“I would never betray you, Stella,” Carter said. “Never.”
“No, I don’t believe you ever would.” The woman took Carter’s hand and placed it on her left breast. “I will always keep you here, Lucian, in my heart.”
The platform was deserted, and Carter was in no hurry to remove his hand. Finally, Stella took his wrist and pushed it away. She smiled, “Later, Lucian, when we’re alone, maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
Carter looked as though he’d tasted something bitter. “We’re never alone. It seems that Seth Roper is always lurking around.”
Stella smiled. “Jealous, Lucian?”
“You bet I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be. Roper means nothing to me. I wouldn’t let him touch me.”
“Then why is he still around?”
“Because I am beset by enemies, that redheaded stagecoach shotgun guard for one, and I might need Roper’s gun.”
“You don’t need Roper, Stella. I can take care of Red Ryan.”
“No, Lucian. We’ve got to arrive in Washington clean, as though we’d just stepped away from John’s muddy grave and washed our feet in our tears. Let Roper handle Ryan.” She lowered a black veil over her face, took Carter’s arm, and said, “Now shall we promenade back to the hotel and let El Paso see the grieving widow dressed all in black . . . with a bright red corset underneath?”
As they walked down the paved incline that lead from the station, Stella turned her beautiful face to Carter and said, “There is one thing I forgot to mention, Lucian.”
“And what is that?”
“Please return the carpetbag to my room.”
Carter stopped mid-stride. “You don’t trust me?”
“Of course, I trust you, silly,” Stella said, smiling. “But there are many outlaws and crooks in El Paso, and the bag will be safer with me. I mean, who would dare try to steal from the room of a dead army hero’s widow?”
“Any man tries to take the carpetbag, I’ll kill him,” Carter said.
“No, I told you, I don’t want shootings before we leave for Washington,” Stella said. “You will return the bag, and I’ll keep it safe, Lucian, and there’s an end to it.”
“What the hell . . .” Carter said. His eyes were fixed ahead of him.
Then Stella Morgan saw what he saw . . . Seth Roper marching at the head of a hundred-strong crowd of noisy people.
She and Carter stopped to let the crowd pass, and Stella was relieved when Roper politely touched his hat brim to her as he passed, as though they were not close acquaintances . . . or lovers.
Carter stopped a man as he passed and asked what the hell was going on. The man grinned and said, “Didn’t you hear? Seth Roper killed Big Jim Black.” He pulled free of Carter’s restraining hand and said, “There’s a hell of an excitement in this town.”
After the crowd passed, Carter said, “Well, Stella, no killing, huh?”
“I’m sure it was justified,” Stella said. “Seth Roper knows how high the stakes are in this game.”
“Game? It’s no game,” Carter said. “The sooner we get out of El Paso the better, or the whole plan could come tumbling down around our ears.”
“You’re being alarmist, Lucian,” Stella said. “You heard the ticket agent. Three more days and we can leave.”
“What about Roper?”
“What about him?”
“He’s attracting too much attention, and that attention could be bad news for you and me. Hell, Stella, Roper knows too much.”
“The only law in El Paso is that idiot, the marshal. He blamed my husband’s killing on the Apache, didn’t he? He’s hardly going to pin it on you now.”
“If Roper finds himself in a corner, he could blab.”
“Blab about what? He’s in too deep himself for that. He helped plan John’s death, didn’t he?”
“Still, I wish you would let me gun him,” Carter said.
“No, Lucian. I want Seth Roper in Washington with us. He’s a killer, and I may have need of his future services.”
* * *
Stella Morgan lay naked in bed and stared at the plastered ceiling. Without turning her head, she said, “Lucian wants to kill you. Did you know that?”
Seth Roper grinned. “A lot of men want to kill me.”
“We need him for a while longer,” Stella said. She sounded drowsy.
Roper kissed the woman’s sweat-damp shoulder. “Why?”
“I don’t know. We might need him to take care of Red Ryan.”
