Riding Shotgun

by William W. Johnstone

  Red saw more tears budding in the woman’s eyes, and he said hastily, “Well, it’s a big country and the Apaches are few, it’s just possible we can make the trip without encountering any hostiles.”

  Stella managed a smile. “Red, you are my gallant knight in shining armor. Mr. Muldoon . . . Buttons . . . we can’t do it without you.”

  “No, you can’t. That is, unless you can handle a six-horse team over four hundred miles of the worst country this side of perdition,” Muldoon said.

  “I beg you, Buttons, take me to Fort Bliss,” Stella said.

  “If Red is willing to make the trip, then I’ll go along,” Buttons said. “But I think you two are making a big mistake.”

  “No, everything will be just fine,” Stella said. “I just know it will.”

  The girl leapt up from her chair and kissed Buttons on his whiskery cheek and then Red. “I’m so happy now,” she said. “Thank you both, my wonderful . . . frontier heroes.”

  After Stella left, Red said, grinning, “I’ve got tears on my mustache. Imagine that.”

  He sat on his chair again, the room once more in dusky lamplight, and picked up Middlemarch, trying to regain his interest in young Dorothea Brooke, who married a husband so old, his head was almost a skull. But after a few minutes he closed the book with a thump and stared at Muldoon and said, “What the hell did we just do?”

  Buttons shook his head. “You tell me, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Stella Morgan was quartered with the wives of the Fort Bliss corporals, plump, contented matrons who talked all the time as they knitted winter mufflers for their husbands and munched constantly on sugar cookies, of which they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

  Making the excuse of a headache, Stella said she was going for a walk before she turned in. “Some fresh air may help,” she said.

  “You be careful, dearie,” one of the women said. “It’s cold outside. Take your shawl and don’t get a chill in the bladder.”

  “And remember . . . there are bloodthirsty savages about,” the other said.

  “I’m not going far,” Stella said, throwing her shawl around her shoulders.

  She stepped into the starless murk and, keeping to the shadows, walked past the troopers’ barracks and then angled across the parade ground toward the sutler’s store. Colonel Grierson had pickets out, but they were invisible in the darkness, and the woman moved on soundless feet.

  Stella passed between the side of the store and the blacksmith’s shop and then walked more quickly toward the wood-frame cabin that lay some thirty yards away. She tapped on the cabin door, and it opened immediately. Lucian Carter, stripped to his pants and undershirt, stepped back to allow the woman inside. He stuck his head out of the doorway and looked around. Satisfied, he closed the door again and said, “You spoke to them?”

  Stella smiled. “Yes, they’ll do it.”

  “Thank God,” Carter said. “The sooner we get away from this godforsaken post and put some distance between us and San Antonio the better.”

  “Take it easy, Lucian, and content your mind,” Stella said. “Remember, the San Antonio police have nothing on us.”

  “They were suspicious, Stella. I knew that by the way they were sniffing around. One of the detectives said to me that it was surprising that a healthy, active old lady like Martha Morgan should die so unexpectedly of natural causes. He had a big copper’s nose and sneaky eyes, the kind that told me he was saying one thing but meant another.”

  “Yes, perhaps it was all a little surprising,” Stella said. “But the police said nothing about murder.”

  “I know, but that damned nosey little detective . . . was not the word murder on the tip of his tongue?”

  “Hardly. Lucian, you left no mark on the miserable old biddy.”

  “No, I didn’t mark her.” Carter smiled. “It was a very soft feather pillow.”

  Stella put her arms around the man’s neck, tilted back her head, and spoke directly into his handsome face. “We’ve come far, Lucian, you and I, haven’t we?”

  “And we have farther to go, Stella. The money and jewelry we have is only a start.”

  “A small start, my darling. There is so much more ahead of us.”

  “What about that damned redheaded shotgun guard I had the trouble with?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did he swallow your story?”

  Stella placed the back of her hand on her forehead and pretended to swoon. “Oh, I am undone. I must be with my husband when he hears about the death of his dear, dear mama.” The woman’s smile was hard, triumphant. “The fool fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”

  “What about the other one, the driver?”

  “He’s a harmless idiot.”

  “I plan to kill them both, Stella,” Carter said. “I swear to God, I’ll shoot those two barbarians in the belly and listen to them scream.”

