Ryan walked through a bottle-strewn alley between a lumberyard and dry-goods stores and into a plaza crowded with promenading couples and Mexican street vendors. Then, a voice behind him stopped him in his tracks.
“Hold up, Ryan, I want to talk with you.”
Red turned and saw Seth Roper. The man had acquired a new white shirt with a celluloid collar, and his broadcloth coat looked as though it had been cleaned and pressed. He carried a Colt in his waistband, but his gun hand was busy with a cigar, implying no threat.
Red said, “Roper, you’ll do your talking to the law.”
“That’s harsh,” the man said.
“So was murdering Poke Farrell.”
“If it wasn’t for me, your hair could be hanging in some Apache lodge right now,” Roper said.
“I’m aware of that,” Red said. “You did well, fought bravely, and I will mention it at your trial. But it doesn’t excuse your murder of Farrell.”
Roper’s cigar glowed scarlet in the gloom as he took a puff and then he said behind a cloud of smoke, “Ryan, why the hell do you care? I mean, explain to me why you give a damn over the death of a damned pimp.”
“Because when Poke Farrell fed and supplied sleeping accommodation for my passengers, I considered him a temporary employee of the Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company. It’s my duty to care.”
“Duty? Hell, Ryan, did you go to West Point?” Roper waited for a reaction, got none, then shrugged and said, “All right, let’s go talk with the law right now.”
“Suits me,” Red said. “Roper, I’ll take it hard if I see your hand go anywhere near your gun.”
“I’ll give it to you. Left hand, two fingers, Ryan. That set all right with you?”
“Slow. I mean like molasses in January.”
“You’re a careful man, Ryan.”
“Live longer that way.”
“Suppose I decide to draw down on you?”
“Then I’ll kill you, Roper.”
“Hard talk. Big talk.”
“Keep this up and my talking will be done.” Red pushed away a Mexican boy who was anxious to see how the gringo standoff would end. “You, git,” he said. “Go back to your ma.”
The boy stuck out his tongue and then disappeared into the crowd.
“Two fingers, Roper,” Red said.
“I’ve never let a man take my gun before,” Roper said.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Red said.
Red’s hand dropped to his gun and he tensed for the draw as Roper’s flexed fingers moved slowly toward his Colt. He grinned, then eased the revolver out of his waistband and passed it over.
“Satisfied, Ryan?” Roper said.
“No, I won’t be satisfied until I hear the sheriff charge you with murder.”
Roper smiled and said, “His name is T. C. Lyons, and he ain’t really a sheriff, he was an El Paso fireman. But he’s tipped to be the chief of police when the city sets up its own department.”
“Who told you all this?” Red said, feeling a vague disappointment.
“Soldier feller at the post who’d no more liking for the law than I do.”
“When does it all happen? This police department?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Roper said. “A year or two maybe.” He smiled. “This T. C. Lyons feller ain’t a shootist, he puts out fires. He never once in his life drew a gun on a man. I bet he never saw the likes of me, huh, Ryan? Or you, come to that.”
“If he knew Dallas Stoudenmire, he saw the likes of you, Roper. Now let’s find this marshal, and keep in mind that if you figure on running, I’ll shoot you.”
“I ain’t running anywhere,” Roper said. “I got nothing to fear and that’s why I’ve gone along with you this far. But I have a word of warning for you, Ryan, don’t get in over your head. There’s big doings coming down and a fortune at stake. Maybe you should stick to your stagecoach.”
“You care to explain that, Roper?” Red said.
“No, not to you, because it’s none of your damned business.”
* * *
Acting El Paso city marshal T. C. Lyons was a small, neat man with a trimmed goatee and bright, intelligent eyes. His movements were quick and jerky, and he put Red Ryan in mind of an overgrown squirrel.
“I’ve heard with interest what you have to say, Mr. Ryan, but my jurisdiction extends only as far as the city limits,” Lyons said. “Pressing a murder charge against Mr. Roper is a job for the county marshal.”
“And where can I find him?” Red said.
