Riding Shotgun

by William W. Johnstone

  Seth Roper looked big and muscular that morning, a strong man in his prime ready to take on any challenge thrown at him. On the other hand, Red did feel used up, the knife cuts working on him.

  Roper dipped a chunk of steak in egg yolk, pushed the dripping forkful into his mouth, chewed, his eyes reading Red’s face. “Either of you boys seen Lucian Carter recently?”

  Buttons face didn’t change. The less he told Roper the better. He said, “Can’t say as I have.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” Red said.Roper said.

  “I guess he’ll be at the station,” Roper said.

  He finished his breakfast in silence, paid his bill and then rose to his feet.

  “A word of advice, Ryan,” he said. “Don’t be at the station. I’ll take it hard if you are.”

  “I’ve got no reason to be there, Roper,” Red said. “I can’t stop you leaving. I’m not the law. But Detective Ogden might have a different way of seeing things.”

  Roper nodded. “Better for him if he’s not at the station either.” He moved away from the table, turned, and said, “Well, so long, Ryan. Come visit me in Washington sometime. I’ll buy you a stogie.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  A pounding on his hotel room door woke Sheriff T. C. Lyons from a sound sleep. He jolted upright in bed and yelled, “Who the hell is it.”

  “It’s me, Sheriff, John Bryce. I’m the owner of the Parker Hotel.” A pause, then, “There’s been a murder.”

  “Damn it all, man, who was murdered?” Lyons said

  “I don’t know, Sheriff.”

  “How do you know he was murdered?”

  “Looks like he was gut shot.”

  Lyons swung his legs off the bed. “Sounds like murder, all right.”

  “Then he fell over a pile of bricks,” Bryce said.

  “Fell over a pile of bricks?”

  “Yeah, Sheriff, in the dark.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Lyons said. “Wait a minute, Stella Morgan has a room in your hotel, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, the widow Morgan is an honored guest.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Lyons said.

  The sheriff took time to rouse Lou Hunt, one of his more competent deputies, and the two men made their way to the Parker, walking through a blustery wind that pulled at their clothing and lifted mustard-colored veils of dust from the streets.

  John Bryce, looking worried, wringing his hands, met Lyons on the hotel porch. “He’s round back, Sheriff.” Then, “Isn’t this a terrible thing?”

  “Let’s take a look at the body, and I’ll tell you if it’s terrible,” Lyons said.

  * * *

  “It’s terrible, all right,” Lyons said. “Looks like he was hit with a scattergun.”

  “And then he tripped over the bricks,” Parker said.

  “That would explain the bruises on his head, huh?” Deputy Hunt said.

  “Maybe,” Lyons said. And then to Bryce. “The dead man’s name is Lucian Carter. He was a close friend of Mrs. Morgan.”

  “Oh, she’ll be so upset when she hears about this,” Bryce said, wringing his hands again.

  Lyons said nothing. He examined the body again, closer this time. When Carter tripped and fell he’d hit hard, and there was a deep, almost triangular indentation in his skull above his left eye, that could have been caused by the corner of a brick. Lyons examined the ground, deep in thought. A shotgun blast to the belly causes massive bleeding, but there was no blood trail leading to the brick pile. Then it dawned on him. Carter didn’t trip over the bricks . . . he fell on them from a height. The sheriff’s eyes scanned the hotel wall. There was a second-story window almost directly above where the body lay, and Lyons said, “Bryce, what window is that?”

  The man glanced upward and said, “Ah, that’s the window of the linen closet.” He puffed up a little. “The Parker prides itself on its clean linens.”

  “Let’s take a look up there,” Lyons said.

  * * *

  “Sheriff is . . . is that the deceased’s blood on my closet floor?” John Bryce said. His face was ashen, and he looked as though he was washing his hands without soap or water.

  “That would be my guess,” Lyons said. He examined the windowsill and pointed out some dried, rust-colored stains. “Blood,” he said.

  “Oh, dear,” Bryce said. “My poor sheets.”

  “Lucian Carter was tossed through this window,” Lyons said. “And that was sometime after he was shot. There’s a blood trail across the floor and into the hallway.” He stepped out of the closet and examined the carpet. “Bloodstains lead to this room,” Lyons said.

