“Archibald Monday,” Buttons said.
Brannigan nodded. “The Five Points is a big whiskey market. Archibald Monday was standing in the doorway of a saloon talking with the owner when the priest was murdered. As you’d expect, the saloon-keeper saw nothing, but Monday, being a responsible citizen, went to the police and told them he could identify the killer. It was a bad mistake. Some crooked, high-ranking officer tipped off Wainwright that there was a witness willing to testify. He also told him that Monday was being taken to Texas . . . and you know the result of that.”
“Wainwright is still on the hunt for Monday,” Buttons said.
Brannigan shook his head. “Wainwright is in jail, arrested by the Secret Service on a charge of vagrancy while they build a case against him. Archibald Monday will stay in hiding until the murdering thug goes to court.”
“Wainwright can’t do much harm behind bars,” Buttons said.
“Oh, yes he can, because the drug trade is way bigger than him,” the marshal said. “The criminal organizations plan to flood the Five Points with opium, morphine, and a new German drug made from opium that goes by the name of heroin. It’s a test, and if it’s successful, they’ll move on to other American cities and towns and villages. They need Wainwright in the Five Points, and they’ll do everything in their power to put him back there. That means Monday has to die, and the sooner the better.”
Buttons shook his head. “Marshal, there ain’t none of them big outlaw drug gangs in Texas.”
“Mr. Muldoon, they’re in every state of the union, including Texas,” Brannigan said. “They can buy guns and the men to use them, and they’re spreading like a cancer.” He grasped Buttons by the arm. “There’s talk of another Chiricahua Apache outbreak, so you can expect no help from the army until you reach Fort Concho. Until then, keep Monday safe. Do it for your country. Trust me. A lot is riding on you and Red Ryan. The Secret Service will send agents to Fort Concho, but until they arrive, Monday is your responsibility.”
“When will them agents get there?” Buttons said.
Brannigan managed a wry smile. “We’re talking about the government, so it will be whenever it gets around to it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“Brannigan has sand, and he’s good with a gun,” Red Ryan said. “We could’ve used him on this trip.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Buttons Muldoon looked toward the cot where Archibald Monday lay snoring, his head and the rest of him covered in a blanket. “How long has the little feller been like that?”
“For the past couple of hours.” Red said. “Let him sleep. It keeps him quiet. He’s got one of them Bulldog revolvers in there with him as a sneaky gun.”
“Then how come he didn’t draw it at the station when the shooting started?” Buttons said.
“Maybe Brannigan told him not to get involved in a gunfight, but it’s more likely he was too scared to move. Hell, he stood so close to Abe Patterson, I thought he was trying to crawl inside his skin.”
“And talking about Abe, he’s coming in,” Ira Cole said from his guard post at the window. “Got that Sophie gal and his son with him.”
The depot clock chimed ten and the street outside was in darkness. A horse whinnied in the corral out back and knocked over a metal feed bucket.
Abe Patterson stepped inside, bringing with him the tinny gust of a saloon piano. Sophie, a brown-skinned, statuesque woman, hung on his arm and Cuthbert, as was his practice, walked a step behind.
“Good evening, fellers.” Patterson motioned to his son, who laid a bottle of Old Crow and a handful of cigars on the table. “This is my way of thanking you for the fine work you put in this afternoon.” He looked around. “Where is Monday?”
Red jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there, asleep.”
“Worn out from nerves, I’d say,” Patterson said. “Poor little runt.”
“Pa, I wish I’d been there today,” Cuthbert said. “I’d have told the others to stand aside and let me get my work in. I’d have shown them city slickers a thing or two about gun handling.”
“I’m sure you would have, Cuthbert,” Abe said.
“Damn right,” Cuthbert said.
Buttons, as mischievous as always, said, “You could ride with us to Fort Concho, Cuthbert. Maybe you’ll get your chance to get into a shooting scrape.”
