Riding Shotgun

by William W. Johnstone

  “Thank God for that,” Red said.

  Buttons grinned and said, “Now that’s all settled . . . Waiter! Burn me another steak . . . and send the bill to Sheriff Lyons!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Rachel Tyler fixed her cameo brooch to the high collar of her white shirtwaist and studied herself in the mirror. Yes, along with a long red skirt, wide black belt, and high-heeled ankle boots she looked very ladylike, as befitted an aspiring physician.

  “I won’t be gone long, Papa,” she said, walking into the dining room as she adjusted her hat. “I just want to buy a few things in El Paso.”

  Holt Tyler, dressed in dusty range clothes, looked up from his breakfast, smiled, and said, “You look just as pretty as your Ma did when she went to town.”

  Rachel gave a little curtsey. “Why, thank you. Is Manuel ready?”

  “He’s outside with the buggy. Be careful, Rachel, and don’t talk to any strangers.”

  “Father, I think Manuel Cantero would shoot anybody who got within talking distance.”

  Tyler grinned. “I reckon he would do just that. You’re still a little girl in pigtails as far as Manuel is concerned.”

  When Rachel stepped out to the buggy, Cantero grinned. “You look real pretty today, Miss Rachel. I’ll think I’ll have to fight off the young El Paso bucks.”

  Rachel’s smile acknowledged the vaquero’s compliment. “Not the handsome ones, I hope,” she said.

  “Ah, those most of all,” Cantero said. He was short, stocky, and had an ivory-handled Colt stuck into the waistband of his pants. The vaquero had killed five outlaws during his time on the ranch, and Holt Tyler trusted him implicitly.

  “The New York Hat Shop first,” Rachel said, as Cantero assisted her into the buggy. “And then the shoe store and then Madame Blanche’s Gowns & Dainties and then . . . well, we’ll see how our time goes.”

  If Manuel Cantero’s heart sank, he was gentleman enough to not let it show.

  * * *

  At the same time Rachel Tyler left the Rafter-T, a man stepped off a C. Bain and Company stage in El Paso. He was short, only five-foot-six, and slight with careful brown eyes above a great beak of a nose and under that a trimmed, military mustache. He wore a brown ankle-length tweed overcoat, a ditto suit of the same color, a bowler hat, and elastic-sided boots. In the right-hand pocket of his coat he carried a. 41 caliber self-cocking Colt that he’d used several times, twice resulting in a fatality for the other party. Phillip “Pip” Ogden was a forty-three-year-old San Antonio Police detective and by all appearances he was a mild-mannered man, but in the opinion of his contemporaries, crooks and police officers alike, “no meaner hombre ever drew breath.” A human bloodhound, so far in his twenty-year career he’d sniffed out hundreds of lawbreakers and sent fifty-six of them to the gallows without a single moment of regret. As fate would have it, Pip Ogden was soon to cross paths with Rachel Tyler and Red Ryan, Rachel for the better, but Red for the worse . . . much, much worse.

  * * *

  Rachel Tyler found nothing that suited her in the New York Hat Shop, but Madam Blanche’s was a different matter. After two hours of shopping, Manuel Cantero struggled out of the store to the buggy under a mountain of boxes and sundry packages tied with pink ribbon. Thus, fully occupied, the vaquero didn’t notice the two men who stopped on the boardwalk and took up position on either side of Rachel, who was uncomfortably aware of their presence but as yet unaware of their intentions.

  Cal Lawler and Kit Maxwell were a couple of troublemakers and small-time criminals with no obvious means of support, two of the hundreds of drifters who came and went in El Paso and were always a headache to the town’s law enforcement and respectable citizens. Petty theft and burglary provided Lawler and Maxwell with enough ill-gotten gains to keep them in whiskey and whores, but they were attracted to Rachel’s fresh-faced beauty and looking for some fun.

  “Buy you a drink, little lady?” said Lawler, an illiterate, unshaven, brute who smelled worse than he looked.

  Maxwell, tall and skinny with badly decayed teeth, grinned, put his arm around the girl’s waist, and said, “We got us a nice, cozy cabin nearby. You’ll like it, girly.”

