Buttons stopped in his tracks, his hand on Red’s arm. “Here, you ain’t saying it was Stella punched the major’s ticket?”
“No, she didn’t stick a knife in her husband’s back, but she could’ve had it done.”
“You mean by Roper? Or that Carter feller?”
“Either one, Buttons, either one.”
“And now Stella is willing to see another man swing for what she done?”
“The killing made her rich, and the man who’ll hang is only an Apache,” Red said. “It’s easy to pin a murderer tag on an Indian because nobody much gives a damn.”
Buttons shook his head. “It just ain’t fair.”
“I reckon so. But life isn’t fair,” Red said.
A split second later Red Ryan realized just how unfair life can be when a rifle blasted from the darkness and put a second bullet hole in his almost-new derby hat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Buttons Muldoon yelled, “What the hell?” as Red Ryan’s hat flew off his head. But Red was already on the move, sprinting toward an alley where a drift of gunsmoke gave away the bushwhacker’s position.
Colt drawn, Red slowed down and warily entered the alley, a dark, narrow passageway between a furniture warehouse and the New York Hat Shop. His own breathing loud in his ears, Ryan slowly entered the alley, which was littered with bottles and other garbage and as black as ink. Ahead of him a cat let out a shriek of pain and surprise, and a man cursed. Red’s smile was grim. If you’re going to ambush a fellow, don’t step on a cat’s tail.
Red fixed the rifleman’s position, but didn’t shoot. He’d be firing blind, and the flash from his revolver would dazzle him momentarily, leaving him vulnerable. Instead he stepped forward, his eyes searching the gloom.
BLAM!!
A rifle flared at the far end of the alley, and a bullet whined an inch past Red’s head. Instinctively, he snapped off a shot and was rewarded by a yelp as his round burned the ambusher.
Behind him a man took a step into the alley and yelled in a drunken slur, “Now then, that won’t do!”
“Get the hell away from here!” Red said.
Another rifle bullet split the air, missing badly, but close enough to draw a shriek from the frightened drunk, who scampered away yelling, “Murder! Murder!”
Then footsteps thudded in the darkness ahead, and Red followed at a run, empty bottles clanking around his feet.
The alley ended at a narrow footpath that fronted the rear, corrugated iron wall of another warehouse. The worn pathway ran east and west, and there was no indication of what direction the bushwhacker had taken.
Red stood still, his Colt up and ready, and listened into the night.
He heard voices from somewhere in the street behind, Button’s excited Texas drawl and the irritable high-pitched yells of T. C. Lyons as he asked questions of anybody and everybody.
What was that?
Red’s head snapped to his left as he heard the sound of what could be an empty wooden crate hitting the ground. Another alley cat or the man who had tried to kill him? There was one way to find out. Red stepped in the direction of the sound.
The path widened to about a dozen feet wide and ahead of him, just visible in the feeble moonlight, a pile of crates was stacked up behind a workshop of some kind. The one that had fallen lay across the pathway.
“Come out with your hands in the air,” Red said. “I’m with a dozen deputies here, all well-armed and determined men.”
T. C. Lyons was in the alley. Red heard him call his name, ordering him to cease and desist. But in no mood to listen, Red stepped forward through a night now filled with the shouts of wary men . . .
He moved steadily toward the pile of crates, his Colt waist high and ready. The darkness closed around him, his visibility down to just a few murky yards. Somewhere a saloon piano played “Ol’ Dan Tucker,” its notes made tinny by distance. Red Ryan, his mouth as dry as mummy dust, walked on . . .
Suddenly a shadowy figure leaped up from behind the stacked crates, a rifle at his shoulder. He and Red fired at the same time. The bushwhacker’s bullet went wild, Ryan’s did not. The man cried out, “Oh, I am hit” when the big .45 round crashed into his chest, dead center, a killing shot.
The man fell, crates tumbling around him, and he was dead when Red reached him. A moment later something cold and hard pressed into the back of Red’s skull and T. C. Lyons’s voice said, “Drop your gun, Ryan, or by God, I’ll scatter your brains.”
