EXCELSIOR HOTEL
~ Poke Farrell, prop.
It was a such grandiose name that it seemed to Red that Poke Farrell, prop., was the one with the wry sense of humor.
The hotel’s ground floor was taken up by the lobby and a saloon with batwing doors that were presumably never locked. When the stage jangled to a halt outside, voices could be heard from within, the loud talk of men who’d gotten among the whiskey and the practiced shriek of women pretending to be amused by their witty remarks. A tinpanny piano played “Over the Hills and Far Away” as Red climbed down and checked on his passengers.
Edna Powell, timorous by nature, inquired if they were in the right place and was Mr. Ryan quite sure that this was Niceville. Red assured her that it was, but added that the inside of the Excelsior was no doubt much more comfortable than its dilapidated exterior would suggest. Rhoda Carr seemed indifferent, expressing the hope that the beds were clean. Stella Morgan’s interest was not on the hotel but on Seth Roper, who’d tied his horse to the hitching rail and then held open the stagecoach door. Lucian Carter seemed irritable and mean, his angry blue eyes slanting to Roper, and his hands were all over Stella’s slender back as she stepped down into the street.
The hotel door opened and a tall, bearded man who’d obviously hurriedly thrown a threadbare frock coat over his shabby pants and rumpled shirt stood on the porch. He picked out Seth Roper and said, “Don’t have many stages stop here anymore. Where are you headed?”
“Up Fort Bliss and El Paso way,” Roper said.
“You planning to stay the night?”
“I guess that’s the plan.” Roper pointed to Red Ryan. “But you better speak to him. He’s the shotgun guard.”
Red joined the bearded man on the porch, and said, “Are you Poke Farrell, prop?”
The man nodded. “That would be me.”
“Name’s Ryan. I have three lady passengers who’d like to stay the night, and one gent,” Red said. “The two ladies you see over there by the stage can double up. The other woman is an officer’s wife, and she’ll need her own room and so will the gent.”
Farrell nodded and looked wise. “Three rooms then.” He nodded in Roper’s direction. “What about him?”
“He can fend for himself. Me and the driver will bed down in the livery.”
Farrell frowned, making a quick calculation, and said, “That will be six dollars for the rooms. Dinner tonight will be a dollar a head and breakfast an extry fifty cents per person. Mr. Ryan, that will be a total of twelve dollars, not counting you and the driver.”
“Expensive, ain’t you, Farrell?”
“A man can afford to be expensive when he’s the only game in town.”
“Then I’ll give you a Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company scrip,” Red said.
“No, you won’t. I need cash on the barrelhead.”
Roper had overheard and now, his spurs ringing, he stepped beside Farrell. “Ten dollars for everything. And the sheets better be clean.”
“I run a clean house here,” Farrell said, bristling.
“You run a damned saloon and brothel,” Roper said.
Farrell looked angrily into Roper’s eyes, caught a glimpse of hellfire, and backed off. “All right, ten dollars it is,” he said. And then to salvage a hatful of pride, “But that does not include beverages.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
After dinner and a traumatic day, the two army wives elected to retire early. Red Ryan had already inspected the beds, a couple of iron cots with corn-shuck mattresses, and declared them passable.
Edna Powell was so impressed by Red’s concern for the comfort and safety of his passengers that she vowed to write to Abe Patterson and commend Mr. Ryan as a crackerjack employee. Rhoda Carr agreed that a letter of commendation was a grand idea, especially since, almost singlehandedly, Red had fought off a whole tribe of bloodthirsty savages. “We’ll see that you get promoted to driver in short order, Mr. Ryan,” she said.
And Red made a point of profusely thanking them both.
* * *
Buttons Muldoon suggested to Red Ryan that they cut the trail dust and have a nightcap in the saloon. It seemed to Red a good idea at the time . . . but violent events would very soon prove that it was not.
Red and Buttons bellied up to the bar and ordered whiskey with a beer chaser. A sullen Poke Farrell used a wet cloth to wipe down a small patch in front of them and then allowed that the whiskey was tarantula juice and the beer was warm.
“We’ve probably drank worse,” Buttons said. “So set ’em up.”