  The two thugs should have been aware of two men who looked on that scene with disfavor. One of them was Manual Cantero, a skilled gun handler who, with a few notable exceptions, had no qualms about shooting gringos. The other was a small man wearing a bowler hat and troubled expression who had no qualms about shooting gringos either.

  Both men now went to Rachel’s rescue.

  Cantero pulled his Colt but then hesitated, afraid of hitting Rachel. Pip Ogden walked between Rachel Tyler and her pair of assailants and said, “You men, be off with you now. Leave the young lady alone.”

  Lawler, a braggart and a bully, grinned, threw a curse at Ogden, grabbed him by the front of his coat, and pushed him away. “In El Paso, I’m the cock o’ the walk, and I do as I damn well please,” he said.

  “And we do who we please,” Maxwell said, baring his rotten teeth.

  Three events followed very quickly.

  Rachel wrenched away from Maxwell’s arm, Cantero moved a step to his right, seeking a clear shot, and Ogden, as he was pushed away, dropped his hand to his coat pocket, came up with his Colt, and slammed it into the left side of Lawler’s head. The man groaned and dropped to his knees, and Ogden swung the heavy revolver again, this time into the back of Lawler’s bent head and then, mean as hell, kicked him in the teeth before the man bellied onto the boardwalk.

  Cantero, a gunfighter, reacted the way he knew best.

  He triggered his Colt, and Maxwell shrieked as he took the hit in his chest and staggered back against the front door of Madam Blanche’s store. An old Texas lawman had once told Cantero, “Keep shooting ’em till they fall.” Now he heeded that advice and pumped two fast shots into Maxwell’s belly. The man’s rotten mouth opened in a soundless scream, and he dropped into a sitting position, his back to the door, and died within moments.

  Gunsmoke drifted in the street as onlookers gathered, and there were calls to send for the sheriff. Madam Blanche, tall and slender, dressed in severe black, opened her door and Maxwell’s body fell inside and she stared at the bloodied corpse for a moment and then fainted. Seeing her employer faint, her teenaged assistant, newly arrived from France, promptly followed suit, and suddenly the doorway was blocked with bodies, two living, one dead.

  Rachel Tyler, a rancher’s daughter, was made of sterner stuff. She quickly went to the aid of the two women while Ogden and Cantero stood together on the boardwalk and silently awaited the arrival of the law.

  * * *

  Attracted by the gunfire, Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon were already on the scene when T. C. Lyons arrived. The body of Kit Maxwell was still in Madam Blanche’s doorway, but she and her assistant were inside, Rachel Tyler busy administering smelling salts and medicinal brandy. Cal Lawler was on his hands and knees spitting blood and teeth, and Pip Ogden was seriously thinking about kicking him in the face again.

  Lyons carried a shotgun in the crook of his arm as he surveyed the melancholy scene and said, “What the hell happened here? Ryan, did you have a hand in this?”

  Red shook his head. “No, I didn’t, Sheriff. Me and Buttons just got here.”

  Ogden stepped forward. “Sheriff, two men were troubling a respectable young lady,” he said. “One got shot and I buffaloed the other one.”

  “Oh, you did, did you? Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” Lyons said. “Who did the shooting?”

  “That would be me, señor,” Cantero said.

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Manuel Cantero and I ride for the Rafter-T.”

  “Holt Tyler’s outfit?”

  “Sí, señor. Mr. Tyler is my boss.”

  Lyons felt the ground shift under him. Tyler was one of the most powerful ranchers in Texas and a man to be reckoned with. He’d have to tread carefully.

&n
bsp; “You in the bowler, who the hell are you?” Lyons said.

  “My name is Phillip Ogden, but most people call me Pip if they call me anything at all. I’m a detective with the San Antonio Police Department.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing in El Paso?” Lyons said

  “I’m conducting what could be a murder investigation,” Ogden said.

  “You have no jurisdiction in El Paso . . . Pip,” Lyons said.

  “Right, none at all, other than that Governor John Ireland is a personal friend of mine who takes a close interest in my work.”

  Lyons felt the earth move under his feet again.

  “We will talk about this later,” Lyons said.

