“I’ll come see the horse,” Red said. And then to Augusta, “Supper tonight?”
The woman smiled. “I look forward to it.”
* * *
Gideon Stark led his horse into the livery stable and said to the towheaded kid who greeted him, “Unsaddle him for me.” He flexed his left arm. “Damn arm is paining me, and I got a headache to beat the band.”
“Too much sun, maybe,” the kid said. “You ride far?”
“A fair piece,” Stark said. “Brush the roan down good and give him oats with his hay.”
“You missed all the excitement, mister,” the kid said as he threw Stark’s heavy silver saddle onto a rack.
“What kind of excitement?” Stark said. Sudden unease spiked at his belly. Had his hired assassins been discovered? He spotted Manuel Garcia’s flashy palomino in a stall. What did that portend?
“Four fellers burst into Doc Bradford’s house and killed him,” the kid said. “The doc shot two of them but the other pair escaped. There’s a posse out looking for them right now. They say once they’re brung in, Sheriff Ritter is gonna hang them.” The kid smiled. “That’ll be a sight to see. There ain’t been a hanging in this town in a coon’s age.”
Stark hesitated, afraid to ask the question, but he steeled himself and said, “Why did they kill the doctor?”
Busy with a brush, the kid turned his head and said, “The way I heard it from Tom McCabe over to the hardware store, the four men were the brothers of some feller who died under Doc Bradford’s knife at a hospital back east. They wanted revenge for their brother’s death and they sure got it.”
Stark felt a flood of relief. No one had tried to connect him with the shooting . . . and the only one who could was the damned, interfering Pinkerton woman. She had to die . . . and soon. A careful man, Stark knew he couldn’t risk a gunshot. But his homemade garrote, a thin length of buckthorn barbed wire attached to a pair of wooden handles, would cut deep and silently strangle the life out of her.
Stark untied a small canvas sack from his saddle, stepped around his horse, and walked toward the livery door. He turned his head and said to the yellow-haired kid, “Do a good job, and I’ll give you a dollar when I get back.”
It would prove to be an empty promise . . . because Gideon Stark would never come back.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Her doctor was dead, and all Manuel Garcia could do was return to the ranch and break it to Della Stark as gently as possible.
He stepped into the livery and told the kid in charge to bring his horse. “I’ll get my saddle,” he said.
“There’s a beauty on the rack there,” the kid said. “See it? I didn’t know there was that much silver in all Texas.”
Garcia recognized his boss’s saddle immediately. “Where did the man who owns that rig go?” he said.
The kid shook his head. “I don’t know, but he told me he’d be back, so he ain’t intending to go far. I reckon he’s feeling right poorly, so he might be seeing a doctor, if we have any left after this morning.”
Garcia discounted a doctor visit. Gideon Stark had never been sick a day in his life, and he always said that doctors kill a man quicker than any disease.
“Did you tell the man with the silver saddle about the murder of Dr. Bradford?”
“I sure did,” the kid said.
“How did he take it?”
“Take it?”
“Yes, how did he seem?”
“He was a bit shaken, but who wouldn’t be? Doc Bradford was a well-liked man in this town.”
“Leave my horse for now,” Garcia said. “I’ll get it later.”
He walked from the gloom of the stable toward the door’s rectangle of bright sunlight and then into the street. Where was Gideon Stark? And why was he here? It had something to do with Miss Della’s love for Ben Bradford, he was sure. But now the doctor was dead, the boss’s problem was over. So why stay in Fredericksburg? He’d want to tell Della right away that her lover was dead.
Then Garcia smiled. Of course . . . it was a long ride from the ranch so Mr. Stark was probably getting a bite of lunch. A quick search of the restaurants in town and he’d find him.
* * *
Manuel Garcia failed to find Gideon Stark at any of the beer halls and eating places in town, and he finally headed to the Alpenrose Inn, where there was a small restaurant.
Red Ryan stood in the street outside the hotel talking with a bearded old-timer. Red saw Garcia and nodded. “I thought you’d have left town already.”
“I was about to when I saw Mr. Stark’s roan and saddle at the livery,” Garcia said. “Have you seen him? I’ve been looking all over town.”
