Augusta took Buttons’s big calloused hand in her own. “Thank you. You’ve told me all I needed to know.”
“Will you marry him?”
“Yes, I think I will. But the bawdy houses, rye whiskey, and cussing will have to stop and the bathing will become much more frequent.”
“Miss Addington, I’m happy for you, but a word of advice. Don’t try to turn Red into something he ain’t. You can’t make a farmer out of him or a bank clerk or the manager of a mercantile. If you did, like a prairie cactus flower he’d wither away and die.”
“Why would I marry him for all the reasons you have stated and then try to change him?” Augusta said.
“Well, the drinking and the cussing . . .”
“He’ll do that on his own,” Augusta said. “And only he will decide what he wants to do with his life. If I’m to be the wife of a shotgun messenger, then so be it.”
“And what about them Philadelphia and New Orleans Addingtons?” Buttons said.
“My family will be shocked, as though I haven’t already shocked them enough.”
“Well, let ’em be shocked,” Buttons said. “That’s what I say.”
“And that’s what I say, too,” Augusta said. She rose from the swing. “I’m going to rest now. Mr. Muldoon.”
“Call me Buttons, since we’re soon gonna be kissin’ kin.”
“Then Buttons it is.” Augusta yawned. “I have a feeling that tomorrow will be a busy day.”
CHAPTER FORTY
“Not too busy, are we?” Chris Mercer said.
“What time is it?” Red Ryan said.
“Ten minutes later than the last time you asked that question. It’s now nearly three.”
“It’s early yet,” Red said. “Heck, they may wait until sunup.”
“Or not come at all,” Manuel Garcia said.
“They’ll be here,” Red said. “I can feel it.”
“In my water,” Mercer said. “I once knew a feller who used to say when something bad was about to happen, ‘I can feel it in my water.’”
“I’ve never heard of that,” Red said.
“Me neither until I heard the Scottish feller say it,” Mercer said.
“He had the gift,” Red said.
“Maybe so, but it didn’t save him from the Cheyenne up on the Cimarron in Kansas. They shot him full of arrows and then scalped him. He was a trader. They took all his stuff and ate his mule.”
After some contemplation, Red said, bored, “Mule meat’s all right, if you’ve got nothing else.”
“So is horse,” Mercer said.
“Cougar is good, or so I’m told,” Garcia said.
Everyone fell silent, thinking about eating cougar, until Mercer said, “My God, will this night never end?”
Red rose from his chair and stepped to the window. He pulled the curtain back a couple of inches and peered outside. “Dark as the inside of a coffin,” he said. “I can’t see a thing.”
“Criminals are the bastard children of darkness,” Mercer said. “If your assassins attack us, it is the coming of the light that will drive them here.”
“An attack at dawn could make sense,” Red said.
“After the killing it would be easier for them to ride out into the flat in the morning light and put a load of git between them and Fredericksburg.” He stared at Mercer. “You’re pretty smart when you ain’t drunk.”
“Aren’t we all,” Mercer said.
* * *
With agonizing slowness, the endless night dragged on . . . and on . . .
Around five, Manuel Garcia retrieved his gunbelt and buckled it around his hips. No one objected.
“Best to be ready,” Red said.
“Like you, I feel something,” Garcia said. “I feel the night and I taste my own fear.”
“No need for that, vaquero,” Mercer said. “It may never happen.”
“So let me be concerned a little,” Garcia said. He reached inside his frilled shirt and produced a small horseshoe-shaped medal on a silver chain. He kissed the medal, crossed himself, and then held it between his thumb and forefinger.
“What have you got there?” Red said.
“It is the medal of San Martin Caballero, the patron saint of cowboys,” Garcia said. “He is a very powerful saint who protects those who venerate him.”
“Was he a cowboy?” Mercer said.
“No, he was a Roman cavalryman who became a monk and did many good works,” Garcia said. He smiled. “A real monk.”