  “Yes, we will,” Ogden said. He put his ankle boot on Cal Lawler’s shoulder and pushed hard so that the man tumbled heavily on his side. “It’s too late for the other one, but this animal needs a doctor.”

  Lyons stepped onto the boardwalk and glanced at the groaning Lawler. “I don’t know this man, but I think the dead one’s name is Maxwell. I arrested him for public drunkenness a while back.” He pointed out a couple of men. “You and you, take this fellow to Dr. Williams and get him patched up.”

  “Then what do we do with him?” one of the men said.

  “Take him to the jail and throw him inside. The door is open.” Then to Ogden, “Where is the young lady?”

  “I’m right here.” Rachel stepped from the dress shop door. “What can I do for you, Sheriff ?”

  “And your name is?”

  “Rachel Tyler.”

  “Ah yes, Holt Tyler’s daughter,” Lyons said, smiling. “Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon recently rescued you from road agents. They told me all about it.”

  “They were both very brave,” Rachel said, smiling at Red, who stood in the crowd.

  “It seems that gentlemen are always saving you from brigands, Miss Tyler,” Lyons said.

  “Let’s hope that it doesn’t become a habit,” Rachel said.

  Lyons pointed at Manuel Cantero. “This man works for your father?”

  “Yes, Manuel is one of our vaqueros. I’ve known him since I was a child.”

  “Why did he kill Maxwell?”

  “Why don’t you ask Manuel, Sheriff ?”

  “I’m asking you, Miss Tyler.”

  “He thought the man was about to harm me,” Rachel said.

  “Did you think that?”

  “Yes, I did.” Rachel reached into her purse and produced her derringer. “I would have shot him myself, had not Manuel fired first.” She frowned. “I hope you’re not thinking of arresting him, Sheriff. My father sets great store by Manuel.”

  Lyons had his back to the wall. The last thing he needed right now was an angry rancher showing up on his doorstep with fifty equally irate waddies demanding their vaquero back.

  “The way I see it, is that you, Miss Tyler, were in fear for your life and the Mexican came to your defense, as did Mr. Ogden,” Lyons said. “Now, others may not see it that way, but since you and Cantero are not residents of El Paso, addressing the community’s concerns will be a job for the country sheriff.”

  “I’d like to speak with him on other matters,” Ogden said.

  “And you will, as soon as a county sheriff is appointed,” Lyons said.

  “When will that be?” Ogden said.

  Lyons blinked and said, “Soon.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  T. C. Lyons decided that a show of cooperation with the little San Antonio detective might not go amiss, and could even help him in his bid to become the first chief of police in El Paso’s history. To that end, he palmed off Red Ryan on Pip Ogden, introducing Red, with considerable exaggeration, as “a detective in training.”

  “Detective Ogden, you and Ryan must have many matters to discuss,” Lyons said. “So I’ll leave you to it.”

  But Red would have none of it. After he and Ogden left Lyons’s office, he said, “To set things straight with you, Ogden, I’m a representative of the Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company and it is with them that my loyalties lie.”

  Ogden stopped on the boardwalk to light a cigar, and then said, “In what capacity are you a representative?”

  “Shotgun guard,” Red said.

  Ogden ran his eyes over Red’s beaded, buckskin shirt, his derby hat with the bullet holes, the cavalry blue bandana loosely tied around his neck, and the holstered Colt on his hip. “As a detective in training you were a considerable disappointment to me, Ryan, but as a shotgun guard, well, I guess you pass muster.”

  Red bristled, not liking the sound of that, and said, “Shotgun guard is a fine profession.”

  Ogden smiled. “Ah yes, the dignity of the job. Honor lies in honest toil, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Damn right,” Red said. “And whatever the hell else you said is right as well.”

  Ogden nodded. “Keep telling me I’m right, and you and I will get along just fine, Ryan. Now tell me about the double murder this morning.”

  “An old couple was killed by a robber,” Red said. “It’s nothing that would interest you.”

  “Violent crime is always of interest to me,” Ogden said. “How were they killed?”

  “They were stabbed to death,” Red said. “After a struggle, I’m told.”

  “Ah, yes, like the feather pillow, the blade is silent. Take me to the crime scene.”