“Can’t say as I have, but I’ve been out back for a spell with a sick horse,” Red said.
“Maybe he’s eating in the hotel,” Garcia said. Suddenly Red was appalled. Oh my God, was Gideon Stark in the Alpenrose . . . within a few steps of Augusta?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
After leaving the livery, Gideon Stark walked toward the Alpenrose Inn. His headache had worsened, and he was in considerable pain, but that only strengthened his resolve to deal with the Addington woman. He’d let Garcia take care of Ryan, the shotgun messenger.
Stark had it all planned. He’d tell the desk clerk that he wanted to talk with Miss Addington. “It’s a private business matter, you understand.” A five-dollar gold piece would make the man more cooperative. Then, when the deed was done. “Miss Addington is indisposed and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.” By the time the woman’s body was found he’d be well on his way back to the ranch and he’d be the last man on earth anyone would suspect. He’d say, “Oh my God, when I last saw her, she was so happy that she was coming to work for me as a bookkeeper.”
Despite his headache and the throbbing in his left arm, Stark smiled. Keep it simple. That was the ticket.
Five dollars made the desk clerk smile, and he quickly provided Mr. Stark with Augusta’s room number, adding his hope that their business dealings would be successful “for both parties.”
“I’m sure it will,” Stark said. He wore black broadcloth and hand-tooled boots, the very picture of a prosperous cattle rancher.
Gideon Stark tapped on Augusta’s door.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice from within.
“Gideon Stark, Miss Addington. Please, it’s a matter of the greatest moment that I speak to you about Della. She’s been badly hurt.”
Against her better judgment, Augusta opened the door. “Come in,” she said, admitting a stocky man of average height with hard, weather-beaten features who looked to have great strength in his arms and shoulders, the result of decades of hard, physical work.
“What can I do for you?” Augusta said, her hardened eyes signaling her dislike of this man.
As to what happened next . . . that has proven to be controversial over the years.
The newspapers of the day would have us believe that for a solid hour Augusta Addington berated Stark for a scoundrel and low down. She blamed him for the death of Dr. Bradford and promised that she would see him hang . . . adding, as a postscript to her tirade, “And be damned to ye.” On hearing that last, realizing that he was undone, an enraged Stark then viciously attacked the helpless woman.
Only the final part of that account is true. Stark didn’t go to the Alpenrose to talk that day . . . he went there to kill.
Bear in mind that the rancher planned to keep things simple, and indeed he did.
He closed the door behind him, turned quickly and savagely backhanded Augusta across the face, a powerful blow that staggered her and sent her reeling to the floor. She fell onto her hands and knees, blood and saliva stringing from her mouth.
Stark took the garrote from the sack and instantly darted behind the woman. Augusta had no time to scream before the wire bit into her throat and the man crossed his arms at the wrist and used both hands to push violently on the handles, tightening the wire, driving the cruel barbs deeper into
her throat and neck, drawing thin rivulets of blood.
“Die,” Stark said though gritted teeth. “Die, you damned whore . . .”
Then a terrible cry of a man in mortal agony.
The pressure on Augusta’s neck ceased, and Gideon Stark thumped to the floor beside her. His eyes were terrified, and the left side of his face and body seemed paralyzed. Stark had just suffered a massive stroke and already his brain cells started to die at a rate of two million a minute, robbing him of speech. He reached out to Augusta with his right hand, making unintelligible, gurgling noises that were desperate pleas for help.
Augusta removed the garrote from her throat, dropped it on the floor, and staggered to her feet. Her voice tattered by the ravages of the wire, she managed, “There is no help, you sorry piece of trash.”
Stark dragged himself across the floor, his hand still raised, eyes frightened, gasping, choking, beseeching, begging . . . appealing for his life. He grabbed onto the hem of Augusta’s dress, and she jerked it away from him.
“What would you give up for Dr. Bradford to be here to save you, Stark?” she said. “All your dreams, all your yearnings . . . what else?”
Stark was fast losing his sight, his eyes searching, seeing only a blur.
