“Brother Morgan Ford came to Cottondale ten years ago, hoping to outrun a reputation as a gunman, and in that quest, he succeeded,” Palmer said. “He built the saloon, but when the town died, Morgan took sick and died with it. Him and me, we were the only two left. I remained to take care of him in his last weeks, as was my Christian duty.”
“How come the town died?” Red said. “Looks like it was a nice enough place with a church an’ all.”
“At one time it was,” Palmer said. “But then the farmers who wanted to grow cotton here discovered that the cost of irrigating the land ate up any profits. One by one, defeated by the desert, they pulled stakes and left until only Morgan and me remained. Three days ago the heart trouble finally took him and he gasped his last.”
“And lost me a fare,” Buttons said.
“You still have a fare, Mr. Muldoon,” Palmer said. “When Morgan lay dying he told me to contact his only living relative, a niece by the name of Luna Talbot, and ask her if she would bury him. Needless to say, I was surprised that Brother Ford had a niece, but using El Paso as my mailing address, since mail is no longer delivered to Cottondale, I wrote to her and she replied and said yes. She wants his body and will pay to have it sent to her. Apparently, Mrs. Talbot has a successful ranch due south of us on this side of the Rio Bravo. In every way, she seems to be an admirable young lady.”
“And you want us to take the body to her? Is that it, Reverend?” Buttons said.
“Yes, I do. That is why you’re here. I contacted the Abe Patterson company in San Angelo and made all the arrangements.”
Buttons shook his head. “Nobody made arrangements with me that involved picking up a dead man. The Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company doesn’t carry corpses, and if it ain’t there already, I plan to write that down in the rule book.”
“Five hundred dollars, Mr. Muldoon,” Palmer said.
“Huh?” Buttons said.
“Five hundred dollars, Mr. Muldoon.” A heavy cloudburst rattled on the cabin’s tin roof, adding to the reverend’s suspenseful pause. “That is the amount of money the grieving Mrs. Luna Talbot is willing to pay for the safe delivery of her loved one.”
“I reckon that from here it’s around two hundred miles to the ranch you’re talking about,” Buttons said. “That’s a fifty-dollar fare.”
“And indeed, you are correct, Mr. Muldoon. The Patterson stage company gets fifty and you keep the rest.” The reverend smiled slightly. “Because of the unique nature of the . . . ah . . . delivery, Mrs. Talbot is prepared to be generous.”
“Red, what do you reckon?” Buttons said.
Before Red could answer, Palmer said, “I have a sufficient length of good hemp rope to lash the coffin to the top of the stage. We can make it secure so that Brother Morgan can take his final journey in peace.”
“Without falling off, you mean?” Red asked.
“Precisely,” Palmer said.
Buttons and Red exchanged a glance, and finally Buttons nodded. “Get the rope, Reverend.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Damn, but Brother Morgan must’ve been a heavy man,” Buttons Muldoon said, breathing hard as he looked up at the coffin lashed to the top of the Concord. “Coffin weighed a ton if it weighed an ounce.”
As always, the Reverend Solomon Palmer was unheeding of the rain that pounded on him. “No, he wasn’t. His illness had faded him to a nubbin. It’s the coffin that’s heavy. It came from El Paso and is crafted from the best walnut available with real silver furniture. Of course, it’s lead lined to help preserve our departed brother until he reaches his loved ones.”
“He might have been more considerate of the rannies that had to lift it,” Buttons said.
“Lead was his dying request,” Palmer said. “Brother Morgan wanted to look as fresh as possible when he reached the Talbot ranch.”
“Well, he’s got me all tuckered out,” Red Ryan said. “I got to get some shut-eye.”
“Me too,” Buttons said.
The Reverend Palmer’s hospitality did not extend to a bed for the night. “Your best bet is the saloon. It’s still got a good roof.”
“And a hard floor,” Buttons said.
“I’m sure you’ll be snug enough,” Palmer said. “When will you leave in the morning, Mr. Muldoon?”
“At first light.” Buttons looked up at the black sky. “Come rain or shine.”