“Nowhere at the moment, on account of how we don’t have one,” Lyons said. “An appointment should be made soon, maybe a month or two from now. He’ll be sworn in right here in this office.” His eyes went to Roper. “You say you have witnesses who are willing to testify that you shot . . . what was his name again?”
“Poke Farrell,” Ryan said.
“Refresh my memory. He was a pimp. Is that correct?”
“He ran a hotel,” Red said.
“And a brothel,” Seth Roper said.
“And, you say you shot him in self-defense, Mr. Roper? Your witnesses will testify to that fact?” Lyons said.
“Yes, they will. Farrell had a sneaky gun on him.”
“Were you drunk at the time, Mr. Roper?”
“No, I was sober.”
“Pity,” Lyons said. “Sometimes a jury will consider drunkenness as a defense, since the accused wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing.”
The marshal sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and was silent in thought for a few moments. Then he said, “What manner of men are your witnesses, Mr. Roper?”
“One man and a woman, Marshal,” Roper said.
“And, where are they?”
“At the fort. The woman is the lady wife of Major Morgan and—”
“John Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a fine man, is Major Morgan, and I’m sure his wife is a perfect lady.”
“Oh, she is, Marshal,” Roper said. “She most certainly is. My other witness is a bank clerk who was Mrs. Morgan’s traveling companion and protector. He’s in El Paso to further his banking career.”
“A sound move, in my estimation,” Lyons said. “El Paso has need of ambitious, intelligent young men.”
“And Mr. Lucian Carter is both of those things,” Roper said. “El Paso will not be disappointed in him.”
“What is your occupation, Mr. Roper?” Lyons said.
“I’m a cattle buyer, but currently I’m acting as financial adviser to Mrs. Morgan, helping her settle the affairs of her late mother’s estate.”
“Very commendable of you, I’m sure,” Lyons said, studying Red from the crown of his derby hat to the scuffed toes of his boots. He did not seem impressed. “And you, Mr. Ryan, what is your calling?”
“Mr. Ryan is a stagecoach shotgun guard,” Roper said,
Lyons nodded. “Ah, yes, by your garb, I took you for a person engaged in . . . shall we say? . . . one of the wilder Western occupations.”
Red let that go and said, “Marshal Lyons, what is your decision?”
“On Mr. Roper?”
Who else, you damned squirrel?
Red bit his tongue and said, “On his murder of Poke Farrell.”
“In view of the fact that Mr. Roper has two sterling witnesses, including the wife of a fine army officer, who say the dead man was armed, I cannot charge him with the murder of the unfortunate pimp, especially when the alleged crime took place outside of my jurisdiction.”
“Farrell ran a hotel,” Red said.
“Mr. Ryan, it boils down to your word against Mr. Roper’s and his sterling witnesses and I do not believe that your accusation would stand up in a court of law. Also, I’d like to remind you that you are a shotgun messenger. That gives you no status as an officer of the law, and you cannot press charges against anyone. On your part, to think otherwise would be presumptuous.”
“The Texas Range
rs might differ with that opinion.” Red said.
“Perhaps, but the Rangers have their hands full with the Apache outbreak, and I don’t think they will take any interest in the death of a pimp.”
“He ran a hotel,” Red said.
Lyons clapped his hands together and said, “Now, is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”
“Yes, Marshal, I’d like you to order Mr. Ryan to return my weapon that he confiscated,” Roper said. “Mrs. Morgan may be in peril in such a rough town and in addition to being her financial adviser, I’m also her protector.”
“Of course, Mr. Roper, I fully understand. But please tell the lady that I will guarantee her safety for as long as she is in El Paso.” Lyons’s bright eyes turned to Red. “Mr. Ryan, return Mr. Roper’s weapon.” He frowned. “Instanter!”
* * *
Seth Roper stood on the boardwalk outside the sheriff’s office, a triumphant smile on his face. “You wasted my time, Ryan,” he said.
Red Ryan waited until some noisy revelers passed and then said, “It’s not over until the Rangers say it’s over.”