“All you can do now is die,” Augusta said. “And let your greed, avarice, and ambitions die with you.”
All the life that was in Gideon Stark left him a few moments later. There is one thing historians are agreed upon . . . he had neither a painless nor a peaceful death.
* * *
The hotel room door burst open, and Red Ryan rushed inside. He took in the scene at a glance and ran to Augusta. She bled from her throat, and the front of her dress was streaked with scarlet. Red took her in his arms and she spoke into his shoulder.
“Stark tried to kill me, Red,” she said, forcing the blood-clogged words. She turned her head and nodded to the garrote. “With . . . with that monstrosity.”
Esau Pickles stepped into the room. He’d taken the stairs as fast as his gamy leg would allow, and he panted for breath. “Red, what the heck?” he said, looking around him. “What’s happened here?”
“Later, Esau,” Red said. “Go bring a doctor.”
“Old Dr. Monroe is close,” Pickles said. “One time he helped me with the croup and . . .”
“Bring him,” Red yelled. “And hurry.”
As Pickles scuttled out of the room, Red helped Augusta onto the bed. She seemed to be in shock, her eyes were glazed, her torn throat was a bloody mess, and he knew with awful certainty she’d be scarred for life.
* * *
“Hey, amigo,” Manuel Garcia said to Esau Pickles as the old man rushed out of the inn. “You see Gideon Stark, the rancher in there? Maybe lunching in the dining room?”
“Gideon Stark?” Pickles said. “Yeah, I seen him. He’s upstairs in Miss Addington’s room, stone-cold dead. And now I got to go. Miss Addington is hurt bad.”
Garcia didn’t wait to hear that last. He ran into the hotel, past the startled desk clerk, and took the stairs two at a time. The door to Augusta’s room was open, and Garcia slowed to a walk and stepped inside.
He saw Stark lying on the floor, then Augusta on the bed with a bloody towel around her neck. Garcia took a knee beside Stark and pushed the man over on his back. He crossed himself hurriedly and said, “What happened?”
Red Ryan booted the garrote in the vaquero’s direction. It skittered across the floor and hit the man’s boot. “Stark tried to strangle Augusta using that,” he said. “He almost succeeded. Look at the blood on his hands.”
Garcia’s eyes were cold, his voice flat, menacing. “How did my patron die?” he said.
The vaquero’s loyalty to the brand drove him, an emotion Red Ryan had seen many times before among cowboys and understood.
“As he tried to murder Augusta, his heart stopped,” Red said. “He had an apoplexy that paralyzed him down one side. That’s why half his face is twisted.”
“Mr. Stark was never sick,” Garcia said, disbelief in his tone. “He was a strong man.”
“Yeah, well it seems his ticker was sick,” Red said. “And in the end, it killed him and saved Augusta Addington’s life.” Red took a step away from the bed, his gun hand out from his right side and ready. “Garcia, are you here to give me a problem?” he said.
Augusta coughed and then whimpered and arched her back in pain.
The vaquero shook his head. “I want no trouble with you, Ryan. You told me the how of it, now tell me the why.”
“You know the story, Garcia. Stark wanted his daughter to marry a rich rancher, but Della threatened to ruin his plans when she fell in love with Dr. Bradford. Those gunmen that attacked us this morning were bought and paid for by Gideon Stark. Your boss wanted the doctor dead.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Garcia said. “Mr. Stark . . . my boss . . .”
“It was Della who sent for a Pinkerton to investigate her father,” Red said. “Maybe she believed it. Or at least, half-believed it. I don’t know.”
“I will take the patron’s body back to the ranch for burial,” Garcia said, talking to no one but himself.
“No, you won’t. Not yet. What’s going on here?” Sheriff Herman Ritter stepped into the room. He had his gun drawn. “I met Esau Pickles in the street, and he said there had been a murder.”
“Attempted murder,” Red said. “Gideon Stark tried to kill Augusta Addington.” He picked up the garrote from the floor. “With this.”
Ritter backed away from the bloody wire as though he was afraid to touch it. “Why?” he said.
And Red told him.