“Crackerjack!” Palmer said. “Well, gentlemen, I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned and left, walking toward his cabin, followed by Buttons’s baleful gaze.
“Red, I don’t trust that feller. Do you?”
“He has a Colt and a Winchester. Hard to trust a preacher who’s armed to the teeth.”
“Red, so are we,” Buttons said. “Armed to the teeth, I mean.”
“Yeah, but we’re honest men.”
“Are we?” Buttons said.
“Hell yeah,” Red said. “Most of the time.”
* * *
Red Ryan figured he’d had enough rest and rose to his feet. Lulled by the patter of rain on the roof, he’d slept a couple of hours until Buttons’s snores, loud as a ripsaw running through knotty pine, woke him. He hadn’t a chance in hell of getting back to sleep.
He picked up his plug hat from the floor, settled it on his head, and stepped through darkness to the saloon door that he opened wide, breathing in the storm-washed night air. The rain had petered out and a gibbous moon rode high in the sky. Somewhere close, a pair of hunting coyotes talked to the stars. Red built a cigarette and walked onto the boardwalk. The street was a sluggish river of brown mud that oozed through a town of black shadows, silent as the grave.
He lit his cigarette, walked along the boardwalk a ways, and then returned to the saloon door and Buttons Muldoon’s snores. He flicked his glowing butt into the street and reached for the makings again. His hand never reached the pocket of his buckskin shirt . . . halted in the air by the double blast of a shotgun that shattered the quiet into a thousand slivers of sound.
“What the hell?” Buttons yelled.
“Scattergun,” Red replied.
Boots thudded on the saloon floor and Buttons joined Red on the boardwalk. “Where?”
“Sounded like it came from the reverend’s place.”
“Is he shooting at coyotes?”
“I guess not, since he doesn’t have a shotgun. Unless he has one stashed away somewhere.”
“Well, I guess we should go find out,” Buttons shook his head. “Damn it, I’m tired, Red. I haven’t slept a wink. Not a wink.”
“Me neither.”
* * *
Red Ryan noticed two things when he reached Solomon Palmer’s cabin. The first was that the door was wide open and hadn’t been forced and the second was the preacher’s body sprawled on the floor under the gun rack. His Colt and Winchester were gone.
“He died trying to reach his gun when he was shot,” Buttons said. “Looks like two barrels of buckshot in the back cut his suspenders right quick.”
“Seems like.” After a few moments of thought, Red said. “I think the reverend knew his killer and opened the door for him. Then something passed between them that scared Palmer and he attempted to get his gun. Then bang! bang! and he bought the farm.”
Instinctively Buttons dropped his hand to his holstered Colt. “Hell, Red, the killer could still be around here.”
“I doubt it. I reckon he stashed his horse close, walked up on the cabin, knocked on the door, and Palmer let him inside. After he killed the preacher, he left by the way he came and lit a shuck.”
“I’ll take a look around anyway,” Buttons said.
After a few moments, Red heard Buttons yell, “I am a legal representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company. I order you to show yourself.”
A couple of minutes passed, and then Buttons stepped back inside. He shook his head. “There’s nobody out there.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. This was a quick, eff
icient job. I’d say the killer is pretty good at what he does. Buttons, stay where you are. Now look over there by the fireplace.”
“I’m looking.”
“What do you see on the floor?”
“Somebody’s muddy footprints.”
“They’re the killer’s tracks,” Red said. “Look at Palmer’s feet. He’d taken off his shoes after he came in the cabin. It seems the killer stepped to the fire to warm himself and then said something that scared the reverend.”
“And as you said, Palmer was trying for his gun when he was shot,” Buttons said.
“That’s how it shapes up.” Red stared hard at the prints. “Small feet, small man.” Then, after a pause for thought, “Unless Palmer was killed by a woman.”
“Nah, a woman couldn’t do that—shotgun a man in the back,” Buttons said. “It ain’t in their nature.”
“Some women could.”
Buttons smiled. “Yeah, a woman like Hannah Huckabee could, and no mistake.”
“The question is why?” Red said. “I mean, why gun down a preacher?”