“Another waste of time,” Roper said. “You never learn, do you?” He looked down the bustling street, the windows of the gaslit saloons and dance halls casting rectangles of bluish light, their competing tinpanny pianos getting their tunes tangled, and said, “Well, I thought about buying you a drink, Ryan, but I don’t think I will. Fact is, I only drink with friends, and I don’t like you that much.”
“The feeling is mutual, Roper,” Red said.
“Then better luck next time,” Roper said.
“Go to hell, Roper,” Red said.
* * *
Red Ryan made his way to the stage depot and was greeted by a commotion at the door, about two dozen men and a few soldiers in animated talk. Buttons Muldoon saw Red coming and paced hurriedly toward him. “Where the hell have you been, Red?” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“With the marshal, trying to hang Seth Roper,” Ryan said.
“And will he?”
“Will he what?”
“Hang him?”
“No. He says Roper is innocent.”
“Then you haven’t heard the news?” Buttons said.
“What news?”
“Major Morgan is dead. Murdered. They say an Apache did it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“It’s an Apache knife, all right,” Marshal T. C. Lyons said. “Major Morgan got it right between the shoulder blades. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“It’s an English-made trade knife,” Red Ryan said. “Plenty of those around, carried by white men and Indians alike. And the ground shows only boot tracks, no moccasin prints.”
“Booted men have been stomping all over this area for the past hour or so, that’s why you don’t see moccasin tracks. A white man didn’t commit this murder, Ryan,” Lyons said. He held up his oil lantern so that the light shone on Red. “And why the hell are you here?”
“Major Morgan was the husband of one of my passengers,” Red said. “I feel a certain responsibility.”
“Your responsibility ended when you delivered Mrs. Morgan, now the widow Morgan, to this post,” Lyons said. “I suggest you leave and be about your business.”
“No, let Mr. Ryan stay,” Colonel David Anderson said. “He has a keen eye, and the more people we have investigating this murder, the better.”
“How many Apaches are on the post, Colonel?” Lyons said.
“At the moment, only one. The Jicarilla scout Nascha. But he wouldn’t—”
“Then he’s the killer,” Lyons said. “I’m willing to bet a month’s pay on that.”
“But Nascha had no reason to kill Major Morgan,” Anderson said. “He’s always been a loyal scout, and he received a medal for his excellent service during the Victorio campaign.”
“An Apache doesn’t need a reason to kill a white man, Colonel,” Lyons said. “He saw the major leave the sutler’s store, followed him here to the blacksmith’s shop, and stabbed him in the back. It was a crime of opportunity and pretty cut and dried, I’d say.”
Lyons had deputized a couple of townsmen, and now he told them to arrest the Apache. But Colonel Anderson objected. “The murder happened on a United States army post, and Nascha will remain here until such time as he goes to trial.”
“I’ve got no problem with that,” Lyons said. “Just so long as you keep him locked up. I’d rather not transfer him to my jail, since I don’t want his Apache friends to try breaking him out.”
“I’ll see that he’s held securely under guard,” Anderson said.
“See that you do, Colonel,” Lyons said.
* * *
When Stella Morgan took center stage, the curtain rose on the second act of the tragic play that was the death of her husband . . . as Red Ryan knew it would.
Wearing a cavalry yellow dress, Stella hiked up her skirts, ran across the parade ground like a candle flame, and threw herself on her husband’s bloody body. She turned her eyes to the dark sky, uttered a shriek of torment and grief, and stained the major’s face with her own salt tears.
Had there been a classical scholar among the gathering of soldiers, he might have considered Stella’s performance worthy of the Trojan woman Andromache lamenting the death of Hector, but since there was not one present, it fell to Red Ryan to think that the woman’s display of sorrow was a tad overdone. And what Stella said next reinforced that opinion.
“Oh, John, John, what have they done to you?” she wailed. “The Apaches have murdered you at last.”