“Your funeral,” Farrell said.
The beer was warm and flat, but Red thought the whiskey wasn’t so bad, more like panther piss than tarantula juice. He built and lit a cigarette and looked around the saloon, a single room with a knotted wooden floor and a collection of tables and chairs randomly clustered around a small dance floor. Above this was a balcony where there were several cribs, each screened from prying eyes by an army blanket. A couple of bored whores leaned on the banister and looked down at the proceedings with disinterested eyes, and the piano player, a reformed drunk named Milo, belted out a credible rendition of “The Boatman’s Dance.”
Stella Morgan sat at a corner table with Lucian Carter and Seth Roper, neither of the men looking happy. Somebody had sprung for champagne, or what passed for it in Farrell’s humble establishment, but it was obviously potent enough to give Stella the giggles.
By the time he’d smoked his cigarette, Red Ryan saw the trouble building . . . gunsmoke-colored storm clouds on the horizon.
A couple of the tables were occupied by armed men. Near the piano, two young punchers nursed beers and talked in low voices. Red had earlier dismissed the pair as saddle tramps riding the grub line, and he sensed no danger from them.
However, the five men who sat at another table were an entirely different breed, outlaws who were prospering.
Their duds, boots, and gun leather were all of good quality, expensive, more than the grub-line waddies could ever afford, and their arrogance was the kind that reaches out, grabs lesser folks by the throat, and squeezes. Loud, profane, not giving a damn whether anyone disapproved of them or not, they laughed, cursed, and made the entire saloon their own.
That night they took over the Excelsior saloon lock, stock, and barrel, and one of them, big, brawny, and bold, decided that his ownership extended to Stella Morgan, who looked fresh and lovely, in contrast to the grubby, worn-out whores on the balcony.
Red Ryan watched closely as the big man rose to his feet and stepped to Stella’s table. Seth Roper looked up at the man and said, “Howdy, Hamp. It’s been a while.”
“Hell, I thought it was you I saw earlier,” Hamp Becker said.
Roper nodded. “I just stuck my head in the door and then left.”
“I heard you’d been hung,” Becker said. He wore a pearl-handled Colt in the holster of a finely tooled gunbelt.
“Heard the same about you, Hamp,” Roper said.
“Small world,” Becker said.
“Ain’t it, though,” Roper said.
“How are your brothers? One of them was simple, wasn’t he? What was his name again?”
“They were all simple, and they’re all dead, killed by Apaches,” Roper said.
“You don’t seem too cut up about it, Seth.”
Roper shrugged. “I never did find out what inbred rube sired them. But whoever he was, he wasn’t my pa. So, no, I’m not too cut up about it.”
“A man can’t choose his relatives,” Becker said. “That’s what I always say.”
The big outlaw glanced at Lucian Carter, dismissed him, and then said, “How much for the woman, Seth? I’ll give you two hundred dollars.”
Roper went along with that, grinning. “Hell, Hamp, I can get six hundred for her in Old Mexico any day of the week.”
Like a poker player reading the cards, Red studied Roper and Carter, trying to decide if either of them would be willing to make a
play. Right then, it didn’t seem likely.
“Yeah, well, this is Texas, Seth,” Becker said. “And I’ll only pay Texas prices.” He looked over at the piano player, who was flipping through a pile of sheet music. “You, Milo, play something.”
“Play what?” the man asked. He was small and thin, his nose and cheekbones a crimson network of broken veins.
“I don’t know. Something me and the little lady here can dance to, a waltz maybe.”
“I don’t wish to dance,” Stella said.
Becker’s smile was unpleasant. “Little lady, you’ll dance because I’m telling you to dance.”
This brought cheers from the three men sitting at the table and one of them said, “You tell her, Hamp.”
Emboldened by the approval of his companions, Becker grabbed Stella by her upper arm and proceeded to drag her out of the chair.
Red Ryan’s angry yell stopped him.
“Mrs. Morgan is a passenger of the Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, and I will not allow her to be handled in that way,” he said.
“You shut your trap,” Becker said.