“A preacher with a Winchester and a Colt is a mighty strange kind of sin buster. You said so yourself, Red.”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I? All right, let’s look around. See if we can find anything that might tell us more about Palmer.”
The search of the cabin proved fruitless, except for a silver pocket watch, a Barlow folding knife, and a wallet with forty-five dollars in notes and a carte de visite of a half-naked woman named Roxie taken in Austin’s Rendezvous Gentlemen’s Club.
“A shapely lady is Roxie, ain’t she?” Buttons said, studying the photo.
“She sure is.” Red shook his head and looked at the body on the floor. “Solomon Palmer, Buttons is right. You were a mighty peculiar breed of sin buster.”
CHAPTER FOUR
More sleep was out of the question, so Buttons Muldoon ripped up floorboards and lit a fire in the saloon stove for coffee. A coffee-drinking man, he kept a sooty pot and a supply of Arbuckle for himself and passengers. Just after first light he hitched up the team and set Palmer’s mare loose, telling her to run with the mustangs. “Now what do we do with the reverend’s body?”
Red said. “I guess we should bury him.”
“It’s the decent thing to do, huh?” Buttons said.
“Seems like. Us being decent-minded folks and all.”
“Speak for yourself,” Buttons said. “I’m keeping that picture of Roxie.” He sighed. “I saw shovels in the livery. But we’ll drive over there. I ain’t walking through a foot of mud.”
Under a flaming sky, Red threw a couple of shovels on top of the stage and then climbed into his accustomed place in the driver’s box. Buttons gathered up the reins and glanced behind him. His eyes bugged. “What the hell?”
Red turned and saw what Buttons saw—a column of fire and smoke rising into the air in the direction of the Palmer cabin.
“Has the preacher come back to life and set his place on fire?” Buttons said.
“I doubt it,” Red said. “More like somebody is covering his tracks by destroying the evidence. Let’s drive up there and take a look-see.”
Buttons had a difficult time turning the team in the muddy street. When they finally got close to the Palmer place, the cabin was ablaze and a nearby store was also on fire. Despite the recent rain, like most Western towns Cottondale was tinder dry and the conflagration was spreading fast. It had already started fires in buildings across the street.
“No need for a burying,” Buttons said.
“Seems like,” Red said. “Now get the hell out of here before we burn up with the whole damned town.”
Buttons saw the danger and didn’t need to use his whip to get the team moving. The closeness of the fires, burning smell, and the red-hot cinders cartwheeling through the air had the horses spooked, and the stage rocked along the street. Great globs of mud flew from the wheels, the coffin bouncing as though Brother Morgan was doing his best to get out. Black smoke shot through with streaks of scarlet hung in the air like a stranded thundercloud as Buttons drove the big Concord through a roaring tunnel of fire and finally reached the town limits. Suddenly he was in the clear, racing across a sandy flat scattered with soap weed, prickly pear, and mesquite. He reined the team back to a walk and then turned, heading south. Red looked to his right and saw that half the town was ablaze, and the remaining half would surely follow.
“Red, is the box still secure?” Buttons said.
Red tested the coffin ropes and said, “Yeah, it’s still tight.”
“I’ll be glad when we deliver the damn thing.” Buttons said. “Him jumping around up there makes me think of death and judgment day.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Ain’t much left of Cottondale.”
Red nodded. “And I guess there ain’t much left of the Reverend Palmer.”
* * *
The afternoon came with an oppressive heat, the sun like a ball of flame in the blue sky. The air was still, without the slightest hint of a breeze, and the day lay heavily on Red and Buttons, the ornate coffin a constant and baleful presence. Around them, the land was dry and stony. Here and there were patches of short, sparse grass and stands of creosote bush, scrub brush, mesquite, and cactus. In the distance, purple mountains that neither Buttons nor Red could name looked cool. A parched-mouthed man might fancy that hidden among their craggy peaks were hanging valleys where, with a soft plop! lime-green frogs dived through ferns into ice-cold pools.
But Buttons and Red were far from the mountains.