Red opened his fingers and let his Colt fall to the ground. Lyons quickly scooped it up and shoved it into his waistband. “What’s going on here, Ryan? You’ve shot up half of the damned city.”
Red motioned to the sprawled body. “He tried to kill me, took a pot from the alley when I was standing in the street talking to my driver.”
“Is he dead?”
“As he’s ever gonna be.”
Lyons took Red’s derby from one of his deputies, a middle-aged man named Lou Hunt, “Were two of these caused by the shot?” Lyons said, waggling his fingers through four bullet holes in the crown, entrances and exits.
“Yeah, but I don’t rightly know which two,” Red said. “But I sure set store by that hat. It was almost new.”
“Seems like other folks don’t like the hat as much as you do, Ryan. Lucky you didn’t get your fool brains blown out,” Lyons said. Then he said to the gray-bearded deputy, “Lou, bring the lantern up here. Let’s take a look at the dead man.”
Lou raised the lantern and then said, “Hell, Sheriff, that there is Sam Glover as ever was.”
“You sure?”
“Sure as there’s dung in a donkey.”
Red said, “Who is he?”
“Who was he, you mean,” Lyons said. “He was a chicken and pie thief and a damned nuisance. He should’ve been hung years ago just on principle.”
“Any wife and young ’uns?” Red said, fearing the answer.
Lou said, “Nah. Worked as a swamper and lived in a shack behind the Hipflask saloon. Drank whiskey when he could, kerosene when he couldn’t, and never had two pennies to rub together in his entire life.”
Red kneeled, tried the man’s pockets, and came up with three double eagles. “Well, somebody gave him sixty dollars to rub together,” he said.
Buttons Muldoon pushed his way through the crowd and said, “Red, you’re still alive and kicking. For a spell there I thought for sure you were a goner.”
“I’m still kicking, but no thanks to the feller lying at your feet, Buttons. His name was Sam Glover, and it seems like somebody paid him sixty dollars to dry gulch me.”
Buttons bent down and picked up a beat-up .44-40 Henry. “This his rifle?” he said.
Red nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. Brass tacks all over the stock. Looks like an Indian owned it at one time.”
“An Apache owned it,” Buttons said. “And an Apache owned the knife that killed Major Morgan. Now where did this man get a rifle like this?”
“My guess is that the party that wants me dead gave it to him to do the job,” Red said. “Trouble is he . . . or she . . . hired a tinhorn who couldn’t even shoot straight.”
A bright idea dawned on Buttons, lighting up his face. “Red, somebody could’ve picked up this rifle and the knife after those scrapes we had with the Apaches out on the long grass.”
“Could be,” Red allowed. “But I didn’t see anybody do it.”
“As I recollect, you were busy and so was I,” Buttons said. “Easy enough for Seth Roper or that Carter feller to stash a rifle and knife in the stage.”
T. C. Lyons said, “Could be somebody gave an Indian rifle to Glover. But the Apache who killed the major would have his own knife.”
“Then why leave it in Morgan’s back?” Red said. “An Indian sets store by a good fighting knife, and Nascha was still wearing his when he was arrested. I reckon somebody used a trade knife to make it seem obvious that an Apache was the killer.”
“Maybe Nascha had
two knives,” Lyons said.
“That’s what Buttons said, but it ain’t real likely,” Red said.
“Don’t forget that the Apache did threaten to kill the major,” Lyons said.
“Yeah, we have Mrs. Morgan’s word for that,” Red said. “And now that she’s a very rich widow, I guess we have to heed what she says.”
Lyons was in the process of lighting his pipe, but he stopped in thought and let the match burn down in his fingers. He tossed the match away and after a while said, “All right, Ryan, some things just don’t add up. I’ll need to take time to walk through this.”
“What about Nascha?” Red said.
“As a civilian scout, I’ve decided that he’ll be transferred to the city jail, where I’ll be responsible for him,” Lyons said. “I still believe the Apache murdered Major Morgan and that there’s a logical explanation for all your objections. In the meantime, Ryan, study on who would want you dead.”
Red nodded. “I’ll do that.”