“Send his worship a howdy from me,” Red said. “We need all the help we can get.”
Mercer pulled the British Bulldog from his waistband and checked the loads. He hefted the revolver in his gun hand, getting familiar with its weight and balance, and then shoved it back, ready for a cross draw.
“Mercer, on account of how the Gypsy woman told you that your next gunfight will be your last, are you gonna shoot that thing or just wave it around and try to scare folks?” Red said.
“I don’t know,” Mercer said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Whose life has more value, Ryan, mine or Doctor Bradford’s?” Mercer said.
“The doc’s, I guess. He heals sick people and you steal chickens and get drunk,”
“And that’s why I don’t know.”
“Every man thinks his own life is the most valuable,” Garcia said. “Only the Lord Jesus laid down his own life for others.”
Red said, “If the monks come this morning, my advice to you, Mercer, is to haul out that pistol and get your work in the best you can. Let fate decide if you live or die.”
“That also applies to you and the vaquero,” Mercer said.
“Damn right it does,” Red said. “I hope that when the smoke clears all three of us will be standing and none of us leaking blood.”
“Look on the bright side, Ryan, we got a doctor nice and handy,” Mercer said.
“Depends on how he is with bullet wounds,” Red said. “As a general rule, not too many folks get shot in Fredericksburg. What time is it?”
“Around five,” Mercer said.
“When is sunup in this town?” Red said.
“Around seven.”
“Two hours to stay awake,” Red said. “Who wants to make the coffee?”
* * *
At five-thirty, Chris Mercer brought steaming cups of coffee into the parlor on a tray. “Black as midnight and sweet as mortal sin,” he said.
At six o’clock, Red Ryan pulled back the curtain and checked outside. “Still pitch black,” he said.
At six-thirty, Manuel Garcia said a prayer to the Madonna of Guadalupe. “For good luck,” he said.
At seven, the endless night shaded into a thin dawn. “Thank God,” Chris Mercer said.
At two minutes after seven, Kirill Kuznetsov crashed through the front door.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Chris Mercer was nearest the parlor door. He stepped into the hallway and immediately took to a .44 to the chest from Kirill Kuznetsov’s Smith & Wesson Russian revolver. Instinct took over, and Mercer triggered the. 450 Bulldog. A hit. A shot to the belly that stopped Kuznetsov in his tracks, his face suddenly stricken. Beside him, Salman el Salim threw a knife that embedded itself to the hilt in Mercer’s left shoulder. Red Ryan fired. He fired again and Salman went down. Sean O’Rourke and Helmut Klemm, shocked by their violent reception, backed away from the door. El Salim had drawn his Colt and tried to get to his feet, but Manuel Garcia got his work in and fired at the Arab, who went down again. Hit smack in the middle of his forehead, he would not rise a second time. Red prepared to shoot at O’Rourke . . . but then disaster.
Ben Bradford burst out of his bedroom, still in nightgown and sleeping cap, threw up his hands and yelled, “No! Stop! Stop this at once.”
The doctor had stepped in front of Red’s gun and before he could adjust his position, O’Rourke’s .450 Adams barked twice and Bradford staggered as he took both shots in the chest.
Kuznetsov, in shock from the bullet in his belly, was nonetheless a hard man to kill. But he made a bad mistake that no professional gun handler should ever make. Instead of engaging the two men who were still on their feet and shooting, he sought revenge on Mercer and fired into the dying man. Mercer had propped himself against the wall, but now he slid down to the floor, leaving a streak of blood on the floral wallpaper. Red and Garcia fired at the same time. Hit twice, the big Russian fell to his knees and then collapsed forward, hitting the ground with a thud that rattled the crockery in the kitchen.
When Red looked along the smoke-filled hallway, O’Rourke and Klemm had vanished, then the sound of running horses told him that they’d fled in the direction of the open prairie. When Red stepped outside, all he saw was dust as the two riders galloped into the maw of the misty gray morning. He fired a couple of shots at the fugitives and then went back inside to give his attention to the living and the dead.