“This morning I saw Ryan beat Jim Black to a pulp with his fists. He’s dangerous, more dangerous than I thought.”
Stella turned and leaned on her elbow. “Why should Ryan concern himself with what we do? I mean, it’s no business of his.”
“Hanging the Indian troubled him. He knew the man was innocent. And on top of that, he’s a do-gooder who wants to keep his halo polished, all nice and shiny.”
“Do you think he knows that it was Lucian who killed my husband?”
“I doubt it.”
“Could he find out?”
“Only if Carter tells him.”
“Seth, Carter is a weak link. He’s jealous of you, and jealous men do foolish things. Push him hard enough and he could spill the beans.”
“I’ll get rid of Carter,” Roper said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What about Ryan?”
“Him too.”
“It’s got to look good. When we arrive in Washington I don’t want any lawmen on our trail.”
“There won’t be. You can trust me on that.”
“Did you look in the carpetbag?”
“I know what’s in it.”
“We’ll live well, Seth, you and I.”
“Maybe we’ll get hitched, huh?” Roper said, pulling Stella closer to him.
“Marriage is in the cards, yes, but not to you, Seth. I have other plans.”
“Then you plan to marry well,” Roper said, his throat tight
“Marry into more money, you mean. I disposed of one husband, I can dispose of others. No one plays the grieving widow better than me.”
“You mean, I’ll dispose of others,” Roper said.
“Yes, you will, and you’ll continue to share my bed. We’ll have to be discreet, that’s all.”
Roper grinned. “Well, we don’t need to be discreet tonight.”
“No, we don’t.” Stella pushed herself against Roper. “So let’s be indiscreet again,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Oh, Mr. Ryan, we came as soon as we heard,” Edna Powell said. She and Rhoda Carr had barged into Red Ryan’s small hotel room like a couple of forty-gun frigates under full sail.
“Heard what, Mrs. Powell?” Red said.
“That you’d been in a fistfight with a dreadful man and that there had been a shooting,” Edna said. “Corporal Powell is most distressed.”
“And so is Corporal Carr, and so am I,” Rhoda said. She threw up her hands in horror. “Lordy, look at your face and your poor head! Bring the medical supplies, Edna.”
“How did you hear about the fight?” Red said.
“Hear about it! It’s all anyone’s talking about!” Rhoda said. “Corporal Carr said that he heard from a sergeant who heard it from an eyewitness. They say you were at the cemetery and took on a giant of a man and gave him a good thrashing.”
“And then the giant of a man got himself shot,” Red said.
“We heard that too,” Edna said. “One ruffian shooting another over where to bury the savage that murdered poor Major Morgan. Hold on, Mr. Ryan, this will sting.”
And it did.
“Here’s more stinging stuff,” Edna said, applying liberal doses of brown liquid to his cut and bruised face. “Did you know that dear Mrs. Morgan fainted at the major’s funeral this morning and had to be revived with Rhoda’s smelling salts, poor thing? She didn’t like the salts very much, and who can blame her? Now let us take a look at your head, Mr. Ryan.
My, my, but you’re a brave little soldier. When I tell Corporal Powell, he’ll be very proud of you.”
Red suffered the further ministrations of the two women in silence. The proceedings were closely watched by Buttons Muldoon, who visited his room smelling of rye whiskey and faintly of cheap perfume.
Red refused a bandage for his head, but Edna insisted that he take a spoonful of Dr. Lawson’s Tonic and Vitality Restorer. “It will make you feel better in no time, Mr. Ryan,” she said. “Corporal Powell swears by it.”
Since the tonic was about ninety-nine percent alcohol, Red had no difficulty in swallowing the concoction, and Edna and Rhoda left, happy in the knowledge that they’d restored him to, as Rhoda said, “rude, good health.”
After the door closed on the two women, Buttons said, “I got news.”
“Have you been drinking?” Red said.
“Yes, I have, and you’ll want a drink too when I tell you what I’m gonna tell you.”
