makes me hungry, and steak and eggs are calling me.”
Roper turned away and flung over his shoulder, “I did you a favor, Ryan.”
“I know you did,” Red said.
“I’ll call it in one day,” Roper said.
He walked away, and the crowd, abuzz with excitement, followed him, eager for breakfast in the same restaurant as the town’s new premier gunslinger. The Apache was forgotten.
* * *
“In the end, they didn’t care where the hell we buried the Indian,” Buttons said.
“Seems like,” Red said.
Buttons shook his head. “There’s just no telling about folks.”
“They have a new hero. Now Seth Roper is the biggest, baddest man in El Paso.”
“You spoke to him, why did he save your life?”
“You heard him, he didn’t want to see me shot in the back.”
“Hell, Red, he hates your guts. You tried to get him hung, remember.”
“I know. The whole sorry business has me buffaloed,” Red said.
Thaddeus Wraith called out, “Mr. Ryan, Mr. Muldoon, you wish to say a word before we place earth on the dear departed?”
Red, light-headed and hurting all over, and Buttons stepped to the graveside, and Red
said, “Anybody know an Apache prayer?”
“Do Apaches pray?” Wraith said.
“I don’t know,” Red said.
“We really should say something,” Wraith said. “I mean, it’s the Christian thing to do.”
“He’s not a Christian,” Red said. “But you’re right. We should say something.” He took off his derby and said, “Well, by all accounts this Apache was a brave man, and he’s got a medal on his chest to prove it. May he ride forever in the happy hunting grounds. Amen.”
“Amen,” Buttons said.
“Very nice,” Wraith said. “Amen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Morgan,” the Southern Pacific ticket agent said, “but the Younger Creek trestle bridge was long overdue for repair.”
“Then how much longer must I wait?” Stella Morgan said. She wore widow’s weeds and a vexed expression. “You do know that I buried my dear husband in the fort cemetery this morning, and I am anxious to visit his grieving loved ones in Washington.”
“Another three days, dear lady,” the clerk said. He looked harried, his pince-nez glasses askew on his nose. “And possibly a day longer.”
“This is intolerable,” Stella said, her anger rising. “Do you know what it’s like to be stuck in this hellhole of a town?”
“Indeed, I do,” the clerk said. “Man and boy, I’ve always lived in El Paso.” He smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”
“I’d never get used to it,” Stella said. “Never in a hundred years.”
She turned her back on the clerk and stormed out of the ticket office onto the platform, Lucian Carter trailing behind her.
“We can wait it out, Stella,” Carter said. “Now that the Indian is dead and buried, no one can pin your husband’s murder on us.”
“On you, Lucian. You mean on you, not me.”
“Yes, I killed him, but I was following your orders,” Carter said.
Stella’s smile was vicious. “And who is going to believe that? I play the grieving widow very well, remember?” She saw Carter’s hostile reaction and said, “Lucian, I’m only teasing you. Of course, we’re in the clear, and I mean both of us. It’s only . . . well, it’s this awful town that’s getting on my nerves, making me say things I don’t mean.”
Riding Shotgun Page 15