Echoing Garcia, Ritter said, “It’s hard to believe.” He looked at the body on the floor. “Gideon Stark of all people. Mein Gott.”
“He was an ambitious man,” Red said. Then, after adjusting the bloodstained towel around Augusta’s neck, “Where is that damned doctor?”
“The damned doctor is here,” John Monroe said, a stocky, white-haired man who wore pince-nez glasses at the end of his snub nose. He looked unflustered and competent. “All of you out,” he said. “Leave the patient some air to breathe.”
“Doc, is she going to be all right?” Red said.
“Son, how would I know?” Monroe said. “I haven’t examined her yet. Now out. All of you.”
“The man on the floor is dead,” Ritter said, “Apoplexy.”
“It doesn’t take a doctor to see that,” Monroe said. “A massive stroke, for sure. He’s been dead for at least fifteen minutes.”
“Aren’t you going to examine him?” Ritter said.
Monroe bent over Stark, felt the man’s neck, straightened and said, “There, I’ve examined him, Sheriff. He’s dead.”
“One more thing,” Red said. He held up the thick, viciously spiked wire. “This is what he used to try and strangle Miss Addington.”
Monroe looked at the garrote and nodded. “Yes, I see. Now get out of here.”
Red and the others stepped out of the room and stood in the hallway. Red built a cigarette, as did Garcia, and they both smoked. Sheriff Ritter, looking worried, seemed as though he was trying to say something helpful, intelligent, or at least official, but gave up the attempt and stood with his back to the wall, his face empty.
Red smoked three cigarettes before the door opened and Dr. Monroe stepped into the hallway. “How is she, Doctor?” Ritter said.
“She’s still in shock, but she’ll be fine,” Monroe said. “I treated the wounds on her throat and the sides of her neck and then I bandaged her. I’ll come see her again tomorrow to make sure that there’s no sign of infection.” The doctor looked at Red and said, “My female patients tell me the fashion trend is for dresses with high collars. That is good, because she’ll need them . . . at least for a while until the scars fade.” Then to Ritter. “Did you send for Benny Bone to take care of the dead man?”
Garcia answered that question. “He was my patron. I will take him back to his ran
ch.”
Monroe nodded and then said, “Any progress in finding the killer of that poor whiskey salesman, Sheriff Ritter?”
“Not yet, but my investigation is proceeding apace,” Ritter said.
“I hope you find him soon,” Monroe said. “First the drummer and then Dr. Bradford. It’s getting to be that a man can’t sleep safe in his bed at night.”
“I have a posse out now on the trail of two of the men connected with the doctor’s slaying,” Ritter said.
Monroe shook his head. “A bad business, Ritter,” he said. “You’d better stay on top of things around here. You know that Bill Summers is considering a run for sheriff?”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Ritter said.
“A good man, Bill,” Monroe said. “Fought in Tennessee under General Patrick Cleburne in the war.” He tipped his hat. “Well, good day to you gentlemen. I have impatient patients waiting.” He smiled. “Just a little doctor’s joke.”
* * *
Red Ryan sat on the bed and took Augusta Addington’s hand. “How are you feeling?” he said. He shook his head. “Stupid question. I think I have a good idea about how you feel.”
Augusta tried to smile, failed, and said, “The doctor gave me something for the pain. I feel all right.”
“You’ll be up and about in no time,” Red said. “I see the roses coming back to your cheeks already.”
“Dr. Monroe says the scars will go away when I’m an old lady,” Augusta said.
Red kissed her pale mouth. “Then we’ll celebrate that day, you and me,” he said.
“Yes, we will,” Augusta said. She squeezed Red’s hand. “Just the two of us.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
To say that Buttons Muldoon was as frustrated as a woodpecker in a petrified forest is an understatement. He’d found the trail of the two fleeing killers and then lost it again. Found it a second time and again lost it. Red Ryan could follow tracks like an Indian, but Buttons could not. Give him a wagon road stretching into infinity and he was in his element. But trying to spot a bent-over blade of grass or a partial hoof print in a rolling wilderness of pastureland was beyond him. And none of the dozen rubes riding with him were any better.
A Quiet, Little Town Page 22