Red smiled. “Then tell me. And you smell like perfume.”
“That’s another story,” Buttons said.
“All right, then tell me your good news first, the story later,” Red said.
“I didn’t say it was good news, Red. It’s bad news.”
“Then I don’t want to hear it.”
“Well, it’s only kinda bad.”
“All right, so I’ll only half listen,” Red said.
“The Indian is gone,” Buttons said.
“What?”
“Somebody took him. Left the pine box and stole the Indian.”
“How do you know?” Red said, horrified.
“Sheriff Lyons told me.”
“How did he find out?”
“The feller who helped the undertaker lost a fob from his watch and he went back up to the cemetery to look for it. He didn’t find the watch fob and then he couldn’t find the Indian. Poof! Gone!”
Someone pounded on the door, and Buttons said, “I bet that’s Lyons. He said he was coming to see you.”
“Open the door, Buttons,” Red said, sitting on the bed. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Marshal T. C. Lyons’s opening remarks were short, sweet, and to the point. “Ryan, you look like hell. Are you ever going to leave El Paso?”
“Soon, after I get a few things sorted out,” Red said.
“How soon is soon?” Lyons said. “No, don’t answer that. Soon is when six men carry you by the handles to Concordia Cemetery. You make a habit of sticking your nose into other people’s business, Ryan, and in this town, that’s not healthy. Hell, are you going to offer me a drink or not?”
“Buttons, over there on the table. Pour the sheriff a drink and one for me.”
“And one for yourself,” Buttons said. “Thanks for asking.”
Lyons sat in the only chair in the room and when he was settled, Red said, “You came to tell me about the Apache.”
“Later. First, let’s talk about the prank you played at the cemetery with the dead Indian and then the fistfight with Big Jim Black—”
“I won that fight, but barely,” Red said.
“Yeah, looking at your face I can believe it. And then Seth Roper plugs Black to save your life, and him a man that’s got no love for you, Ryan. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t,” Red said.
“Me neither. But from what I hear, Roper is on the brag at the Platte River saloon, and suddenly he’s the biggest man in El Paso. Maybe that’s why he shot Black, to clear the way for himself.”
“Could be, Sheriff. Now what about the Indian?”
“Somebody dug him up,” Lyons said.
“Who?”
“Ryan, stick a pin anywhere in a list of the names of every gent in this town and you’ve got your man.”
“Will you go looking for the body, Sheriff?” Red said.
“Look? Where?”
“I don’t know. Around.”
“If the Apache’s body is within the city limits, I’ll find it. If it’s outside the city limits I’ll leave it to—”
“I know, the county sheriff,” Red said.
“You finally got your saddle on the right hoss, Ryan. You’re a slow learner, but once you learn a thing, you don’t forget it.” Lyons drained his glass and stood. He eyed Red with little affection and said, “Here’s how it’s coming down. You got three days to leave El Paso, and I’m being generous because I’m too kindhearted for my own good. Maybe you and your driver can pick up some passengers in that time, or maybe not. But starting tomorrow you’re on notice.”
“And suppose I don’t want to leave, what then?” Red said. His quick temper simmered.
“Then, I’ll toss you in the lockup and throw away the key.”
Buttons became suddenly belligerent. “On what charge?” he said.
Lyons’s smile was as thin as a fiddle string. “Gee, I’m glad you asked that, stagecoach man, because I’ve got a crackerjack charge just for Ryan . . . incitement to riot, in accordance with the Texas Penal Code of 1850. I read all about it in a lawbook just this morning.” Lyons slapped his hands together and did a little jig. “Hell, boy, I could keep you behind bars for years.”
“What riot did I . . . say that word again,” Red said.
“Incite. Incite is a ten-dollar law word,” Lyons said.
“I didn’t incite a riot,” Red said.