  “Time enough for that when we reach Fort Bliss. Let them get us there first.”

  “Clever girl,” Carter said. He ground his groin into the woman. “Stay a while.”

  Stella stepped back. “No, not here. What if someone saw us? It’s too dangerous. We’re just traveling companions, remember?”

  “Then I’ll wait until we get to Fort Bliss,” Carter said.

  “No, wait until we get to Washington, Lucian. You’ll enjoy me all the more.”

  Carter grinned. “When we’re members of the capital’s high society, huh?”

  “Exactly. Now, I must go. The fat washerwomen will miss me.”

  “Until tomorrow then,” Carter said.

  “Yes, until tomorrow, my one, my only love,” Stella said.

  Since her head was on his shoulder, Lucian Carter couldn’t see the woman’s eyes, hard as polished diamonds. Just as well . . . because they were amused . . . and calculating.

  * * *

  “How is your headache, dearie?” one of the army wives said.

  “Better, much better now,” Stella Morgan said, smiling.

  * * *

  Lucian Carter slid the carpetbag from under the cot. It was large, the kind that had a leather flap across the top fastened with a brass padlock. He took the key from his pocket, unlocked the bag, and peered inside. Dishonest himself, the threat of theft preyed on his mind. Yes, the contents were still intact, fifty thousand dollars in large-denomination bills . . . Martha Morgan didn’t believe in banks . . . and jewelry, necklaces, rings, and bracelets mostly, worth at least an additional fifty thousand, and probably twice that. Even more precious was Martha’s will, folded into a long manila envelope. Its contents were straightforward enough. In the event of her death—Carter smiled at that—she left all her property to her only child, her son John. The properties consisted of her San Antonio house, a Washington, D.C., town house, railroad shares, considerable holdings in a South African diamond mine, and shares in the White Star shipping line, in all, assets worth a few thousand dollars north of halfa-million. When Major Morgan died, and his impending demise was a guaranteed natural fact, his fortune would of course fall to his grieving widow.

  Stella would be rich, and so would Lucian Carter, her next husband.

  Carter stood with the bag open, lost in thought.

  Did he love Stella? No, he didn’t, not really. But he lusted after her lithe body. Would he be sad if she died? Well, a rich man could choose from plenty of willing women. Would he consider . . . making her die? Of course, murder was always an option, because then all the money would be his.

  Carter raised his chin and slowly scratched his throat, his manicured fingernails scratching on bristles. He had a lot to think about, but not now. Later, after they were safely ensconced in a Washington town house and Stella wore his wedding ring on her finger. He’d make his decisions then.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Patterson & Son Stage and Express Company skimped on wages and passenger comfort but not on horses. The team Buttons Muldoon hitched to th
e stage was the best money could buy, six high-quality grade horses personally chosen by Abe Patterson himself. They’d go fast and far without tiring.

  Red Ryan watched Buttons with Tam McLeod. The scout was in a sour mood, last night’s whiskey punishing him. “Why did you change your mind, Red? That purty Morgan gal work her charms on you?”

  “Uh-huh, you could say that,” Red said. “She’s anxious to join her husband in Fort Bliss.”

  “The two other army wives decided to make the trip,” McLeod said. “I guess they’re also anxious to join their husbands. More fool them.”

  “Who told you that?” Ryan said, surprised.

  “Colonel Grierson . . . ah, and here he comes now.”

  The officer pulled on a leather glove as he walked across the parade ground under a morning sky ribboned with scarlet. He wore a faded blue fatigue blouse with no shoulder boards and a battered campaign hat. He looked tired, like a man who hadn’t slept in several days.

  “Ready to go, Mr. Ryan?” Grierson said.

  “Yes, Colonel. Tam tells me the other two women have decided to make the trip.”

  “Yes. They figure if a sweet young thing like Stella Morgan is going, then they’ll tag along too. They probably think Mrs. Morgan wouldn’t make the trip if she didn’t think it was safe.”

  McLeod watched Lucian Carter help Stella into the stage. “Heard you had trouble with that ranny yesterday, Red,” he said.

  “Nothing serious,” Ryan said.