Garcia had taken a knee beside the still form of Dr. Bradford. When he saw Red Ryan, he shook his head, unable to do anything for a dead man. Ignoring the fallen Kuznetsov and el Salim, Red went to Chris Mercer, who sat with his back against the wall. The death shadows had already gathered in his eyes and cheeks and despite his wounds he appeared to be in no pain.
“How is the doctor?” Mercer said. “I can’t . . . I can’t see him.”
“He’s going to be just fine,” Red said. “You saved his life.”
Mercer nodded. “I’m glad.” He managed a weak smile. “At the last moment I decided his life was worth more than mine.”
“You done good, Chris,” Red said. “You stood your ground and played the man’s part.”
Praise indeed from Red Ryan . . . but his words fell unheard on dead ears.
* * *
“I swear, every time the Patterson stage visits Fredericksburg it leaves behind a heap of dead men,” Sheriff Herman Ritter said. “How do you explain that, Ryan?”
“I guess we just bring trouble with us, Sheriff,” Red said. “Did you try to arrest the monks?”
“All we found were four empty monk robes,” Ritter said. “Then the shooting started.”
“I’m so relieved you were not hurt, Red,” Augusta Addington said.
Red took the woman in his arms and said, “You were right about the monks. I’ll never doubt your word again.”
Ritter said, “Yes, she was right, and I’ll let the Pinkertons know that they hired a great detective.” He frowned. “But she isn’t right about Gideon Stark. He’s not the one that hired those four gunmen to kill Dr. Bradford. I can assure you of that. But don’t worry, I’ll find the guilty party.”
Red and Manuel Garcia stood outside the doctor’s house with Augusta and Ritter, while Buttons Muldoon in his capacity as deputy sheriff kept the ogling crowd away from the door.
“And I can assure you that Stark is the culprit,” Augusta said. “He had Dr. Bradford murdered so that his daughter couldn’t marry him.”
“Where’s your proof, Miss Addington?” Ritter said. He looked beyond Augusta to Buttons and said, “Deputy Muldoon, is the posse mounted yet? Or are they still drinking coffee in the Alpenrose restaurant?”
“I see them, Sheriff,” Buttons said. He pointed. “Look, they’re headed this way.”
A dozen horsemen made up of three of the town’s wealthy merchants, the rest young clerks and apprentices, rode into view.
“Get mounted yourself, Deputy Muldoon. I’ll handle the crowd,” Ritter said. “Lead the posse to victory and bring back those killers.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Buttons said. He looked like a suffering martyr in a Renaissance painting. “But after that I’m turning in my badge.”
“No, Deputy Muldoon, not yet. There’s too much to be done,” Ritter said. “We still have to find the killer of Nathaniel Foxworthy.”
Buttons ignored that, and Ritter said to Augusta, “Gideon Stark is one of the richest and most influential men in Texas. You accuse him at your peril. Even if you could bring such a wild accusation to court, have you any idea of the battery of expensive lawyers you’d face? Miss Addington, you are the one that could end up in jail.”
“Why don’t you ask his daughter if her father is behind Dr. Bradford’s murder, Sheriff?” Augusta said, her pink cheekbones betraying her anger.
“I will. Depend on it, I will, but it won’t get me anywhere. I expect Miss Della will laugh in my face.” Ritter watched Benny Bone and his men take away the bodies of Kuznetsov and el Salim, and then he turned and addressed the onlookers. “Return to your homes,” he said. “It’s all over here.”
“It’s a damn shame that a fine young doctor was murdered in his own home,” a plump matron in the crowd said. “And there’s still another killer loose in the streets.”
“I’ll find the killer, and I assure you the two men who helped murder Dr. Bradford will be arrested and brought to justice,” Ritter said. “Fear not, dear lady. And remember at election time, a vote for Ritter is a vote for reason.”