Colonel Anderson, visibly distressed, coaxed Stella to her feet and said, “You’ve suffered a terrible shock, dear lady. I suggest you lie down and let Captain Murdoch, the post doctor, attend you. Perhaps he can give you a sleeping draught.”
“Colonel, why did the Apache murder my husband?” Stella said. She sobbed, “Why? Why? Why?” And then, looking brave, “But . . . but I know why.”
“What do you know, dear lady?” Anderson said, a man in anguish. “Tell me what you know.”
“The Apache scout, the one called Nascha, Major Morgan caught him . . . caught him . . . no, I can’t go on . . .”
“Caught him doing what?” the colonel said, being kind, his arm supporting the fainting Stella.
“John . . . he caught the Apache they call Nascha peering in my bedroom window as I changed garments.”
“And what happened?” Anderson said. He shook his head. “This is most distressing.”
“John . . . Major Morgan . . . rushed outside and caught Nascha in the act. My husband, he was such a forgiving man, warned the Apache that if he engaged in such behavior again he’d thrash him within an inch of his life. Nascha said . . . he said . . . oh, Colonel . . . it was terrible.”
“Dear lady, what did Nascha say?” Anderson asked.
“He said that he would kill John . . . and . . . and leave his body for the buzzards.”
Major Morgan had been a popular officer. That last comment drew growled threats against Nascha from the throats of the soldiers, and Anderson had to call them to order. Then he told a sergeant to take a squad and arrest the Apache. “Put him in the guardhouse and detail two sentries.”
The sergeant left, replaced by Rhoda and Edna, curlers in their hair and tears in their eyes. The women rushed to Stella and cradled her to their substantial bosoms.
“I know how you loved the major,” Edna said. “I’m heartbroken for you, Mrs. Morgan, and Corporal Powell is very upset.” It was only then that Edna saw the major’s body being carried away by four cavalry troopers, and she cried out in alarm. “Oh, what a horrible thing to have happened. I hope that murdering Apache hangs.”
Rhoda noticed Red Ryan in the crowd and she said, “Isn’t this just awful, Mr. Ryan?”
“Yes, it is,” Red said.
“Corporal Carr says he’d like to pull the lever on the Indian himself,” Rhoda said.
“I think there’s a lot
of people around here who would like to do just that,” Red said.
“And who can blame them?” Rhoda said. “Major Morgan dead at the hands of a savage is just too horrible to contemplate.”
Hearing that, Stella began to wail and cry again, and Colonel Anderson said to Edna and Rhoda, “If you women will take Mrs. Morgan to her quarters and remain with her, I’ll send the doctor to visit.”
“Yes, Colonel, we’ll do that most willingly,” Edna said as Rhoda led the stricken Stella away. “Poor thing, besides a surfeit of grief, I believe that Mrs. Morgan is suffering from female hysteria and a wandering womb. I’ll let the doctor know.”
“I’m sure Captain Murdoch will be most grateful for your help,” Colonel Anderson said, his face unreadable.
* * *
It was almost midnight when Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon walked to their hotel through the still-roaring streets of El Paso.
“Buttons, there’s nothing we can do for the Apache,” Red said. “He’s already a dead man.”
“You really reckon he didn’t do it, Red?” Buttons said.
“I know he didn’t do it. Hell, Nascha’s knife was still in its sheath when they arrested him.”
“Maybe he had a spare,” Buttons said. “I mean, that’s possible.”
“Maybe. But it don’t seem likely.”
“Well, if the Indian didn’t kill Major Morgan, who did?” Buttons said.
Red stepped to the side as a brewer’s dray trundled past, the stacked beer barrels thumping. Day or night, the thirsty saloons must be resupplied. He didn’t answer Buttons’s question, at least not directly. “Seth Roper told me that something big was coming down and a fortune was at stake. What did he mean by that?”
“Hell, if I know,” Buttons said.
“I do know this much,” Red said. “Now her husband is dead, the widow Morgan inherits his estate. As of tonight, Stella is a very rich young woman.”
Riding Shotgun Page 11