  “He’s still aboveground, so I figured it had to be nothing serious,” McLeod said. The scout rubbed his aching temples. “What do you count as nothing serious?”

  “I won’t be handled,” Ryan said.

  “I reckon you’ve plugged men for less.”

  “Not recently,” Red said.

  Colonel Grierson smiled. “Those ladies are having a time of it.”

  “So is Muldoon,” McLeod said. He grinned. “Yeah, that’s right, push on those bustles, Buttons. That’s it . . . like loading a cow into a chute.”

  “Narrow door, plump lady. It’s always a problem,” Red said.

  Buttons closed the stage door, wiped off his sweating face with a large blue bandana, and called out, “You ready, Red? Let’s hit the road.”

  Six mounted troopers, one holding a red-and-white cavalry guidon, had formed up behind Grierson. “Red, I’ll escort you part of the way to Ketchum Mountain myself,” the colonel said. He seemed worried, his face lined and exhausted. “I’d expected to hear from Company B by this time.” Then, visibly making an effort to appear confident, “Captain Taylor is a competent officer who was with me on the Victorio campaign. For all I know he may be in pursuit of the hostiles.”

  Red Ryan nodded and said what he didn’t really believe. “I’m sure that’s the case, Colonel.”

  * * *

  When the Patterson stage rolled out of Fort Concho, Red Ryan was in the guard’s seat, his shotgun across his knees. Colonel Grierson and his men had formed up behind, riding through dust. The scarlet sky had turned to pale lemon, and the new-aborning day was coming in clear, smelling of horses, leather, and buffalo grass.

  Buttons Muldoon’s hands were steady at the reins, his far-seeing eyes scanning the plain in front of him. Then he turned to Red and said, “The Carter feller is a two-gun man. Shoulder holsters. Odd that.”

  Red nodded. “I haven’t seen many men carry guns that way.”

  “John Wesley Hardin did. Do you recollect we met him out Gonzales County way that time?”

  “Lucian Carter isn’t a patch on Wes Hardin,” Red said. “On his best day, he ain’t even close.”

  Buttons watched a jackrabbit bound in front of the horses and then veer away in panic, its feet kicking up little puffs of dust. “How do you know that?” he said.

  “I just know.”

  “No, you don’t. You have no way of knowing how he’d stack up to Wes.”

  Red smiled. “What are you trying to tell me, Buttons?”

  “I’m telling you to be careful around Carter. All right, he may not be as fast as John Wesley, but he’s sneakier, I guarantee it.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Ryan said.

  “And another thing . . .”

  “I swear, Buttons, you must be the talkiest stage driver in Texas.”

  “Maybe so, but I see things.”

  “What did you see?”

  “When that Carter ranny was helping Stella Morgan into the stage, I seen him run his hand down her back, from neck to bustle.” Muldoon shook his head. “Odd that.”

  “Buttons, you think everything is odd,” Red said.

  “She’s a married woman, but she didn’t object. Seen that too.”

  “Stella is a pretty woman,” Ryan said. “She’s probably used to men touching her all over and no longer thinks anything of it.”

  “You reckon so? But I bet she’d object if I done it,” Buttons said.

  Red turned his head, stared at his whiskery companion, and said, “Come to think about it, I guess she would at that.”

  The stage rocked over some uneven ground, and after getting the team under control again, Buttons spat over the side and then said, “Well, we can’t all be purty like you, Red.”

  * * *

  After an hour, the vast, sun-scorched land empty around them, Colonel Grierson cantered his horse alongside the stage, and Muldoon brought the team to a jangling halt.

  “Ketchum Mountain is in sight and this is as far as I go, Mr. Muldoon,” the soldier said. “I don’t want to get too far from the post. Give Captain Taylor my compliments and tell him that I’d like a report as soon as possible.”

  Red Ryan leaned across his driver and said, “Sorry to lose you, Colonel.”

  “I have only half a company back at the fort,” Grierson said. “I can’t be gone for long.” He extended his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Muldoon.” And then to Ryan, “Keep a close watch on the trail, Red.” They shook hands. “And good luck.”

  “And you too, Colonel, good luck,” Red said. “See you back at Fort Concho in a couple of weeks.”