That part of Texas was a vast, inhospitable wilderness, dry as a bone, that travelers crossed only by necessity on their way to somewhere else. As the sun dropped in the sky, Buttons took a three-mile detour to the west and found to his relief that Bill Stanton’s station still stood, apparently unharmed by the recent Apache troubles.
“Strange cargo, Buttons,” Stanton said as he stood in front of his cabin, watching the stage drive in. Then, “Howdy, Red.”
Buttons nodded as he applied the brake. “The first time and the last, Bill. The man in the box went by the name of Morgan Ford and we’re taking him to his loved ones for burial down the Brazos way.”
“Well, at least he won’t eat much,” Stanton said, smiling. “Got a nice team for you, Buttons, four of them grays. Good horses, grays, if you can stand the smell.”
“Grays don’t bother me none,” Buttons said. “They still smell better than people.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Stanton said. “Killed me a hog recent, so I got a nice pork stew in the pot and biscuits to go along with it. You staying the night?”
“Nope, gonna eat and run, Bill. The sooner me and Red get rid of the damned coffin, the better.”
“Well, change the team and come inside. The grub will be waiting,” Stanton said. He was a tall, thin man with a sparse black beard and sad, hound-dog eyes. “How’s ol’ Abe Patterson?”
“Prospering, the last I seen him,” Buttons said.
“He still living with that high-yeller gal?”
“Sophie?”
“Is that her name?”
“Yeah, Sophie. They seem happy enough.”
“Glad to hear it. Red, come inside. You look all tuckered out.”
Red nodded. “I guess so. I haven’t been sleeping well real recent.”
Stanton hesitated. “Before we go inside, there’s one thing you and Buttons should know. I got Charlie Brownlow in there. You gents got a problem with that?”
“You mean the Nacogdoches gunslinger they all talk about?” Buttons said. “I heard he never goes west of the Colorado.”
“Well, a hemp posse will chase a man west of hell if it’s determined enough, and Charlie says that posse was determined enough,” Stanton said. “It seems he shot a rancher’s son down Caldwell way and the boy’s old man took it hard. Charlie had a clear-cut choice . . . get hung or cross the Colorado. He chose to cross the Colorado.”
“So how come Brownlow is
here, Bill?” Red asked him.
“Me and Charlie go back a ways, to a time when I was studying on taking up the bank-robbing profession. Later, we wrote back and forth, and I told him I’d given up on the outlaw impulse and was running this here stage station. Well, a week ago he showed up on my doorstep and he’s been here since.”
“They say Brownlow’s killed thirty men,” Buttons said.
“That’s what they say,” Stanton said. “Charlie may stay east of the Colorado, but he gets around.”
“He won’t have any trouble from us. What a man does for a living is his business.”
“Wise words, Red,” Stanton said. “Now, are we gonna stay out here jawing, or will you come inside?”
“I reckon I’ll make a trial of that stew. I’m coming inside.”
“Leave the scattergun with the stage, Red,” Stanton said. “It could signal that a man has less than peaceful intentions.”
“I’ll take it. Red, you go ahead and eat. I’ll change the team and then join you.” As Red climbed down from the driver’s perch, Buttons said, “That Brownlow feller may have killed thirty men, but don’t let him give you any sass or backtalk, you hear?”
Red said, “Sure thing. I’ll keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The interior of the Stanton cabin had a hard-packed dirt floor and was roomy enough to accommodate a long table and benches where stage passengers could eat their hurried meals, a fireplace where a stewpot and a coffeepot simmered, and a curtained-off area in one corner with a hand-printed sign tacked to the wall that read LADIES ONLY. The place smelled of cooking meat, coffee, and the ever-present aroma of leather, horses, gun oil, and man sweat.
A tall man, dressed in the frock coat and brocade vest of the frontier gambler, sat in the rocker by the fire, a holstered Colt and cartridge belt draped over his left shoulder.
When Red Ryan stepped inside, the man rose, pointedly buckled his gun belt around his hips, and stood with his elbow on the mantel, the hard planes of his face composed but his intense black eyes watchful.
Red was prepared to be sociable. Rightly figuring that the tall man was Charlie Brownlow, he nodded and said, “Howdy.”
The Backstabbers Page 2