The pudgy young man didn’t miss a beat. “I’d admire to, Mr. Muldoon, but I’ve got a sore back and stagecoach travel is not for me.”
Sophie looked at Buttons, smiled, and winked, surprising the hell out of him.
Abe didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Cuthbert is plagued by sore backs.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, let us make a trial of the whiskey and cigars.”
“Where is Daphne Loveshade?” Red asked.
“Back at the hotel getting ready for her first train ride,” Abe said. “She’s very excited.”
After some drinking and smoking, Abe Patterson said, “I have a fine team for you, Buttons . . . and Red . . . and a couple of boxes of shells made by the U.S. Cartridge Company. Crackerjack shells, Red. Top notch.”
“I’m obliged, Mr. Patterson. Let’s hope I don’t have to use them.”
“Indeed. That’s what we all want,” Patterson said.
“I’ll say a prayer to Saint Peter Claver for you, Red,” Sophie said. “And you too, Buttons.”
Buttons said from behind a cloud of exhaled smoke, “Who is he?”
“Peter Claver is the patron saint of slaves,” Sophie said. “My parents were slaves, and St. Peter answered many of their prayers.”
Buttons nodded. “Well, it sure can’t hurt, so pray away, Miss Sophie. In the meantime, we’ll put our trust in the U.S. Cartridge Company.”
“Sophie is always praying to somebody,” Abe Patterson said. He smiled benignly at his mistress. “Saint Peter Claver keeps me on the straight and narrow.’ He turned his attention to Buttons again. “You and Red will leave with Mr. Monday tomorrow morning before sunup. Keep it quiet, Buttons. No showboating. The least number of people who see or hear your departure, the better.”
“They won’t even know we’re gone.” Buttons said.
“Excellent. The good name of the Patterson stage company depends on you, Buttons,” Patterson said. “And it’s a heavy responsibility . . . a burdensome responsibility.”
Buttons smiled. “Marshal Brannigan says the whole damn country is depending on me and Red to get Monday to Fort Concho.”
“Ah, yes, that is true,” Abe said. “But the needs of the Patterson Stage and Express Company must always come first. Please remember that.”
* * *
The Patterson stage was alone on a sea of grass under a blue sky dominated by the burning sun.
Apart from the big, strong wheelers, the team that Buttons Muldoon had in hand was young and inexperienced, and he sweated heavily as he managed the reins. “Answer me a question, Red.”
“Fire away,” Red Ryan said.
“What are our chances of reaching Fort Concho alive?”
“Pretty good.” Red was silent for a while and then added, “That is, if we don’t run afoul of Apaches, big-city gunmen, and plain old Texas road agents.”
“Damn it all, Red, couldn’t you have said ‘Pretty good’ and let it go at that?”
Red grinned. “All right, then. Pretty good. There, I’ve said it.”
“Yeah. But you don’t mean it,” Buttons said.
“Sure, I mean it. I wouldn’t say ‘pretty good’ if I didn’t mean it.”
At that moment Archibald Monday stuck his head out the window and yelled up at the box, “What are our chances, Mr. Muldoon? I didn’t hear Mr. Ryan’s answer.”
“Pretty good,” Buttons and Red yelled back in unison.
AFTERWORD
It is pleasant to report that, thanks to the bravery, loyalty, and patriotism of Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon, Archibald Monday lived to testify in court against Steven Wainwright, and the gang lea
der was later executed. His death spelled the end of the Five Points. The gangs were crushed, its slums were torn down brick by brick, and by 1910 little of the place remained. It is of interest to note that the Secret Service took all the credit for safeguarding Monday. Buttons and Red were not mentioned in official reports, and neither was the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company.
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THE SCAVENGERS
A DEATH & TEXAS WESTERN
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Cullen McCabe knew he’d make a lot of enemies when he agreed to be a special agent for the Texas governor. But now that he’s managed to keep the peace in the hopeless town of New Hope, he’s hoping he can go home and get back to business as usual.