  “Ah, that is Mrs. Morgan’s room, but I doubt—”

  “Open the door, Bryce,” Lyons said.

  “I have a master key, Sheriff, but I don’t think I wish to disturb—”

  “Open the damned door,” Lyons said. “He pulled his Colt from his waistband and let Bryce smell the muzzle. “Am I going to have trouble with you?” he said.

  “No, not at all, Sheriff,” Bryce said, flustered. “Now just let me knock first to be polite.”

  “Lou,” Lyons said.

  Without a word, Hunt raised his boot and crashed the door in. The deputy grinned, bowed, and said, “After you, Sheriff.”

  Gun in hand, Lyons stepped into the room and looked around. “She’s flown the coop,” he said. His eyes went to the blood on the floor and wall. “And that’s Lucian Carter’s blood for sure.”

  Hunt said, “Looks like she dragged him from here to the linen closet window and tossed him outside,”

  “Not she, they,” Lyons said. “Stella Morgan couldn’t manhandle Carter across the hall and into the closet by herself. And she sure as hell needed help throwing him out the window.”

  “Sheriff, what about my broken door?” Bryce said, wringing his hands at a rapid rate.

  “Send your bill to the county sheriff as soon as one is appointed,” Lyons said. He smiled at Hunt. “The shotgun wound didn’t kill Lucian Carter, the fall from the window did. I finally have enough to charge Stella Morgan with murder.” He thought about that for a few moments.

  Bryce said, “Detective Pip Ogden has a room in my hotel. I’ll go talk with him first and see what he thinks.”

  Lyons consulted his watch. “It’s almost six. I don’t have much time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  “We’ll go talk with Pip Ogden and ask him if we’ve any legal way of stopping Stella Morgan from taking the train,” Red Ryan said. “If Roper is right, it seems she’s willing to leave without the carpetbag and settle for what she can get in Washington.”

  “That just don’t seem logical, Red,” Buttons Muldoon said. “Stella was willing to kill to get her hands on the bag. She wouldn’t leave without it.”

  “Maybe she feels the law closing in on her and decided now was the time to light a shuck,” Red said. “Well, let’s go hear what Ogden has to say.”

  He and Buttons stepped off the boardwalk in front of Ma’s Kitchen and headed in the direction of Ogden’s hotel. As far as Red was concerned, the little detective was probably a forlorn hope. Ogden had no more evidence to arrest Stella Morgan than he did himself, but it was only an hour before the train pulled out of El Paso and anything was worth a try. There was one consolation though . . . Ogden had the carpetbag.

  * * *

  “Well, fancy meeting you here,” T. C. Lyons said, eyeing Red Ryan with considerable disfavor. He stood on the porch of the Parker Hotel.

  “We came to talk with Ogden,” Red said.

  “Everybody wants to talk with Ogden, only he isn’t here,” Lyons said. “He checked out late last night.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” Red said.

  “Nope, he didn’t. Paid his bill, turned in his key, and left.” Lyons’s eyes glowed. “Ain’t that strange, though?”

  “Maybe Ogden thought Stella Morgan was getting too close to the carpetbag and went into hiding,” Red said.
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  “And maybe pigs will fly,” Lyons said.

  “I’m not catching your drift, Lyons,” Red said.

  “All right, let’s start with this—Lucian Carter is dead.”

  Button Muldoon spoke up. “We know. I killed him.” Lyons let his surprise show. “It was you that gut-shot him with a scattergun?”

  “I shot him,” Buttons said. “As I recollect, I wasn’t aiming for his belly.”

  “Why did you plug him, Muldoon?” Lyons said.

  “He was trying to sneak into the hotel to kill Red and recover the carpetbag.”

  “He didn’t know that Ogden had it?”

  “I’d say that’s pretty obvious,” Buttons said.

  “Well, you shot him, but you didn’t kill him,” Lyons said.

  Red said, “Then who did?”

  “Stella Morgan for one. And she had an accomplice.”

  “For God’s sake lay it out for me, Lyons,” Red said. “I’ve lost blood, and I’m not thinking real clear.”