Years after these events, the matronly woman would say to a reporter, “Little did I know that day that a killer stood just a hoot and a holler away from me.”
Like moths drawn to a flame, Donny Bryson and Effie Bell showed up outside the doctor’s house soon after the shooting ended. Donny gathered from the conversations around him that four men who had earlier disguised themselves as monks had murdered the doctor. Two had been killed in the attack and all four had worn regular clothes. A search of the carpetbags tied to the saddles of the dead men revealed only a change of shirts and some food supplies. Both carried large sums of money in their wallets, but there was no mention of the golden staff of Moses. Donny could only assume that one of the two fugitives had it.
As the crowd drifted away, Donny said to the girl, “Time to saddle up.”
“Where are we going, Donny?” Effie said.
“The two that escaped have the golden staff. We’re going after them.”
The girl said, “But the posse . . .”
“Those rubes ain’t got a prayer of finding them boys,” Donny said. “They’ll raise a dust cloud that will be seen for miles.”
“But so will we, Donny,” Effie said.
“No, we won’t. I’m half Apache, and I’ve lived at my ease in deserts and plains where a white man would starve . . . and if I need to, I can track such a man to the gates of Hell and never be seen.”
Effie smiled. “Oh, Donny, we’re about to get rich.”
“Yeah, we are, but let’s find them monk men and kill them before we count our money,” Donny said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Red, I know you wanted to go with the posse,” Augusta Addington said. “Thank you for staying close to me.”
“I don’t think you’re out of danger yet,” Red Ryan said.
“You mean Gideon Stark?”
“More likely one of his boys,” Red said. “And Manuel Garcia is still in town.”
“After what I told Sheriff Ritter, I don’t think Stark would dare make an attempt on my life,” Augusta said.
“Ritter didn’t believe you,” Red said.
“He might believe Della.”
“If he even talks with her.”
Augusta watched a teamster try to right a shifted load of lumber on a flat wagon and then step back and scratch his head, puzzling over his next move.
Then she said, “I’m not sure that Della really believes her father hired the killers. And who could blame her?”
“So where do we go from here?” Red said.
“I send Della my bill, and then resign from the Pinkertons.”
“Resign because of me?” Red said. “Because I asked you to marry me.”
“That is part of the reason, but it’s mainly because I failed my assignment,” Augusta said. “I was sent here to save Ben Bradford’s life, and now he’s dead. I’m hardly a credit to the Pinkertons and their other female detectives.”
“We all failed him, Augusta,�
� Red said. “Me, Buttons, and Ritter, and on top of that I failed Chris Mercer. He’d changed, and I didn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want him to change. I wanted him to stay a drunk, remain someone I could look down on and make fun of.”
“We’re flogging ourselves because of a combination of self-love and self-loathing,” Augusta said. “In the end, it will get us nowhere. Ah, here we are at the Alpenrose.”
Red stopped and took the woman’s hand. “Listen to me, Augusta, you did everything you could and you did it better than most. If Ritter had gotten here to the inn earlier, he could’ve caught those four gunmen in the act of changing from monks to murderers, and Bradford would still be alive.”
“Or Ritter and me would be dead along with the doctor,” Augusta said. “Red, let me have a while alone. I have much to think about.”
“Will you marry me, Augusta?” Red said.
“Yes, I will, Red. And I say that with all my heart. But I don’t want to talk about it right now. Wait until we’re out from under this cloud and all the muddy waters run clear.”
“Hey, Ryan, where’s Muldoon?”
Esau Pickles stood in the road, his face concerned.
“Out with the posse,” Red said.
“After them two monks?”
“Yeah,” Red said.
“I knew them fellers was up to no good,” Pickles said.
“You got a problem, Esau?” Red said.
“I reckon one of them swings of yours has the colic. He’s sweated up some and breathing hard. I’d call in Doc Anderson the vet, but Buttons Muldoon has to sign off on the bill.”
A Quiet, Little Town Page 21