No such luck.
There’s a trio of troubles waiting for him there—three gun-toting avengers by the name of Tice. This hardcase family of bullies and prairie rats blame McCabe for taking down one of their kin and stealing their horses. They want revenge, and they want it quick . . .
McCabe wants something, too. He wants to finish the job he started—and pick off the rest of these scavengers....
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CHAPTER ONE
“Look who’s comin’ in again,” Alma Brown whispered softly to Gracie Wright when the cook walked past her on her way back to the kitchen. Gracie paused and looked toward the front door. It was the second time this week that Jesse Tice had come in the dining room next to the hotel, appropriately named The Two Forks Kitchen. He had become a regular visitor to the dining room ever since his youngest son was killed there some weeks before. Usually, he came in only once a week. “Wonder what’s so special about this week?” Alma whispered. They were never happy to see the old man, because he made their other customers uncomfortable as he hovered over his coffee, a constant scowl on his unshaven face, while he watched the front door and each customer who walked in. Coffee was the only thing he ever bought. Everyone in town knew his real purpose in haunting the dining room was the chance to see the man who had killed his son. Cullen McCabe was the man he sought. But McCabe was a bigger mystery than Jesse Tice to the people of Two Forks. Everyone knew Jesse as a cattle rustler and horse thief whose three sons were hell-raisers and troublemakers. Cullen McCabe, on the other hand, was a quiet man, seen only occasionally in town, and seeming to have no family or friends.
Alma’s boss, Porter Johnson, owner of Two Forks Kitchen, had talked to Sheriff Woods about Tice’s search for vengeance against McCabe. Johnson was not concerned about the fate of either Tice or McCabe. His complaint was the fact that Jesse used his dining room as his base for surveillance, hoping McCabe would return. “Doggone it, Calvin,” he had complained to the sheriff. “I’m runnin’ a dinin’ room, not a damn saloon. Folks come in here to eat, not to see some dirty-lookin’ old man waitin’ to shoot somebody.”
Sheriff Woods had been unable to give Johnson much satisfaction when he responded to his complaint. “I hear what you’re sayin’, Porter,” he had replied. “I reckon you just have to tell Tice you don’t wanna serve him. That’s up to you to serve who you want to and who you don’t. I can’t tell folks where they can go and where they can’t. As far as that shootin’ in here, I told him right from the start that that fellow, McCabe didn’t have no choice. Sonny started the fight and tried to shoot McCabe in the back, but he just wasn’t quick enough. I told Jesse I didn’t want any more killin’ in this town, so I’d have to arrest him if he shot McCabe.”
Looking at the old man now as he paused to scan the dining room before taking a seat near the door, Alma commented. “One of us might have to tell the ol’ buzzard we don’t want him in here. I don’t think Porter wants to get started with him. He’s probably afraid he’d start shootin’ the place up.”
“Maybe we oughta hope McCabe comes back to see us,” Gracie said. “Let him take care of Jesse Tice. He took care of Sonny proper enough.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll go wait on him and take his order for one nickel cup of coffee,” Alma said. She walked over to the small table close to the front door. “Are you wantin’ breakfast?” She asked, knowing he didn’t.
“No, I don’t want no breakfast,” he snarled. “I done et breakfast. Bring me a cup of coffee.” She turned and went to get it. He watched her for a few moments before bringing his attention back to the room now only half-filled with diners. He didn’t see anyone who might be the man who killed his son. The major problem Tice had was the fact that he had never actually seen Cullen McCabe up close. When he and his two sons had gone after McCabe, he had circled around them, stolen their horses, and left them on foot. Still, he felt that if he did see him, he would somehow know it was him. When the sheriff tried to talk him out of seeking vengeance for the death of his son, Jesse was tempted to tell him that McCabe was a horse thief. He thought that would justify his reason for wanting to shoot him, but he was too proud to admit how his horses happened to get stolen. Every time he thought about the night he and his two sons had to walk twenty-five miles back home, it made him bite his lower lip in angry frustration. When Alma returned with his coffee, he gulped it down, having decided there was no use to linger there. It was already getting late for breakfast, so he thought he might as well go back to join Samson and Joe, who were keeping a watch for McCabe in the River House Saloon.