  “As far as I can figure it, after Muldoon shot him, Carter made it to Stella’s hotel looking for help.” Lyons bladed his hand and made a downward motion. “The only help he got was to be thrown out of a linen-closet window. He landed on a pile of bricks, and that’s what killed him. The corner of a brick bashed his brains out.” The sheriff sighed. “Ah well, may he rest in peace.”

  “Stella didn’t do all that by herself,” Red said. “Carter wasn’t a big man, but he was heavy enough.”

  “Roper?”

  “We spoke to Roper this morning at Ma’s Kitchen,” Red said. “The impression I got was that he hadn’t spoken with Stella in a while.”

  “So, if Roper wasn’t involved, who was the other party?”

  Red thought about that and a light went on behind his eyes. “You don’t think it was Ogden?”

  “Do you?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “It could be that Stella now has the carpetbag and Ogden has Stella, or at least he thinks he does,” Lyons said. “I’m sure she’s made promises and maybe given him a taste to whet his appetite.”

  “Can you pin the death of Lucian Carter on Stella and make it stick?” Red said.

  “I came here to ask Ogden that very question,” Lyons said. “But he wasn’t here to answer it.”

  “What time is it?” Red said.

  “Almost six-thirty and the sun is coming up,” Lyons said.

  “Then we don’t have much time,” Red said.

  Lyons’s smile was thin. “Ryan, if Seth Roper takes a hand in this game, time could be running out for all of us.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  When Stella Morgan and Pip Ogden arrived at the station, the locomotive that would take them north stood impatiently at the platform and belched steam like an angry dragon.

  Stella was on edge, worried that it had all been too easy. But there was no sign of the law, and Ogden seemed relaxed, the precious carpetbag hanging by his side.

  “Twenty-five minutes until we leave, Stella,” Ogden said. “Do you wish to board?”

  “No, not yet,” Stella said. “Let’s see if Seth Roper shows up.”

  “I don’t want any trouble with Roper,” Ogden said.

  Stella smiled. “There won’t be, silly. Seth is on our side, remember?” Then, as an afterthought, “No one will get past his gun. What time is it now?”

  “Now it’s twenty-four minutes until we leave, Stella,” Ogden said. “Are you getting anxious?”

  “Extremely. I’ll be so glad when we’re finally out of El Paso.”

  “You don’t have a thing to worry about,” Ogden said. “Nothing can stop us now.”

  “I so hope you’re right, Pip,” Stella said. “Keep an eye on the time. We’ll board in ten minutes.”

  A dozen other passengers waited on the platform, a young couple who stood very close to one another and smiled constantly, the rest businessmen in suits and a lone cattleman, a portmanteau and a saddle at his feet. Last night’s wind had blown itself out and the day dawned clear, and a few white clouds floated in the blue sky like lilies on a pond.

  Stella Morgan’s eyes constantly scanned the platform, looking for Seth Roper. Would he ever come? Behind her the stationmaster, the conductor, and the locomotive engineer had their heads together in a conference. Finally, the conductor walked down the platform and said, “Time to board, folks, and get settled. We leave in fifteen minutes.”

  “Where is Roper?” Ogden said, echoing Stella’s own thought.

  “He’ll be here,” Stella said.

  “He’s cutting it fine, isn’t he?” Ogden said.

  Stella said, “There’s still plenty of time, Pip. Oh, look, I see him now in the ticket office.”

  Ogden began to look worried, his eyes cagey on each side of the bridge of his unlovely nose. His hand dropped to the pocket of his coat where he kept the Colt self-cocker and he seemed to take confidence in the feel of blue steel and walnut. “He’s all packed, carrying his bag.” He’d uncoupled that vapid statement from his train of thought because the mere act of talking helped restore his confidence. Roper was an unforeseen complication, and Ogden was worried.

  Roper left the ticket office, stepped onto the platform, and grinned when he saw Stella. “All ready to leave?” he said.

  “More than ready,” Stella said.

  “So am I,” Roper said.

  Stella grabbed Ogden by the bottom of his sleeve and urged him forward. “Seth, this is Pip Ogden. He brought me the carpetbag.”

  Roper nodded, but didn’t extend his hand. “Heard about you, Ogden. Heard you were a lawman of some kind.”