“Yes, you did. By burying an Indian in Concordia, you incited the assemblage of seven or more persons and created an immediate danger of damage to property or injury to persons. Well, property was damaged by a drunken mob breaking a mirror in the Platte River saloon, and Big Jim Black was injured by you in a brawl and was then shot and killed.” Lyons shook his head. “If that sorry business over the Indian wasn’t inciting a riot, I don’t know what was.” He glared at Buttons. “And, Muldoon, knowingly participating in a riot is a serious offense, so you’re not off the hook.”
Red smiled. “Lyons, you’ll never make all that stick in court.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Lyons said. “Earlier today I talked with Judge Azariah J. Thorndike the Third and he said that in fifty years of presiding over courts he’s never tried an incitement-to-riot case before, but he reckons he might well deliver a fifteen-year sentence, and possibly a hanging, as a warning to others. He’s very keen to get started.”
Lyons stepped to the door.
“Ryan, you and Muldoon study on that for a spell and let me know what to tell Judge Thorndike. Bless him, he’s eighty-three years old, and his heart is set on a trial. He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t decide to stay in town.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Red Ryan was tired out from the events of the day and he didn’t let the dire warning from T. C. Lyons stop him from falling asleep as soon as his battered head hit the pillow.
Awakened with a start a couple of hours later by a shuffling noise in his room, he sat up and reached for the Colt on the bed stand—but never made it. Rough hands dragged him from the bed, and a callused, horny palm covered his mouth as the muzzle of a gun was shoved into his belly.
“Make no sound, white man,” a voice whispered in his ear.
Red’s sleepy grogginess vanished as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, and he saw two Apaches in the room with him. Both wore blue cavalry shell jackets, one with shoulder boards, and Red wondered if they’d once belonged to soldiers of C Company’s lost patrol. He had no time to ponder that question before he was dragged to his feet and one of the Indians, a Winchester in his hands, said, “Get dressed. Quickly.”
“You boys are making a big mistake,” Red said. “I’m not army.”
“Be silent, get dressed,” the Apache with the rifle said.
Red did as he was told and then he was pushed toward the open window.
“Out,” the Apache said.
“Hell, I’m on the second floor. You mean jump?” Red said.
“Out,” the Indian said.
The young warrior looke
d as though he’d use the Winchester without hesitation, and Red stepped to the window and looked down into the darkness. An Apache sat a gray horse in the alley, holding the reins of three other mounts, and Red reckoned one of the ponies was for him. An irritated rifle prod in the ribs pushed him to climb out the window and drop to the ground. He landed hard on both feet and then fell forward on all fours, his head pounding from the effort. Immediately Red was joined by the two Apaches from his room, who landed soundlessly beside him, graceful as leaping panthers. Red’s hands were tied behind his back and then he was hustled onto a horse. The other Indians mounted, one of them taking the reins of Red’s pony, and they left the hotel at a walk, keeping to the shadows like gray ghosts.
Despite the closeness of blaring saloons and busy streets, the Apaches led Red Ryan out of El Paso unseen, and only when the lights of the town lay behind them did they push their horses into a canter, riding into the vast blackness of the night.
After an hour, hurting on a pony with a rough gait and bony back, Red saw a speck of red light in the distance, like a cinder glowing in the darkness. The light was a small fire, and around it sat three Apaches. One of them, who had thin gray braids, stood at his approach. Red was dragged from his horse and pushed toward the old man, his face a network of deep wrinkles, a sign of his age and a legacy of a lifetime spent under the merciless desert sun. At a short distance from the fire was a fresh grave the Apaches had covered in rocks, something they always did to protect a body from scavenging coyotes.
Now Red was surrounded by six Apaches, and the expressions on their faces revealed one thing in common . . . an implacable hatred for the white man and all he stood for. In later years, Red Ryan would say that he knew he was a dead man that night and his only hope was that he would not scream too much when the torture started. He’d no doubt that these Apaches had taken part in the attack on the Patterson stage and they blamed him for the death of Ilesh, their promising young war chief, and now he must pay the penalty.
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