* * *
It had been several days since he had returned to his cabin on the Brazos River after completing his last assignment from the governor’s office. The long hard job in the little town of New Hope had turned out to the governor’s satisfaction, and Cullen figured it would be a while before he was summoned for the next job. For that reason, he hadn’t bothered to check in with the telegraph office at Two Forks to see if he had a wire from Austin. He needed to do a little work on his cabin, so he had waited before checking with Leon Armstrong at the telegraph office. When he was not on assignment for the governor, he usually checked by the telegraph office at least once a week for any messages, and it had not been quite a week since he got back. Halfway hoping there might be a message, he pulled up before the telegraph office and stepped down from the big bay gelding. He casually tossed the reins across the hitching rail, knowing Jake wouldn’t wander, anyway.
Leon Armstrong looked up when Cullen walked in and gave him a cheerful greeting. “How ya doin’, Mr. McCabe? I got a telegram here for you. Figured you’d be showin’ up pretty soon.”
“Howdy, Mr. Armstrong,” Cullen returned. “Has it been here long?”
“Came in two days ago,” Armstrong said as he retrieved the telegram from a drawer under the counter. “Looks like you’re fixin’ to travel again.”
Cullen took only a moment to read the short message from Austin. “Looks that way,” he said to Armstrong and folded the message before putting it in his pocket. “Much obliged,” he said and turned to leave. It seemed kind of awkward that Armstrong always knew Cullen’s plans before he did, but since he was the telegraph operator, there wasn’t any way to avoid it.
“See you next time,” Armstrong said as Cullen went out the door. As curious as he was about the mysterious telegrams the big quiet man received from the governor’s office in Austin, he was reluctant to ask him what manner of business he was engaged in. And after the altercation between McCabe and Sonny Tice, he was even more timid about asking. For the most part, McCabe had very little contact with anyone in Two Forks except for him and Ronald Thornton at the general store. He had an occasional meal at Two Forks Kitchen and made a call on the blacksmith on rare occasions perhaps, but that was about all.
Cullen responded to Leon’s farewell with a fl
ip of his hand as he went out the door. All the wire said was that he should come into the capital. That’s all they ever said, but it always meant he was about to be sent out on another assignment. So, his next stop would be Thornton’s General Merchandise to add to his supplies. As was his usual practice, he had brought his packhorse with him when he rode into town, in the event there was a telegram waiting. Austin was north of Two Forks, while his cabin was south of the town. So, by bringing the packhorse with him, there was no need to return to his cabin. Taking Jake’s reins, he led the big bay and the sorrel packhorse up the street to Thornton’s.
* * *
Jesse Tice and his two sons came out of the saloon and stood for a while on the short length of boardwalk in front. Looking up and down the street, hoping to catch sight of the man who shot his youngest, Jesse figured it another wasted day. Both Samson and Joe were content to participate in the search for the man called Cullen McCabe as long as their watching post was always the saloon. There was not a great deal of gray matter between the ears of either Joe or Samson and what there was seemed easily diluted by alcohol. Neither son carried the same driven desire their father had to avenge their brother. They generally figured that Sonny was bound to run into somebody he couldn’t outdraw in a gunfight and the results would be the same. “How ’bout it, Pa?” Samson asked. “We ’bout ready to go on back to the house?”
“Hold on,” Jesse said, something having caught his attention at the far end of the street. At that moment, Graham Price, the blacksmith, walked out of the saloon, heading back to his forge. Jesse stepped in front of Price. “Say,” he asked, “who’s the big feller leadin’ them horses to the general store?” He pointed to Thornton’s.
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