  “I was a lawman, but I’m not now,” Ogden said.

  Roper gave Stella a quizzical glance, and she said, “Pip will help us in Washington, Seth. He’s a former detective and knows how the law operates.”

  “Do you know how outlaws operate, Ogden?” Roper said.

  “Yes, I do,” Ogden said. “I’ve had many years of study.”

  “Good, then you’ll feel right at home with us. Is this the first time you’ve changed sides, or have you done it before?”

  “I changed sides because I don’t want to be a policeman any longer. And no, I’ve never done it before.”

  “Then don’t ever think about doing it a second time,” Roper said.

  “I won’t,” Ogden said. “And you don’t scare me, Roper.”

  “I should,” Roper said.

  “I don’t like where this conversation is headed,” Stella said. “Let’s board the train, and I want you two to be friends. After all, you’ll be working together.”

  Ogden missed the sly look Stella exchanged with Roper, his eyes widening until the white showed around the iris. “Oh my God,” he said.

  Stella looked down the platform, where Red Ryan, Buttons Muldoon, T. C. Lyons, and deputy Lou Hunt walked toward them. “Seth, stop them,” she said.

  Roper turned and swept his frock coat away from his gun. “Damn you, Ryan. I warned you not to come here,” he said.

  Red ignored that as T. C. Lyons said, “Lou, go tell the engineer to keep his engine where it’s at. We got legal business to conduct here.”

  “Lou, you stay right there,” Roper said.

  “The hell with you,” Hunt said. He walked in the direction of the huffing locomotive and then dropped as Roper drew and shot him.

  “Damn you, Roper!” Lyons said. He ran to his downed deputy and took a knee beside him.

  “Stella, get on the train!” Roper yelled.

  “No, you don’t, Stella!” Red said.

  His hand went for his Colt. Beside him Muldoon reacted and reached for his Remington.

  “Ryan!” Roper yelled.

  He fired the instant before Red’s bullet hit him in the chest.

  Roper’s shot was high and to the left, and the thick padded bandage on Red’s shoulder absorbed some of the .45 impact to Red’s right shoulder, and he backed up a step, firing, two misses and anothe
r hit that tore into Roper’s heavy trapezius muscle where it joined his neck. The big man was hit hard and he knew it, but he stayed on his feet, getting his work in. Red took a second bullet, low on the right side of his waist, just above his gunbelt. He swayed on his feet, thumbed his Colt dry, a miss, and in that moment, he knew he’d lost the gunfight.

  But Buttons Muldoon didn’t see it that way.

  He fired at Roper, a hit, shot again, missed . . .

  But Seth Roper had absorbed all the lead he could handle. His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees, his face gray as death. Red, unsteady on his feet, advanced on him, reloading his revolver from the cartridge belt. But Seth Roper was done. He looked up at Red and said, “How the hell did you best me, Ryan? I don’t understand it.”

  “I gritted my teeth and took my hits, Roper.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Why, because your friend Skull Jackson made me good and mad, that’s why.”

  Blood all over the front of his shirt, Roper grinned. “You done good, shotgun guard.” Then he fell forward on his face, and all the life that had been in him fled.

  “Lou is dead,” T. C. Lyons said. He shucked his Colt and yelled, “Ogden!”

  The little detective dropped the carpetbag as though it was red hot. “Sheriff, it’s all a mistake,” he said. “I was working undercover. Stella Morgan confessed to everything, the murder of her husband . . . the old lady in San Antonio . . . everything.” Pip Ogden walked toward Lyons. “Don’t you see, thanks to my investigation we now have enough to hang her.”

  Somewhere close by a band struck up with “Good-bye,” then a popular parlor song by the composer Paulo Tosti, and for a moment time seemed to stop, Red, Buttons, Lyons, Ogden, and Stella frozen in place.

  The spell was broken when a ten-piece military band, led by Colonel David Anderson, marched onto the platform, several more army officers trailing behind. Stella Morgan’s farewell had arrived at the worst and best of times.

  “Ogden, you damned traitor!” Stella screamed.

  She pulled her Hopkins & Allen revolver from the pocket of her gray traveling dress, extended her right arm straight out in front of her, sighted, and fired.