Red crossed the floor and pushed the big man away from the table, but then Becker surprised him when he swung a hook at Red’s chin. The outlaw telegraphed the punch, and Red saw it coming. He feinted to his left, took most of the blow on his shoulder, then countered with a powerful straight right that connected with Becker’s chin and rocked him back on his heels.
Becker was a big man, and strong, and he could have come back swinging, but he was a practiced gunman, and his fast draw was his ultimate answer to any violent situation. He shucked his Colt, but before he could bring it level, Red drew and shot him in the belly.
Becker gasped in pain and shock and staggered back several steps, his suddenly ashen face disbelieving. He thumbed off a shot that missed, and Red shot him again. The big outlaw’s back slammed so hard against the wall that Buttons would later claim the entire rickety hotel shook to its foundations. Becker slid down the wall, leaving behind a crimson snail trail, coughed up black blood, and died.
Gunsmoke drifted, a ringing silence descended . . . and then all hell broke loose.
One of the men at the table, a tall, lanky towhead with reckless eyes, yelled, “Damn you!” at Red and went for his holstered Colt. The man never cleared leather. Several shots slammed into him, jerked him around like a ragdoll, and he crashed backward onto the tabletop. His three surviving companions jumped out of the way of the falling body and then two of them cut loose, swapping lead with the advancing Roper and Carter. The third hotfooted it for the door. The two who’d decided to shoot it out were good, very good, but no match for Roper’s speed and accuracy and the rapid, rolling thunder of Carter’s hammering Colts. Both went down, shot to pieces, dying hard. After downing Becker, Red hadn’t fired another shot and now he watched as Roper swung around, two-handed his gun to eye level, drew a bead on the man running to the door, and shot him in the back. The man fell headfirst through the batwings and sprawled onto the porch outside . . .
And then it was over.
Roper, Carter, and Red still stood on their feet, unscathed, guns smoking in their hands after twenty-three seconds of hellfire. Four dead men littered the floor, weltering in their blood, staring into eternal night with horrified eyes. In 1926, an aging Buttons Muldoon would tell New York newspaper reporter John N. Howard that the gunfight at Niceville, Texas, was won when Roper and Carter advanced on their enemies shooting, in those moments gaining a mental advantage as they became aggressors, not victims. “It was the way of the gunfighter then as it still is today,” Buttons said.
Poke Farrell stood behind the bar, staring openmouthed at the carnage, and then broke the silence, saying the first thing that popped into his reeling head. “I hope you haven’t wakened my guests.”
Roper looked at the man and said, “What did you see?”
“A gunfight,” Farrell said.
Roper’s words gritted in his throat. “What did you see?”
“They drew down on you first, mister,” one of the young punchers said. He looked scared as he tried to head off another shooting.
“I’m asking this man, not you,” Roper said, his eyes cold and hard on Farrell. “What did you see?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the man said. “Becker and them drew down on you. I seen that. Four of my best customers lost in less than a minute.” He shook his head. “Don’t that beat all.”
“Times are tough all over,” Roper said.
Red holstered his gun and crossed the floor to Stella. “That was a terrible thing to see, and the same day as the Apache attack,” he said. “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Morgan?”
The woman reached across the table, picked up Lucian Carter’s untouched whiskey, and downed it in a gulp. “I am now,” she said, smiling. “Ah, just in time the two washerwomen have arrived to save the day.”
Dressed in threadbare robes, Edna Powell’s hair in paper curlers, the two women timidly entered the saloon from the side door off the lobby. Rhoda Carr’s gaze went to the dead men, and she immediately reached out and covered her companion’s eyes with her hand. “Don’t look, Edna,” she said.
“I’ve already looked,” Edna said. She was close to tears, her round face flushed. “So many dead people on this journey . . . so many. Corporal Powell will be horrified.” She saw Red standing at Stella’s table and said, “Oh, Mr. Ryan, I’m so glad you’re safe.” Then, “Oh dear, I feel quite faint.”
Red stepped quickly to Edna’s side and put his arm around her shoulders. “Let me take you to your room, Mrs. Powell,” he said. “As a representative of the Patterson Stage and Express Company, I won’t let anyone hurt you. And that goes for you too, Mrs. Carr.”