  “I hope so,” Colonel Grierson said, his face lined with concern. “I sure hope so.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ketchum Mountain is a ridge about four miles long that rises nearly three thousand feet above the flat. Its slopes are surfaced by gravelly loam that supports a thick growth of bunchgrass and cactus. The bodies of Captain Andrew Taylor and thirty-eight troopers of Company B were scattered over its eastern slope, except for a tangled knot of men, a sergeant and six privates, who’d made a stand around their officer and died with him.

  Red Ryan walked among the dead, so many ash-gray faces that he remembered from his previous visits to Fort Concho.

  Juan Gomez, the Mexican corporal who’d once planned on becoming a priest but had joined the cavalry instead. Bill Moorehouse, the blue-eyed Englishman that nobody ever beat at dominoes. Private Patrick O’Neill, the big, drunken Irishman who laughed easily and had been a major in the army of the Confederacy. Tom Lake . . . Bob Anderson . . . Jed Franklin . . . all first-class fighting men . . . all dead.

  Captain Taylor, his gray hair stained red from a head wound, lay on his back among his men. They were huddled together, as though they’d sought solace in the nearness of each other when death came for them.

  Already, fat black flies hovered over the corpses and made a low, soulful drone.

  “Looks like they were taken by surprise, Red,” Buttons Muldoon said. His face was like stone.

  “Seems like,” Red said. “How many Apaches?”

  “Judging by the tracks I’d say at least fifty. They were mounted, and they came straight in.”

  “Then it was a dusk or a dawn attack, otherwise Captain Taylor would have seen them coming from a long ways off.”

  Muldoon said, “Dawn, I reckon. The Apaches will fight at night, but they don’t like it much and try to avoid it when they can.”

  “How are the passengers?”


  “Scared. Even that Carter feller looks scared, but he’s still lugging that carpetbag that he never lets out of his sight.”

  Carter stood with Stella Morgan outside the stage, looking over at the carnage but reluctant to move closer. The two older women, their eyes averted from the scene, remained in the stage that shook with their sobbing. To look upon violent death puts a terrible burden on the soul, and Red Ryan, who’d seen more than his share, didn’t blame them.

  As Red did his best to console the army wives, Buttons wandered off a distance, and when he returned he took Red aside and said, “They didn’t all die. Judging by the tracks, it looks like a patrol headed out before the attack, probably the previous day. I’d say ten, twelve men headed north.”

  “I guess that’s why there’s no dead scouts,” Ryan said. “They went with the patrol.”

  “Could be,” Muldoon said. “Company B would have had at least four of them.”

  “Pima?”

  “Probably, but I didn’t see Luke Spence or Pete Williams at the fort. They may have been with Captain Taylor and left with the patrol.”

  “Ryan!”

  Lucian Carter stalked toward Ryan and then belligerently got into his face. “What the hell are you going to do about this?” he demanded.

  “I can’t resurrect the dead, Carter, so there’s not much I can do,” Red said.

  “Yes, there is. You can climb aboard the stage right now and head for Fort Bliss.”

  “That’s your advice, huh?”

  “No, it’s not advice, Ryan. As a paying passenger, I’m ordering you to do what I say.”

  Red Ryan’s temper, always an uncertain thing, flared and his right fist clenched. Buttons Muldoon read the signs and said, “Man’s got a point, Red. Unless his other patrols have come in, Colonel Grierson has half a troop of cavalry at Fort Concho and a few civilians. Right about now, staying with the stage is probably safer than heading back.”

  Ryan thought that through and decided Buttons was correct. Ilesh had scored a great victory, and by now the young war chief was a big man among the Mescalero lodges. The capture and burning of Fort Concho would be hailed as an even greater triumph than the slaughter of Taylor’s command, and the aggressive young bucks might push him in that direction. By this time the Apaches must know just how weak Grierson’s force was, how vulnerable, and how much power and fame they could garner by its annihilation. The capture of a U.S. army post by Apaches had happened only once before, back in 1865 when Fort Buchanan was taken by seventy-five Chiricahua warriors. But that had been a mere skirmish, and the nine defenders had put up a token resistance and then fled. Fort Concho was a much more valuable prize, and its destruction could endanger the whole of West Texas. By comparison, the Patterson stage was insignificant, hardly worth the attention of a mighty warrior like Ilesh.