“And so will I,” Lyons said. “One thing, though, don’t call out Seth Roper. He wouldn’t hire somebody to kill you, he’d do it himself. And if he did hire an assassin, he’d pick somebody a sight better than Sam Glover.”
“Could be that whoever hired Glover knew he wasn’t near good enough to kill me,” Red said. “Maybe it was meant as a warning . . . to scare me the hell out of El Paso.”
“What we got here is a heap of could be and maybe,” Lyons said. “When you come up with something definite, come see me, Ryan. Until then you’re just a rooster crowing on a dung pile. And another thing, unless you have some natural facts to tell, stay the hell away from me, huh?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As the grandfather clock in the lobby chimed midnight, Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon were the only patrons of the La Scala Hotel’s bar. A bored mixologist polished a glass and looked forward to the one o’clock closing time, and over by the piano an equally bored saloon girl used a forefinger to pick out the melody of a Chopin nocturne.
Buttons had opened his mouth several times to say something and then shut it again. Finally, Red said, “Out with it, Buttons. What’s on your mind?”
Muldoon raised his whiskey to his lips, decided against it, and laid the glass back on the table. “All right then, here’s what I think . . . the major was murdered because Stella Morgan wanted to be a rich widow. Either Roper or Carter did the killing and used an Apache knife so the scout would be blamed. Red, you made a lot of noise about Nascha not being the murderer, and that made you a danger to Stella’s plans and a marked man. Somebody then paid Sam Glover to kill you, tried to do it on the cheap, and hired a greenhorn who spent his life seeing double and couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Are you with me so far?”
“I’m listening,” Red said.
“Good, because here’s where I sum it all up . . . none of this Stella Morgan stuff is any business of ours. I say we hitch up the team, take the stage back to Fort Concho, and then let the Rangers handle it.”
“And in the meantime, the Apache hangs and Stella takes the train to Washington and enters high society, well away from Texas Ranger jurisdiction. Of course, Roper and Carter go with her as strong-arm bodyguards and provide the muscle for her further criminal ventures. After all, if you’re a beautiful woman who can murder an army officer husband and get away with it, you might believe that you can bump off another wealthy husband and become richer still. So, how does that set with you?”
“Like I said, that’s all well and good, but it’s still got nothing to do with us. Red, you’re a shotgun messenger, I’m a driver, so let’s get back to what we know best. As far as I’m concerned, we shake the dust of El Paso off our boots and never come back. Red, we can pick up passengers along the way for points east as far as New Orleans. Hell, ol’ Abe Patterson will be so pleased, he’ll give us a bonus.”
Suddenly, Red Ryan’s face creased in thought. Then he said, “New Orleans . . . Buttons . . . hell . . . yeah . . . that’s it!”
Buttons grinned. “Red, I’m as happy as a pig in a peach orchard that I’ve talked some sense into you at last.”
“No, it’s not about picking up passengers, it’s about Lucian Carter.”
“Huh?”
“Lucian Carter. I just remembered what I heard one time. Listen, do you recollect the name Elijah Carter? The newspapers called him Old Man Carter or Killer Carter on account of how he ran a murder-for-hire business out of New Orleans.”
Button’s puzzled face told Red that his driver had drawn a blank.
“Well, he did, and over the course of twenty years he signed up some of the fastest guns in the business to make the kills,” Ryan said. “Yeah, it’s all coming back to me now. At Carter’s trial, the prosecutor said that Bill Longley did a job for Carter, so did Cullen Baker and Dallas Stoudenmire and a dozen other named gunfighters, but none of that could be proved, and the gunslingers never stood trial. But Elijah Carter was found guilty of contracting out seven murders for hire by person or persons unknown, though the real number was at least twenty times that.”
“So, what happened to him?”
“They hung him. But here’s the thing . . . Elijah Carter had two sons, both of them stone-cold killers who did a lot of their Pa’s dirty work, but, like the other gunmen, there was not enough evidence to convict them. The older brother was soon shot dead by a deputy sheriff in Abilene, but the other disappeared. I think the missing son is Lucian Carter, and Stella Morgan hired him in San Antonio around the time Major Morgan’s mother died.”