As Red helped Edna navigate the dark stairs, Rhoda said, “What happened, Mr. Ryan? We heard all the shooting.”
“We ran into four men who didn’t want to keep their six-shooters holstered,” Red said. “There was a fight.”
“Did Mrs. Morgan see it?” Rhoda said.
“Yes, I’m afraid she did.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” Edna said. “She must have been scared out of her wits, and her an officer’s wife.”
“Yes, she was quite upset,” Red said, telling the lie.
“Mr. Ryan, please inform her that I have a bottle of Dr. Jacob’s Nerve Tonic for Anxious Ladies if she’d care to make a trial of it. I’m sure it will help calm her.”
“I certainly will, Mrs. Powell,” Red said. “But I think Mrs. Morgan has a bottle of her own.”
“Well, if she doesn’t, tell her she can have some of mine and welcome,” Edna said. At the door to her room, the woman held Red’s shirtsleeve and said, “I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I’m very afraid, Mr. Ryan.”
Red smiled. “You and Mrs. Carr are my passengers, and it is my sworn duty to protect you from harm. Sleep peacefully, Mrs. Powell. I’ll be on guard all night.”
The woman got up on her tiptoes and kissed Red on the cheek. “You’re so good to us, Mr. Ryan. You saved us from Apaches and now dangerous outlaws. When I tell Corporal Powell about you, he will be very grateful.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Red said. “Now sleep tight, Mrs. Powell.”
“We both will, Mr. Ryan,” Rhoda Carr said. She sighed. “You are our very special hero.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Who’s going to do the burying?” Poke Farrell said. “I’m shorthanded here.”
Red Ryan forked up the last piece of his breakfast salt pork, chewed for a few moments, then said, “You are the undertaker, Farrell. You get to keep their horses and traps. That’s enough reward for a little spadework.”
Farrell scowled across the table at Red. “Them boys were riding mustangs. I wouldn’t give you a hundred dollars for all four of them.”
Buttons Muldoon said, “A mustang will keep going miles after your big American stud has pulled up lame. He knows where his feet are, and that ma
kes him a surefooted mountain hoss. And he’s as savvy as a bunkhouse rat. He can scent trouble in the wind and give a warning better than any lobo wolf and that’s why outlaws ride them.”
“If mustangs are so great, why the hell ain’t they hauling your stage?” Farrell said.
“Because the mustang is too light and he don’t take well to the traces,” Muldoon said. “Now, even a big mule weighs only about a thousand pounds, but he works well as part of a team. A mustang just ain’t that way inclined.”
“I’ve never had much truck with mustangs,” Red said. “But now they’re yours, Farrell.”
“I bet there’s a big reward out for Hamp Becker,” Seth Roper said, speaking for the first time since he sat down to breakfast. “Farrell, before you plant him, cut off his head and keep it somewhere cool. Next time a Ranger comes along, show him the head and claim your money. I reckon the reward could go as high as five, six thousand dollars.”
“Must we talk about cutting off heads at breakfast?” Lucian Carter said, dropping his fork onto his plate.
“Man’s got to show proof, and the head is the best,” Roper said. He grinned. “At least that’s been my experience.”
Carter got to his feet. “Ryan, it’s been daylight for an hour. High time we were moving.”
Buttons grinned. “Fort Bliss, here we come. The team is hitched and we’re ready to go.” He looked over at the army wives. “At your convenience, ladies. And you too, Mrs. Morgan.”
If Stella took that as a slight, she didn’t let it show. “I’m ready,” is all she said.
Red Ryan thought the woman seemed preoccupied, as though her thoughts were elsewhere, perhaps with her husband waiting at the fort . . . but he doubted it.
“Hey, don’t leave yet. What about me?” Poke Farrell said.
“What about you?” Ryan said.
“I got four dead men laid out on my front porch,” Farrell said.
“Then bury them decent, Farrell,” Lucian Carter said. “You’ve got their horse and guns.”
“I told you, I’m shorthanded,” Farrell said, his voice a high whine.
Riding Shotgun Page 9