  “The bodies are gone, and there’s nothing to see except blood,” Red said.

  “I’ll be the judge of what there is to be seen or not seen. Lead the way.”

  * * *

  “It’s a small space, isn’t it?” Pip Ogden said. “Very confined. And the old man put up quite a struggle, you say?”

  “He fought hard for his life and got stabbed five times,” Red said.

  “I see,” Ogden said. He looked around the tiny store and then his gaze fixed on a small display table that had been overturned in the struggle. “Hello, what have we here?”

  A tiny scrap of fabric clung to a nail that stuck out from a corner of the rickety table. Ogden pulled the cloth free and held it up to Red. “What do you think of this, Ryan?”

  Red shrugged away the question. “All I see is a few threads.”

  “That’s all you see?”

  “Yeah, that’s all.”

  “Hmm . . . interesting. There are none so blind as those who will not see.”

  Ogden reached into a pocket, produced a chrome magnifying glass with an ebony handle, and used it to study the cloth scrap. “Tweed,” he said. “Light brown in color, possibly woven here in the United States, but more likely it’s British, Scottish to be exact, Harris tweed it’s called. Yes . . . hand-spun, hand-woven and dyed by peasant craftspeople in the Outer Hebrides, northern islands at the edge of nowhere.”

  Red was puzzled. “So, what does that tell you, Ogden?”

  “Let me ask a question first . . . the old couple, Izak and Raisa Rabinovich, were poor people, were they not?”

  “Look around you, Ogden. What do you think?”

  “Tiny living quarters, selling bric-a-brac to scrape a meager living, yes, they were poor.” Ogden stared into Red’s eyes. “The man who wore the tweed was not. Since British nobility began wearing tweed, it’s become very fashionable in our country. Tweed jackets, tweed coats, tweed suits . . . the young San Antonio bucks are wearing it everywhere, even to the opera house.”

  “Maybe the Rabinovich couple had a rich customer who tore his pants,” Red said.

  “Why would a rich customer frequent a store like this? If he wanted a watch repaired, he could go to one of the big jewelers in El Paso. I’m sure there are a few?”

  “I understand that there are several used by high rollers with expensive mistresses,” Red said.

  “An expensive mistress would not like to be taken to this store,” Ogden said. “No, the table was overturned in the struggle, and the killer snagged his pants on a nail. You told me this was a robbery. What was stolen?”

  “A came
o brooch,” Red said.

  “A what?”

  “A Russian cameo brooch,” Red said.

  “Valuable?”

  “It seems that Raisa Rabinovich thought so. She and her husband were Russian, and it was her link to the old country.”

  Ogden said, “Why would a man of apparently ample means murder two people for a cameo?”

  “Sheriff Lyons thinks maybe the killer wanted the brooch to give to a lady friend,” Red said.

  Again, Stella Morgan came unbidden into Red’s mind, but he dismissed the notion immediately. She would not condone a double murder for a bauble when she could easily buy better. It was preposterous to think otherwise.

  But the thought led to another, and he said, “There was another murder a few days ago. An army officer was stabbed at the fort.”

  “Stabbed, you say?” Ogden said. “Who was this officer?”

  “Major John Morgan. An Apache army scout was blamed for the killing and then lynched by a mob.”

  “Was he guilty?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then who did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Red said. “My driver and me brought Morgan’s wife, as she was then, from Fort Concho. She’s still in town. You could talk with her.” And then, a fact worth adding, “Major Morgan was about to retire. His mother died and made him a wealthy man.”

  “The widow’s name is Stella Morgan,” Ogden said. “She lived with Martha Grace Morgan before the old lady’s death at the age of eighty-two. There were rumors that Stella was having an affair with a man named Lucian Carter. But I have no proof of that. Stella Morgan insisted that they were just friends.”

  “How do you know all this?” Red said.

  “Because I investigated Martha Morgan’s death. I suspected murder, but my superiors told me her death was due to natural causes, and I was ordered to drop the case.”

  “Then why are you here in El Paso?”

  “I took a leave of absence. I still think Martha was murdered.”

  “Ogden, have you ever heard of Elijah Carter, worked out of New Orleans?” Red said.