“And left him all her money,” Buttons said. “You think Carter murdered the old lady?”
“That seems logical to me,” Red said. “You saw Lucian Carter shoot. He’s no bank clerk, lay to that.”
Buttons stifled a yawn, and the saloon girl left the piano and walked past Red, her hips swaying, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she kept on walking to the bar and ordered a rum punch.
“Red, who told you all that stuff about the Carters?” Buttons said. “Maybe somebody was spinning you a big windy.”
“Do you mind I told you that a few years back I rode shotgun for the Dexter Brothers Mining Company up the Montana Territory way?” Red said. “Well, us shotgun guards and some muleskinners got snowed in for three weeks in the winter of 1880 and all we had to do was talk. One of the guards was out of New Orleans, a nice Cajun feller by the name of Alan Belanger, and one day we got to talking about gunslingers and sich, and he told me about old Elijah Carter and them. Now Belanger was a religious feller, much given to saying his prayers and all, so he wasn’t the kind to tell a big windy.” Ryan shook his head. “He got killed by holdup men the following spring, and I took that hard when I heard it.”
Buttons sat in silence for a while, drained his glass, and replaced it on the table. “Well, it’s me for my bed,” he said. Then, standing, “Red, the story about the Elijah Carter feller changes nothing. What Stella Morgan does or doesn’t do is still none of our business.”
“Maybe you’re right, and that’s the case. I don’t know,” Red said.
“We’re well out of it,” Buttons said.
“They did try to kill me,” Red said. “I’d say that makes it kinda personal.”
“And who is they?”
“Stella Morgan, Seth Roper, and Lucian Carter, that’s who they are.”
Buttons shook his head. “Sleep on it, Red. Maybe you’ll see things in a different light come morning.”
“Buttons, it’s all about righting a wrong, isn’t it?” Ryan said.
“Yeah, Red, I’m right, you’re wrong. Now, goodnight to ye.”
* * *
After Buttons left, Red Ryan stepped to the bar and said to the girl, “Can I buy you a drink?”
She smiled, showing crooked teeth. “Yes, I’d like a bottle of champagne.”
“Bartender, a rum punch for the lady and a whiskey for me,” Red said.
“Cheapskate,” the girl said. “If you were ugly I’d walk right
on out of here.”
“If you were ugly, so would I,” Red said.
“And ugly or not, you’re both out of here at one o’clock,” the bartender said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
On what would be the last day of his life, the Apache named Nascha was taken in chains from the Fort Bliss guardhouse to the El Paso city jail, a log structure with a dirt floor behind the marshal’s office that was due for demolition.
At the same time across town, Red Ryan woke with a pounding headache, and beside him was a girl with crooked teeth who’d looked a sight prettier seen through the amber prism of last night’s whiskey glass.
Ryan swung his legs over the side of the bed, groaned, held his head in his hands, and suffered . . . and a few moments later his torment was made worse by a demanding and determined pounding on the hotel room door.
“Go away,” Red whimpered. “I’m dying here.”
“Open the door, Red,” Buttons Muldoon said. He sounded just fine, almost jolly. “I found us a job.”
Red’s lamentations were loud and many, but he finally summed them up when he said, “I don’t want a damned job.”
The girl beside him stirred and said, “Wha . . . what’s happening?”
“Nothing,” Red said. “Go back to sleep.”
Buttons hammered on the door again. “Red, it’s a short passenger run to a ranch near the Franklin Mountains. Hell, we’ll make fifty dollars.”
Despite his hangover, Red was interested enough to ask, “What kind of passenger?”
“The female kind, a college student visiting her folks. She plans to be a doctor, and she’s right pretty.”
“I need a doctor,” Red said.
“No, you don’t,” Buttons said. “You need coffee and some bacon and eggs, and Red, I want you with me riding shotgun. Now buck up and come back to the land of the living.”
“Give me another hour or two, for mercy’s sake,” Ryan said. “Come back then. The college gal can wait for a spell.”
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